That Was Easy

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Yes, please. I'd love an ice water."

The flight attendant on my plane from Costa Rica to Florida kept walking down the aisle asking each person to her left and right the same question, and I was left in my seat, floored at how easy the exchange had been.

There had been no inner panic. No quickly constructing words in Spanish to make a sentence that sounded like I actually spoke the language, that I was not merely a Gringa on vacation. No having the wrong word come out. And no repeated internal flagellation, after the words came out of my mouth, due to an incorrect pronunciation.

This funny little smile crept across my face.

And the single word that circled around and around in my brain:

Easy.

The previous fourteen months Every Single Thing About Communicating had been hard.

Because my love/hate dance with the Spanish language came into play. Every day.

In English, I love to create clever sentences. Use fun words. Words that get my point across in ways that make people smile. Or think.

But in Costa Rica, this is how any conversation with a Spanish speaker would go.

• I'd construct what I'd want to say in my head.
• In fact, that is how I fell asleep most nights. Constructing sentences that I knew I'd use the next day.
• Then, I'd pick the ten words out of that sentence that I didn't know how to say in Spanish, and try to replace them with words that I DID know how to say.
• Which generally boiled a thirteen word, cleverly stated sentence down to a three word, caveman-esque grunt sentence.
• But at least I could say it in Spanish! On a good day.

Or, I'd be on a walk by myself where I'd pass a coffee shop and think, "I want something yummy to drink."

And I'd think of exactly what I'd need to say to order.

But then I'd panic.

What if the barrista went off script? What if they asked me a question that I didn't understand?? Or what if they didn't understand MY pronunciation? What if we just stood there in an awkward standoff of misunderstanding??

Forget it.
I'll make coffee when I get home.
Or maybe not even then.
Maybe I hate coffee.
And never want to drink it again.
(That last sentence would last only until the next morning, when I would come out of my bedroom desperately in need of caffeine, apologize profusely to the coffee pot and gratefully stroke the smooth warmth of my freshly filled orange mug)

Everywhere I went, I'd read the signs in Spanish. Trying to expand my vocabulary. Words on packaging in the grocery store. My shampoo bottle each morning. Signs on each store that I'd pass each time I took the bus.
(Let's talk about the mind-trip that my brain is currently having as I can't get out of the habit of doing that up here in Nova Scotia, and everything is in French. My brain is fritzing on a daily basis as I look at something and think, "Wait. I thought the word for that was.... Oh, right. Canada. Not Costa Rica.")

And on the airplane, her question was easy.

The answer was easy.

English was easy.