Speed-dating y empanadas

Hola chicas y chicos, que tal?  Time is really flying out here - can't believe I've been away for almost two weeks!

Friday night saw Emma, Will and I try our luck at a Spanish speed-date.  Before anyone sprints to Clapham to bring this to Andrew's attention, I should point out that this was not the normal type of speed-dating (ie with romantic intentions) but for English and Spanish speakers to have a ten minute conversation in both languages.  Aptly named 'Spanglish'.

Still unused to Argentina-time (Buenos Aires is in the same time zone as Pam Lloyd, Miranda Clayton and Becca Tree, where '8pm' means 'some time after 9ish'), Emma and I arrived early, and had the misfortune of drinking two of the world's worst cocktails while we sat alone in the deserted bar.  When the event (eventually) kicked off, it was great fun, and for the most part, I was able to make myself understood...although I think I am more proficient in sign language than Spanish!

At one point an Argentinan guy (only mildy pervy) was asking about dancing, insisting that I must go, and refusing to listen to my protests that dancing really isn't my thing.  He was adamant that all British girls are good dancers.
"No mi!" I said (again), "pero mi hermana es una bailerina muy bueno.  Possibilemente, ella tiene los skills de bailar para yo y ella?"
He considered this, and seemed satisfied that all the dancing genes went to my sister.  He then asked what sort of dancing she did.
"Todos.  Jazz, ballet, modern - y pole".
This confused him.
"Pole?" I repeated, "pole-ay?"

Still nothing.  It was time to resort to sign language.  Pulling a nail file from my bag, I balanced it in the neck of a beer bottle.
"Esta un pole" I said, pointing to it.  I then proceeded to illustrate, with my fingers, how one would go about pole dancing.  Jess - if you're reading this, I think you would be very impressed with how flexible I made you out to be.  Juan certainly was!

As the evening drew to a close, Will and I were adopted by a group of porteños, who took us out for some more conversation and beers. Amazingly, my Spanish improved in direct correlation to the number of cervezas consumed (who knew?!)  Of course, this also gave rise to another translation fail.  As we were walking between bars, Will spotted a cat lurking behind a bouffanted and heavily made-up Argentinan lady.  "Gato!" he shouted, pointing past her to the cat, "gato!".  From the speed at which her face fell, it was clear the lady had taken offence at this.
"No te gusta los gatos?" I asked her, as she scowled at Will and muttered under her breath in Spanish.  She paused momentarily, and asked me to repeat the question.
"Los gatos...?" I repeated, pointing at the cat, "no te gustaN los gatos?" (earlier conjugation error).
"Ah!" she exclaimed, her face clearing, "I think he call ME gato".
Now it was the turn of the English to be confused.
Thankfully, one of the better English speakers intervened, explaining that calling a woman 'gato' is equivalent to 'slut' or 'whore' at home.  Happily, no long-term offence was caused (she is the lady sat to my left in the photo.  FYI).



On Saturday I helped Claire make empanadas for her leaving party, and they were so good that I'm pretty sure I can now officially call myself a porteño (or porteña...?)  They are not dissimilar to Cornish pasties, with much lighter pastry and smaller in size - as modelled on the right by James y Emma.


Chau! x

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BJ's top Spanish tips # 1: 

El Gato. 
 

 

 

Not to be confused with la gato.