A Note from Connie--July 9

Scenes from the war on Spanish:


The Battle of WalMart--Austen, Brooks, and Nick ask me whether they can shop the little market in the shed up the road. I turn to the mamis for their stamp of approval. "Esta bueno mi chicos vamose a ....." I can't lay my hands on the word for grocery, despite having passed a hundred storefront signs on the way here. Groceria? No. Marketa? Laughably no. (The mamis don't even bother to feign interest on this one.) We are stuck. The boys give me the "Thanks for nothing, Ms. Connie" look. Now the mamis are laughing. The panic sets in, and my dignity breaks ranks. I throw my arms wide, saying "WalMart? Mucho grande, no? Uno poquito Walmart (here, pinching my fingers together for dramatic effect). Que es?" Pulperia, comes the response. The battle lines, though damaged, have held.


The Charge of Costa Rican Educational TV: I am sitting with Alexa, my 7-year old housemate, watching the equivalent of Zooboomafoo. Alexa, as always, is talking a blue streak. I have no idea what she's saying. She is undeterred and fires questions at me about the animals the show is featuring. She is convinced I'm a teacher, though her disbelief grows as the minutes tick by. And then, somehow the words "oso polares" separate themselves from the jumble of words tumbling from the TV set, and I blurt out, "Polar bear!" Alexa stops in mid-sentence and then bursts out laughing. "Yessss," she says kindly ( and not just a little sympathetically) "Polar bear." She has held the high ground. Every time I pass her now, she smiles slyly and calls, "Connie, yeeesss, polar bear."


I Shall Return (or maybe that was yesterday): We ask the women of our village for help in celebrating Liz's 16th birthday. They throw an amazing party, complete with two cakes. Next evening, I am determined to reimburse the women for the cakes. And to show my appreciation I decide to ask the price in Spanish. "Cumpleanos caki por Liz mañana quanto es? I say, more than a little proud of my complex sentence. Blank stares. "Mañana, cumpleanos caki, quanto es?" I repeat. Here, two of the women go pale and reply, "Uno mas? We make another party?" I shake my head. We go another round. No progress. I simplify. "Mañana (pointing my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis), caki, quanto?" A smile crosses Roxana's face and she insists it is their gift. I thank them profusely and turn to go, satisfied. The accent may need a little work, but I still got it. Roxana follows me up the path. She is still smiling. She reaches down and grabs my hand, points my thumb over my shoulder and says, "No mañana." She turns my thumb forward, "Es mañana. Comprende?" No, but I nod and thank her again. It isn't until I'm in bed that I realize that "mañana" --the one word of which I was so dead certain that I said it again and again-- means "tomorrow."