My prior eight months in Santander and Madrid, plus my travels around Europe, allowed me to get a firm grasp of the Spanish language. Just as I thought I knew what Spanish culture was when I arrived in Granada, I figured I could hold my own speaking Spanish to my new friends. Well, it turns out that the latter followed suit with the former; I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, or as I said before, it was just the tip of the iceberg.
In actuality, I did get a good grasp of Castilian Spanish. But like in America, there are various types of dialects spoken depending on the geographic location; the same goes for Spain. Pedro and his friends spoke Andaluz, obviously spoken in Andalusia. This dialect is hands down the most difficult in Spain, even to other Spaniards, and gave me the most trouble. (More on dialects in Spain later). As my second weekend in Granada approached, Pedro invited me to Huesa.
I really didn’t know what to expect. The only things I knew were that many people in this village have never seen an American in person, only in movies. I had a feeling many people were going to ask me questions, and I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about the language barrier. In Huesa, especially, it was like the people were speaking to me in fast-forward. They also “ate” their words, meaning they didn’t pronounce the “j”, “s” and pretty much the last half of anything that came out of their mouth. I would liken it to a New Yorker—fast speech where the words seem to blend together. After arriving, we went straight to his mom’s house to eat.
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| With the DJ at Pedro's summer house |
Man, did I feel welcomed. I was ordered to sit down—after the customary two kisses on each cheek of course—and eat till I was stuffed. Unfortunately for them, this was a big mistake. I have to say I eat more than the average American person and way more than the average European; their small portions just don’t do it for me. Three plates of food and half a loaf of bread later I finished. Pedro had previously warned his family on my food-disposal capacity type of stomach, but I guess they didn’t believe him. After finishing, I think I left them speechless because the only thing they could muster up to say was “how the hell….?” It’s usually customary to ask guests how they liked the food, but I guess in my case it was different. The second thing they said to me, after looking each other in the eyes, was that I was a pozo sin fondo. No, I’m not a well that never ends, as the literal translation says, but rather a “bottomless pit.” Thirdly and finally, came the much awaited question, “was it good?” I successfully made the o-so-important and customary first question move down the list to the third.
After eating, Pedro was anxious to take me for a ride around the town. You heard right, a ride, and not a walk. He told me that in Granada, a city 50 times the size of Huesa, he walks everywhere. But in Huesa, it seems that him and everyone else would rather drive ten seconds down the street. I had no problem with this, as he let me drive anytime I wanted. We really didn’t make it far until he saw some friends—remember everybody knows each other in this village. From what I remember, it was Basilio, Vicky, Victoria, Roberto, Laura and a few others. They were planning some of the nocturnal activities that Pedro warned me about.
We stepped out of the car and I was greeted by a flurry of people. Pedro supposedly told them that an “Americano” was coming so everyone was eager to meet me. Talking about the basics was easy—where you from, why you here, etc.—but Pedro usually came by my side to help me interpret the slang into more formal speech. It only took a few minutes of them talking to figure out, and persuade Pedro, where the night’s festivity was going to be held: Pedro’s summer house.
