¡Hola! Me Llamo Pablo!

It has occurred to me a number of times over the past couple of years that it would be a good thing to actually learn to speak and understand a bit of Spanish. No matter where you go in this country it can come in handy here and there, and in a place like Los Angeles it’s practically required. (Especially if you’re looking for a new job.) Also, we would like to travel more now that we’re Empty Nesters, and some conversational Spanish will be useful there as well.

Living in LA for nearly forty years one picks up more of the language than you realize if you’re paying any attention at all to your surroundings. For instance, you can find yourself with a large crowd of women that don’t speak a word of English in a work place situation where mime or charades are not appropriate but you really, really badly need to know where el baño del hombres is located. If you know what I mean.

We’ve tried a couple of times to get enrolled in a Spanish 101 class at the local community college, but those classes fill up in about five seconds when registration opens. But this summer we applied for a class on the “extension” campus and got in. Apparently the fact that the class doesn’t count for any sort of credit makes it less desirable to those trying to get an AA or fill pre-requisite checklists for transfer to a UC or CalState four-year program.

Starting last week, The Long-Suffering Wife and I started our six-week, one night for two hours a week, Conversational Spanish 1 class. No grades, no credit, no grammar, and no expectations other than maybe knowing how to say hello, count, tell time, ask simple directions, read the menus, shop, and ask, “¿Se habla inglés, por favor?”

I’ve found after two classes that I’m way out of my comfort zone when the teacher calls on me to speak. With only a handful of students in the class, we all get called on a lot.

This was really not something I was expecting. I’ve always been the obnoxious kid who sits in the front and always has his hand in the air with the answer. But languages are not my strong suit. With only six classes, we’re getting a lot thrown at us quickly. Sometimes it’s like the words are just bouncing off my ears, never making it to my brain.

But I recognized this overwhelmed feeling and I recognized that this was a safe place where everyone else was just as lost as I was. Folks weren’t laughing at me when I butchered “simple” pronounciations or couldn’t translate “714” to save my life. They were laughing with me, just as long as I kept laughing. My head knew what to do even if my gut was wondering why I volunteered for this gig.

We finished strong tonight.

Now I get to spend odd moments this week trying to get more comfortable counting en Español and comprehending when I hear others counting. The hot rumor is that ther’s a quiz next week. Grades or no grades, I want to nail it.