Me Llamo Tristen

I’ll back up a bit to the the second day of classes in Barcelona, which was just my fourth day in the city. At this point I am comfortable enough with the area where I have class to venture out on my own for lunch in between my two classes. I decide to go into a tapas bar to grab a little sandwich and a coke. The part of Barcelona that we have class is a very touristy area so most locals speak English and it is easy to communicate.

I enter Cerveceria 100 Montaditos and order my food. I walk up, first trying to practice my very choppy Spanish. Let me tell you something folks, when your Spanish teacher in high school told you Mexican/Latin American Spanish is different than Spain Spanish, they weren’t kidding. I do okay with Latin American Spanish, but here I’m a bit lost and normally the natives realize you don’t know how to speak Spanish or Catalan so they switch to help. Here however, the worker has zero patience for yet another American who knows no other language but their own. It’s  also possible she she thought I was from Spain because I’m small and have dark hair, it wouldn’t have been the first time this happened. Either way, she’s not switching to English and I am only slightly flustered because I am confused on what she’s asking me but I try to take a few deep breaths. She says “¿como se llama?” I reply “Tristen”. She hands me my receipt and it says “Cristian”. This happens in America often so I’m not offended, however I’m nervous this will jam up my order in this instance, but I go find a seat and wait hoping for the best.

Pickpocketing is very common in Barcelona so I have to be aware of my belongings and surroundings constantly. That being said, it is difficult to go about your day and always watch your things, it’s easier when you’re with a group to just leave your stuff somewhere and ask friends to keep an eye on it. But, in this instance, I am alone, so I gather up all my things and I walk up to the kitchen window and I get a death stare from the cook so I decide to sit back down, moving backwards as quietly as I can so maybe it looks like I wasn’t actually attempting to talk to them to see if there was a mistake. I think to myself “it’s okay, you are confused but you will learn”. Death stare cook yells out a few names, but let me tell you, anyone that speaks Catalan talks INSANELY fast and they all speak with a lisp. So who really knows if he yelled out “Cristian”. I attempt to walk back up and the cook says, “go sit down and wait” using such an aggressive tone that you would have thought I was a 5 year old kid annoying someone. I let a few minutes pass and listen for “Cristian,” and eventually figure out, my sandwich was up there the whole time but because the cook was impatient with me I felt like a fool and didn’t have the confidence to just go up there and see if Cristian’s food was ready!  

I don’t think as Americans we are challenged enough to interact with people from different backgrounds and languages. Most Americans grow up only learning English and assuming that will be sufficient enough in life. Well shocker, it’s not. I am humbled by Europeans who know 2-3+ languages and I am angry at my society for not expecting the same out of its citizens.

The take away from this story is to learn patience with people. Not everyone has the knowledge to do the same thing you can. Not everyone knows and understands what you’re saying. Not everyone has the same culture norms. It’s not even just about language, it’s about socioeconomic status and religion and a million other things that make us different.

Branch out and interact with people unlike you. This experience has opened my eyes to the experience that many immigrants must go through while coming to America. I commend them for dealing with things like I just did, only knowing they have to do it day in and day out because we don’t know their language(s) and we won’t be learning them anytime soon, so it’s their responsibility to learn ours. Help someone communicate when you can, even if it just means not getting frustrated with them.

My personal take away from this experience is to build my confidence with the little bit of language that I do know, and to not let mean faced Soup Nazi’s hold my sandwich hostage. Tristen, not Cristian, will go back to that restaurant, trust me. Until then, I might just be hungrier than normal.

Adios~

Tristen