I picked up the phone because I thought it was my landlord. It wasn’t.
It was a woman from some office in Valencia speaking at the speed of thunder. I caught one word, agua, and my brain panicked. Water. Bill. Leak. Drowning. I said yes three times before I even knew what she was asking.
Then she said something about mañana and lectura and I said yes again because I’m apparently that person now, the one who agrees to unknown appointments in another language.
Five minutes later I Googled the words. It turns out I’d just scheduled a water meter reading for 8 a.m. tomorrow. Which would be fine if I knew where the meter actually was. I spent the next half hour opening every small door in the apartment building like a lunatic. Found the fuse box, the cleaning closet, a bucket with a dead spider, and finally something that looked official and vaguely damp. Probably it.
I moved to Spain thinking I’d have these charming little interactions that would make me feel worldly. I didn’t expect to be sweating over pipes in flip-flops.
The next morning a man showed up, cheerful, clipboard in hand, speaking rapid Spanish again. I smiled too much, which I’ve learned is my default setting when I don’t understand anything. He pointed to the meter, wrote something down, said gracias and left. I spent the rest of the day proud of myself for surviving a conversation that consisted of exactly two words.
That’s the thing about living here. The victories are microscopic, but they matter. You don’t wake up fluent. You wake up slightly less terrified of picking up the phone.
Later I wrote down everything he’d said, word by word, like evidence. I looked them up, practiced saying them out loud, and even recorded myself on my phone. It’s awful, but useful. I sound like a confused robot trying to join a salsa class.
A few hours after that, another call came in. Same number. I stared at the screen like it was a snake. Then I answered.
And this time, I understood the first sentence. Not all of it, but enough. I didn’t panic. I said vale instead of sí. Progress.
There’s no big ending here. No miracle of fluency, no musical montage. Just one small moment of not freaking out, which feels pretty huge when your brain’s doing translation gymnastics all day.
So if anyone calls you in Spanish and you freeze, don’t hang up. Say something. Even the wrong thing. You’ll survive it. And you might even end up with running water.
