Two days ago marked three weeks of me pretending to speak Spanish for the purpose of my survival, and I would say I have been doing pretty well so far. Despite the fact that my last attempt at Spanish was four years ago, I have discovered that I remember just enough of the language to survive* in a predominantly Spanish-speaking country. (*exist) That is, just as long as the situation at hand is of minor importance.
This was not the case when I was trying to get to my hotel in Guatemala City.
Natalie and I had just gotten off of the plane and were nearly done with what couldn’t be any better described than us blindly slamming our way through the airport. Everything was spinning by the time we reached the exit to the arrivals lot, and my main objective was to find out how to get a hold of our ride. His number was online, so I would need wifi (at this point, I did not have wifi or a cell plan). Learning that there was wifi in the cafe to my left, I went out in search of it and landed myself at the cafe counter, trying to order a Coke – if you wanted access, you had to make a trade. I would have been fine, if I had understood the exchange rate from American dollars to a foreign currency whose name had escaped me. I could find both of these things and translate all of my questions had I had wifi. Unfortunately, I had to know these things to get wifi. It was kind of like a riddle, except the words were in a different language and the answer didn’t exist. I was able to get around this, but only through a long and painfully awkward sequence of failed beginnings to sentences, wild gestures, and stares at the two women working behind the counter, who would occasionally laugh at me and then point at something (which would usually just confuse me more). Finally, after twenty minutes, I had my $3 Coke and 5 minutes of well-earned wifi access!
Same day, different Coke.
Everything turned out fine – I found the number for our driver about thirty seconds before the wifi expired, I called him using Natalie’s cell phone, and we found a way to split the Coke so that we could both handle our fear of germs. The next hour was spent waiting around the cafe and doing the different cafe activities like looking at cute stray dogs, avoiding middle-aged men trying to sell us bug-zappers, and talking to my new friend Miguel, who made a living selling homemade orchestral mixtapes. By the time our driver arrived, I was well equipped with eighteen Quetzales and an hour of intensive Spanish practice, ready to start new Spanish adventures with other unsuspecting souls.
Me, triumphing over my fears of communicating in Spanish!