Another tongue
Tin’s got a new playmate who is closer to his age than his usual posse here. She lives downstairs and keeps him on his toes especially when her younger cousin is around; Tin absorbs so much Spanish because he is constantly being corralled by these two female chatterboxes (or in the case of the cousin, screamers).
I have been taking my afternoon walks on the beach with friends and it’s amazing to drift in and out of my thoughts in English into a conversation in Spanish. The repetition of words is rhythmic like the waves – “pide, pide, pide” – “barato, barato, barato” – “es buena, es buena, es buena” – rolling waves of words. The woman who spends all her money on clothes and handbags and does not have enough to buy food. The musician husband who has to go to other countries to find work. Children who wont practice their instrument. The great aunt who talks nonstop in a monotonous voice so that everyone around her begins nodding off one by one. Children growing up and not wanting to be at the beach with their parents any longer. Conversations where a multitude of characters come into play and my interest in them waxes and wanes to such a pitch that I dream I am at a dinner table with all of them and decide I have nothing to say.
But the Spanish tongue – clickety clack – is this why the berenjena tastes better here? Or the aceite de oliva de Cordoba is divine? Or the miel de campesino so yummy delicious I could pour it on my hand and just spend the day licking it off?
It’s early in the morning, the madrugada here in Spain, and people are whooping it up outside at the feria. Tin’s seven year old friend had to leave at 11PM to go out to dinner with her parents (what?). And me, the standard bearer of a decent bedtime – I’ve got insomnia despite taking a half of an Atavan to try to sleep.
Another tongue, another time.
It’s all the same, yet different.
