Or at Least, I Took It in High School & College
In May of 2024, I took a trans-Atlantic cruise to Spain. We docked for a day in Málaga, and I wound up on a shore excursion to Alhambra. I hadn’t exactly head of it before, I admit that. But the excursion I had intended to take with friends was full, and well, there you go. I am learning to pivot when I travel, and this was one of those early, easy lessons.
At any rate, it was about a 2-hour bus ride and the guide, although informative and friendly, couldn’t compete against the warm bus and the road motion, and off I dozed. I woke up as we pulled into a random truck stop somewhere in Spain. Now, the bus wasn’t particularly full and I was going solo. So I waited until most other folks had exited the bus before I stood up and headed to the rear exit.
As I climbed down the steps, the bus door closed in front of me. No!
No worries, I figured. I’d just go out the front door.
Except that it, too, was closed. And locked. And the bus driver, along with the tour guide and all the other tourists, was in the rest stop.
“OK, he’ll come back,” I thought. Soon, I hoped.
But nope.
He got a coffee, along with everyone else, and sat out on the sunny porch, at the back of the café. The side I couldn’t see from my toasty perch, still inside the bus.
So I sat there on the bus steps, trying to figure out if I could open the door or scream loud enough to be heard. Yeah, no. What about the horn? Also doesn't work without the keys.
Finally, the break was over and the passengers started to wander back to the bus. Someone saw me! And just stared. So I made a motion, like I was driving the bus, and after a moment of contemplation, she headed off. And came back with the bus driver.
Who opened the door, the whole time apologizing profusely. In Spanish.
“No worries,” said my brain. “We took Spanish in High School. And college. We can handle this!”
So, once he paused in his apologies and was leading me across the parking lot to personally escort me to el baño, I had my chance to use my education.
“De rien,” my mouth let slip.
“Ah! Vous parlez français!” he shouted. “Je suis desolée…”
What the heck?!?!?!
I had the Spanish all lined up to go … the words with the tildes in them and everything. Yet in the moment, my brain overrode my tongue and we had a lovely conversation in French.
So now, nearly a year later, I can laugh at myself and call myself a stupid American (and there are more of these stories), and I can chalk it up to new experiences. Like the majesty of Alhambra and the absolute crystal clear blue beauty of the day we had there. And that climbing all those steps was worth it.
And, as my Spanish professor once told me, “French will always be the language you learned first.”
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