hablas ingles?

film poster: Man and Wife (Matt Cimber 1969) This morning I woke up, opened my Mac and was shocked when I noticed the date. Aside from the very obvious connotation of Friday the 13th, this day was particularly alarming to me since it meant that I had been “living” in Buenos Aires for over a month already. I wondered how this could be possible when it seems like I’ve only just arrived—and I can hardly say my Spanish has improved much. I realized that of all the immersion goals I set for myself—learning the language, befriending the locals, establishing a routine in the city—I’ve actually accomplished very little. I recall very clearly my naïve assumption that in a month’s time my language abilities would be near fluency, and that I’d have a whole social network of amigos Argentinos. However, as of now I’ve made only one real friend here from the city, and the fact that my language skills are still lagging both enhances and inhibits the time we spend together. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—for me, my new amigo, Fernando, speaks English fairly well. However, I frequently find myself overestimating his abilities. He will say something in broken (yet charming) English, I’ll piece it together so that it makes sense to me, and respond assuming he’s retaining everything I’m saying. The two of us often find ourselves having a grand old time, laughing with each other in the midst of some witty repartee—only to discover thirty minutes later that we’ve been talking about entirely separate things. One thing we’ve learned is that there is a direct ratio between the number of drinks we have and our ability to speak each other’s language. The difference is quite astounding actually. As the night goes on, I find that these “misunderstandings” between us are less frequent, that I’m more able to understand him when he speaks quickly un Spanish, and more able to respond myself—with the excessive use of gesticulations and facial expressions of course. It may also be that at that point in the night our misunderstandings are less frustrating, and more…humorous. But I tend to think that I’m rather partial towards those silly moments at all times, in all mental states, when the only things you can do is laugh, and forget about trying to clarify the problem. I like to look at our language “issue” as more of a blessing than a barrier. When Fernando pronounces English words with his funny little accent or asks me questions like, “what are these things moo-feens?” at the café with regard to the common American breakfast pastry, I can’t help but love him.

I think all disparities in culture can be alleviated with a good laugh. Just last night, the two of us went to the MALBA museum to see the first in the series of historical pornography films playing there at midnight. We knew of the show from some friends who were supposed to meet us there, but of course they were late and got locked out of the museum. Fernando and I sat in the theatre not knowing what to expect. All of a sudden an instructional video on marital intercourse from 1969, called Man and Wife, comes on. After 15 minutes of whispering jokes into each others ears over the lunacy of our situation, as a Ben Stein type spoke over a couple fornicating in a variety of different positions, we decided to leave. The rest of the night involved comical allusions to the monotonous “howevers” and awkward sex scenes in the film, and of course much laughter.