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SPANISH LESSONS
On foreign soil, Patricia Marx finds it best to speak tongue in cheek
DAY ONE: I arrived in Oaxaca tonight, where I will take a one-week intensive Spanish course. I chose Spanish because they say it is one of the easiest languages to learn. “They” also claim that you can pick up a language naturally simply by being in a foreign country. I have not found this to be so. Rather, in a foreign country I have always managed to find some Americans. With the exception of "Do you have artificial sweetener?"— which I can say like a native in several languages— I have no foreign-language skills. I studied French for five years in high school and yet, when I was last in Paris, I asked the manager of a movie theater, "Avez-vous ma liberté?" thinking I was inquiring whether he had found the book I had left in his theater.
Oaxaca (pronounced wa-HAH-ka), the capital of the state of the same name and a city of approximately 220,000, is in a valley in southeastern Mexico, at the convergence of two chains of the Sierra Madre. The weather is perfect— room temperature year-round and dry, except during the rainy season, which, coincidentally, I am visiting smack in the middle of it. One guidebook says that "Oaxaca comes closer to the Mexico of dreams than perhaps any other destination in Mexico." This might be a euphemistic way of saying that the region of Oaxaca is one of the poorest in Mexico. Around 500 B.C., the Zapotec Indians developed a sophisticated civilization in the area, the spectacular archaeological remains of which can be seen at Monte Albán. Today, the Zapotecs still dominate culture in the city, although much of the architecture is seventeenth-and eighteenth-century Spanish. You might know of Oaxaca because D.H. Lawrence lived and wrote there for several months— until he got sick and left, blaming all of Mexico, but Oaxaca specifically.
While I go to school, I will be living with a family. As someone who would not share a room with even myself if I could arrange it, I am leery of the homestay idea, but I was persuaded that it would help me soak up the culture. My "Mother"is Maria Zamora. I guess she is in her late forties, which means she gave birth to me when she was a toddler. Maria's true children, a girl and a boy, are in their twenties and live elsewhere. I am staying in her son's room — the evidence for this is a plastic model airplane, a series of comic book classics in Spanish, and a trophy that shows a boy holding up.. is it a banana? Could he have found the most fruit in summer camp?
The house is what I consider California style, which in fact means Mexican— white stucco, stone floors, one level. It is actually three self-contained buildings, which form a horseshoe around a garden and patio. I have not seen any room besides my own because, even with the help of my Mexican-English phrase book, I do not know how to ask to see the rest of the house without sounding rude.
Maria may or may not be married to George, who was here when I arrived. (The form I received from the language school designated Maria as my host.) Maria and George smile a lot and both seem to be very nice. For all I know, though, they did not just show me around my room, but, rather, informed me of how they plan to put a machete through my head when I go to sleep tonight.
Before going to bed, I flip through my phrase book, a book clearly aimed at ugly Americans, for among other tidbits, it advises, "don't call people estüpido.." I put the book down and glance at a Spanish newspaper, Excelsior: El Periódico de la Vida Nacional. I am surprised to read that swimmers convened to wage commercial war on North American and that President Clinton is pregnant.
DAY TWO: My first day of classes. As I walk to school, I pass many street vendors selling plastic cups of Jell-O, a favorite food in Oaxaca. (School, mother, toys in my room, Jell-O.. can braces on my teeth be far behind?) The Instituto Cultural Oaxaca is one of many language schools in this town. I chose it arbitrarily from a guidebook and, as soon as I did, became convinced that the others were better. The Instituto is in a large, airy house with big rooms and high ceilings that once belonged to the grandparents of its current director. There is a garden, several porches, and a kitchen where students may help themselves to coffee, tea, and bottled water. I imagine this must be what a progressive boarding school is like, and look around, wondering if any of the strangers will become my friends.
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In the orientation session, we are told that Mexicans are kind people whom we should not quickly make value judgments about, that they do not have the same expansive sense of personal space as we do, and that cars have the right-of-way over pedestrians. Mexico and Pakistan, we learn, have the highest phone rates in the world. We are warned not to use any of the phones in town labeled JUST DIAL 0, because they charge $50 for the first minute and $30 a minute thereafter.
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During the break, I meet some of the other students, a few of whom have been here for a month or two. There is something amusing about adults reduced to high schol students. Peggy, who just graduated from college and looks exactly like Betty in the Archie comic books, says that the two young children in her host family make fun of her Spanish. Another woman is trying to figure out how to say in Spanish, "I bought the yogurt that is in your refrigerator" because she is afraid her parents suspect she is stealing their food. A retiree named Steve tells us that his family took him to a party where the guests wanted him to have the honor of tasting a certain alcoholic beverage that contained— on purpose— a worm. Christabelle, an academic who specializes in corn agriculture, says she has learned most of her Spanish by hanging out at discotheques at night.
Finally, class assignments are announced, based on the results of a test we took earlier in the morning. None of the Spanish words and phrases I happen to know— taco, burrito, mañana, señorita, por favor, no hablo español, hasta la vista, and NAFTA— were on the test, so I filled in my nombre (my name, not my number) and left the rest blank. It is not a shock to be placed in the lowest level. But there is an advantage to being ignorant: only one other person is in my class; the other classes have four to six students each.
My teacher, Leticia, is so enthusiastic that I tend to nod eagerly and say si even when I haven't the vaguest idea of what she is talking about. From nine until one, we study grammar; from one until two, conversation. At my level, this is a moot distinction. We learned some introductory dialogue and a few words that the average Mexican two-year-old already knows. We learn the alphabet, too, which at least catapults us ahead of some two-year-olds.
From three o'clock to five, there are workshops in weaving, ceramics, cooking, and Mexican cinema (the last open only to those in at least an intermediate class). I want to take ceramics, but I don't have enough clean clothes. Instead, I choose Cocina— literally, "kitchen"— because it's the most popular (peer pressure rules my life). Today, we walk around the market, where none of us sample the chapulines, tangy fried grasshoppers prepared with chili and lime. According to local folklore, one taste will charm you into never leaving Oaxaca. (couldn't the same be said about, say, arsenic?) All of us sample the chocolate.
DAY THREE: The problem with learning a language is that you must perforce start with the most elementary and inane. For almost five hours we discuss the notebook on the table, the boy in the garden, the students in the school, the piano in the house, the picture on the wall,m the animals in the zoo, and Margarita on the floor. We have learned only two verbs —ser ("to be") and estar (another version of "to be"). Knowing only two verbs is limiting, especially when they are more or less the same. I wonder how many years will go by before someone asks me, in Spanish, if the boy is in the garden.
However, toward the end of class, we reach Lección 4, which includes a dialogue that hints at racy stuff to come. The dialogue is accompanied by a line drawing of two fellows ( if you saw them, you would call them fellows too) on the phone. Here is my trnslation:
"David?"
"Yes, it is I. Where are you?"
"In the cafeteria. With my friend."
"What is her name?"
"Veronica."
"How is she?"
"She is dark, tall, and beautiful."
"In a small moment, I will join you."
DAY FOUR: In cooking class, I thought that Soledad, the teacher, said we would be cooking a baby, but i turns out that she wanted to know whether anyone was thirsty (beber apparently means "to drink"). That day we cooked athick tortilla thing covered with black bean sauce, Oaxacan cheese, and chili sauce. I don't particularly like Mexican food, but my fellow classmates say the memelitas con asiento de mentecad de cerdo are delicious. One of the ingredients is a large leaf from a tree in the backyard, which is passed around the table for us to sample. Althought no one here dares ever to drink un-bottled water or eat Jell-O from local vendors or fruit peeled by anyone but himself for fear of getting sick, everyone readily nibbles on the leaf.
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The idea behind cooking class is not to learn to cook but to use the language in a practical way.
Similarly, in Intercambio, from five to six every evening, we are each paired with a Mexican from the town so that we can interact "as in life". Luisita, age 19, is my partner. She is studying to become a doctor, and her dream is to got o the United States and meet Michael Jordan. Luisita's English is so good, we never speak Spanish.
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Actually, Spanish sounds like mush to me. I must concentrate extremely hard just to figure out where one word ends and another begins. Maybe my problem is that I try to see what is being said, instead of hearing it. This makes mimicking hard. I am beginning to understand why some people claim that aptitude for music and language are connected. It might also help to be an uninhibited jerk. ( I am a jerk, but an inhibited one.)
Oddly, being in Mexico has made all of my high school French come back, as if the "international" area in my brain has been triggered. When I try to speak in Spanish, French pops into my head, even before English. I had always believed the English was my second language and that I spoke no first language. But could I be fundamentally French? (Non. c'est impossible!)
DAY FIVE: Today I discover drugs. I am in a pharmacy buying some dental floss— which, incidentally, costs more than a hearty lunch in many restaurants in Oaxaca— when I remember that Phyllis, the physician in our group, mentioned that many Americans come to Mexico primarily to buy prescription drugs— heart medicine, blood pressure pills, Prozac, etc. — which are sold over the counter very cheaply. Although I have never taken a single prescription drug in my life, I am suddenly overcome with an urge to hoard. Who wants silver jewelry, Indian rugs, and colorfully painted wooden animal carvings when you can get anti-fungal cream for a fraction of what it costs in the United States? I buy six tubes of Retin-A for about $7 a tube, each of which would cost about $80 in the United States (but only $8 on my health plan). They will make nice Christmas presents.
After shopping, I return home and learn that George is married to Maria and that he either works for the government developing agriculture in rural areas or he is an entomologist. He is usually away, and I rarely talk to Maria because it is simply too hard. When I came home last night, for instance, Maria greeted me in her doorway as rain flooded down. As I stood on the patio getting drenched, I desperately rifled for the word for wet but settled for moist, to which I added muy for accuracy. This took about ten minutes. Then I escaped to my room, feeling like a withdrawn and sullen teenager who refuses to be part of the family.
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DAY SIX: By now you are probably concluding that I and everyone I've met are having a wretched experience in Oaxaca. Rain, expensive phones, Jell-O. But understand: For me, this is a good time. Going to language school is a great way to feel virtuous on a vacation. It is junior year abroad without grades. Besides, the stores and cafés in Oaxaca stay open past midnight.
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Back to class for my final session. After our first break, Peter, a chemist, who wants to improve his Spanish because he feels more comfortable in Central and South America, tells me that in his class they had a heated debate over whose poverty was worse— Mexico's or America's. In another class, they discuss indigenous gables. In our class, we learn that in the bedroom there is a bed, a lamp, a bureau, and a mirror. I want to know what happened to David and Veronica, but the have disappeared from our text book. We also learn about irregular verbs, a concept to which I strongly object. Isn't Spanish supposed to be simple? Actually, I do not mind conjugating verbs: It is the chopping and dicing of learning language— completely mindlessly.
I have come to like grammar. For a change, it is nice to deal in a world where the content and accuracy of what is said do not count; what's important is only that the noun and the article and the verb agree. Say what you like about Margarita as long as you remember to to use ella and not el. The drudgery and detail of learning a language remind me of what is was like, as a kid, to slog through the complicated directions for a new Milton Bradley board game. Although I can communicate on the most rudimentary level, I feel I am getting the hang of Spanish and, given a lot more time, maybe a hundred years, could even become conversant. I vow to buy language tapes when I return home. I will even try to read some spanish children's books. Maybe someday I will be so fluent that I will dream in Spanish. (Have you ever noticed how people brag about dreaming in a foreign language?)
Emboldened, I stop at the bank to get pesos with my credit card. I don't have much tie before I must meet the tour bus for Monte Albán, so I ask the teller if my transaction will take long ( ¿Va a ser largo?) . But— lo and behold— I seem to have asked, I later realize, if there is going to be a lake in the bank (¿Va a ser un lago?). A group of bank tellers confer in torrential Spanish. One asks me a question made up of no discernible words. Suddenly, I have forgotten all my Spanish. I could not even tell you if the boy is in the garden.
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SPANISH COURSES AT
Instituto de Comunicación y Cultura de Oaxaca
The Instituto de Comunicación y Cultura (ICC), established in 1986, is one of the oldest and experienced language schools in Oaxaca. Located close to the Zócalo (the colonial main square), the Institute is situated in a lovely restored XVI century building. Beginning, intermediate and advanced classes are taught by instructors who hold university degrees, and years of teaching Spanish to foreign students. The level of instruction is of such a high caliber that American universities bring groups of students to the Instituto for college credit.
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To all registered ICC students we are pleased to extend a 10% discount off our regular rates and we also invite you to check out our special packages and promotions to save even more.
If you choose to book with us on line - please mention that you are a student of ICC and we will deduct 10% from your billing. This discount is applicable to the published rate and is not combinable with any other offers. It is not applicable during holidays (Easter/Holyweek, Guelaguetza, Food of the Gods Festival, Day of the Dead Celebration, and Christmas/New Year)
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