Settling In, part 14

One of the Price Waterhouse partners, Pedro, invited Mike and me to his place for a Saturday night dinner party. I knew how unusual this invitation was—most Spaniards lived in small apartments, and they rarely entertained at home. They hardly ever invited foreigners to come over! Most socializing was done at restaurants. But Pedro, like most of the Spaniards at PW, had lived in the U.S. for a few years and knew that we would love to go to his apartment.

The invitation was for 8:30, and I figured I had better ask for advice on when to actually arrive. Even the textbook I had used during the summer had information on the Spanish concept of time and promptness. No Spaniard would think of arriving at or near 8:30, but I didn’t know when to really show up, so I asked Lorraine, my 12-step friend.

“Nine-thirty,” she said without hesitation, confirming what Ana had already told me.

“Really?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yep, nine-thirty is the time,” she said. So we planned accordingly.

I asked Ana what we should bring. “You go to an Arab bakery and buy a little pastry,” she said.

“But I think there will be other people there,” I said. “I should probably get something bigger.”

“No,” she said, “just a small cake. That’s what is done.”

So we arrived in Pedro’s neighborhood, in the northeast part of the city, at 9:30 p.m. with tiny cake in hand. We found the apartment building and were buzzed in.

Pedro, who was about fifty and very tall and handsome, answered the door. I had met him before. He completely fit my idea of a Continental—a suave gentleman with elegant manners. Dressed in a beautiful cashmere sweater, wearing an appealing cologne, he didn’t seem like the stubborn, old-fashioned businessman Mike complained about. He had a way of paying attention to women that was very flattering. I found him delightful to be around, and I was pleased that we’d gotten the timing right.

“Bienvenido,” he said, giving me a kiss on each cheek in the Spanish manner. “I’m so glad you could come. Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“Not at all,” Mike said.

“Good, good! Well, please come in and meet our friends. You know Marga, Mike—Susie, this is my wife.”

Marga was short with auburn hair, looking a bit older than Pedro, dressed in an elegant suit. “Encantada,” she said, kissing me as well. “I’m happy to meet you. Please come in!”

The living room was snug, with just enough room for the eight of us. Two other couples were there—I didn’t get all the introductions straight right away, and Marga seemed surprised that I didn’t recognize one of the ladies, who was a news reader on Televisión Española, the government television channel. I did catch on that not everyone spoke English, but I was excited that we were going to give our Spanish the acid test.

The men wore sweaters, like Pedro, and the women wore suits like Marga—a combination that seemed strange to me, but one that I eventually came to see as normal after some months in Spain. That was typical attire in restaurants, too—the men were usually dressed more casually than the women.

The living room was warm, with grass-cloth wallpaper and modern walnut furniture. A big picture window took up one whole wall, with a good view over the neighborhood. There was a large stereo, and classical music was playing.

We got acquainted over olives and sherry and moved quickly to the dinner table, in an ell off the living room. Our Spanish was holding up pretty well as we swapped stories about our work, our children, the weather. Everyone was interested in how we liked Spain so far.

The dinner began with a delicious soup, followed by roasted whole peppers stuffed with fish. Marga did all of the cooking and serving herself, except for the dessert, which one of the other ladies proudly provided—a custard that must have taken a lot of effort to prepare. Our cake was welcomed, and Marga cut it and served it after the other dessert.

We returned to the living room for coffee and after-dinner drinks, and that was when our Spanish started to fail us. We were tired and full, and Mike, at least, had kept up with the steady flow of alcohol. It was by now 11:30, and the topic had turned to politics—not yet a subject about which we had any useful opinions. We didn’t venture a word, and then we lost the thread of the conversation altogether.

We exchanged a sleepy glance and wordlessly agreed that we’d better get out of there before we nodded off and really embarrassed ourselves, so we gave our profuse thanks to our hosts and said our good nights.

“It was great, though,” I said to Mike as we walked to the car. “For a while there I think I was actually thinking in Spanish.”

“I’m dead,” he said. “Let’s get home.”