When I was studying abroad in college, I had one incredibly memorable meltdown. I was at an Internet cafe, and my computer just wasn’t working. I had waited about 5 minutes and finally told the woman running the joint that I needed a new one. I logged on to a different machine and after sending off my weekly list of emails, went to pay. The woman, to my surprise, charged me for the initial “sign-in” fee for both computers.
Now, the total cost, mind you, was probably about $1. But it was the principal of the matter: her computers were crappy, and I didn’t see why I should be charged for something that didn’t work. I tried to argue my point. I wasn’t expressing myself well. I started to cry. Not because of the money, but because I had no way to put my frustrations into words. I paid up, stormed out of the shop and went and bought myself a faux snickers at the grocery store to cheer myself up. Pathetic, but true.
I’ve never enjoyed arguing for sport, but my experience at the Internet cafe in Madagascar, and subsequent, more successful second language arguments, have taught me there is something incredibly satisfying about victoriously putting up a fight in a foreign tongue.
Today I went to rent a tent in town. I’m going camping for one night on Saturday, but because tomorrow is Labor Day, they asked me to come in and pick up the tent this afternoon. I got there, and found they were charging me for three days. “Uhhh, disculpame, but I’m only going for one night,” I told them. “Yeah, but we charge from the time you pick up until you return,” the flojos explained. “yeah, ok…but I dont WANT to pick this up until Saturday. You asked me to come today. Why should I pay?” (correct grammar AND a look that says ‘you’re messing with the wrong girl, mister’? Whhaaaat?? Five points for the gringa)
We had a nice back and forth, until finally the guy called his boss. Now, full disclosure, I’m not sure I actually “won” the face-off. I still put down the full deposit and three days pay with an offer from the salesman to “discuss it with the boss” upon my return…BUT…the guys working at the shop fully understood me. And I them. Which felt awesome. (Not to mention I had dry eyes and an extra skip in my step once the final bell rang).
I left the shop with my tent in tow, ready to pick a Spanish fight with the next person who crossed me. Look out!
Six Months in Venezuela 