Time to Catch Up

I know it's been a few weeks since my last post. There were several times I sat down to write, but the words never came out the way they sounded in my head. So... no post. Apparently, my inner editor went on winter vacation.

Here is the latest installment of Life in Uruguay. A few things have happened.

First, Mikey and I joined our friend Blue for manicures. Yes, you read that correctly. It was an excellent salon. The woman who did Mikey's nails spoke some English. The woman who did mine spoke only Spanish. Yet somehow, we managed to communicate just fine. She would gesture when she needed me to move my hand or use a translation app on her phone whenever she had a more technical question. I continue to be amazed by how far Uruguayans will go to communicate with someone. It's a refreshing change from the old country, where too many people seem to believe speaking English louder magically turns it into another language. Our nails looked fantastic.

That same evening, the three of us went to see the British Community Theater's production of the Broadway musical Six, about the six wives of King Henry VIII. You know the chant: divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded... survived. It wasn't Broadway, but it didn't need to be. The cast worked incredibly hard and delivered an entertaining performance.

Mikey and I also joined a role-playing game (RPG) group. If you've ever heard of Dungeons & Dragons—you know, the game the evening news once warned parents would turn their children into violent devil worshippers—then you know the genre. Somehow civilization survived.

Our group is playing Pathfinder, and we've met twice so far. The players, much like our characters, all bring something different to the table. This is my first RPG, while Mikey has played several campaigns before (I smuggled Mikey’s game dice into our luggage after he said to toss them in the move). My character is a gnome by the name Gigglescrew, Owlwhisper Dewdrop (gnomes have long names) with purple hair, green skin, and golden eyes. Gnomes are whimsical, mischievous, and just a little diabolical. In other words, I found my people.

I chose a gnome because when I was young, my Aunt Beep gave me a book about them. It was written and illustrated like a National Geographic field guide, complete with "scientific" observations. After reading it, I was absolutely convinced gnomes were real. My parents repeatedly told me they weren't, but clearly they had never looked hard enough. How to do you explain those missing socks?

Not everything has been fun and games, though.

Two Fridays ago, two apartments in our complex were broken into. There are seven Casas in our row—we're Casa 6. Casa 1 was robbed late Friday night, and the thieves returned to rob Casa 3 on Saturday. On Monday, the onsite manager explained the additional security measures being put in place. The thieves knew exactly what they were doing. They wore ski masks and gloves, so although the security cameras captured them, identifying them is impossible. I have to admit, it was unsettling knowing someone was robbing homes just a few doors down while we slept. Nothing says "sleep tight" quite like neighborhood burglars.

Last Saturday, Mikey and I participated in an improv class.

Before class, the instructor sent a voice message—in perfect English—explaining what to expect. She also casually mentioned that the class itself would be entirely in Spanish.

Um... excuse me?

My Spanish is improving, but I am nowhere near conversational. My first thought was, "Well, this should go spectacularly."

Fortunately, she sent another message on Friday saying she would give instructions in Spanish but was happy to clarify anything in English. Feeling equal parts hopeful and terrified, I decided to go.

As we walked into the classroom, she asked how our Spanish was. Mikey told her he could follow along for the most part. I don't think she heard my answer, which would have been, "Not good. Like... at all."

She began class by reading the introduction and agenda entirely in Spanish.

¡Qué carajo!

The class was way above my level. I am currently an A1 speaker—the lowest level—and she launched into what felt like C2, the highest. For two straight hours, I sat there like a deer caught in headlights, desperately trying to piece together enough words to know whether we were about to play improv games or negotiate an international peace treaty.

Everyone else was discussing nuanced ideas while I was over in the corner proudly contributing, "Mi gato es grande." Meanwhile, Mikey was probably debating the architectural beauty of the Golden Gate Bridge.

¡CARAJO!

It's a two-session class.

You guessed it.

I will not be attending session number two. I sense a discussion in our home in the near future regarding my participation.

Instead, I'll be performing my greatest improv scene yet: the dramatic exit.

That pretty much sums up life in Uruguay lately. The weather is finally starting to warm up—we reached a balmy 60°F yesterday, and the skies have been noticeably bluer.

Spring is on the way.

And after surviving an all-Spanish improv class, I feel qualified to survive just about anything.

Casa - house

Carajo - fuck

Que carajo - what the fuck?

Thank you for sticking with me. As always, be kind to your self and be kind to others.