To speak or not to speakthat was the question!

AFTER five years in Spain, my Spanish is much better than the few words I could tentatively utter upon landing with four suitcases and no clue what we were doing.

Looking back, those first weeks of fumbling our way through the simplest of tasks is cringe­worthy. We were a curiosity in our building, and our neighbours, thankfully, barely acknowledged the odd American newcomers. They thought we were holidaymakers renting the apartment during Valencia’s biggest party of the year, Fallas. But the month of March came and went, and we were still there. We tried not to stand out, whispering in hushed tones to avoid drawing attention to ourselvesridiculous in one of the loudest countries in the world, where everyone speaks at volume. Our incessant muttering marked us strangers more than if we shouted at each other in the lobby. Avoiding eye contact so as not to invite conversations we knew we couldn’t hold, convinced it made us invisible. After a few months, there were terse chin nods directed our way. Upon entering and exiting our elevator, we might receive a Buenos dias. Jeff and I celebrated these moments with high fives and more whispers.

“Did you hear that?”

It called for a celebratory glass of wine at the local café. We ordered the same thing every day. The owner stopped coming to the table to ask ­ she just brought it out. After a few months, the accompanying snack went from potato chips to empanadas. We learned the better the customer, the better the snack.

Today, I can carry on conversations in español. And I know what people are saying in every context. Yes, we are still strange. That will never change. But I wouldn’t go back to those fumbling early days for all the empanadas in the world.