Barcelona

by Emily Glenn

To go to another country without knowing the language is to put oneself in the position of the perpetually silent, and usually passive, observer. This is not all bad; if you’re a vacationing traveler, you didn’t come here to start a revolution, do research, or treat hospital patients. You just came to see, to observe. And observe you will, as there’s not much else you can do.

However, not knowing more than a few key phrases—basic requests, please, thank you and pardon me—is isolating. The importance of small talk is emphasized when your desire to mention the weather, to ask how someone how long she has owned her business, to compliment a dish beyond repeatedly saying it is “very good” is much larger than your ability to say it. You are limited to the present, to the necessities; there is no past, no future, nothing beyond the limited scope of your language.

Jim and I felt this way when we visited France and Italy three years ago, and the feeling quickly returned when we were in Spain recently. I took Spanish in high school, which meant I knew enough to know I don’t have any real knowledge of Spanish. On top of that, we were in Barcelona, which is in the Catalonia region of Spain. Catalonia is culturally distinct from the rest of Spain, similar to Quebec’s role in Canada. The residents speak at least two languages; Catalan, which looks like a mix of Spanish and French, and, in a nod to their country, Spanish. Many also speak at least some English. Catalan may look a little like Spanish, but the pronunciation rules and many of the words are entirely different. As a result, Catalonians’ Spanish is spoken with a Catalan accent. My Spanish pronunciation, never ideal to begin with, was usually received with polite squints of confusion.

Ever-mindful of the Ugly American stereotype, Jim and I make particular effort to be the exceptions to the rule. Well-mannered, respectful and quiet, and casually but not sloppily dressed. We weren’t starting any revolutions, but we weren’t planning on cleaning the bathrooms of Barcelona either, and we dressed the part. But a vestige of American life stayed with us; our fluency in just one language. Barcelona is a very walkable city, and the residents were usually attired in classy but practical clothes; flat shoes; bags slung across their bodies to thwart pickpockets. We, and many other tourists, were similarly attired. If we were silent, there might be a question as to where we were from. England? Germany? If we opened our mouths, there would be no doubt.

Our U.S. nationality is a difficult issue. Our country is a great one, and we enjoy a comfortable life in it. It’s a powerful nation, so when it does good in the world, a great deal of good is felt. When it blunders, that is also felt worldwide. In the last few years, much of Europe has considered the USA’s foreign policy to be blunders. Thanks to our size and relative insularity most Americans don’t need to know a second language or another culture. It’s a voluntary thing. The cool reactions we sometimes got when we revealed ourselves to be Americans—always after being asked—showed one of the downsides of this situation. One man—who was clearly not with it in any language—harangued us about coming to Spain without knowing Spanish. While fluency seems a bit much to expect of tourists, I wasn’t able to pacify him by saying that he did have a point. While many Barcelona residents could speak some English, we couldn’t return the favor in Spanish—and we were visiting their country. Accosting a pair of tourists quietly drinking wine at a sidewalk café, particularly when they arrived via an overnight flight and are eagerly waiting for the sun to go down so they can sleep, is not an effective manner of expressing one’s opinion. Even so, he had a point amidst his raving. And I couldn’t tell him so. He scolded us—essentially decrying American arrogance and sneering at our dumbfounded silence—until employees of the café talked him into going away. I think the crux of their argument was “What can you expect out of Americans? Look, they paid us good money for our house wine!” but I can’t be sure. We were stuck, without any good way to defend ourselves. I tried telling him I spoke a little Spanish and to please go away. He either ignored me or didn’t understand. I couldn’t tell him what I really thought; the complexity of my thoughts was far beyond my Spanish abilities. We were silent, our first day in Barcelona off to a poor start, our attempt to simply observe thwarted.

No one else reacted as badly; most of Barcelona’s residents were friendly and helpful; their English, combined with our limited Spanish and pantomime, usually sufficed. But we couldn’t listen to the conversations of the bar-goers next to us. We couldn’t ask the sweet older couple who owned George’s Creperie about their work. We took a cable car ride up a mountain, and had the fabulous luck to be the only passengers. But we couldn’t ask the cable car operator about his job. There was a shallowness in every interaction.

That said, there are benefits to not understanding every word said within earshot. One evening, we were at a restaurant and a young American couple was seated next to us. Jim guessed they were a study-abroad date, and his hunch was shortly confirmed. He and she were both in their very early 20s, and he, perhaps out of nervousness, filled 95% of their conversation with tales of his doings and adventures. She made up the remaining 5% with interjections of enthusiasm and condensed stories of her own, before the conversation moved back to him. I grew tired of the Life of Him Monologue, and wished he were speaking in Spanish. Then, I could imagine they were having their first meeting after he had been doing relief work in Haiti, or something similarly conversation-engrossing, not that he spent the entire main course talking about an incident involving spring break, a trip to Las Vegas, his fraternity brothers and a keg.

Visiting a culture is nothing like living there; it’s only dipping a toe into that world. But visiting without knowing the language is to walk on the surface, only not so Christ-like. You’re knocked about, deaf and dumb, ever-hopeful that a word will slip through, a transaction will complete successfully. As our trip went on, we saw amazing architecture, ate excellent food, watched people, walked through strange neighborhoods and sat in a tapas bar as a crowd cheered Barcelona’s football team to victory over Milan. While we could understand the tenor of the cheers and shouts, we didn’t know the details. Someone griping about a player’s miss? Did they compare that game to another one? We don’t know. I thought about the man who raved at us on our first day in the city. He has a point.