Spanish classes, part one

So, about the second step I took en route to Mexico. The one that ended up harder than I expected.



Both Rob and I recognize that we have to learn Spanish in order to have the kind of life we want in our neighbourhood in Lake Chapala. Lots of expats there don't speak Spanish, and you certainly don't have to in order to socialize, if you want to live a 'gated community' existence (whether or not your neighbourhood has gates) with other expats, but we agreed when we chose our home and neighbourhood that we wanted to be as much a part of the area as we could, and that won't happen without Spanish. Plus, I just think it's polite to know the language in the land where you intend to live.



Now I took an intensive Spanish course in my first year of University. It's not that I'm particularly proficient in foreign languages, but requirements for my major (English Literature) at that time were that one had to have some ability in two languages other than English. I spoke highschool French (as all university-bound kids in English Canada did in those days), but didn't take another language in high school as most of my friends did. Latin was the usual second language, but my parents, practical working class folks, thought I should take shorthand and typing instead of a 'dead' language, as I'd more likely be a secretary than an academic, in their eyes.



So, when I went to university instead of becoming a bank teller or an insurance secretary, I was short a third language. Enter the intensive Spanish course, which was meant to take students from 'nada' to high school grad level in one year. Intensive, indeed. I took the course, enjoyed some of it, got the prerequisite for my major, and promptly forgot 99.9% of it for over 30 years until I started vacationing in Mexico about ten years ago.



Now, my Mexican vacation Spanish consisted mostly of 'una cerveza, por favor', or 'la cuenta, por favor', which is not exactly going to go far when I try to talk to the clerk at Sorianas, or to the water or gas men delivering at our door, so a Spanish course (or 6) are required. With three and a half years before the actual big move, this should not be a problem. And wasn't, until now.



I took a refresher course at the community college last semester, during which the present tense of most verbs came back surprisingly easily, but the past tense looked like something I had never seen before in my life. Luckily we didn't even think about the conditional or pluperfect, which I remember in the abstract as long strings of memorization , and in the reality, not at all. I felt more confident after my 10 weeks of Monday evening classes, but the pace was slow, and I didn't like once a week classes. I'd leave the classroom at 10 p.m. muttering in Spanish all the way to my car, and rolling my rrrrr's into the rearview mirror, only to forget it all 6 days later when I went to pick up my homework for the next week's classes.



No, a different way was required. Something daily. Something intensive. Something like the course I took 30 odd years ago.....in fact, exactly the course I took 30 years ago. With that brilliant idea in mind I went online to my alma mater and checked out the courses available, discovering that the old course was still there and ready for me to register.

And that, dear readers, is when things got complicated.