I’ve never been anywhere but my home.
Our first stop was Madrid—which we figured would be a leisurely couple of days before heading to see my friend Sven in Germany.
Stay in a hotel the first couple nights
Drink some wine, eat some tapas
Stumble upon a beautiful fountain or square or something with locals chilling out on stairs, enjoying the lovely weather…
Nope.
Inside 20 minutes, I discover that my 6 years of Spanish and experience in kitchens are worthless.
“In most big cities people speak English”
Horse. Shit.
Everyone had to “take” English in school, for the most part. Most people had to take fucking algebra in school, too. Doesn’t mean they retained it all. Anything past a simple transaction, and we’re staring confusedly at one another.
Waiter in a touristy restaurant—sure. That guy speaks English.
The old man working at the tobacco store?
He knows a few phrases. Hello, get you the thing you asked for, and goodbye. Maybe some directions to somewhere nearby.
In America, I’m great with words. I’m a comedian and a writer. Words are my stock and trade. They’re my job. They’re my way of making friends. They’re my way of getting things off my chest.
In Spain, I’m barely literate. I have the vocabulary of a middle school kid—a dumb one—and an accent so thick, despite my attempts at mimicry, that I’d be a token foreign character in a sitcom.
I always had respect for immigrants in America before. It has now tripled. The people here are patient and kind. I can’t imagine how I’d fair if I were
rummaging through coins and someone yelled “go back to your own country!” in my face.
Even simple things have become difficult. I have no tables. That’s what I notice most. There’s never anywhere to sit anything. I carry my entire life with me on my back. I’m always tucking things under my arm or balancing them on my bags. I used to resent sitting in my cubicle. Now the luxury of a workspace sounds like Christmas.
I still resent the idea of sitting at a cubicle.
You’re never sure who you can trust. In English, I can tell when someone is full of shit. It’s one of my gifts. Here, I’ve got to go by the eyes. People on travel shows have fixers—people that know the language and the culture and the hustles. I’m my own fixer abroad, and I’m not good at it yet. These people have accents I don’t understand and a culture I’m not that familiar with and hustles I’ve never even heard of.
Just like with the language, I’m essentially a bumbling foreign stereotype. I’m Balki from Perfect Stranger. I’m Ben from Short Circuit. I’m a caricature here. I’m an illiterate, bumbling caricature. Very different from the identity I’ve had for the better part of my adult life.
But that’s fine. Everything I know how to do, I didn’t know how to do, at some point. If I have a best quality, it’s that I’m a quick learner. And I’m funny. So far those two things have gotten me through the first 35 years. They’ll get me through the world.