Having excitedly dropped into the language school which we have booked for two weeks of intensive Spanish learning, starting next week, a week early, we discovered that not only does the school run cultural events in addition to the classes, but that we are allowed to join them even before we begin our study!
Thus being discovered we booked ourselves onto a wine tasting trip this afternoon, followed by a free pisco sours night, in which we will learn how to make, and drink, the ubiquitous Chilean speciality. (Later, we will discover that the pisco sour is also claimed by Peru as its speciality, but, at least according to our entirely unbiased Spanish teacher, Chile definitely invented it first.)
Eagerly, we turn up at the allotted hour for our wine tour. But we are not quite prepared for exactly how immersive the immersive teaching us going to be. A beaming Spanish lady, whose name we eventually gather is Jackie, rounds us up in what seems like terrifyingly rapid Spanish (she is actually speaking unusually slowly), and herds us onto a minibus. We sit ourselves safely near the back and proceed to watch in some dismay as a group of students clamber in after us, gabbling nineteen to the dozen, in what appears to be fluent Spanish.
"These must be native speakers," I whisper to M, "surely. Maybe they are learning English."
Except that the school doesn't teach English. It is a Spanish school.
We drive to collect some other students from another school, these events seeming to be run by our school, but available also to students of another.
Every single one of them chatters to each other in rapid Spanish.
Some of them are blonde.
"They don't look Spanish," I say quiveringly to M.
"No," he says grimly, "I think they're German. Or American."
We sit in silence, listening. Both of us have done some study using various internet learning apps, and we have a smattering of Spanish words at our disposal. I don't recognise a single one.
"Do you think this is how good you have to be?" I ask, with no small amount of trepidation.
We make ourselves quite small and quiet and hope to goodness no one speaks to us.
"I think," I say to M under my breath, "that I am going to be the bottom if the class."
"Me too", he says, though I don't believe that for a minute. M is a linguist by nature. He picks up languages apparently without trying. He learns them. For fun.
I on the other hand, have tried many tines but never really managed to pick up even the slightest skill so far as languages other than English are concerned. I got through my German GCSE by being good at exams and rote learning and consequently immediately forgot all of it, dropped French the instant the government gave me the choice to, and have been learning Spanish using an app which has been working mostly because it uses cats as the conceptual 'teachers' and I like cats. (I can't explain it any better than that - look it up, it's called CatAcademy). My Spanish words are limited and not very well remembered except where the phase particularly amuses me ('tú eres triste porque tú es un perro' - you are sad because you are a dog). The other phrase I particularly remember is 'los professores estan borrachos' - the teachers are drunk. I rather suspect that phrase won't endear me to the staff at the school. It does, at least, mean I know the word for 'drunk', which is the only one among the excited, and terrifyingly expert, chatter around me. Not especially surprising given that we are on our way to a vineyard and these are students. In my oral exam for Italian, which I had to learn a smattering of as part of my literature degree. I froze and spoke in monosyllables, these being mostly, 'yes' and 'no', until the teacher had to break off and explain to me in English that I would need to say something rather more impressive in Italian in order to pass. I seem to be missing the part of my brain which is supposed to house the linguistic skills that normal people possess.
"I think," I say to M, in an attempt to cover actual fear with humour, "that I had better make my own dunces hat and wear it to my first class."
"Well at least you'll be prepared." says M.
There is a gale of laughter in the minibus because some one has told a joke in Spanish.
I am beginning to very much look forward to necking a glass of wine. Or two. As fast as possible. I hope the tasters are going to be generous.
When we arrive there is a period of waiting for the tour to start during which time I visit the toilet and then we both stand around attempting to appear invisible. Shyness, when it hits me, tends to do so quite hard and render me a little paralysed and M is a man of few words at the best of times. When the tour starts the young man leading the tour asks Jackie if he should do it in English or Spanish.
"In Spanish," she replies in Spanish, "but just go slowly. They need the practice."
They do? They seem to me to be word perfect.
The tour begins. I concentrate very hard, in case maybe I can simply absorb Spanish by sheer effort. I recognise the word for wine. And the word for bottle. And the word for red. Other than that I simply follow with a fixed look of what I hope is intense interest and absolute understanding on my face. Everyone else has the same expression. Except they ask questions in Spanish. So maybe the really understood. The questions they are asking don't sound like 'could you speak more slowly' or 'pardon', both of which, incidentally, are also phrases that I know.
We move to the actual tasting. I do neck the wine. With some enthusiasm. The tasters are not nearly large enough to match the situation. I stick to M like a sort of limpet.
Salvation comes when we arrive back at the school. I genuinely believe that if it wasn't for Jackie we might have taken the opportunity to slope off quietly home, and ducked out of the pisco sour night completely. But Jackie is a true professional. She rounds everyone up, says something in Spanish and points down the road. We are not sure what she's said but our Spanish and our deeply ingrained British politeness will not allow us to do anything other than follow directions. Luckily, our knights in shining armour, Jake and Ralph, (pseudonyms) choose to walk with us, realise we know almost no Spanish at all, and lapse with ease out of their apparently fluent Spanish and into their native American tongue.
"Um..." Says M tentatively after the initial introductions have been made, "how long have you been studying here?"
"Nine months." says Jake.
There is a collective burst of various sorts of relieved noises from us both. Jake laughs.
"We haven't even started our course yet!" I say, emboldened, "but everyone is so good - we thought maybe..."
"You thought they'd been here a week?!" Says Ralph.
"Well...we weren't sure how fast you were meant to go on this course." I tell him, feeling simultaneously stupid and ridiculously pleased to be having a conversation with someone. In any language.
"She's been studying for years," Jake starts ticking people off, "he's been about six months I think, she's maybe three months..."
And so it goes on. We realise that the idea is that people practice their Spanish constantly, even out of class. So we try valiantly to talk with Jake and Ralph at least about Spanish, if not in it. They tell us the distinction between different forms if the word 'here' and lead us through the bewilderingly carnivorous menu at 'Sandwich Master'. The 'vegetariano' option, unsurprisingly in this largely hamburger based canteen, is not on, but the chef can do us some bread with cheese and mayonaisse and guacamole, with chips.
The chips are OK. The rest is fairly horrible, and the place is dubbed 'sandwich minger' between us from then on. We don't go back to eat there again, but we do have a hugely interesting conversation with Jake and Ralph, who are hugely interesting people. It is from Jake that I gain an insight into the American viewpoint on the rather smeary history of its involvement in the military coup that allowed Pinochet to rise to power, and which helped inform my previous blog about the Human Rights Museum. (This rather Dr Who version of time is allowable because I am writing both these blog entries long after the date on which the events took place so can borrow from future conversations to pad out previous experiences.) We have managed, mostly due to the lack of tables to seat more than ten people, to seat ourselves apart from the rest of the group and one of the girls, a very smiley brunette who introduces herself as Linda (pseudonym), is catching our eyes and trying to bridge the gap so as we leave the restaurant, successfully having been shepherded into going to the pisco sour night, we catch up with the rest.
Of course, as we drink said sours, we become slightly more confident of our ability to speak Spanish and actually manage to speak some,especially with Linda who is possibly one of the kindest souls I have ever met, and who really dies speak Spanish near fluently and is doing the advanced course to top up because she is 'out of practice'. Nevertheless she speaks beautifully slowly and patiently to us throughout what must, for her, have been a very boring and frustrating conversation. I am still a little in love with Linda.
As the evening draws on we shelve our newfound confidence (because there is only so much mileage in telling people your name, his old you are and where you are from), and settle back into more interesting chatter with Ralph and Jake.
A pisco sour is made from pisco (a strong liqueur), lime juice and sugar, plus whatever accompaniments Jackie is inclined to throw in (we try mango, red fruits and, my personal favourite, basil).
By the time we roll home we are much lubricated and rather more inclined to believe it might be possible to actually learn some Spanish.
I might still make that dunces hat though. Just in case.
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