When I was 4, I traveled to El Salvador, the home country of Mom and Dad, to visit my grandparents. I was there for six months, and upon my return to the United States, my mom claimed that I was speaking the best Spanish of my life. After being exposed to the culture for so long, I was in my prime.
Eighteen years later, that little 4-year-old can probably teach me a thing or two about Español. Using English as the primary form of communication in the United States deteriorated my Spanish.
This week, I returned from a month-long study-abroad trip in Valencia, Spain. My main concern in traveling there was whether my Spanish could keep up with Spain’s fast-paced speaking. As it turned out, my Spanish could still hang with some of the best of them in the country.
Barring some loose language hiccups, such as forgetting a few key words or not totally explaining what I meant as efficiently as I would in English, my Spanish could indeed still qualify as fluent.
But in my many conversations with people in Valencia, there was a glaring distinction to the vernacular— certain words or phrases mean something totally different than what I am accustomed to in my Spanish.
The language, of course, has many iterations. If you point toward a map and gloss over Hispanic regions such as Central America, South America, Puerto Rico, Mexico, etc., then you’ll find that the phraseology differs.
“Banana” in English translates to “guineo” for Salvadorian Spanish. But, in Mexican Spanish, the world translates to “banana” or “plátano.” Consequently, “plátano” in Salvadorian Spanish is a different fruit altogether. It’s the language equivalent of a ransom note. Where do all these pieces of Spanish come from?
As aforementioned, the same rings true for Spanish in Valencia. The most obvious— and my most favorite— is the use of the word “vale.” “Vale” is the Spanish equivalent of “OK.” The word indicates confirmation.
In my attempts to truly immerse myself in the Spanish lifestyle, I aspired to use these exclusive aspects of the language in my day-to-day speech in Europe to develop a better understanding of the culture. I found myself still saying “OK” when I responded in the affirmative to my house momma, Pura, but when I caught myself and allowed “vale” to flow through like a fish through water, then it was my own personal victory.
One time, I told Pura that I put my dinner in “el refrigerador” — the fridge. She looked at me in bewilderment, as if I suddenly had reverted to speaking Italian before her very eyes. She explained that she calls it the “nevera,” which translates to “freezer.” There is no distinction between fridge and freezer— there is simply the freezer in the Spanish culture, and that’s that.
One of the staple foods that I ordered from Pura’s restaurant is pechuga con patatas— chicken and potatoes. Aside from the fact that the platter quickly became my favorite dish in Spain, it’s worth noting that “patatas” is called “papitas” in El Salvador.
Another time, I overheard a couple on the street referring to their “coche,” or car. I instantly picked up what they were saying. For me, I’m used to calling my sturdy 2006 Kia Spectra back home my “carro.”
In two instances later that day, I engaged in conversation with some of the townspeople and complained about the traffic in the Los Angeles area. I didn’t miss driving my “coche” at all, I told them in Spanish.
The list goes on. The use of “vosotoros,” “duchar,” “aceos” and “zumo” in Spain compared to “ustedes,” “bañar,” “baño” and “jugo” in El Salvador (“you all,” “shower,” “restroom,” and “juice” ) are among the other key word differences.
Picking up these nuances has allowed me to better my Spanish, a language that I made more use of in the last couple of weeks than I have in these past 18 years since my return from El Salvador.
My mom has picked it up, too. She can hear the words coming out of my mouth a lot more smoothly, like a knife through butter. I can have a laugh or two and allow my English persona to merge with my Spanish one.
Not too bad for a guy whose prime peaked at 4.
