Bilingual Brain Battles

Bilingualism is interesting.  I thought I had an idea before I came here, but I really didn’t. 

Since I came, the languages are constantly clashing in my brain.  Lately, Spanish has been winning the battle.  It takes me ten to twenty minutes to remember basic words in English, sometimes.

At times, I find myself sitting at my laptop, staring at my email, fidgeting and laughing at myself as I can’t remember words as basic as ‘couch’ or ‘purse.’  I think, “I know it’s ___ in Spanish.  Why can’t I remember the word in my native tongue?”  And they’re normally names for objects.  Words I use more often and that are associated with images.  I can always recall the conceptual wordsl, but the things I can see and touch become their Spanish sister words pretty easily.  Kind of like how children learn with big picture books with single words underneath.  A picture of a couch with the word ‘Couch’ underneath, big, bold, and proud.  So, I guess I’ve been like a child down here, at times.  I’ve re-set the way I think.

I even think in Spanish without noticing it.  Sometimes, I consciously float between both languages, just for practice. 

But sometimes, I really miss English and don’t care.  I get tired of speaking in Spanish because it can be so frustrating!  My friend Morgan (a fellow student abroad—from Colorado) said it best when she said excused her shameless chatting in English on the busy streets of Buenos Aires: “I’m more charming in English!” 

I remember I woke up one morning and said, “I wonder what hora es …“  It makes me wonder if I might be dreaming in Spanglish.

I have daydreams, too, in Spanglish.  I pictured myself talking to my niece Ashleigh about the nightlife of Buenos Aires, and my imaginary-self was prattling in Spanish to imaginary-Ashleigh!

I think it’s wonderful, this change.  It’s caused me to hit ‘reset’ and be like a helpless child again, with open eyes and ears—and that picture book. 

Though hyperbolic, the child analogy isn’t that far off.  I’ve been talked to as if I were a child.  I’ve been scared like a child, too.  Feeling powerless as I ask, “Cómo?” over the phone two, three times.  These difficult phone conversations turn out fine in the end, but it takes a toll on me when I hear the sighs, their voices getting louder—instead of slower—and I imagine them slapping their hands against their foreheads, cursing their jobs.

Because I had to make my way through the X-rays, Doctor appointments, and physical therapy sessions at the hospital due to my sprained ankle, I have seen many reactions to my accent within one day—most of them negative. 

Most freeze, and before I’ve said more than five words, I can see that they’ve decided they won’t be able to understand me.  So they don’t understand me and, instead, ask me if I need English—as in someone who speaks English. 

Or they don’t even ask, just gesture for me to follow and find someone who speaks English.  I get angry when this happens—why won’t they just give me a chance?  I try to explain to them in Spanish that I speak Spanish; I am studying here at an advanced level. 

But then, there are the wonderful few who react positively.  They immediately perk up to pay attention, and they normally end up complimenting me on my Spanish.  Most of them have been taxi drivers.  I’m not sure why, but I think it may be because many of the taxi drivers are foreigners anyway. (Within the continent, but still foreigners.)  Or they just like that I am talking to them

My favorite reaction was the receptionist at the physical therapy center in the hospital (I have an hour of exercises every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday).  Her name is Monica, and she was very, very sweet about it.  She asked me all sorts of questions about my situation then told me she was studying English—and perhaps, I could teach her a bit.  She jokingly said, “You can be the teacher!”  Then she proceeded to read the numbers on my credit card out in English—with me helping her out.  

A worker passed as we were talking, and she called to him in Spanish, “Look!  We’re international!  American!”

I like those moments when they point out, with pride, how I’m different.  They appreciate the diversity.  Lucy and her friends at tea time make me feel the same way—just before they ask me to sing one of my ‘italianos’ (Italian opera arias) that Lucy just adores.

I am international, and I do, for the most part, feel good about being different.

Afternoon Mate

Two weeks?  Really?

Okay.  No excuses.  I’m just jumping right in.

Today is Thursday, my day off from classes, my chill day.  Generally, I don’t leave the house except for a short walk.  I do homework, and I enjoy time with my host family.

This afternoon, I took my mate (pronounced MAH-tay)—which is the traditional drink of gauchos (Argentine cowboys).  It tastes a bit like smooth green tea.  I love green tea, so of course, I really liked mate, too.  Plus, it just makes me feel hardcore Argentinean.  Haha.  Check out my sweet set-up:

Traditionally, the mate was just in the yerba form—meaning the rough herbs were put in a cup and hot water was poured, then the drinker sips it from the cup through a filtering straw called the bombilla and passes it around to share with friends.  It’s a community thing.  Kind of like the Brits’ afternoon tea.

Lucy is half English, so she has afternoon mate in her daily routine.  She takes her mate cocido (which is the less-traditional mate that comes in a bag, prepared like normal tea) every afternoon after her 2:30-3:30 siesta/rest. 

Today’s mate time was a little special because four of us were sitting together and had a nice chat.  The book about the Quad Cities had come in.  It was a gift from my parents for Lucy.  So Lucy was in a good mood, excited about the book.

From the last entry, you may have noticed that there are three of us in the house—not four.  So, what happened?

The fourth is Rosana, who will be Chela’s replacement.  It was bittersweet to hear that Chela had injured herself and was now going to be replaced.  Another new girl.  Chela is staying two days to help Rosana get the feel of things, then she is leaving.  Back home where her parents can’t afford to keep her till she can find a job.  And who knows when that’ll be.

So, on Chela’s last days, I’m trying harder to make things pleasant, which might account to why I want to write an entry about this—why I tried harder to make the chat more spirited.  And succeeded.

Chela seems so complacent.  I can’t see why she has to go; she’s doing all the things she normally does to show Rosana.  The injury doesn’t seem to be interfering with her job.  So why does she have to go?

I guess it’s not my call.  I have to say that Rosana seems cool.  Lucy was telling Rosana about how I took years of classical training and sing opera, and Rosana said she liked opera.  She can’t be older than her twenties, and she loves opera?  This may be a good deal.

When Rosana and Chela finished their tea, they congregated to the kitchen where Chela taught her about the art of making empanadas for Lucy.  (Señora Lucy only eats chicken and takes chicken broth with two empanadas while I have three empanadas—beef because, apparently, she thinks they’re my favorite—and since beef is cheaper than chicken, I’m not going to make any complaints about how I prefer chicken because it’s lower fat.  I’ve lost weight since I got here.)

Anyway, back to the living room:  Lucy laughed when she saw me poke a hole with my finger into my herbs in the mate and asked what I was doing.  I said I was planting a semilla de azúca (a sugar seed—so the sugar would get closer to the bottom of my straw where I could taste it.  She laughed and offered the napkin she had on top of her water glass to clean off my hands.  She then asked Rosana for another napkin to replace the one I’d dirtied with my gaucho-fied fingers and explained she kept a napkin there to keep the mosquitos and crocodiles away.

I snickered.  To keep the crocodiles away?! I said in Spanish.

Then she explained that the Spanish word for crocodile (cocodillo) is also slang here for a miser.

Gotta keep the misers from getting in that water!  I’m not sure if she added that cocodillo/miser thing for a teaching moment or if that was the intention of the joke, but either way; I think I am just cracking the surface of her absurd sense of humor. 

Since I got here, I’ve never caught on to her humor.  I had trouble understanding her Spanish when she jokes.  I normally fake it by having a half-smile when she has a half-smile—then if someone laughs, I make the smile bigger.  (I don’t attempt a fake laugh because that would be a dead give-away.)

Humor is the hardest to tackle in Spanish for me, but I’ll get it.  I have three more months.  (Can you believe I’ve already been here nearly two months?!)

—————

NOTE:  (Because it broke the flow of my story-telling in my entry, I’m adding a note to explain.) In the picture, Lucy is carefully writing a thank-you note in English to my parents to thank them for the book about the Quad Cities.  She asked me to transcribe it to email—which I plan on doing after I finish this.  She’s so courteous.  Setting down to write the thank-you note almost as soon as she got the book.)

La noche Argentina

I did it!  I lasted the whole night!

It started with dinner this past Saturday at a place called Aca Bar (this links to the site in English) at 10:30. I went with these two lovely girls:

To the left is Priscila, a fellow international student from California (and born to Korean parents in Brazil!), and to the right is Elizabeth, from Mexico City.  Last semester, she transferred to University of Belgrano to study design.  She’s not very comfortable with her English, so we talked in Spanish the whole night!

The place is very colorful and eclectic.  The menu came in the form of laminated, neon flash cards.  On each card was a meal and its price.  I ordered Milanesitas de Berenjena con Muzarella y Tomate (Breaded Eggplant with Mozarella and Tomato).  Milanesas (or, in this case, milanesitas) are a popular Argentine meal.  Typically, it’s flat, breaded beef.  Maybe the -ita part was because it wasn’t meat.

As we ate, we all shared a bottle of vino.  We didn’t have it finished after dinner, so we picked up a set-up of Jenga (in the photo) out of the many board games offered by Aca Bar for free.

After Aca, we went to an exclusive party for international students where I bought the most expensive Coca-Cola since I got here—15 pesos!  I grew restless (too many Americans ;P), and we moved onto a dance club called Club Araoz.  Because it was after 2, it cost 25 pesos to get in—the last of my money. 

And, boy, was it worth it!  That Latin Pulse that coursed through our bodies made it so I didn’t need to take breaks to buy drinks.  I was revved up.  They played a mix of Reggaeton, salsa, and even merengue music—as well as plenty of familiar songs in English (to which I shamelessly sang along with). 

It was fantastic!  We danced from 2 till 6 am (except for one 10 to 15 minute break which we spent on a deflated black couch that seemed to want to pour us onto the floor—kinda awkward). 

The boys who danced with girls really dance, I noticed.

I say ‘really’ dance, because the guys on the dance floor took their partners by the hands, spun them around, and (if there was room on that packed floor) even took steps to follow the rhythm!  In the States, we pretty much just grind and move our bodies next to one another provocatively.  I realized that it actually takes coordination to dance in the clubs down here.  Though I was asked to dance by five men, I politely refused. Those of you who know me have seen that I am balance-challenged to the extreme.  I didn’t want to embarrass myself!

They kicked us out of the club at 6am, and we hung out on the sidewalk for an hour, thinking the Subte station on the same block as the club would open at 7.  (Elizabeth’s bus stop was a long walk away, and her feet hurt, so she didn’t want to walk.)  As we waited, we saw the guys from the club walking by over and over again—in zig-zags, I might add.  I figured they were waiting for the Subte like us. 

7:08 and the Subte still wasn’t opened, so we asked a man at a kiosco on the sidewalk, and he said the subte opens at 8 on Sundays.

So, we had to walk.  We parted with kisses on the cheeks and “Chau!”s and I took my first attempt to take the bus alone.  It was light by then—and a beautiful, clear day—so I figured I couldn’t mess it up too badly.

As I was on the bus, I realized that the boys who were walking in zigzags up and down the sidewalk must have been walking off their drunkenness before going home.  In Argentina, it’s very common for young adults to live with their parents until they marry, so they must not have wanted to be drunk in front of their parents.

Anyway, at 8 o’clock, I arrived home, and, as I expected, everyone was up and dressed.  They all greeted me as I said “Good morning” and “Good night!”

I get around-round-round-round

Getting around Buenos Aires is a new experience.  Though I did the public transportation/city life thing for ten weeks for my internship in D.C., Buenos Aires is different.  There’s the language, of course.  BsAs is also HUGE.  Way bigger than D.C.  And I’m not short here!  I’m as tall as most of the women in the streets—and taller than all of Lucy’s female visitors.  The Argentine in me remarks, “Que raro!” at that.  (How strange!)

To mix things up, I’m not going to do the typical “me, me, me” and “I did this and that” entry.  We’re going to do a simulation where you are out in the streets of Buenos Aires.

You leave the house and decide to take your time to your destination by walking.  You work your way through swathes of people and think that maybe you should go to the bank.  It’s 2 o’clock. 

Not a chance.  Banks here are only open 10 till 3 on weekdays and are packed, with lines going along the sidewalk.  So, you’ll have to convert that cash tomorrow because even an hour in line may not be enough time.

You walk on and notice people sitting with department store socks and underwear neatly-folded in front.  They sell underwear in the streets.  The Argentine in you says—yes, you guessed it—“Que raro!”

You lost track of time, and now you are not sure if you will make it to your destination on time walking.  So, you take the subte!  The Buenos Aires subway (subte—subterrano) is fast and very affordable. 

In the stations underground, there are news stands, McDonalds, and backpack stores.  You approach the box and ask the nice lady for “un viaje” for $1.10 AR.  (About 35 US cents.)

In the trains, there are more people selling you things.  It was illegal in D.C., but not here, apparently.  At least, if there is a law, it’s not enforced. 

Some people on the subte sell pencils and backpacks.  One time, a couple came in arguing.  It took you a few minutes to realize that they were performing and not really arguing.  They receive a few tips from people.  This time, there is a man playing a folk-traditional song on a guitar and a sicura—at the same time.  You give him a two peso bill.  Music in the subte is always a nice addition.  Plus, it made you research what a sicura was!

———-

If course, the ‘you’ in this story is based on me.  Hope you enjoyed the simulation.

And, no, I haven’t forgotten about pictures of the homestay.  I will get on that.  Really. 

Homestay Edition!

Here I am, in my room, not having to adapt to a thing.  I still get to high-tail it to my room and get my internet buzz whenever I want. When I first came, there was no internet, then—voila!—Lucy bought internet and had the modem set up by her friend’s son.  The internet only worked in the living room, so I expected to sit at my computer at the same table Lucy sits for my whole time there.

Then—yesterday, an electrician came and fixed the phone outlet in my room.  Now, I am set!  When I want it, I can have my privacy.

I suppose everything isn’t the same, though.  I had to get used to a few things, first.

For one, there is no air-conditioning, so we leave the windows of this little floor-level apartment open.  It was strange, at first.  It’s almost as if I haven’t gone inside when I’m in my room or the living room.  I still hear everything.  Cars, dogs, people talking, people’s cell phones.  In the mornings, I can hear their very Italian greetings of “Buen dia!” and their “Chau’s” too.  (“Chau” is the Spanish-phonetic spelling of “Ciao.”)

I live, as I’ve already said, with Lucy.  Lucy is an elderly lady—originally born in England who studied at a university in England.  But she has been in Buenos Aires so long, her English has quite a heavy Argentine accent. 

Lucy cannot walk, so she has a helper who cooks and cleans for her.  Her name is Fabiana.  I like Fabiana.  She’s a little eccentric.  She’s kind of child-like in the high-pitched way she speaks when she’s amused—and the prank calls to her boyfriend she wants me to take part in.  (while I was reading in my room, she came in, looked through the window and shoved her cell phone in my face while it was ringing and told me to say “Hola,” which I did—and nothing more—until he hung up.”  Turns out, she is not allowed to see or call her boyfriend Monday through Saturday.  She has Saturdays off—that’s when Paula comes in.)

(Don’t tell Lucy.  Shhhhhh.)

Oh, and, not to worry.  A visualization of my homestay is up next.  I am not ignoring my readers!  (Love ya, Dad!)