On language barriers (or, the time I accidentally locked my host mother out of her own house)
Anyone who has studied languages can attest that they always exist in more than one form – the sanctioned and standardized version taught in classrooms, multiple dialects, and a variety of local vernaculars that are constantly in flux. This linguistic phenomenon explains why my teachers never used the verb “marcharse,” as I have since learned that it is highly specific to Spain.
When I first met my host mother, I was jetlagged and overwhelmed by her lightning-speed Spanish. I would try to deduce the entirety of her message from the most salient components, smile often, and hope she wasn’t asking me a question. This worked well enough in casual conversation, but posed some difficulties when discussing important logistics. For example, the first time she used “marcharse,” she was explaining the house’s complicated locking mechanism. In my head, the verb conjured visions of soldiers marching purposefully toward a destination, so I translated it as “to arrive.” I left our conversation with the understanding that I needed to lock the door from the inside when I returned to the house, and dutifully did so when I came home that evening. As I collapsed into bed, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of pride – I had survived my first day in Spain, and I felt sure that I had left a positive first impression on my hosts!
The next morning, I came downstairs to find my host mother’s daughter preparing my breakfast. I greeted her with confidence, but that went out the window quickly when she began to explain that I had locked my host mother (who works a night shift at the local hospital) out of the house the night before. Fortunately, someone had been home to let her in, but I still felt extremely embarrassed. I apologized profusely and looked up “marcharse” at the next opportunity. My heart sank as I realized its meaning, “to leave,” was the opposite of what I had assumed. Needless to say, I will never forget the meaning of this particular word.
While it has been slightly difficult to adjust to a different dialect, I have also had fun picking up phrases from the Spanish vernacular. I have two favorites, “vale” and “toma.” “Vale” is an extremely versatile word. The verb “valer” is used in most Spanish-speaking countries to assess worth, as in the saying, “No vale la pena,” which translates to, “It’s not worth it.” However, Spaniards also use “vale” to express confirmation or agreement, much like Americans use the word “okay.” It’s more fun to say “vale” than “sí,” and it feels authentic.
On the other hand, “toma” is an expression that I have yet to hear outside the context of flamenco performances. It’s more of a feeling than a literal translation, but this phrase seems to bear a resemblance to the American colloquialism, “Get it!” When a performer does something particularly impressive or with flair, his or her stagemates will shout, “¡Toma, toma!” The energy of this exclamation is contagious; it reinvigorates the flamenco artists and the audience alike.
After nearly three weeks in Spain, I no longer have to rely on my ability to extrapolate meaning from sporadic linguistic cues. Rather, I have learned to interpret each message holistically, and to accept that some expressions (“vale” and “toma” being two of them) exist outside the scope of literal translation. Perhaps my most surprising revelation has been the extent to which human communication is universal: Where my second language fails me, facial expressions and intonation fill in the blanks, and the conversational barrier melts away.
