Do you fear travelling to a foreign country, and not understanding the language? This is how I, a Canadian, learned Spanish on the fly, in real time, on the road. And you know, it was fun. Really fun.
I am Canadian. I grew up sheltered from the Pacific Ocean, on the east coast of an island, on the west coast of the country. And really, I was sheltered from many people and many things.
For example, I first saw a black man when I was 5. He was called Mr. Brown, which suited him, I thought. I didn’t know that he was supposed to be called black, or brown, or anything really. I just knew he had dark skin, very short and curly hair, and had a descriptive last name. The next black person I saw was when I was a young teen. Really. I’m from a pasty white english-to-the-throne background. Hail the Queen, for the good of the empire, and all that.
I went to school learning Canadian english. I speak with a Canadian accent, and I’m told it’s one the strongest ones my friendly southern neighbours have heard. I learned west coast Canadian french in highschool (which is apparently different from quebecois french, which is very different from parisian french), at least enough to forget, and then enough to remember when spending time in the french speaking part of Belgium, and of course, France. I’ve never been to Quebec, the french speaking province of my own country.
In my teens I knew Vietnamese, Indians, Pakistanis, British, French, Chinese, Japanese, South Africans, and, a few Americans. But I never knew any Mexicans. Or Guatemalans, or Ticos, or Ecuadorians, or, or, or … there was no one in my life from Latin America. I never heard a lick of Spanish.
Of course, by the time I was adult, by the time I had a partner, a truck, an itchy foot to travel, I’d seen a Mexican and I’d heard some Spanish. I knew it was a latin language, as was the french that with which I was familiar. I knew the Spanish had confused gender with nouns, that somehow they thought that a table, chair, car, picnic, roller coaster … name your noun … had a sex. I had guessed that adjectives came after the noun. They were houses white, not white houses. I knew they rrrrrolled their ‘R’s.
But the fact is, I knew no Spanish.
And then, one day, I crossed the American border into Tijuana, kept driving past Ensanada, found some beach, and pulled up some sand. And then I went to find something to eat.
Ordering your first fish taco is pretty easy. I mean, you don’t even have to say anything. Hold up a finger or two. Read the menu, sound out the one you want. Ok, so you don’t know the difference between pascados or camarones yet, but who cares, order one and you’ll find out. Do the math and pay, and count the change. The garble-de-gook you hear back will be meaningless, maybe you’ll hear “hasta-luego”, or “gracias” but that’s about it. Say gracias and smile a lot.
Be patient. In a week you’ll begin to hear the start and stop of sentences. You’ll start to hear the rhythm of the language - you’ll hear it as a language, that there really is some meaning. And you’ve become really good with your hands, that international sign language we all know seems to be part of the human genetic makeup.
After 2 to 3 weeks you’ve met enough people who know enough english to help you out. You’ve learned key nouns, and you’ve probably read enough of the travellers guide to spanish to know basic verbs. You can’t use future and past tense yet, and you’re confused if you should be addressing people in the informal or formal, which is irrelevant anyways because you’re unsure of how to do it.
It’s been a month now, and you’re starting to have real discussions. Maybe you’ve told people about your familia, your hermanos y hermanas. You know you’re a Canadienses or Americano, that you come from a provincia or estado. Sure, it’s slow going, and the native speaker is patient and helps you complete sentences, but it’s working. 30 days ago you couldn’t speak anything!
After 5 or 6 weeks you’re able to deal with technical issues. Your vehicle needs repairs and you’re able to communicate the problem. The border guards give you trouble and you (barely) manage to keep up with what’s going on around so you don’t sink in the bureaucracy.
This is how it was for us. Every day a new word, a new phrase. After 3 months you’re not fluent, but you can hold your own. You might tell jokes or ask a stranger a question.
And 2 years later I returned and spent the first few days being shocked until I picked right back up where I left off. My pasty white, northern tongue fell back into the rhythm of the truly beautiful language that Spanish really is.