WWIII or just another “tone”

26 Jan

So I think one of the hardest things about living in a foreign country… is not knowing the language…teeny tiny insignificant detail. (insert facepalm)

And with that MINOR detail comes a slew of interesting situations… (situations that I can only comment on in English… in my head… so as to appear as non schizophrenic as possible… it’s harder than it sounds. I’ve just reverted to flailing my arms in a counter clockwise fashion in hopes that someone can understand me.) We’ll ignore the four times that I’ve thought I was going to the cinema and ended up at a bar or eating … it’s a bit hard on the wardrobe choices… and I’ve gained ten lbs… errr I mean 5 kg!!! Minor detail. And the  time I tried to spell my name for the delivery man… “yes, my last name is Rikir.” Minor detail. And the mail lady has learned to just avoid buzzing the doorbell because a) I’m only going to be able to say “Helllooooo!!! no hablos castellano!” and b) I’m not going let her in anyways… because let’s face it she could be a psycho killer mail lady ready to prey on innocent American girls who can’t speak Spanish. And lastly, I’ve learned just to wear flats… it’s safer… there might be a couple km jaunt at a moments turn…sorry my beloved Fendi boots. There’s a shadow box and admission charge with your name on it. 😦 But don’t worry…you’ll live to walk a different day!

There ARE some things that can be picked up on… like angry/crying girlfriends and drunk homeless people…those are synonymous around the world… along with uptight bitches and transvestites… I know, I know I’m so observant. Gotta be quick with me.

However, the absolute hardest thing that comes with just being an American girl living in a Spanish world and not knowing a word that is being said around you… is understanding the tone…

Oh, the tone.

During my road trip/experiment in the possibility of death by car sickness, I was SURE I was headed into girl world WWIII painfully aware of my non-existent helmet, gun, walkie-talkie and dire water rations, and preparing to pull a Steve Carrell and just gracefully fall out of the car… (I’m sure the pavement is harder than it seems. “TUCK AND ROLL!”)… but it turned out that my passiveagressivenonconfrontationalatanycostanduncomfortableness demeanor had been misconstruing the tone and it was really just a conversation about which kind of cookie is best… I imagine. 😉 I understand dessert is important, but lordhavemercy the shouting had me ready to revert back to my blankie and passefier. I now know that shouting doesn’t mean “FIIIIGHHHTTTT” nor that shit’s about to get real and I need to pull out my taekwondo skills from back in the day (orange belt with THREE green strips thankyouverymuch.)

Soooo… I just get to keep wondering what the hell is being said… and being said with such passion….and can continue narcissistically thinking every other word is my name and “crazy American.”

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