His Spoken Spanish

We asked him if he thought his spoken Spanish had improved. He said that he couldn't say, since he didn't really have any spoken Spanish to begin with (a scathing indictment of the Spanish program at Austin High School, but I digress).

We weren't sure what to make of that, since he'd just been in Nicaragua for four weeks living with a family with whom he only spoke Spanish, working with young kids in the barrio who only spoke Spanish, taking spoken Spanish classes every day. We wondered what his hesitation could possibly mean.

This morning the phone rang, and it was Nicaragua calling. His "brother" Miguel was calling to see if he made it home. Ben took the phone.

Ah, Miguel! he exclaimed. Como estas?

And he started talking in Spanish in the hushed voice teenagers use on the phone, and he went into the other room and proceeded to talk for ten or fifteen minutes.

I guess that was our answer.

10:21:08 PM   permalink: []   feedback:   comments: []  

He's Home

It's one of the sad things about the post 9-11 era: our brand new airport was designed just before everything changed, just before the notion of letting the general public into the heart of the airport was considered a safety risk, and as a result, there is nowhere to gather to wait for arriving passengers, except at the baggage carousels on the bottom floor. So everyone just hangs around in a mass at the foot of the escalators waiting for their friends and family to reach the bottom.

He spotted us first. From the top of the escalator, he waved down as we waited in the baggage check area.

There he is! Trudy or Debbie said. He was waving to us with a wide smile on his face. He was wearing a bright orange Nicaragua T-shirt. His hair was still short -- we had expected it to grow out more.

After hugs all around, we wandered over to the mass of humanity waiting for the bags to come, and he started to tell his stories. Stories about his two abuelas, and about his "brother" Michael, and about babies being born and trips into the forest and to the volcanos and to the ocean. Stories about misbehaving students being sent home early and about one student who had asked for a challenge and was assigned to a family in the barrio and how that boy had such a wide extended family while they were there. Stories about how inexpensive everything was. Stories about this young kids at the community center. Stories about when the electricity went out and how one day the milk went bad. Stories about the logistics of everyday life -- his abuela making eggs, going home everyday for lunch with his family, 25 minute power siestas, iguanas sliding down the corrugated roof and into his bedroom window, geckos on the wall, stray cats congregating in the hall upstairs, open windows at night, an open front door during the day, the one-temperature shower that was just cool enough to wake you up but otherwise warm, Eduardo coming and installing a washing machine, his abulea insisting on doing his laundry for him and how his underwear were so white.

I'm hungry, he said with a look of desperation on his face. I'm so hungry for enchiladas. They didn't have good ones, there.

So we went out and had enchiladas and chalupas and queso, and we listened to more of his stories. Stories about the guys he made friends with. Stories about the girls. More stories about his host family. And more details about the students who were sent home.

And it got late. So we went home. And after a few words in the living room, with a weary look on his face (he had been travelling all day), he walked down his hall and went to his room and went to bed.

He was very happy. The dog was very happy. We were very happy. Because he had a good time, and because he's home.

6:07:12 AM   permalink: []   feedback:   comments: []