I have learned a few things since arriving in Barcelona—apparently travel really is as educational as people claim. And now I will share a few of those things, because the Internet is supposed to be educational, too.
1) I will never, ever say “Barthelona,” or “gráthias.” It’s not happening. I don’t care how authentic it is; I don’t care how many of our waiters do it. It just feels wrong, and I refuse to participate. I might hiss a bit on the “c”’s, which gets me about halfway there, but it turns out that one of the few things I am not willing to do in order to blend is affect a lisp.
2) They lull you into absurdly careless eating habits here. Last night I found myself polishing off a plate of cured ham before digging cheerfully into a plate of tiny green peppers—any one of which, the waiter warned us, might be the one spicy one that occasionally sneaks onto a plate. I don’t eat ham, or cured anything, or unfamiliar peppers, or potentially spicy things, and don’t even get me started on the moment during Sunday’s lunch when I randomly popped a clam out of its shell and into my mouth. My mouth. I think they must put something in the wine.
3) Remember how H&M first came to the U.S. and it was wonderful, and then their quality took a dive, but then Zara came in and was the next wonderful thing, and then their prices started to climb? The next wonderful thing in the hopelessly-cheap-trendy-clothes-whose-seams-will-only-last-as-long-as-the-trend-they-follow category will be Sfera. Just trust me.
4) The Spanish don’t screw around with traffic signals. When the little green guy is lit, you walk. When he starts blinking, you dive for cover. Seriously: in every city I’ve ever been to, if you’re prepared to walk at a decent clip and step off the curb just as the guy starts blinking, you’ll have just enough time to cross. It doesn’t work that way here; he blinks, turns red, and the light turns green, all in less time than it took for you to read this sentence, and my saying that has nothing whatsoever to do with how slowly I may or may not suspect that you read.
4b) They drive really, really fast here. No, you can not make it across the street against the light even though the closest car is way, way back there. Don’t even try.
5) I understand French. I know this now not because I have had some kind of epiphany of self-confidence, but rather because I understand so dismally little Spanish that I suddenly find myself smack in the middle of a basis for comparison. Naturally, Nick chose this moment to send me on an errand.
“I just have the worst sinus headache, and the Actifed is gone. Just go to the pharmacy and say ‘Actifed, por favor.’ It won’t be a problem at all.”
Right.
So. In I go.
“Actifed, por favor,” I chirp.
This unleashes a string of Spanish from the pharmacist that does not flag in the face of my look of confusion, my look of terror, or my eventual futilely raised hands. I mean, something about Actifed set this guy off.
If it had just been for me, I would have fled on the spot, but this was for Nick, so I held my ground and pulled out the best weapon in my arsenal. When the pharmacist paused for breath, I looked him in the eye. “This right here is all the Spanish that I speak.”
It wasn’t as effective as I had hoped—he mostly seemed to be waiting expectantly for me to then say, “Ha! Just kidding!” which, of course, I do not know how to say. Eventually, when I saw the realization dawn on him that I really might be an idiot-savant rather than a peculiar liar, I settled for a lame “Lo siento.”
Fortunately, he either spoke no English or still didn’t completely believe me, because when he began again it was slowly and carefully, but it was still in Spanish. Which…honestly? A bit of a relief. Because although I do believe that such a thing must exist, I have yet to find the polite way of saying, “I am no more interested in deciphering your horrible English than you are in listening to me mangle your own language. Either we do this by pointing and gesturing like civilized people, or I walk.”