The primary objective to my Spanish sojourn is to learn to speak fluent Spanish. And although grammar books and newspapers and podcasts can take you somewhere, well, they can only take you so far. Happily for me, Spain happens to abound with Spanish-speakers all more than willing to have a conversation. However, as I soon found out, there is a lot more to Spanish conversation than simply knowing how to speak the language. Indeed, not only are the words and grammar a challenge, but the manner of speaking and of holding the conversation presents noteworthy differences to what I am used to.
Most noticeable is how loud it all is. It is common knowledge that the Spanish language is a loud language. But quite how loud, is not often realised. Recently, on a high-speed train back from a hockey match in Seville, I mustered up some late-night courage to join a few of the team in the bar carriage. Gathered around the table, they conversed over large quantities of alcohol and a few nuts. The noise in the carriage was quite simply deafening. It was difficult to believe there were only 5 people talking. Although I do wonder if talking is the right term to describe the level of noise. The conversation was centered on some universal Hispanic topic like football, and every participant was giving his view at the top of his voice, thus producing what to me, with my still basic level of Spanish, was a loud and quite unintelligible wall of noise.
A common problem experienced in conversations the world over occurs when, simultaneously, more than one person thinks of something to say. While many cultures struggle with such awkward moments, the Spanish have provided an ingenious solution to this age-old problem by simply all trying to speak louder than everyone else. Add to this the often confrontational nature of football-themed conversations, and the scene in the bar carriage looked every bit a bunch of irate sportsmen on the edge of a full-blown brawl. Quite what this says about Spaniards, I am not sure. Perhaps centuries of conquering and being conquered has led to this constant state of apparent hostility becoming part of the Spanish psyche. Maybe there is something about extreme temperatures that leads to the unnecessary raising of the voice, even when talking to someone just the other side of the table.
Indeed, my first experience of this phenomenon came during one of my first family Sunday lunches with the family. The grandfather greeted me warmly and invited to sit next to him. I was treated to an hour of welcoming comments and social niceties which, to the untrained eye, must have seemed like a torrent of Hispanic abuse. After that, hoarse from coping with what I assumed was a sexagenarian’s hearing defect, realisation dawned upon me: this was how things were done here, everyone spoke this loud, all the time! Of course, as with the many other cultural quirks I have encountered in my soon-to-be three months masquerading as a madrileño, I soon got used to this rather sonorous foible; and now barely bat an eyelid when dear old Abuelo leans to my ear to bawl me out about yet another matter of complete insignificance.
