Adventures in Spanish

On my flight from Mexico City to Lima I sat poised in my window seat just waiting to fire off some of the Spanish that I had been studying for a month or so before my departure. My anticipation grew as the flight attendants came closer and closer with their cart of drinks. Agua. Café. Té. Vino. Cervesa. My heart skipped a beat as I read the various labels... and then it was my turn. The flight attendant leaned in and asked, what I deduced to be, ¨What would you like to drink?¨ I did not understand a single word she said. Nevertheless, I wasn´t going to let that ruin my moment of Spanish glory. I puffed up my chest and responded proudly with, ¨jugo de naranja... si vous plait.¨ Si vous plait!?! Where did that come from? It´s not like I´ve ever had a huge command over French so why now was French spewing from my lips? Ugh! I slumped back into my chair and tried to keep my French to a minimum for the rest of the flight.

I have found that foreign language tends to congregate in a single place in my brain. It must be an extremely small area because there is only room for one foreign language there at a time. I studied German for five years but no matter, Spanish managed to push it out of my brain in no time flat. Every once in a while someone will ask me how to say something in German. If I am indeed able to summon the words, they come out with a Spanish accent - my tongue pressed against my teeth and my soft pallet closed. The words are hardly intelligible and can´t even be counted as German really. So good bye German and if you see French on your way out say good bye to her too because she is long gone. I didn´t even get a chance to say good bye. From here on out it´s just me and Spanish.

Learning Spanish has been a trying process, that is for sure. It has a way of bringing me to my knees and breaking my heart (a feeling I usually only reserve for running high mileage and bad relationships). When I arrived in Perú I was promised it would only take me one month to become fluent. Ha! Says who!?! Now ten weeks into my stay I am far from fluent but I can get by.

Don´t get me wrong, I have had some good times with Spanish as well and while it has a way of taking me down it also gives me wings. The best part of my new found language is simply being able to listen to the everyday antidotes of those around me and being able to tell stories from my past (and yours) while of course adding a little Rink flare (a.k.a. harmless exaggeration). Following are some of my more amusing experiences in Perú, translated to English for your reading pleasure.

- My childhood friend, Bonnie, and her husband just had their second baby, Bennet Mark Engstrom. Being super excited, I told Vicky and Iris about his birth over lunch. Vicky chose not to comment in Spanish but instead shrieked, ¨Eeeeeeee!!!!!,¨ mimicking the screams of labor pains. When she was done with her little show she asked me, ¨When will you have kids?¨ Well, with a display like that how else could I respond except with, ¨Oh I don´t know... 10 more years.¨ ¨Ay Heather!,¨ Iris chimed in, ¨You´ll have too many grey hairs by then.¨ At this she pushed chicha morada on me, a spiced corn drink that is suppose to keep women looking young. Vicky then added, ¨Too old! Most women are grandmothers by then.¨ Oh well, to each their own I guess but what the heck, I´ll take another glass of chicha morada please.

- At La Plaza de la Constitución is toothless Juan, Huancayo´s unofficial welcoming committee. I see him nearly everyday and everyday he tells me the same stories over and over and over again. Our interactions always go something like this:

Juan: Hi friend!

Me: Hi Juan. How are you?

Juan: Yesterday I ran into so and so. They said, ¨Juan, you are very intelligent.¨ I only went to school for one year but I have talked to tourists for 32 years. It is my life. I am no pick pocket. I am a good man. I go home and I talk to God and I cry, ¨I love you God. You are my brother.¨ I am Mormon. I don´t drink or have free sex. I am not married. I am very intelligent. The capital of Denmark is Copenhagen. Your country has 50 states. The capital is Washington D.C. but it is not a state. I speak six languages [by this he means he knows a word or two] Spanish, Quechua, Portuguese from Brazil, English, Italian and German. In Spanish my name is Juan. In English my name is John. In German it is Johannes. I talk to a lot of tourists. I am no pick pocket. People here may call you gringo but you are no gringo. You are not from another planet. You are just like me. I tell those people, [and this part´s in English] ¨F--- you man!¨

Me: [at this point I stop bobbing my head up and down for a moment, taking my motherly stance] Juan that is not nice to say. [He inevitably ignores me and continues on his tirade. I continue bobbing my head.]

Juan: You are just like me but you have blue eyes, light skin and blonde hair. You are very beautiful. Watch out for men here. They are very macho and will say, ¨You are very beautiful. I love you.¨ They will put a pill in your drink and they will rob you and do other things. I am no pick pocket. I am a good man. I am very intelligent... [...and on and on and on he goes. Amazingly enough, he says all of this in one breath making it very difficult for me to jump in and end the conversation.]

Heather: [Eventually with any luck Juan pauses and I am able to speak up.] I am sorry, friend, I have to go to the post office/class/run home/find another crazy to talk to/do anything except stay here with you.

Juan: Okay. Take care of yourself friend.

- One morning, Vicky turned to me at the breakfast table and seemingly without reason said to me, ¨You know you would have boobs if you ate potatoes.¨ WHAT!?! Sweetheart, I´m fairly certain that the only way potatoes would give me boobs would be if I stuffed them in my bra. Seriously!

- At the end of July, when I was in Satipo, I went hiking through the jungle and spent some time cooling off in a small stream I had encountered. By the time I got back from my hike a strange, flush red spot had appeared on my right arm near my wrist. When I showed my diseased arm to Iris and her family they brushed it off saying, ¨It´s just a bite from a very small mosquito.¨

Within a few days we were back in Huancayo and my red spot had faded. Great! So you can imagine my surprise when it was replaced about a week later with a small hard blister. Thinking that the blister might birth an exotic insect I was super excited about the great story I was going to have to tell.

I decided to keep my baby parasite buddy a secret from everyone else in the house until one day I woke up and several more blisters appeared on my arms, around my waist and near my ankles. One baby parasite I can handle but how was I suppose to care for twenty or so? I told Iris...

At first Iris agreed with me, ¨It must be a parasite.¨ (Although I kind of pushed her to that conclusion as I kept linking my blisters with the jungle.) Within a few days though she stopped believing my parasite story and told me my blisters were pulga (flea) bites. Oh! That´s so not what I wanted! I don´t know if it was the look on my face or what but she quickly changed her story saying that I must be allergic to the alpaca sweater I bought (and wore several days earlier) and that´s why I had the blisters. Sure. I have never been allergic to anything in my life but, right, it´s the alpaca fur.

At that moment my dreams of parasites and funny stories dissipated as I realized I had fleas.