Spanish Class! Katie in Antigua!

Our Spanish Scool

One of the many thing many visitors do in Antigua is study Spanish at one of the dozens of immersion language schools here in town. Both of us have fared quite well over the years with the "point and grunt" linguistic technique which is useful in ANY country. But since Spanish is the ONLY language we even pretended to have studied, it seemed reasonable that we'd give this language instruction thing a shot.

We did our "research", reading Trip Adviser reviews until we found one that seemed good and, of course, cheap.  For $100, we get four hours a day with a private tutor for a week.  That's 20 hours. Of concentrated effort. Learning something new. What were we thinking?

Day One, 8 am. We were assigned our teachers, given a small notebook, and assigned tables in a small courtyard that we would share with our teachers. Linda's teacher is Miriam, and Roger's is Brenda. They are sisters, and are patient, chatty, and very kind. At the 10:00 break, we meet on the rooftop terrace to smoke(some of us) and compare notes.  The course is individualized; Linda is  improving her vocabulary and learning useful phrases, while Roger concentrates on "verbs and shit like that." By the time class ends at  noon, we are totally spent. We trudge home, eat a quick lunch, and sleep the afternoon away. Thought is impossible. That evening we try  to do homework, but realize that we have used up every bit of the Spanish language we know. There's NOTHING left. Can we cut class?

It is tough going.  We are increasing our vocabulary a little and we hope our pronunciation is improving, but it is unlikely that we will be engaging the locals in any philosophical discussions or learning from them the changing dynamics of their agricultural cooperatives under the new government.  No, our Spanish seems to be best suited to talking to other tourists who have taken the same Spanish classes; we all speak in the same cautious cadence in the same deliberate, and slow, pronunciation.  We atttempt to engage the locals in our business transactions, but they are somewhat aloof.  The Indians were interested in every intimate detail--why don't we have grandchildren?  How much money do we make?  The Guatemalans don't seem to give a shit.

Roger remembers part of a dialogue that he wrote for a homework assignment in10th grade Spanish( that caused him some trouble):
Q.  What did one Gay Cabarello say to the other Gay Cabarello?
A. Homo esta usted?

He has been carrying that chestnut around in his pocket for 45 years.  Will he have an opportunity to use it in Guatermala?  You bet!

Kate Arrives!

She Does!

Will She Know Us?

We get to cut class early today to ride with our taxi driver for an hour's drive to pick Kate up at the airport.  We have a sign to greet her at the exit that says "Kate" in case she doesn't recognize us.  It reminds us of a gag we pulled many years ago in Jamaica.  Roger and the kids met Linda at the little airport in Negril, and a very young Katie held a sign that said "MOM".   We met her puddle jumper on the tarmac (as you could in those pre-war years), and in the excitement it got jumbled around, with Katie wildly waving a cardboard sign that said "WOW".