What We Talk about When We Talk about Anything

We headed to a country where I couldn’t understand the writing on the billboards.  We crossed the border into Spain and drove through the tunnels that burrowed under the Pyrenees Mountains.  I was excited to travel to a place where I had very little knowledge of the language.  When I was in fourth grade, my elementary school offered paltry bi-weekly lessons that included numbers and colors.  Aside from that, my only knowledge of Spanish resulted from working with Mexican dishwashers who would frequently ask ¿Quantas mesas? near the end of each shift.

Since I was only visiting Spain for a few days, I expected very little of myself.  I tried to pick up a few words, but mostly I savored the liberation of walking around in the dark, hardly understanding a word of Spanish buzzing around me.  This caliber of disengagement from the public was a novelty I haven’t experienced since I was an illiterate child dependent upon my mother.  Without a guardian to supervise me on this trip, I regressed to a stage where it is acceptable to make hand gestures and point to things I want. 

If I don’t want to participate, I don’t have to because I have an excuse:  I can’t string a sentence together except to ask Where is the bathroom?  If a homeless man pleads for my help in some unintelligible speech all I must say is No hablo español and be on my way.  I can ignore the hawkers advertising their useless wares.  I can be left totally alone, lost in my surroundings.  There is nothing I recognize——not the streets or the mumbled conversations of passersby.

I was in Pamplona, where Spaniards and tourists flee from frightened bulls charging through the streets.  The event takes place every year from July 7^th through the 14^th, so I was a few weeks early.  Sadly, there were no bulls, and there was hardly any people either. 

We arrived around three in the afternoon when most of the business owners were taking their siesta. None of the shops were open. Gates were down and locked. I couldn't read the signs that indicated when they'd reopen because there were no numbers.

Eventually, I stumbled into the bull ring, which was closed.  When I reached the Plaza del Toros, I heard noises, evidence that we were nearing the Pamplonians’ hiding place.  Tourists gazed at the far-off mountains and the red-roofed houses as they stood atop the hill that offered a panoramic view of the town below. 

As I turned the corner, I saw masses of people sitting on cobble-stone roads in between shops that lined the pedestrian-only streets.  I entered a shop and selected a magnet of a Spaniard running from a black bull that seemed irritated and hell-bent on gouging him.  The sticker marked the price of three euros, so I counted out my coins before making the transaction.  I placed the magnet on the counter in front of the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper’s black hair had a few gray strands.  Wrinkles formed crow’s feet by the corners of her eyes.  She greeted me in Spanish.

 

Hola, I responded, and immediately the shopkeeper knew I wasn’t from around here.  She spoke rapidly and pointed to the magnet.  I didn’t comprehend a word, but when I saw her coworker search through a drawer behind the register I guessed that the display magnets were not for sale.  The shopkeeper had to pluck one from her supply. 

She pointed to the €3.00 inscribed in green on the monitor, and I handed her the coins.  We exchanged gracias’s and then either she told me to have nice day or to get the hell out of her store.  I assume the former, but I have no way of knowing for certain. 

My essentially wordless exchange with the cashier made me ponder the nature of communication with all of my tour-mates on Contiki.  At home, I socialize only when I want to.  Usually I’ll see a friend once a week.  We share a meal, see a movie, or maybe go for a run in the city.  During these outings, we exchange our thoughts, our memories, and our dreams.  And then we separate for a while until new ideas overtake us.  I return home to read new books and watch movies I haven’t seen before.  When I meet up with my friend again, I report what I’ve learned and how my mindset has evolved since our last outing.  This cycle of joining and separation keeps the friendship alive and refreshing. 

During the camping tour, however, we are constantly in each other’s company for an entire month.  For the most part, we see the same sites, walk the same routes, and eat the same meals.  A discussion of our surroundings would be worthwhile to exchange differing viewpoints, but we were still getting to know each other.  We mostly spoke of the food we liked and complained about the gypsies. 

Since my life is mostly solitary at home, I was uncomfortable being around people all of the time.  I grew annoyed by the endless repetitive announcements of menial tasks such as the need to do laundry.  I hate discussing trivial matters such as how urgently one needs to trim one’s fingernails.  These utterances require no response and barely deserve an acknowledgement.  A head nod would suffice, but really these needs should never be announced.  There are simple, understood truths about life that don’t need to be articulated.  They are perpetual tasks destined to be checked off again and again. 

While at home, I tried getting into the practice of speaking only when necessary.  If words served an immediate purpose, like if I needed someone to help me move furniture, then speaking was direct and purely functional.  But when words are used to entertain, different rules apply.

You can say as little or as much as you want, and your crowd can elect to listen or ignore certain parts of your speech.  If there is no goal but to transmit worthwhile ideas, then the speaker must cater to his audience.  When we speak, we are all performers, being appraised by our listeners, and I believe we should choose our words carefully to avoid wasting people’s time pleading to be heard, inflating our egos, and barraging innocent victims with monologues better suited for diary entries.  We should seek to engage with our audience——to educate, to challenge, and then to inquire. 

I dread phone calls because these kinds of conversations are becoming a lost art.  I have relatives who call me to spew unremarkable gossip, and then I have relatives who need to be prodded and practically strangled to utter a sound.  This is merely part of being in a family, so I play my role and offer my ear. 

I prefer to live my life as though I were a character speaking dialogue in a script.  What would this character say, and how would the reader view him?  Would they be interested in his words and contemplate his ideas?  Or would they skim over his useless utterances?  After spending time with another person, I often review the conversation in my head after I’ve gone home.  I take note of worthy questions I asked and then focus on areas where I could improve.  I try to be witty, or at least original, so I kick myself for using generic phrases when the conversation moves faster than my thoughts can produce a proper response.

Sometimes it’s easier to say nothing at all.  Complete disengagement is effortless in Spain as I don’t know the language.  I don’t have to listen to anyone, or conjure up a response.  I can retreat into myself and bottle my thoughts.  Naturally we are social animals, so our thoughts are bound to burst out of us.  Some words are melodious.  The rest is just noise.