Day one, I downloaded five apps. Duolingo. Babbel. A suspicious one with a parrot in sunglasses. I was ready. I was motivated. I was an ambitious, language-hungry goddess with a dream and a whiteboard.
Day two, I forgot the word for “hello.”
It all started because I was tired of ordering coffee like a nervous mime. You know the move—smile, point vaguely, throw in a “gracias” like you’re apologizing for existing. I wanted to speak like a local. Sound confident. Maybe even flirt with my barista instead of accidentally calling him grandma (true story).
So I gave myself a goal. Seven days. Just enough time, I figured, to become conversational. Or at least mildly less humiliating to be around.
Spoiler: I did not become conversational.
What I did do was tell a cab driver I had three nipples. That was day three. I meant to say “I’m staying near the church.” What came out was something closer to “I birth the holy onion of my body.” He didn’t blink. Just nodded, like yeah, classic American.
By day four, I’d started inventing words when I couldn’t remember the real ones. Spanish-ish. Spanglish-adjacent. I told a pharmacist I had “bee thunder in my leg” and she gave me ibuprofen and a tiny look of concern.
The thing no one tells you about learning a language is that it makes you forget your own. I started saying “¿cómo se dice…?” in English conversations. At one point, I answered a Zoom call with “sí, señora.” It was my boss.
Day five, I tried to practice at a local market. Bad idea. Very bad. I asked for bananas and somehow proposed to the fruit vendor’s mother. She cried. I cried. We hugged. I still don’t know if we’re engaged.
On day six, a kind older woman stopped me in the street and gave me unsolicited pronunciation tips. I thanked her. She hugged me too. Spaniards hug a lot. Either that or I’m giving off “lost orphan” vibes and people are adopting me emotionally.
By the end of the week, I wasn’t fluent. I was bruised, emotionally tender, and carrying three different pocket dictionaries like some kind of panicked librarian.
But something weird happened.
I went to my usual café. Ordered a cortado. Forgot the word halfway through but said it anyway, messed up and all. The barista smiled. Repeated the order back correctly. Gave me a free cookie.
Progress.
Tiny, crumb-shaped progress.
I still don’t know if he likes me or just pities the walking grammatical disaster I’ve become. But either way, I’m showing up tomorrow. I’m going to say thank you. I’m going to mispronounce it. And I’m going to do it loud and proud, with absolutely no idea what I’m saying.
That’s growth.
