From Helsinki to Hello

“No hablo ingles,” I insisted, pounding his beer on the table.

It gave a nice emphasis, I thought, proud of my newly declared Finnish nationality. Snatching back the bottle, the doe-eyed 18-year-old slurped up the foam and gave in to my tale, anxious to move discussion toward which his friends I found the most guapo. Lavishly rolling my r’s and excessively injecting my speech with the local “uh” — “qué sé yo,” or “what do I know” — I barreled on with my lies, victorious.

For in this land of “English speakers” desperate to take their book smarts out for a spin, each moment of Spanish conversation, vapid or not, is a success. Their guttural twist on the language of the north had become irritating quickly, especially when all I wanted was to practice the local tongue. Hence, my newfound propensity for untruths. Slowly but surely, I had learned the power of a simple lie — or dos or tres — to transform legions of bar patrons into private tutors. It seemed like a brilliant plan.

“You speak English; I know you do,” said the quiet, curly-haired one on my left. “I’ve heard you.”

“¿Dónde?” I scoffed, ready to take down any argument that obstructed my perfectly crafted “No English Allowed” zone.

“In the bus, like two months ago. You asked my friend and I if the 59 goes down Las Heras,” he retorted. And like that, I flashed back to the me of a different era, a spineless creature who regressed to native linguistic terrain at any Argentine’s prompting. A pathetic being that didn’t even know the route of the 59, the bus that passes my door. A wimp that wouldn’t dare talk back to the haughty college freshman who announced my American-ness to the crowd, declaring that it was “stamped on my forehead.”

At the time, his proclamation irritated me, as evidenced by its inclusion in a previous tale of my Argentine woes. Yet never did I think it would come back to haunt me eight weeks later, just when I’d finally wizened to the ways of an English-obsessed land.

Yet return it did — a serendipitous reunion at a varnished picnic table amid hundreds of pubescent Argentines. But this time, I was not going to let them win. “How dare your boludo of a friend make such unfounded declarations? Didn’t his dad ever tell him what happens when you assume?”

Stumped on the translation of the “ass out of you and me” part, I stopped. I began to ponder exactly how obvious my nationality is in this country of tall, dark, and handsomes.

Obviously, it’s, well, pretty obvious. Enough so, at least, for some guy to remember my ponytail for two months just to use it against me, when I was least expecting it. When all I wanted was a little “out of the classroom” learning.

It looks like my education will go bar-less from now on. In fact, I think it’s time to give up on the cultural disguises completely. It’s time to declare “I’m proud to be a (North) American.” Out come the eagle-emblazoned sweatshirts; the red, white and blue bandannas. The pink Gap t-shirt; the Iowa Hawkeye baseball cap. From now on, I’m going to let it all hang out.