Good day to you, Ekaterina Sergeyevna. Or, as they say here in Paraguay,
- Hola querida señora, ¿cómo le va?
And you would burst into hearty laughter and answer me with something from our school days:
- London is the capital of Great Britain.
And you wouldn't be all that wrong, because even though I've been living in a Spanish-speaking country for almost three years now, all my Argentine Spanish shatters against the rocks of the Paraguayan dialect. They speak here in such a marvelous way that during my first few days I thought I didn't know Spanish at all, and I answered just like that, at random, with little phrases from school English, pretending to be an English-speaking fellow. Once I even despaired over my inability to buy a simple bottle of water—the kind old man simply couldn't understand me! Until some passersby came to the rescue and explained that the water seller was speaking pure Guaraní, which hadn't happened to me here before. So I went away empty-handed, without a drink of water and without learning the new word either, because Guaraní was the last thing my life still needed. As if I weren't already wandering around here lost enough without Guaraní.
You see, I know just enough of the language now to say a thing or two. But, as it turns out, before you can say anything, you first have to find a Paraguayan who's actually interested in talking to a foreigner, who's willing to listen very carefully to foreign Spanish and speak very slowly in the local Spanish. And good luck finding one of those—you couldn't find them in broad daylight with a lantern. The other day I happened upon another extranjero, just as lost as I am. Believe it or not, we spent two hours pouring our hearts out to each other as though we were lifelong friends. Neither of us could stop talking. I don't think anyone has ever understood me that well in my life—not even in my native language.
Do you remember how we used to drink tea together? We'd settle down in your front garden with your grandfather's samovar, pour tea into your grandmother's china set, and start telling each other stories. I'd tell you about faraway countries and the wonders of the world, and you'd tell me about the vegetable garden and the crooked front porch. Or we'd walk together down the familiar street to the river, beneath the birch trees we've known since childhood, and I'd tell you about foreign peoples and adventures, while you'd tell me about the neighbors and the zucchini. Then we'd reach the river, and I'd tell you about the sunset and the wandering wind, while you'd tell me about the night's weather and the greenhouses that ought to be closed before dark. It seemed we were both in our homeland, yet you were at home, while I felt as though I were in another country. We spoke the same language, and yet we were always talking about different things, and somehow no translation could ever be made from my language into yours.
And here, in faraway Paraguay, on a mosaic bench beneath the palm trees, two weathered lonely souls met and began swapping tales in broken Spanish-English. I'd tell him about Argentina, and he'd tell me about Brazil. One word in Spanish, three in English, and plenty of gestures to make sure we understood each other. And when it came to cursing the relentless heat, no translation was needed at all—it was immediately clear: nothing but swear words! So we talked until sunset. And all at once life in Paraguay became merrier and easier to understand, and I even found myself eager to get to know this country. If not in Guaraní, then in the language of gestures—with a dictionary in hand.
