A lesson in humility

Once a day I force myself out of hermited isolation to meet with Guilermo under the Hule tree. Before you settle into harlequin images of a passionate romp in white sands with a sun-kissed Latin lover, I’ll tell you that Guilermo is an older gentleman retained to improve my feeble grasp of Spanish. Though I suspect Guilermo may have been a well employed Latin lover in his youth, now he passes the afternoon hour of one to two in the dense shade of the 50-year-old rubber tree outside my casita in childish conversations about bus stops, business hours, and grooming practices.

I’m not new to Spanish lessons which makes the hour-long exercise in humiliation that much more agonizing. I understand the majority of what Guilermo says but it usually takes me a minute to figure out if he’s telling me something (so I can relax) or if he’s asking me something (in which case I must brace myself for the horror of responding.)
It goes something like this…
Guilermo says in Spanish, “When I was young, I had many friends who played music.” His voice rises ever so slightly at end to ensure that I am understanding but I take this wayward note to mean it is my turn to speak.
“No, my friends do not play music,” I bi-lingually react.
He looks at me for a moment so I assume I’ve conjugated the verb wrong. I immediately stammer, “No, my friends did not play music” and then smile wantonly for a “muy bien” – the biscuit of my training.
Guilermo points to his torso and says, slowly this time, “When I was young, my friends played music” but this time he adds ample pointing and mock guitar strumming.

Well shit! If everyone in Meixco spoke like that I’d be all set!

At least half of our daily session revolves around verb tense. Second only to my daily duty to squashing a coachroach half-again as large as my big toe, this portion of my I lesson is a low point of the day. I remember when Celia was two years old and I’d ask what color something was and she’d proudly produce the name of a color! If she got the right one for the object in question it was pure coincidence. But she’d bark out colors until she got it right and we’d each beam with pride. This is me - minus the beaming - during daily verb torture. I struggle through a litany of veritable verb forms “Yo voy… no! fue…crap, fui?..” sometimes to realize that I just exhausted every possible form of the wrong word. Guilermo, ever the gentleman, calmly witnesses my seizure before stating the sentence properly. My spirit broken, I quietly parrot back the sentence nodding my head and saying “por supuesto” meaning, “of course” which is, ironically, the one thing I can always remember how to say.

I believe that parallel sentence structure in Spanish should be a sort of nirvana for second language seekers – like achieving gourmet status, accomplishing a marathon, or shaving one’s legs every day. Even if I somehow happen to get the subject and verb to agree, I trip on the gender of object, use the wrong article, or fail to find an adjective that can agree –for even a moment – with the wrongly emasculated object. In a mere six words, I can manage to get all but one right. And YET, the listener - when not in fits of laughter - can usually understand my meaning. So while I try to hit the verb lottery with Guilermo, in life beyond the Hule tree, I stick with setting the tense by stating the timeframe and then clinging to first person present like this, “Yesterday, I go to the store,” and “Tomorrow, I go to the store.” It’s not eloquent, I admit, but given the alternative is to sound like I’m afflicted with Spanish Touretts syndrome, I’ll save conjugation efforts for Guilermo – he’s paid not to laugh.

An Idle Mind

I know virtually nothing about auto mechanics but I know that on a bone-rattling-cold January morning in Michigan, a 1971 Chevette will continually stall out if the idle is set too low. I also know that sitting in a metal box after spending 20 minutes scraping windshield glaciers thumping your head on the steering wheel will not reset the idle.

I’m certain there is a very good explanation for the particulars of mechanical idle calibration but I liken it to fluctuating caffeine levels. With too low levels, my body will not accelerate beyond the stasis of morning bitchiness onto productive behavior. With too high levels, the whirl in my head hits a note well beyond a dog’s audible range. (That begs the question – is there a species that can hear this pitch? Maybe this is why I cannot keep house plants alive?)

I’ve returned to Mexico this summer to recharge my proverbial batteries. In the past year, Caffeine – my oldest and dearest enabling friend – has failed me. Our once powerful embrace has fallen to chemical impotence. No focus. No spontaneous desire to turn cartwheels. No ability to deny circadian rhythms. What’s worse, I didn’t see it coming. It is a betrayal I may never forgive. I shudder to think what might have become of me if it weren’t for the steadfast devotion of Scotch and Tequila. With five full days and nights of pure, self-centered decompression, surely my energy, optimism (admittedly low-grade on a good day but rarely absent), and ambition will return. And yet on day three I can see the plants outside my casita beginning to feel the effects of the unsuppressed whirl.

For the first two days, I hunkered deeply into my little compound hidden beneath mango trees laden with infant fruit still green with inexperience. In two weeks, the mangoes will learn the sun’s secret and blush red with their knowledge. In the meanwhile, faced with limitless prospects of self-indulgence, I dove like a Jenny Craig defector, into the sweet treats of my week-long sabbatical. I watched three movies, a full season of a Canadian mini-series, read 100+ pages of my novel about ante-bellum life in Virginia, listened to hours of music pouring forth from my ipod, devoured celebrity gossip like a Japanese school girl, and marveled at my inability to retain Spanish verbs for more than a moment. It is to be expected, I guess. How could they find their place among my thoughts within the whirling? They fled within minutes – “ir” led the way but “venir” and “estar” were right behind him.

So – it’s day four and now I know this is not about my batteries at all. I need to lower my idle to a hum just north of stalling out completely. This requires tough love. I ban the award-winning authors to my suitcase. I cancel tonight’s date with several prominent indy actors and resolve to leave the tales of deliciously flawed celebrities to other pool-side loungers. I tell them all, one by one, that when the whirl dies down to a hum - no, a purr - we’ll talk.

Delightful distractions cast aside, I set the course for a new day with a simple plan. I will make amends with caffeine over a conciliatory latte at Vonn Café letting the street noise penetrate unimpeded by hi-fidelity ear phones. I will not neglect caffeine by reading or studying through our reunion – no wonder it left me! I’ll take in the afternoon sun at the pool armed only with introspection and powers of observation. There’s no doubt nightfall will be the real challenge. To pass the evening hours without the lulling effects of passive entertainment could prove too much for me. But, with Tequila by my side, I am determined to make through. Hell, if a 20-year-old Chevette could idle in -10 degree windchill, I can idle alone in Mexico with a margarita.