Settling In, part 5

Not all our weekend excursions were as pleasant. Mike had received an invitation from a Price Waterhouse colleague, Rafa, for us to join him and his wife Maricarmen and their teenage son for a day at their country club. This was a generous and hospitable invitation, I knew. Amy Levine, the mother of Julie’s friend Anna, had complained to us about her husband’s colleagues at the bank—never an invitation, no offers of help, nothing to welcome them to Spain. Our situation was different, and it was something to be grateful for.

But I began the day with trepidation. Everything would be unfamiliar, and I was shy, not at my best with new people in new places. And, of course, I was insecure about my Spanish.

Mike followed Rafa’s directions to the country club, which was not too far from our house. We drove into a large circular driveway before a low, shaded brick clubhouse. Again we had a lovely, sunny day, and the parking lot was nearly full. I could see people walking between the clubhouse, the tennis courts, and the nearby soccer field. I pumped up my flagging courage and entered the clubhouse with Mike and the girls.

We found Rafa and Maricarmen easily. “Encantado,” Rafa said, kissing me on both cheeks. This was the standard Spanish self-introduction. “Encantada,” I responded—“enchanted”. He was about six feet tall, fortyish, with dark hair, and he was a little thick around the middle. I repeated the greeting with Maricarmen, who was petite and blond and pretty and spoke no English.

Rafa’s English, however, was excellent. “Our son is playing soccer. We probably won’t see much of him. But you and I, Mike, we have a tennis reservation, and we should go over there now.” They hoisted their tennis bags and disappeared.

I froze. I was going to be in Maricarmen’s charge, it seemed.

“¿Te gusta nadar?” Maricarmen asked me—Do you like to swim?

I didn’t, much, but I couldn’t think of an alternative.

“Y a las chicas, ¿les gusta?” And the girls, do they like it?

“Sí,” I said, my stomach sinking. I was going to have to communicate and take care of the kids and myself and make this work for at least an hour, I figured. I felt like crying.

Maricarmen led us to the locker room, and I went through the always-embarrassing routine of changing in front of a stranger. Then we walked onto the deck of the large indoor pool. The place was empty, and Maricarmen went right into the water and started swimming laps. Julie and Lisa sat on the side for a while and then dropped into the pool and splashed around a little. I was immobilized, sitting on the edge of the pool, feeling silly and embarrassed and fat in my bathing suit. I was feeling stupid, too, because I couldn’t seem to generate, in Spanish, the kind of polite chitchat that you have to do with a new acquaintance.

So I just kept sitting there, and Maricarmen would stop every lap or so and try to exchange some pleasantries with me—how old were the kids, how did we like Spain, etc. I was stuck there in my locked brain, trying to respond as best I could. I watched the kids, I watched the clock, I looked out the window, and I wallowed in my misery.

Finally Maricarmen finished her laps, and we went back into the locker room and changed. “¿Quisiera ver todo el club?” she asked me—would I like to see the whole club?

“Sí,” I answered. So she took us for a stroll through the grounds, which were green and manicured, with well-kept sports facilities and lots of busy, happy-looking people. She continued to converse with me, and I answered haltingly, belying the A I had gotten in my summer Spanish class. It was not the same trying to actually use this language, and I felt like a failure.

At last we returned to the clubhouse and met Mike and Rafa for lunch. Maricarmen’s sister was there, too, and once they were together Maricarmen pretty much gave up the hopeless task of trying to talk to me. The two sisters chatted happily in Spanish through lunch. Mercifully, Rafa spoke to us in English.

“We don’t use this club as much as we probably should,” he said. “A lot of the weekends we go to our pueblo”—village—“where we can relax.”

“What do you mean?” Mike asked. “Don’t you live in Madrid?”

“Oh, yes,” Rafa said, “but many city people buy a little house in a small town where they can go for the weekend. You go there Friday night, you stay there till Sunday night or Monday morning. We have been going to our pueblo for many years. My son knows all the boys there, they play football all weekend. It is a good change from Madrid. We are lucky because Maricarmen works only part-time. She finishes at two o’clock on Friday, so she can leave very early for the pueblo and miss some of the traffic. I usually have to come much later.”

I was feeling a little better as we ate, but still my jaw was tense and I couldn’t wait for the day to be over. The leisurely lunch finally came to an end, the rumored son made a brief appearance and was introduced, and we were finally able to say our goodbyes and leave.

“I’m sorry I was such a slug,” I said ruefully to Mike. “I couldn’t talk at all. I felt like an idiot.”

“What?” he said. “I didn’t notice anything.”