French partners...if you know what I mean

I overheard her first in the queue for the vending machine, and I knew she’d be the sort of woman who is unbearable to people like me, mostly because we harbour an innate fear that we’ll grow up to be just like her. It’s a fear different to that of realising you’ve become exactly like your own mother, who for the most part is really rather lovely, apart from when she wanders off and leaves her shopping trolley in the middle of the fruit and veg aisle in Asda. 

“You do that already!” your best friends tell you exasperatedly, every time you complain about it. They remind you, as well, of the time you took 10 whole minutes to decide which pasta shape would look the cutest for the dinner party you had made them host with you. They had sighed impatiently but had let you take your time; they knew it was important to you. 

The cutest shape had been the bows (obviously) but you’d ended up with the tagliatelle instead because you were trying to come across as sophisticated. God knows why. Once the wine came out (after the prosecco aperitif, naturally) and you had started to raid the cupboards for any other spirits which might be lurking there still since Christmas, any pretence of decorum had gone out the window. You’d been asleep by midnight, tucked up in bed by your best friend who’d also taken your makeup off, and who had very kindly not kept track of how many times you’d both been in these familiar roles, while your other best friend dutifully did the dishes downstairs.

“I met this fabulous man on the train when I was cycling through Italy”, I heard from behind me as I was bent over to get some water. 

“Here we go”, I thought to myself, “because there is no way you’re about to describe a straight man as “fabulous” with quite so much gusto and gumption”. I later found out it was with this same gusto and gumption that the woman in question described everything, but my scepticism was somewhat justified when she continued, “and his husband said that actually there are loads of vegan restaurants in Tenerife, so I think I’ll be fine”. 

“Oh dear god” I sighed inwardly. “Is this going to be me? Please let this not be me.” 

By the time I sat down with my group, the woman from the vending machine was sitting with them, and asking one of my classmates about whether he goes to Spain often. I’m reminded again of my age when he answers with “quite often”, explaining that they (he and his wife, whose name I realise I’ve never even thought to ask, despite having known about her for almost two years now) “have a house there”. 

“So it's the economical option really,” I don’t say. 

I ask the woman, who at this point introduces herself as “Sally, but you can call me Sal, all of my friends call me Sal”, which of the Spanish classes she’s in as a way into the conversation. Rather than identifying which of the four Spanish Ana’s she has for a teacher, she instead responds “beginner”, a little too brashly. 

“But it’s so liberating to just learn something for the fun of it. With no exams and no pressure. You know, I don’t tell people I can speak Spanish. I can’t. You know, I tell my Spanish and Latin American friends, you know, you’ll have to have some graces with me, because I’m still learning”. 

I’m about to offer some words of encouragement when she continues, “I mean I can speak a bit of mediocre French, which I think helps, in terms of the grammar.” 

Me and my other classmates confer at this point that, in our experience, Spaniards don’t seem to care much about our grammar when we’ve tried to speak to them in the past, and have for the most part just been grateful that we’ve made the effort to learn another language, which is more than can be said for most English people. 

Sal than starts explaining how she’s been considering maybe a Spanish language exchange event, or trying to find a speaking partner to practise with. 

I tell her about a Spanish meet-up I went to a while ago, and am quick to dispel the impression that it wasn’t enjoyable, or that I wouldn’t recommend it. I absolutely would. It’s just that I haven’t been back because a Peruvian man who was old enough to be my father was trying to flirt with me and I didn’t know how to say no when he asked for my phone number, so I’m unsure whether I can go back without having to face him again and explain why I never responded to his Whatsapp Messages inviting me to the “capital lésbico” of the UK. The same thing happened with a guy from the Dominican Republic at another Spanish language meet-up, and while I’m flattered, de verdad, I’m rapidly running out of options in this city. 

“Well I’ve had French speaking partners in the past, and French partners if you know what I mean”, Sal says with an overly exaggerated wink, so that we all, most definitely, know what she means. I feel slightly prudish as I feel myself inwardly recoil, and awkwardly laugh to conceal how taken aback I am about this sudden, unsolicited revelation about Sal’s French fancies. It’s half 11 on a Monday morning. 

Dreading that my next conversational contribution might prevent a change of subject, but unable to think of anything else to say, I reel out my overused aphorism about how “they do say that the two best ways of learning a language are immersing yourself in the culture or dating someone who speaks the language”. I have no idea if this is actually true of course, it’s just another piece of possible misinformation that I’ve spread vicariously since hearing it, probably from a friend, or overheard from a conversation in a bar or something like that. Nevertheless, everyone in my group, including Sal, nods like this is indeed a well known truism.

Luckily, Sal seems mostly indifferent towards my aphorism either way, and tells us (again) about how she’s still very much beginner level, and would struggle to have a conversation in Spanish with anyone about anything other than how they’re feeling. A claim I can't quite bring myself to believe. But she does have a friend in Barcelona (which she pronounces Barthelona, in her posh southern accent) called Julio (which she pronounces Hulio) who she goes to stay with sometimes. “But it’s just embarrassing to be the only English person while everyone else has to speak English so that you can understand the conversation”. 

This I can empathise with, and frankly I think it’s a catastrophic failing of the English education system that we remain for the most part content with reaping the benefits of colonialism and limiting our linguistic and cultural diversity in the process. Especially since learning a language has been proven to improve memory and cognitive function, and is also just a way of being a bit fucking polite by making an effort in a foreign country. Nevertheless, I digress. 

One of my classmates offers Sal advice in the subjunctive, encouraging her to make use of the Spanish friends she has by having conversations with them over the phone. 

Sal spurns my classmate’s advice, thanking her and expressing appreciation of her encouragement and helpful suggestion, but nevertheless insisting that her Spanish isn’t good enough for that yet. Instead, she launches into another anecdote about cooking Costa Rican food with another two of her friends, who this time aren’t hispanic, but instead Polish and English, and so naturally she greeted them with “Hola” at the beginning of the evening...

Before she can go any further, our Spanish teacher comes out to call us back in for the second half of the class. 

As we make our leave from Sal, I consider whether to wish her “buena suerte” with her Spanish learning, but decide instead that maybe “good luck” sounds less pretentious.