I step out of my car that booms with Julio Iglesias and fall
into a two way conversation with myself that might resemble something Spanish.
I know I’m getting strange looks from the people in Cape Town, but I’m concentrating
far too hard to notice.
I’ve been told that the Spanish language is ‘easy to learn’ compared to Italian or
French and ‘resembles words in the English
language’.
In the past month this strange, foreign tongue hasn't come
naturally and it’s certainly not been easy. Although Spanish words might look
like those in the English dictionary, my tongue and mind spasm as I try to pronounce
letters different to what it says on the page.
Reminder to self: C
pronounced “th”, LL pronounced “j”, V sometimes becomes “b” – although I’m not
sure when.
I’m frantically trying
to translate and remember every Spanish word I can find. This highly impossible task has now been
narrowed down to every word in the Spanish food dictionary. (My last hope is to
remember this sentence in case of emergency :“ ¡Necesito un chocolate!”,
translated, I need a chocolate!)
Before I start hyperventilating about being lost for 5
months and not understanding anyone around me, I remind myself that the journey
ahead is about tasting a culture. Perhaps I will learn more by just looking at
locals prepare seafood or simply peel potatoes for patatas fritas.
I remind myself that everyone knows how to come together around
one table, not to talk but to share food, to break bread together.
I remind myself that food speaks a different language, one
that speaks to your being, one that I and every other person in this world can
speak fluently.