Caracoles

In a narrow street in Burgos, Manolo stopped and pointed at a wooden box sitting outside the door of a small produce store. I peered in: hundreds of snails crawled slowly over each other, their slimy bodies extending from greenish shells. “Caracoles,” Manolo said, meaning to remind me of an earlier conversation. The night before, when I´d not been able to find the word “caracol” in my dictionary, he had tried a pop culture reference as a means of definition. He´d asked, “Tu sabes la película pity oomn?” I thought for a moment, straining to translate, then shook my head—I didn´t know such a movie. He cast about for another clue, then his face brightened. “Zh-ulya Robe-airt,” he said. Then I got it: the snail eating scene in Pretty Woman.

I know that sometimes my Spanish sounds as incomprehensible. I´ll say something that I think is perfectly clear and reasonable but will be met by a blank stare. I´ll repeat the phrase, as if to say, no, you´re not listening…. Then I´ll have to try other words, and eventually, usually, the light of comprehension will grace my interlocutor. On the other hand, there´s always the option of misunderstanding. Last year at the village bar, Manolo introduced me to an older man who apparently, I garnered from the conversation, had once lived in South Dakota. I´d said something about how that was close to Minnesota. They both smiled and nodded but didn´t pursue the geographical topic. Later I learned that the man in the bar was actually the local priest—“sacerdote” in Spanish (sah-ser doe-tay—which sounds a little bit like South Dakota, doesn´t it?). He´d never been within a thousand miles of the Upper Midwest.

Usually language simply washes over one, requiring no conscious effort. Here I have to strain to speak and hear, to comprehend and be comprehended. Often I´m up for the challenge—my small dictionary is already well-thumbed—but sometimes I need to go off by myself and read a bit of Dickens.

Maite and Sergio both know some English but are self-conscious about their limited skill (however, yesterday Sergio did show some pride when he defined a “vaca” or cow as a “milk factory”). They are determined that little Sara master English, and have already begun her education. They sit her down in front of the television and play English-language instructional videos (remember, the child is four months old). The favorite is an amalgamation of old Disney cartoons, with an added voiceover. Goofy wrestles a salmon, and the narrator asks, “what´s this?” Sergio, watching with Sara, will prompt her—“feesh, Sara.” Next comes a clip of the romantic dinner scene in Lady and the Tramp. “What´s this?” the narrator asks as a waiter serves the two dogs. “It´s a saghetti, Sara,” Sergio answers.

Speaking of food, yesterday´s midday meal deserves description…. The first course was soup—fidellas con almehas—or noodles with clams. Short thin noodles filled the bowl of reddish, olive oily broth, and a crowd of small, open clam shells sat on top or half submerged. One could pick up the shells one at a time and suck the clams off the half shell, or use a spoon to scrape them into the soup. I alternated between methods.

As an aside, I´d like to note that no one in the family seems to eat all that fast, and yet I always finish last. Mysterious. Today I tried to watch the others eat—but I would forget, entranced by my own portion, and then when I looked up my neighbor´s plate would be clean. I finally did, though, notice that they take massive bites. But even this they make look easy and casual.

The second course was albondigas, or meatballs of beef and pork. “Carne picada,” Manolo explained (minced or chopped meat). A thin sauce, inevitably tinged with tomato, was ladled on top, and Sergio and I got larger portions than everyone else. The ubiquitous bread came in handy as a means of not wasting any of the excellent sauce.

After lunch Manolo showed me plans for a new house they are going to build just around the corner. A “merendero” he called it, sort of like a bodega, a place for entertaining—meaning eating. He got out the plans and showed me a series of drawings, and then he took me to the site, which is an open stretch of dirt now. Two months ago Manolo tore down what remained of an old collapsed house of adobed-over brick (later he showed me photographs). His grandmother had once lived in the house, but long ago. He showed me the spot where he planned to put in a small pool and said it would be for Winston and Jackson and Sara.

Winston and Jackson and Sara. Sara and Jackson and Winston. There is much talk of these small children. However, the other day Maite said, “no novios.” In other words, they are not allowed to become romantically involved. She´s afraid that Sara would go away to America, and that would be intolerable. The sound of rubber carriage wheels bouncing on the tile floors of the house is a constant throughout the day and evening. Often only such jostling will comfort Sara—though I think there´s some question of whether she is soothed by the motion or so rattled and tossed about that she hasn´t the wherewithal to fuss. The other constant sound is babytalk, as one adult or the other—or maybe the abuelos come in from next door—have a go at Sara.

I´m leaving here Monday, the day after tomorrow. But I kind of don´t really want to.