I made a terrible mistake last Thursday.
Actually, I made six, but the main one involved cheese, a well-meaning compliment, and the Catalan word for “sweaty.”
Let’s rewind.
After three weeks of only speaking to the builder (who mostly just grunts and occasionally says “mañana” like a death threat), I decided it was time to integrate. Brave the village. Buy things from actual humans. Practice the language(s).
The bakery was my target. Simple enough. Smells good, sells carbs, no confusing bureaucracy or public forms.
In I stroll—hair slightly brushed, linen shirt suggesting breezy European competence. I see her. The baker. Rosa. A Catalan woman with the arms of someone who kneads more than dough. I smile. She smiles. We’re doing this.
And then I say it.
“Votre fromage est magnifique.”
(Your cheese is magnificent.)
Rosa blinks. Tilts her head.
Realising my slip, I panic and switch to Spanish.
“Quiero… eh… el queso que huele como pies. Por favor.”
(I want the cheese that smells like feet. Please.)
Still nothing. I try Catalan. A bold move.
“El formatge és… uh… suat?”
(Meaning to say “The cheese is sweaty.” A rustic compliment in some circles.)
Rosa narrows her eyes. Slowly places the breadknife down.
“Tu no saps on ets, oi?”
(You don’t know where you are, do you?)
I did not. I do not.
Turns out, my lovely trilingual upbringing is less “cultural advantage” and more “chaotic neutral.” I grew up speaking French at home, English at school, and now I’m trapped in Spain where the menus are in Catalan, the locals speak in rapid-fire dialect, and everyone assumes I’m Dutch because I wear sandals that aren’t beige.
Later that night, over a glass of emergency rosé and three slices of accidental Manchego (still not the cheese I wanted), I went down a rabbit hole about Spain’s linguistic minefield. Did you know Spain has at least five official languages depending on where you are? Spain Explained: Languages You’ll Hear Beyond Spanish (Instituto Cervantes). It’s not just Spanish—it’s Catalan, Galician, Basque, and Aranese, too. Each with its own grammar. Its own pride. Its own ability to make me feel like a human blancmange.
I was prepared for bureaucracy. For humidity. Even for the surprise of wild boars appearing outside my kitchen window (more on that another time).
I was not prepared for linguistic whiplash.
Now I carry a notebook. I’ve written “don’t say fromage” in large, angry letters. I’m learning local phrases. I’ve stopped trying to be charming and instead aim for harmless.
And Rosa?
She gave me a wink today when I walked past.
Or she blinked. Could’ve been a twitch.
Either way—I call that progress.
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