I had more of these types of encounters in the months following Ignacio. My Spanish improved and I picked up the language of sex pretty quickly. Now when these men would hiss something in Spanish at me during the act, I would fire back with my own sexy retort. ‘Si, follame cabron! Mas! Mas!” Yes, I had learned how to say “fuck me” before I knew how to properly say, “How do I get to the metro?”
As time went on my Spanish kept getting better, and I became less neurotic about the miscommunications. Spaniards are much more carefree when it comes to social interaction. They are not nearly as anxious and uncomfortable as Americans are, and they are much more forward. When I moved back to the States I was disappointed to see that I was not getting approached nearly as much as I did in the bars of Madrid. Spanish men do not fear rejection as much as American men seem to. In fact, they take it as a challenge.
Eventually the novelty wore off. Toward the end of my second year in Madrid, I began a relationship with a Spaniard who would eventually become my first serious boyfriend and the first man I lived with. Juan was my neighbor. I had forgot my keys one day so I rang the rest of the building to let me in the front door and there he was. Juan hardly spoke English. He invited me in for coffee and the rest was history.
The third year I began my masters in journalism along with my best friend at an English University in Madrid. Juan and I had already exchanged our “Te quieros” at that point. Much of the relationship consisted of watching movies with either Spanish or English subtitles, which greatly improved my comprehension. We still had to break out the dictionary when we were really trying to get a point across, which in the end was more trouble than the point was actually worth.
When my master’s program ended, I decided to stay in Spain to see if it would be possible to create a life for myself in this country I felt had become a second home. I moved in with Juan and our little domestic life began. Things were going great for a little while, and then I started to feel incredibly alone.
When I still had my friends there with me, I always had an outlet to express myself fully. I couldn’t go on a long-winded rants with Juan because I would have to stop, conjugate and think about the words I was using. If I mispronounced a word in Spanish, he would quickly correct me and roll his eyes. It came to the point where I preferred not saying anything than putting in the effort to express myself only to be misunderstood.
By then, I didn’t have any friends of my own. After my master’s program my classmates scattered back to their corners of the globe. I just had Juan’s friends. They were nice, beyond nice. They were artistic, creative and smart. And I liked them and they tried to make me feel like one of them. But they weren’t myfriends. There were times where we would all be sitting on a terrace, drinking and talking, and I would stay quiet. I didn’t always get what they were talking about. Their Spanish colloquialisms flew over my head and I didn’t know the local legends they were referring to. I had embarrassed myself consistently in front of them. Laughing when something wasn’t funny, or responding with the completely incorrect answer.