Where are you from? It’s a question I’ve struggled with since leaving Western Washington, where I’ll always be “from.” The question, of course, is very different from “Where do you live?” But for a good majority of the population, the answers are the same. In Vegas a couple weeks back, if someone asked where we were from, I just went with the group and answered Seattle. Can I say I’m from Puerto Rico? (In Spanish, the answer to the title question is no, I cannot.) I sure as hell don’t look like it, talk like it, or have a name like it. The General Manager at one of the accounts I work with had a jolly laugh about how quintessentially “American” I look. Whoever dares ask me this question during the next three years better prepare for a lengthy answer, “I just moved to Puerto Rico from Texas, where I lived for 12 years since moving from Washington State.” There. Not so bad – under 20 words!
Regardless if I look it or not, I have made big strides toward settling in during the last couple of weeks. Charlie got a haircut last Friday, and I got myself scheduled for one next weekend, as well. This is a big step, first time in 12 years anyone new has touched my hair. I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous, especially since my 20 Year High School Reunion is the following weekend! Not exactly the best timing to be branching out with a new stylist, but what’s a girl to do?
I’ve also finally started my Spanish lessons! I had my first session with my tutor last week. She told me I really need to relax and start speaking because I know more than I think I do. To which my standard reply is “Mi espanol es perfecto quando estoy borracha.” (My Spanish is perfect when I am drunk.) I read somewhere that students who are perfectionists about their school work tend not to do well at foreign language because they don’t want to make mistakes, something that’s inevitable when studying a language, and this fits me to a tee. When I try to speak, everything comes out sounding like a question, because I’m questioning whether I’ve said it correctly. Which is ridiculous. No one in their right mind is going to make fun of somebody who is making an honest effort to speak their language. At Texas A&M, three of my very best friends were from various countries throughout Central America. They all spoke English as their second language. Was it always perfect? No. Did I always understand what they meant? Mostly. Was I always insanely jealous they could speak two languages? Absolutely.
So once I got a taste for it, I decided two hours a week isn’t going to be enough. I finally took the plunge and splurged on a Rosetta Stone. I don’t know why I didn’t do it months ago. It really is a great way to learn. And it’s not only lessons on CD; once you finish a unit, you can schedule a live online session with a native speaker to practice. It’s doing wonders for my confidence, and so far I’ve managed a couple of conversations with the building’s evening security guard, who doesn’t understand a lick of English. I’ve calculated how many lessons there are on my Rosetta Stone, and if I can get one done a day, between that and my tutor I’m hoping for some measure of fluency by Christmas. Last Friday I was at a meeting with all eight Puerto Rico dealers that was conducted entirely in Spanish. The general manager asked if they minded doing the meeting in English (which lasted about seven minutes) and I hated that they’d have to do that for me (well, and my boss.) The coworker coming in from LA is also gung-ho to learn, so my competitive spirit won’t let him get better than me. I’ve always wanted to be bilingual, and it’s now or never. Let’s do this!
I’ve also managed to put in some beach time the last couple of weekends. (Gotta work on the tan for the reunion.) There is way too much Speedo wearing for my liking around here. Don’t get me wrong, I find Puerto Rican men EXTREMELY attractive, despite the fact that at least half a dozen people have told me to stay as far away from them as possible. But man, some things really should be left to the imagination. Maybe they were tourists; who knows? But I sure hope the guy who set up camp next to me last weekend with his full body tattoos, nipple rings, and polka-dot Speedo was gay, because that wasn’t AT ALL attractive to this red-blooded female.
The ocean has always fascinated me. I read somewhere that over 80% of all life on earth is in the ocean (it could have been Wikipedia, so don’t quote me.) I can keep my mind busy for hours, just sitting in my beach chair watching the waves roll in. Some questions I could research – “how long can crabs hold their breath?” while others will remain forever unanswered – “I wonder where that piece of drift wood came from” and for others only time will tell – “how long until the waves beat down that rock formation?” Because the water always wins: the Grand Canyon, the 12 Apostles in Australia and countless other examples that don’t come to mind right now prove that eventually, the tenacity of the waves and the current will win the war.
I’ve had a couple of beach stalkers so far, too. Today I was haunted by crabs. Granted, I’m not talking about anything of the Deadliest Catch variety, or even anything as big as what you might find on the Washington Coast. But they weren’t little sand crabs, either. I’d say they were about baseball size. Enough that if they were to sneak up on you for a pinch on the toe it would surely give you a fright. While I’m certain the little guy wanted less to do with me than I him, it was all I could do to keep track of him. And the more I tried to keep an eye on him, the more crabs I found there were to keep my eye on. They are cool but creepy, with their beady little eyes and oversized pinchers. And they can scoot, too. I never realized how fast crabs can go – I won’t be taking any in a foot race anytime soon.
My other beach stalker was of the human variety. Labor Day weekend I went down to the nice beach and paid my three dollars to rent a lounge chair. It was early, about 10 am, and not many were on the beach yet. I’m quietly reading my book when I notice a man, barefoot but dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, wandering the area with a half-drunk Heineken in hand. Sure enough, I accidentally made eye contact and he started babbling at me in Spanish. I told him I don’t understand and he wandered off, only to return two or three times, all up in my personal space, still babbling though I’m saying over and over with increasing irritation that I don’t understand him. Then he starts in with, “Muy bonita, muy bonita.” Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m wearing a bathing suit, I’ll take a ‘muy bonita’ from just about anyone, even a half-drunk homeless man at 10 in the morning. (Shortly thereafter he passed out on the concrete wall separating the beach from the street.)
All in all, things are still going well. Yes, I’ve had a few cultural frustrations (like when the hurricane shutter repair guy said he’d be here at 10 and showed up at 2, only to work until 8pm on a Friday and infringe on the one night I’d actually made plans with someone.) I’ve felt a little sad when I am sitting around alone while things are going on in Washington or Dallas that I would normally be a part of. But when I take a step back and look at the big picture, I still know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
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