See you again yesterday...

Two years ago at Christmas, I was curled up in a cabin in Arnold, California (think Sonora) celebrating with my father’s family. I have six cousins living on the west coast, all are siblings and together they comprise some of the smartest, wittiest and most talented people I know. My generation of my Aunt’s family includes, from oldest to youngest, a master sommelier, a blues guitarist, a writer, an actor, a geologist (this is considered somewhat of a genetic disease in the Cargile clan) and finally a singer. Sitting around their table for any holiday brings about a profound sense of family that I’ve never had growing up. With dinner, wit flows like wine, and the wine flows well… like wine, bottle after bottle. It was a mistake I now realize to put off reading the copy of Barrel Fever, given to me by one of my cousins that year.

Here in Buenos Aires, I’m surrounded by David Sedaris’ books. My room-mate has two, Sus has one, one which I’m currently reading, Me Talk Pretty One Day. I think my current situation provides an extra emphasis on the hilarity of the second half of this book. Part one is a collection of stories surrounding Sedaris’ life growing up in South Carolina, Chicago and New York. Part Deux (Two) is dominated (so far) by the author’s experiences surviving in France without really knowing the language. From the broken and useless vocabulary he acquires in his trips to Normandy, to his French classes where he only understands about thirty percent of what is said, I’ve found myself laughing at myself, imposing this lens on my own experiences here.

I spend the majority of my time carefully crafting sentences with correct grammar, and precise nouns gleaned from my friends, only to have the Porteños come back at me with strings of words that zip past me without any recognition. As long as the response to my query or order is “machina diez y ses” or “bueno” I walk away feeling some sense of accomplishment surviving in a country where I honesty can’t speak the language.

I do much better with written Spanish, as I’m a word nerd and can figure things out from Latin roots. Most of the time I’m ok, but plenty often I translate things completely wrong. My survival Spanish class is in Spanish, I think I mentioned that, but I really mean it. It’s in Spanish, a language I don’t speak, and I have to learn by interacting with someone who only speaks a language that I can barely comprehend. I now have much more empathy for ESL students. I’m motivated and can figure enough out in context so I only need my friends to translate a few words, but to ask any complicated questions, I end up having to talk through someone else.

Also, google.com.ar is celebrating Nueve de julio like everyone else here. That makes me happy.