So a woman sits down next to you at the bank. She turns to you and says something, then waits for your reaction. The things is…whatever she just said sounded a whole lot like jibberish. What do you do? Smile and nod, and hope it was a “boy this wait has been long,” kind of comment? Or spill the beans up front. “I haven’t a clue what you just said. Wanna write it down for me?”
Luckily, after two months of Spanish immersion my moments of pure incomprehension have severly decreased, but I still have my days. The bus happens to be the location where I Fake It the most. I used to Fake It at home a lot, but my family caught on to my dirty tricks. “she didn’t understand a thing,” they’ll say to one another after throwing a comment in my direction at lunch. “I understood THAT,” I grumble under my breath on particularly disappointing linguistic days. You can only ask someone to repeat themselves or slow down so many times before head nodding and a faux-smile of comprehension feel entirely appropriate.
It’s when I’m most confident that I DO understand something, however, that I tend to get myself into real trouble. A few weeks ago I was riding the buseta to school (my favorite time of the day! Busetas. Are. Great.) when I dozed off for a moment. When I awoke, I found an elderly gentleman seated beside me. Our conversaton went a little something like this:
Senior: Hello
Me: Hello.
Senior: Are you tired?
Me: YES. ugh, very much so.
Senior: In Venezuela?
Me: (Hmmm…wha’? Am I tired in Venezuela? Or is he asking how long I’ve been here? Or if I’m from here? Better answer all of the above.) Well, just recently really…um. I’m a student here. Lot’s of work. It makes me tired. I’ve been here a month, but I’m from the U.S. (all potential questions answered? check! check! check!)
Senior: But where is your husband?
Riiiiiiiight. And then it clicks. I was never asked if I was tired, which seemed logical after waking up from a nap, but instead if I was married. Cansada v. Casada. Don’t tell me that’s not an easy mistake. Of course I made up for lost time by creating a faux-husband who lives in Caracas and making sure my ring finger wasn’t exposed.
This, of course, was more of a U-Turn kind of Faking It. Catching the mistake early enough that I could spin on my heel and steer myself onto the same topic my partner was already on. Always a nice touch. But not all small talk turns out this way: most of the time I either get totally busted when the stranger speaking to me decides to ask a direct question (jerk!), or after a long enough time without a verbal response from my end they just think I’m incredibly rude. Or deaf. Or both.
But here’s what I’ve decided…though it may not be the nicest thing in the world to lead poor, unsuspecting, friendly neighbors to think you are actually digesting what it is they are saying to you–isn’t that kind of part of the learning experience? I mean, if I stopped everyone who started to strike up a conversation with me and told them “look…I don’t really speak a ton of Spanish,” they’d likely give up the effort. Walk away. Leave me cold and alone on my buseta bench to practice Spanish conjugation in my head instead of listening to the real live thing, whether I understand it all or not. So call me crazy, but from this day forward, I’m Fakin’ It all the way, baby.
Six Months in Venezuela 