There is one Spanish word that makes me sound like I’m ordering alcohol even when I’m stone cold sober.
It’s not a complicated word, technically.
It’s just… long.
It has too many corners.
Too many rolling bits.
The word is ferrocarril.
Railway.
A normal thing. A train. Infrastructure. Very sensible.
And yet every time I try to say it, my mouth does something strange, like it’s buffering.
It comes out as:
“feh-roh-cah…”
Then I lose confidence halfway through and it turns into a sort of cough.
Or a small apology.
Or, once, something that sounded vaguely like a cocktail.
The man I was speaking to nodded politely, the way Spanish people do when you are clearly trying your best but also clearly inventing a new language.
Which is, honestly, my brand at this point.
I live in Spain.
I think in English.
I reach for French.
And then Spanish arrives like an unexpected guest at the party.
Sometimes it’s harmless.
Like ordering two beers and accidentally creating “bieros” in front of a waiter who did not even blink.
Dos Bieros, S’il Vous Plaît (And I Knew I Was Back)
That one felt almost charming.
Ferrocarril is less charming.
Ferrocarril makes me sound like I’ve wandered into a train station after a long lunch and I’m asking for directions with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be allowed near a timetable.
The worst part is that Spanish has loads of words like this.
Perfectly normal words that feel like tongue twisters if you didn’t grow up with them.
Desarrollador.
Reloj.
Alrededor.
I respect them all deeply.
I fear them.
And then, because my brain is a predictable place, I started thinking about all the other times language has betrayed me in public.
Like the laundry incident.
A French word that should have stayed safely in France, somehow turning into a sauce, and Dublin getting involved for reasons I still can’t explain.
La Lessive N’est Pas une Sauce (The Laundry Sauce Incident, feat. Dublin, of course)
Or the aubergine argument, which I still maintain was not my fault, even if I did get slightly emotional about a vegetable.
The Aubergine Argument and the Organic Wine That Saved Me
Sometimes I wonder if this is what living between languages really is.
Not fluency.
Not mastery.
Just a constant low-level improvisation.
A life where you can talk about feelings, order coffee, survive bureaucracy…
But a single railway can still take you out.
Ferrocarril.
I said it again this morning, quietly, to myself, like practice.
It still sounded suspiciously like I was about to fall asleep on a bench.
Maybe one day it will feel natural.
Or maybe this is just how it goes.
You get the life.
You get the sun.
You get the beer.
And you never, ever fully get the railway.
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