Are you fluent in Spanish?

Are you fluent in Spanish? It's a common question and a hard one to answer. I suspect what people really mean is: Are you going to be able to communicate with the four Peruvian teenagers you're adopting? That would actually be an easier question to answer. Can any parent communicate with their teenagers?

The question about my level of Spanish is more difficult. Am I fluent? Well, I can order freshly made tortilla chips and salsa from the Mexican place near our office. (Not that I need to actually tell them my order since we're there...ahem...a lot.) But in Peru when I went to the ceremony for a friend who was becoming an attorney, I didn't understand a single word and was glad I'd brought a book to read. My niece, who is trained as a translator in the Air Force, tells me there are five levels of fluency: "1 is basic knowledge, 1+ is conversational, 2 is proficiency, and anything above that is when you're really good. 4 is like a native who's a doctor or an intellectual, and 5 would be like Socrates."

I suppose I'm at a 1+. Or at least I would have supposed that until the phone call I got the other day.

We've made some friends here in Philly who are from Mexico. I'm going to use fake names for them since I haven't gotten their permission to share this story. In the few months we've known them, they had their first baby, started a pizza shop and purchased a second business. Somehow they've found time to come to our house a few times: we give them dinner in exchange for an evening of Spanish practice. Clearly, we have the better end of that deal.

Juan speaks decent English; Maria speaks none. She and I have talked about getting together to trade lessons: half an hour of English, half an hour of Spanish. But we're both busy and she is shy, so it hasn't happened yet. Then the other day, Maria called me! I was so happy. Before she had said a word, I had it all worked out in my mind that she was finally calling to set up a language practice date. Looking back now, I see that my over-eagerness and assumptions were a big part of the problem.

The phone conversation started out simply enough.

How are you? 

How are you? 

How's the baby? 

How's the business? 

But it quickly spiraled into confusion.

Are you busy? 

Well, yes. We're moving this week, but that's okay. 

Do you want to get together to practice Spanish? 

Yes! Of course!! When? (checking my calendar for the following week, after our move would be over)

How about today? 

Today? Oh... um... well, okay. (Both David and I were unshowered and our house was scattered with half-packed boxes.) Yeah... today's good. How about 5:00? 

Okay. 

Is Juan coming too, or just you? 

Juan will come, too. 

We hung up and I told David that we'd be having guests that evening, which meant we still had a couple hours to pack before getting ready. An hour or so later, my phone rang again. It was Maria.

How are you? 

Good. What's up? 

Can we come over now? 

Now?! 

Your mind does funny things when you're trying to communicate in another language. You sense that you're missing crucial data and vocabulary, and you sort of fill in the gaps of information with possible scenarios. At some point your brain latches on to the most plausible, and that becomes reality.

In those few seconds with the phone held to my ear, my mind scrolled through the possibilities. Maybe Maria had a job interview coming up and needed an emergency English lesson. Maybe Juan had finally gotten tired of translating for her and was making her call me. Maybe she'd been working up the courage to call for weeks and was anxious for the meeting to happen before she chickened out. Yes, that must be it.

Well, our house is a mess and we haven't showered yet... 

That's okay. 

Can you give us a half hour? 

Yes. 

Okay, see you soon. 

See you in a half hour. 

In spite of the scenario I had settled on, I was aware that total misunderstanding was a real possibility. I warned David that we might be in for an afternoon of Spanish practice with our friends ... or we might be headed to a Quinceañera for some relative of theirs. We jumped through the shower, stacked half-packed boxes to clear a space in the living room and dug through the cupboards to see what refreshments we could offer. Clementines, mini Snickers bars and tea.

Of course in Latino time, a half hour is not 30 minutes but more like 50 or 90. We used the extra time to speculate about what might happen when Juan and Maria arrived. We imagined them showing up with a sombrero for David and a colorful poofy dress for me, and dragging us to a fiesta where we'd serve as the gringo entertainment.

By the way, we're not just paranoid; that very thing has happened to us before. But that was in Peru. Now we're living in the U.S. Our home turf. And our Spanish is better than it used to be. Surely those kinds of misunderstandings are behind us. Right.

Knock-knock-knock.

I opened the door, and there stood Maria and Juan, holding their little baby boy.

Hola! 

Hola! 

Come in! Bienvenidos. Please, sit down. Don't mind the boxes. Would you like something to eat? A clementine, perhaps? Or Snickers bar? 

They didn't move. Well, they didn't move toward the couch. They shuffled their feet in place by the front door.

Um... we need to ask a favor, said Juan.

It turns out that Maria and I had not discussed an afternoon of English-Spanish practice. Or at least she hadn't discussed that. She had called to ask if David and I could go with them to the city impoundment lot to pick up their car. Juan, who doesn't have a U.S. drivers' license, had made an illegal turn on red and gotten a ticket and had the car taken away. They'd already paid the fine, but the car could only be picked up by someone with a valid U.S. license.

So, you know, not exactly the topic I thought our conversation had been about. I blame it on me not knowing the Spanish word for "impoundment lot." That must be where it went wrong.

Once we got things sorted out and laughed about the misunderstanding, all five of us piled into our Toyota Corolla. I might have been more concerned about the baby being held on their lap in the backseat if it hadn't been for our recent visit to Peru, during which I found myself sitting in a backseat holding a friend's baby while the driver navigated traffic that honestly looked like a video game.

In the end, we got plenty of Spanish practice as we waited in line, signed papers, got the keys, discovered the battery was dead, waited for a city vehicle to jump the battery, drove back to our house, then finally sat down in the living room to chat over clementines and Snickers.

So: will I be able to communicate with my Spanish-speaking teenagers? Yes, as long as we don't have to talk by phone.