Just Visiting, part 10

Mike and I told our parents and friends the news, and most everyone was excited for us. And finally I had to tell the newspaper that I’d be leaving at the end of May to study Spanish. People there were lovely to me—accepting my decision but regretful about losing me and gracious about how I’d be missed. They even talked to me about coming back to work when I returned; they wanted to do more coverage of the large Latino community in Stamford, and they thought I could help. Privately I wondered how a Jewish woman speaking Castilian Spanish would go over at the Puerto Rican Community Center, but it was nice for me to think about. I had plenty of regrets about leaving the best work situation I’d ever had, but I was going on faith that I was about to have a special experience.

The Spanish class I found was wonderful. The professor, Lourdes Morales, was a great teacher for me—demanding and fair. She was the daughter of a Puerto Rican and a Colombian, and she was married to an opera singer from Iceland.

Most of my classmates were college kids, but there were a couple women my age taking the first half of the course. Though the younger people were not too friendly at the beginning, those of us who went all the way through the twelve weeks got close through the shared experience. There was an interesting guy from a Sephardic Jewish family that spoke Ladino, the language of the Sephardim, at home. There was a tall, thin redheaded kid who was about to go to work for a big accounting firm. He was a triathlete—and he smoked. In fact, nearly all the kids in the class smoked, which surprised me. I had assumed that the college kids of the 90s were smarter than we had been.

My best friend in the class, incongruously, was a 22-year-old who was trying to finish his B.A. so he could apply to become a Connecticut state trooper. A big bear of a guy, his nickname was Tiny. He was struggling through the class, but somehow we always partnered up when there was a dialogue or a group project to do.

One day Tiny’s car was in the shop, and he asked me if I could take him to pick it up. He got into my car, and I turned on my usual radio station—WXRK, the alternative rock station in New York. “You listen to K Rock?” he said incredulously. I realized with a start that to him I was an old lady. “What did you think I listened to?” I asked. “Whitney Houston?” He kept his mouth shut after that.