Just Visiting, part 5

We did get a babysitter one night so we could go to Botín, the famous Madrid restaurant where Hemingway dined and where roasted suckling pig and lamb were the specialties. The sitter was Begoña Domínguez, the younger sister of Mike’s new colleague, Chema. Chema, Begoña and their several siblings had all gone to the American School of Madrid, and Begoña had encouraging things to say about the place. Her English was great, but she said I was mispronouncing her name. “Beh-goh-nia?” I tried. Then I thought maybe the g was supposed to be pronounced gutturally. “Be-choh-nia?” She laughed and shook her head. I never did understand what I was doing wrong.

I had trouble with that guttural “ch” sound. The kids and I flagged down a taxi one time to get back to the apartment, located on Juan Ramón Jimenez (the name of an important Spanish poet). “Wan Ramón Heeménez, número dos,” I told the driver, trying my feeble approximation of a Spanish accent.

“Eh?” he said.

“Hwan Ramón Heeménez, número dos,” I tried, expelling a little more breath.

“Oh, Chwan RRRRamón Cheeménez,” the driver said with a strong throat-clearing “ch” and a richly rolling R, as recognition dawned on him.

I hated the feeling of not being able to communicate.

We were the recipients of great hospitality that week from one of Mike’s colleagues, Marino Sánchez-Cid. Marino was Mike’s counterpart in the Madrid office of PW. He and his wife, Pilar, had four children, including a new baby, in a small (by U.S. standards) apartment in Madrid, but they invited us over for dinner one night. This was a pretty big deal, Mike explained, as Spaniards didn’t often entertain at home. But Marino and Pilar had done a tour of duty in L.A., and they knew that an American would appreciate an invitation to a Spanish home. Further, they knew we were taking an early train down south the next morning, so they advanced their normal dinner time by several hours for our benefit.

This was one of the nicest and yet most awkward evenings of my life. Though Pilar had lived in L.A., she hadn’t really learned English, and I couldn’t speak any Spanish. Though I felt warmth toward her, and was grateful for her kindness, I couldn’t talk to her at all, and I hated that. I smiled feebly at her, used sign language where I could, and miserably asked Marino to translate for me from time to time. “Please tell Pilar that I promise I’ll be able to speak to her in Spanish the next time I see her,” I told him.