WALKING THE TALK – How Learning Spanish Has Become My Ticket to Adventure

They say one of the best ways to stay sharp as one ages is to learn a new language. Great. But they also say that the best time to learn that new language is when one is about three years old.
Perfect! It’s the best of both worlds for me; I’m a senior citizen who, I’m told, often acts like a three-year-old.

                                      ~   //  ~  //  ~

My roots are a typical American melting-pot amalgam: a little English, a bit of Italian…but mostly German. My family celebrates that heritage in a well-documented trove of family lore and with a few fine decorative and artistic German heirlooms handed down through the generations.

So, naturally, when I faced the choice of either French or German as my foreign language in high school, I went with the deutsch. Never gave it a second thought.

  None of it fit my 
  romantic image of myself as a Mexican 
  fisherman in a previous life. 

AN EPIPHANY
Flash forward to about 2002. It was then, at the age of 57, during one of my several identity crises, that I decided I hated German. Truth be told, I’d never liked the hard, guttural sound of it. I didn’t much care for some of the national characteristics it conjured up for me either. None of it fit my romantic image of myself as a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

Besides, it was becoming quite clear that I might never even visit Germany. But I had been traveling to Mexico, with my parents when I was nine, and a couple of times with friends as an adult. Then I got married, and Sally and I continued the trend, spring-breaking in nearly all of the popular Mexican beach towns.

I think it was Mazatlán where the epiphany happened. As I usually do, I’d boned up on a few basic pleasantries in Spanish so I could be a more gracious visitor, a better representative of my own country.

But on this one short cab ride, when it came time to pay the fare, the limit of my competence in the language came up and bit me. For some reason, cien (a hundred) and diez (ten) switched places in my brain, and I was convinced the driver had stiffed me.

He explained with patience I didn’t deserve. Red-faced, I apologized and handed him the pesos…and a little extra for the painful lesson. And it was at that precise moment that the trajectory of my late-in-life quest for Spanish literacy took off.

IMMERSION IS THE KEY
Next time in Mexico, I decided, I’ll be able to carry on at least a simple “How’re the wife and kids?” conversation with a cab driver—and be able to correctly count my change. Those were my goals.

So I signed up for a St. Paul Public Schools Community Ed. class: Spanish for Beginners. My teacher was Silverio Rios, an engaging 40-something Mexican who’d been living and working in the Twin Cities for several years.

One evening after class I asked Silverio to join me for coffee and we chatted a bit about my goals for learning his first language. Toward the end of that first get-together, he told me of his plans to take small groups of his students on week-long Spanish immersion trips down to the part of central Mexico where he’d grown up.

That idea captivated me, and, as I was then a graphic designer, I offered to design and write his brochure for him. He accepted, offering in exchange a spot on his inaugural trip.

And so, Voces del Español was born. In August 2003, Silverio, I and three other students flew to Mexico City, then bussed to Querétaro City, and finally rented a car for the drive to the charming little town of Tequisquiápan, which would serve as our home base for the week.

The format involved formal classes in the mornings and an excursion each afternoon. Silverio had designed all the activities to encourage our use of the language in everyday experiences, such as buying produce from the local market or ordering dinner at a restaurant for everyone in our group.

Also included in those experiences was joining Silverio’s relatives for typical family events like a birthday, a wedding and going to the cemetery to tend to family graves. On different occasions we helped make bread with his mom and joined in the elaborate preparation of a mole.

WHERE LA ACCION IS
By the end of that first Voces trip, I realized my original goal of engaging in small-talk with a cab driver had already been eclipsed. Now I knew I was capable of more.

My Spanish learning was to become the theme—the key, one could say—to many more travels in Latin America. I eventually went on three more Voces immersion trips with Silverio. With each one, I gained more tools and more confidence in expressing myself. (Not to mention the great joy of being virtually adopted into his family.)

I’ve also travelled to Spain, Peru and Argentina, and attended language schools in Veracruz, Mexico, Panama and Cuba. All, if not dictated by my quest for better Spanish, at least encouraged by it.

   My goal had been edging up too,
   like one of those mechanical rabbits
   that racing dogs chase, always just
   beyond reach.

NOT LOST IN TRANSLATION
One measure of my progress has been the time lapse between when I think of something to say and when the words actually come out of my mouth. I remember quite clearly when that interval was five to ten seconds. In most of my attempts to join a conversation I was getting left behind.

But my competence level kept edging up, and that time interval down. At some point I realized my goal had been edging up too, like one of those mechanical rabbits that racing dogs chase, always just beyond reach. Now I wasn’t going to settle for any less than holding my own in those conversations with native speakers.

I have my moments—occasionally glorified by a couple of tequilas. They’ve included many conversations with Silverio, members of his family or Spanish-speaking friends I’ve met on my own, about a range of topics from art to zoology.

Once I get going, I enter that rarified air where only the relatively fluent survive. Where my mind goes right from hearing the Spanish to replying in Spanish, without passing through an English translation.

I suppose it’s another measure of my progress that I’m now less focused on vocabulary and grammar than on the finer points, like minimizing my English accent and incorporating common filler words—the Spanish equivalents to the English “um,” “well,” “then” or “so”— into my speaking.

Yes, I’ve a ways to go, but I can definitely see the prize. It may be that I’ll never be able to actually grab it; that might take a few months living in a place where no one speaks English. Maybe in my next life.

EMPOWERMENT
It’s amazing, when traveling, what knowing the local language does for a person. For me, it’s been kind of like watching and envying a competent musician, and then, with a ton of work, being able to play myself.

My new second language opens doors—to friendships, to avoiding conflict, to finding my way around. And for Sally, it cuts through the awkwardness of her having to shop using just hand gestures.

I can even feel my Spanish competence affecting my posture as I walk down the street, especially in areas where I may be the only person in that town who looks like me. I enjoy seeing the look on a person’s face when someone who looks so unlikely to be a Spanish speaker handles their language so capably.

More than once, that person has explained that they’d expected me, at best, to speak English with a heavy German accent.

                               ~   //  ~  //  ~ 

POSTSCRIPT: My dad, at about the same age I was when my love affair with Spanish began, was also dreaming of learning the language. He chipped away at it, but with all his home and business responsibilities he never really got past the basics. I know that a great part of my motivation has been to honor his dream and make him proud. I believe I have.

SHELL GAME – The Ownership of Place and Culture

 

The first time I went to Costa Rica, my wife and I had signed on with a St. Paul travel company specializing in small, custom-made experiences in that amazing country.

The format differed a bit from the few “tours” we’d been on with other travel programs; we jumped from one group of fellow travelers to another, depending on where we were and how long we’d be there. But for most of our ten-day journey we were the charges of one tour guide: Jimmy.

IN THE BLOOD
Jimmy was friendly, helpful and well-versed in not only the varied flora and fauna of each of Costa Rica’s twelve distinct climate zones, but in his native country’s geography, geology, history, politics and social fabric. He was also charming and, at least in part because of his diminutive stature, lovable.

It’s certainly not very “adult” of me—I suppose you could call it a weakness—but I have a way of becoming ridiculously attached to people who guide and teach me. It’s a little like a kid’s adoration of a favorite camp counselor. And, sure enough, though he was young enough to be my son, I grew quite attached to Jimmy in that way.

I liked him not just because he knew so much about his country, but also simply because he was Costa Rican. I wanted to be more than his student, or even his friend; I wanted to be Costa Rican.

    I stood in front of Jimmy for what 
    seemed like a full minute searching 
    for the words I’d memorized.

THE LANGUAGE OF BEST INTENTIONS
Among his other gifts to me, Jimmy was kind and generous enough to help me a bit with my nascent Spanish. (I’ve always felt that learning at least a bit of a destination’s language and culture is essential to being fully present there.) So, as the end of our week together approached, it only made sense that I say my good-byes and express my thanks to Jimmy in his native tongue.

I crafted what I thought would be a manageable couple of sentences; I looked up the necessary vocabulary and grammar; and I practiced—on the bus, at night before bed, even in the shower—what I felt would be a perfect, accent-free little recitation.

I thought I was ready, but when the moment came, things were hectic. We all had buses to catch; other group members were lined up to thank and tip Jimmy; and the poor guy had all he could do to give everyone a few seconds to say adios and still manage his other responsibilities.

As our turn approached, I got stage fright. I stood in front of Jimmy for what seemed like a full minute searching for the words I’d memorized. After all that work, all those best intentions, I think all I managed was Muchas gracias, Jimmy.

    It just seems a little like ordering 
    the catch of the day, but expecting 
    it not to taste “fishy.”

TWO KINDS OF TRAVELERS
I’ve regretted that awkward moment ever since—in fact, it has been one of my most powerful motivators in becoming a nearly-fluent Spanish speaker.

And there have been other such moments as I’ve traveled the world—other guides, teachers, folks who’ve welcomed me into their homes and families. I nearly always shed tears when I part company with new friends with whom I’ve shared a profound experience, and so it is when I bond with a place; I weep every year when Sally’s and my annual month in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico comes to an end.

Why do I—and perhaps you—become so attached to the people and places we’re privileged to visit? I suggest there are basically two kinds of travelers. The first are those who go places shielded in a shell of familiarity; the other, those whose main goal is to break out of that shell. 

Now I have nothing against the Cancuns or the Ocho Rioses of the world—those tourist enclaves where folks can go and spend a week or two with no surprises and all the comforts of home. Or those all-inclusive resorts designed to keep one even more contained, safeguarded from the locals and their ways of life.

But those experiences are not for me. It just seems a little like ordering the catch of the day, but expecting it not to taste “fishy.” Sure, spending your precious vacation time in that shell may ward off some unpleasant surprises, but it also deflects wonderful, potentially transformative ones.

GREEN AROUND THE GILLS
For the past decade or so I’ve had a nearly insatiable appetite for travel in Latin America. This is due, in part, to my yearning for fluency in Spanish. But there’s more to it than that. I am coming to realize that, in a previous life, I was actually a Mexican fisherman. Though my rational side reminds me that I’m not prepared for the realities of that life, my romantic side says, why not?

I’d be close to the sea—that is, once I conquered my extreme susceptibility to seasickness. I’d have all those colorful, celebratory traditions, that amazing closeness of family that so many Latin Americans enjoy. I’d dance as if no one were watching. I’d be able to sit around a card table with my buddies drinking mescal and jabbering away in the kind of Spanish even quasi-hispanohablantes like me can barely decipher.

Yes, I know I can never be that Mexican fisherman—nor Jimmy’s compañero. But I can dream, can’t I?

Which type of traveler are you?

CUBA CAN-DO – Forbidden Fruit At One Third the Cost

If you’re like me, telling you something’s off limits only makes you want it more. Am I right?

That’s the way I’d felt about Cuba ever since I first read Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, and the coincidental US blockade of all trade with the island neighbor we preferred be a ruthless dictatorship than a communist annoyance.

But recently, after half a century cinching a pit bull choke collar ‘round the neck of a bichón*, the US, led by an enlightened Obama administration, has taken the first steps to ease the long-since-ineffectual embargo.

    We were cinching a pit bull choke 
    collar ‘round the neck of a bichón.

LOOK BUT DON’T TOUCH
It’s never been illegal for US citizens to travel to Cuba; it’s only illegal for us to spend money there. Thus, the matter’s been overseen not by the US Immigration and Naturalization, but by the Department of the Treasury—specifically, its Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC).

In 2011, after a couple of false starts, the OFAC began allowing a few organizations to offer U.S. citizens “people-to-people” group tours to Cuba. This required formal licensing with stringent, case-by-case evaluation and strict accountability.

Licensees had to ensure that participants spent every waking hour engaged in a prescribed range of sanctioned cultural exchange activities, like tours, lectures and workshops involving music, dance, history and the country’s nascent entrepreneurship. “Sightseeing” and other purely recreational activities like days at the beach were not tolerated.

PHOTO: PillarToPost.org

Tour companies lucky enough to get licenses have been offering nearly identical itineraries at grossly inflated prices—at least partly reflecting all the red tape and middleman costs of arranging and documenting only those qualifying, tightly-organized activities. Prices for a week to ten days averaged $4,000 to $5,000, including airfare from Miami.

(Now, some intrepid Americans have been defying the embargo for years, flying first to Canada, Mexico or Jamaica and hoping US Immigration agents wouldn’t notice either the Cuban Immigration stamp—or the two entry stamps into the connecting country—when they return home. The vast majority of these under-the-radar travelers haven’t even been questioned, or, if they have, have gotten off with a hand slap. Still, the threat of hefty fines or if nothing else a lengthy legal and bureaucratic snafu, was enough to keep Cuba from rising to the top of my bucket list.)

PHOTO: Pixabay

But then, in January, 2015, the OFAC, in conjunction with the Commerce Department, enacted a further easing of travel restrictions to “engage and empower the Cuban people.” The new guidelines affected trade, financial services, telecommunications and travel services.

The changes also loosened—mentioned only as a sort of afterthought—restrictions on individual travel to Cuba. The stringent “specific” licensing of organizations gave way to “general” licensing, allowing individuals to travel on their own for any of 12 specific—though rather broadly defined—purposes. (OFAC's 12 rules) Apparently only one’s own judgement that he/she could in good faith check one of the 12 boxes, is required.

Since I’m a published author / blogger, I made my mental check next to justification number three, journalistic activity. I was ready, just in case, with some credentials, but as it turned out no one ever asked.

TALKING THE TALK
I’ve found from past experience that it’s hard to beat the value of a trip centered on a week or two of language classes. I’ve done this in Mexico and Panama, and find it combines several of my requisites for a rewarding travel experience: a ready-made host and home base; an immediate circle of new friends; a doorway (through the newly-acquired language skills) to authentic cultural experiences…and clean, comfortable—and dirt cheap—room and board.

For my Cuba adventure, I signed up with a program called Jakera. Already well rooted in Venezuela, they’ve just opened up shop in Havana, where they’ve recruited teachers and administrators, selected nearby casas particulares (well-maintained, government-regulated rooms within Habaneros’ homes), and connected with local education, arts and community development partners.

Program participants—already a few from the US, but the majority young Europeans—take Spanish classes every morning and in the afternoon alternate between cultural outings and either salsa dancing lessons or volunteering with one of those community groups.

PHOTO: JakeraCuba

Once I’d signed on with Jakera, all I had to do is line up my air travel (done through the Cuba Travel Network); figure out how to get a Cuban tourist card/visa (available for $25 at most airports with direct flights to Havana); and deal with a few personal concerns like health insurance, currency conversion, and electrical, Internet and telephone (Verizon has just started international roaming in Cuba, so I was able to at least send text messages home.) (SEE LINKS BELOW)

THE BOTTOM LINE
I enjoyed two full, amazing weeks in Cuba, including Spanish and dance lessons; excursions—most of them guided—around Havana and out into the countryside; modest but clean and comfortable lodging; two decent meals a day; and a program coordinator to help arrange for everything…all for $800usd. Even adding the always-inflated airfare** from a nearby US or Mexican connecting airport to Havana, my cost still came in under $1,200.

My only other expenses were for modest evening meals (easily do-able for less than the equivalent of $4usd a day); bus/taxi fares for a few optional excursions to other parts of the country; airport transfers; and the $25usd Cuban departure tax. Airfare from home to one’s connecting city, as it is with nearly all tour companies, is additional.

   Even if you’re disappointed—which 
   you won’t be—you’re only out a third 
   of what a less-adventurous convention-
   al trip would have set you back!

Throw in a few incidentals, and the grand total for my two glorious weeks on this lovely, languid long-forbidden Gulf/Caribbean island came to well under $1500—about a third the cost of most packages available through “sanctioned” tour operators.

(Okay, traveling as I did—staying with a local family (in a private, air-conditioned room with bath); meeting fellow travelers, not just from my own country but from all over the world; eating the same food most Cubans eat; walking a lot; and occasionally embracing the unexpected—is not for everyone. But if you’re open minded, in reasonably good health and a believer, as I am, in doing as the Romans do when in Rome, it’s worth considering, don’t you think? After all, even if you’re disappointed—which you won’t be—you’re only out a third of what a less-adventurous conventional trip would have set you back!)

A NOTE ON CUBANA AIRLINES
It’s a question of some debate whether Cuba has advanced beyond third-world-country status. But their national airline, Cubana Air, would suggest it has not. On both my arriving and returning flights—both of them delayed, without warning, by nearly 12 hours—Cubana showed that they fly whenever they want to.

To be fair, perhaps I should say they fly whenever they can. I suspect that, unlike most international carriers, Cubana has no extra aircraft to fill in when a plane suddenly becomes inoperable. And I suppose I should be grateful that they take the necessary time to make repairs.

But travelers considering Cubana should be aware that: 1. Such delays are quite likely. 2. If they do occur, Cubana cannot (or will not) switch you to an available seat on another airline; 3. The closest thing to a real person who might help you merely understand and feel better about the waste of full day of your life may be the airport’s departures screen; and 4. Cubana may add insult to injury by listing your 12-hour-late flight on that screen not as “Delayed,” but “ADJUSTED.” Argh-h-h!

MORE INFORMATION
Here are a few links to information you might find helpful in planning your independent travel to Cuba:

• TREASURY/OFAC AUTHORIZATION 
• LANGUAGE/CULTURE PROGRAM
• FLIGHTS
• LODGING/CASAS PARTICULARES
• CURRENCY CONVERSION
• VACCINATIONS/HEALTH
• MEDICAL INSURANCE
• FLYING UNDER THE RADAR
• CUBAN VISA/TOURIST CARD
• ELECTRICAL/COMMUNICATION

¡Vámonos a Cuba!

* The bichón—or more specifically the Havanese—is the national dog of Cuba.

** From either of the closest departure points for Havana—Miami or Cancun—that last 90 miles will likely cost you about the same as your first 1,500 miles. Be aware that it is still illegal for individuals to fly directly into Cuba from the US; only organizations with specific OFAC licenses can make the arrangements. This corner on the market, along, I suspect, with hefty fees from the Cuban government, account for the inflated pricing.