Spanish Was Easier When I Couldn’t Hear What I Was Missing
The better my Spanish gets, the more clearly I understand how far I still have to go.
The other day I had a conversation with the ladies who run my favorite chicken stand at the municipal market. As you might know, I love their hamburguesas de pollo (chicken burgers).
The conversation started with me complimenting them on the combinations they come up with and noting that the morcilla (blood sausage) is my favorite. On any given day, they have up to 10 or 12 varieties. And they’re always coming up with something new.
What’s even more incredible than how good these burgers are is that the lady who creates them says she has never come up with a mix of flavors that she ended up not liking. When she goes to another stand in the market to buy ingredients, she can already see the combinations in her head. Then she puts them together, and they come out exactly as she anticipated—ready for sale.
What’s even more interesting is that the owner of the stand who passed away several years ago was opposed to anything other than chicken only or chicken with vegetables. So, when he went on vacation, they’d roll out some special burgers. When he returned, customers were left asking for the specialties, which apparently warmed him up to the idea.
The conversation moved to food shopping habits—people, especially young people, want everything fast because they don’t have time—GMOs, and probably a few things that I missed.
But still I was able to follow along, understand most of what was being said, and contribute meaningfully here and there—in Spanish.
A year ago, I couldn’t have had this conversation.
Sounds like a victory. And, in some ways, it absolutely is.
That said, the realization that I couldn’t have done this a year ago—even a few months ago—didn’t make me feel fluent. It actually accomplished almost the opposite.
At first, I was trying to catch words. Then sentences, followed by basic meaning. Eventually, I started understanding a good chunk of what I was hearing around me—people passing by on the street or having conversations within earshot. Not everything, but enough to feel like I was making real progress—and enough to no longer feel completely shut out of the urban theater I love so much.
Around the same time—and I’m probably on the front end of what I think is a long process—I started to pick up on tone, personality, and tiny changes in direction and mannerisms that indicate an actual conversation is happening, not just a transaction or friendly small talk.
Don’t get me wrong—I still get lost every single day and have to ask my wife what happened or, when she’s not around, leave a conversation not knowing what happened. That happens less often—or, more accurately, I leave more situations with a reasonable understanding of what just happened.
I’m thrilled to have come this far. However, when I understood almost nothing, I couldn’t distinguish between what I was missing.
To illustrate what I mean, let’s fast forward to what it means in the present day at my present level with a micro example.
Over the weekend, we went to a museum. At the counter to get our tickets, I just assumed the woman asked for our postal code. That wasn’t me missing Spanish; it was just me not paying attention and operating on auto-pilot. Which is actually a win—I’m comfortable enough now to interact without thinking or, sadly, to ignore people.
So I started with our postal code and—turns out—she asked for something else. I forget what.
When I perked up and explained myself—He creído que dijiste (I thought you said, which I think is understood, but far from grammatical perfection)—the woman replied with what we thought was:
Me vale largo.
What both my wife and I heard was me vale largo. The problem is that, as far as I can determine, me vale largo isn’t actually an expression. Maybe she said me vale (fine by me), meaning the information I gave her was sufficient. Maybe there was another word we both misheard. We’re still not sure.
Which, of course, is precisely the point.
Whatever—the point is that I was expecting what I know. Something like no pasa nada (it’s okay) or no importa (it doesn’t matter). But the response I received—even if it was just me vale—wasn’t what I expected in that context and underscored my reality.
When I understood almost nothing, everything I missed blended together. I knew my Spanish was limited, but I couldn’t perceive the extent of those limitations.
Now I understand enough to recognize far more—and, intimidatingly, how far I remain from understanding all of it.
The gaps haven’t necessarily grown. They’ve always been there. They’ve just become visible, thanks to an increase in knowledge and capability.
This is the crazy thing about setting out on new and ultimately lifelong experiences and accumulating new knowledge. At the beginning, what you’re looking to experience, accomplish, or learn feels finite.
Learn words. Say sentences. Have conversations.
Arrive. Get an apartment. Start going to the same stands in the market. Talk to people.
Live in your dream neighborhood. Travel to other places. Do it again—and again.
We always think there’s a point of arrival when we’re trying to learn a language, move and get “settled in” abroad, or live our best lives.
But once you get far enough inside these experiences, you realize there is no clear point of arrival.
This extends well beyond learning Spanish.
I started formally studying cities and writing about them nearly 25 years ago. You might think that after all of that time, I’d feel increasingly certain about what makes them work. To some degree, I am.
But underneath that certainty, there’s something more important. The more cities I experience—and the more closely I look at the one where I live—the more conscious I become of everything I haven’t seen, experienced, or considered. Or what I have only just been exposed to.
Moving abroad works similarly. A change of scenery won’t solve every emotional or psychological problem you bring with you. But if you move with a clear sense of yourself—for reasons that pass the sniff test—and you remain willing to challenge yourself, getting what you wanted doesn’t close the loop. It expands the range of what you can see and imagine.
We tend to frame goals as destinations. Really, they’re often just entrances.
That doesn’t mean the original achievement disappointed you or wasn’t enough. It means you can now perceive possibilities you could never have considered from where and how you experienced life before.
After five years of writing this newsletter, that might sum up its entire point.
At the market the other day, I learned more about people I see every day. They told me a great story, and I understood enough of it to tell it here. But I almost certainly missed part of it.
A year ago, I would have missed almost all of it.
Spanish hasn’t become harder. I’ve simply learned enough to hear how much I still don’t understand. And to realize that almost everything you open yourself up to ends up being a vast landscape where full arrival and comprehension is just a fantasy.
