a saturday morning conversation in Granada

Viewing Granada from the Alhambra.

It is Saturday morning. We have been away from home for four weeks. Because we were up late last night at an exciting gypsy flamenco show, we slept in and are having a slow morning.

Our first stop is "our local", DamasQueros, the bar around the corner, a few metres up the hill, for un café solo [the short black] and café con leche [with milk]. We get the last outside table as the Saturday morning crowd is here with their papers for a leisurely desayuno [breakfast]. The coffee here is muy bien [very good], the air temperature is perfecto, the sky is clear and blue [again] and there is the gentlest movement of air, too slight to stir the leaves of the trees across the road.

I love being surrounded by the Spanish language [this month, Singapore has introduced it into schools as their third language]. The musical "hola" rings out everywhere, a happy sound. My eyes scan any signs in written Spanish, trying to decode them. We are away with words, most of which we don't understand. Dave says it is like only knowing the letters p, r and d from the alphabet and trying to make sense of the written word.

I don't find it as bad as that!

After our coffee, we will ask for "la cuenta por favor", pay the three euros, say "gracias" and the waitress will say "de nada", one of those little ritualised social exchanges which everyone understands. Next we are going food shopping as we have an apartamento in a quiet residential street. There are little local shops tucked away in the next street, Calle Molinos. No souvenir shops here, but still close enough to walk to the Alhambra, the catedral, the Plaza Nueva and the centro comercial.

café

Today we will be surrounded by all those delicious words español for food shops. We have a small supermercado, pescaderias, fruteria, charcuteria, panaderia, carnicería. The street has a florista, farmacia, peluqueria and libreria as well, if you need flowers, medicines, hairdressing and papers or magazines.

Unfortunately my Spanish language skills are quite inadequate for food shopping. It's fine in the supermercado where I can study labels and look for clues. But when I point to the chicken breasts and ask for dos piezas [two pieces], the butcher smiles in agreement, then proceeds to cut one breast in half. I realise she thinks I want it sliced into two pieces. "No" I say and point again to the breasts. "Dos". "Ah!" she exclaims and expertly cuts the two pieces again into wafer thin slices. She looks puzzled at my dismayed expression. I try again by asking for another, "tambien". She nods, selects another breast and cuts it up the same way. I leave with a bag of four chicken breasts cut into paper thin slices. 

It was going to be chicken cacciatore. Now I have no idea what to do with it.

Misunderstandings are easy. A word's meaning changes according to the context.

I had an example of this in Ronda when I asked the receptionist for a hair-dryer, explaining that my hair was a mess. "It is complicated by the wind," he replied in good English.

It took a few seconds for me to realise that he was using the word 'complicated' in the sense of messed up!

I successfully purchase a wholemeal baguette from the panaderia and then brave the little fruteria, crammed with customers. There are no signs on the cartons of fruit and vegetables to remind me of their names, just a price per kilogram. 

Eventually I find myself in the front row at the counter. The greengrocer calls out "Aquí?" I assume it means who is next in this context, raise my hand and say "Si."

"Lo siento, No hablo Español" I apologise. He smiles and shrugs. I like the twinkle in this old man's eyes. I start with "patatas, dos por favor," I hope he doesn't think I mean two kilograms, but he holds up two large potatoes. We go through a similar process with onions, carrots, small green peppers.

"¿Es eso todo?" [Is that all?] "Sí. Todo." He starts to calculate the bill. "No. Lo siento. quiero [I want]" then relapse into English "parsley".

A young dark haired Spanish man in a red T-shirt, which shows off his physique, interjects critically and says the word for parsley in Spanish, perejil. I try to repeat it but my ear for languages is poor. He breaks it into syllables for me to repeat. I try but it has the "j"  sound, which is unlike any sound in English except perhaps an "h" sound with a slight cough from deep in the back of the throat at the same time.

Suddenly my instructor says in perfect English, free from any accent, "Words with the "j' sound are from the Arabic".

"I know," I say, "like naranja" which is the word for orange. [Dave often orders zumo de naranja when we are out at cafes.]

I wonder if my new friend is a university student, as there are thousands in Granada, giving it the vibe of a young person's city, except in these inner-city residential areas where older Granadians still live in their apartments.

"You're not Australian are you?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Where are you from?" he asks with the slightest Spanish accent.

"Adelaide."

"Does Adelaide really exist?" I detect the slight edge of sarcasm.

"Yes it does. But no-one ever visits," I smile.

"I grew up in Sydney," he says.

"How long have you been here?" I ask. 

"In Granada three years. In Spain twenty."

He looks about the same age as my son, Ben [late thirties]. Probably came over as a backpacker or a student and stayed, I surmise.

"Are you here on a holiday or living here?" he asks.

"On holidays," I reply. "That's why I can't speak Spanish. As you know we don't learn languages in Adelaide."

"Oh, I know people who have lived here for years and don't speak any Spanish," he says.

"Spain is great, isn't it?" I enthuse.

"Oh, I am sick of Spain," he says. "Since the current president, Mariano Rajoy Brey, took over, we are going backwards. The first thing he did was make abortion illegal. It is heading back to the 'Franco' period.

The government is dealing with the worst financial crisis by removing workers' rights. How stupid is that?"

"I know" I say. "We have seen the demonstrations everywhere, from the time we arrived in Madrid".

"Yes. Madrid." 

He pauses, "But they won't listen," he says angrily.

Suddenly I notice the old man holding the print-out from the computer, waiting patiently for me to pay.

The entire shop is watching us. One of the women serving [the old man's wife?] is throwing her hands in the air and saying something to the audience of customers.

The young man explains, "She is saying she doesn't understand us. We speak too quickly. She is saying that Spanish is easy but English is difficult."

I smile as I bid "adios". 

Any language we don't speak is difficult.

The Alhambra at sunset.