I learnt what Spanish I know in a week, from the waiter at the hotel where I was staying in Sevilla. Well, he was more than a waiter after the first day or so. He knew no English, I knew just a little Spanish, but when our eyes locked, we discovered a mutual curiosity about the other that overcame our linguistic difficulties. The first night we sat at a cafe where orange trees were in blossom all around. He taught me the word for everything in sight and we laughed inordinately, as if this were the wittiest conversation in the world. When I got back to my room I read my phrasebooks voraciously, hoping to get some grasp of the language

The next morning at breakfast, he was back in his waiter's uniform, asked me if I had slept well. I had learned enough to recognize the word "sleep," so I shook my head fretfully. I hadn’t had any coffee yet and even the simplest of negative formations were beyond me. Later in the day, we walked in the gardens behind a monastery, and he taught me more words. He drove me around the city and the countryside: to beach towns seemingly deserted in the noon-time sun, to the hills, where I saw white horses grazing among rocks and flowers, to the bull-fight one bright afternoon. Through all this we managed to communicate by dint of a rather wild language words and gestures, and not much grammar. There was no time for grammar. So did I really learn Spanish then? Well, when I left on the train a week later, I felt as if I had made a true friend, and if that is not the measure of communication, then what is? Sandra from Frezno, CA