room to dance

My life has been filled with the magic and fun of the people in this gran ciudad. They have picked me up when I have stumbled and danced with me ‘til the dusky dawns. Lunched with me when my day was in pieces; offered coffee and cake when empathy was in need. Driven me far across the city to collect a something important, but forgotten, and handed out free shots-a-plenty in the musty confines of a rock bar.

Indeed, this sparkling society has provided me with more than one belly ache of amusement, my dear flatmate Hugo having topped the list of offenders. Glorious mistakes in language I promised, and glorious they have been. One night in particular, getting ready for a fabulous night out on the town, I bounced into the living room to ascertain his opinion on my outfit:

“Uh huh, good!” he nodded, asked me to twirl around. (I obliged, with style.)
“Now … bend!” he shouted.

Slightly bemused, I doubled over at the waist to form an approximate ninety degree angle. He choked a giggle: “no Sam, BEND!” Even more befuzzled, I dropped down to my ankles, which only provoked tears of potent, sweet laughter.

You see, Latin Americans pronounce their “v”s as “b”s and in my excitement, I had forgotten the expression “ven”. Pronounced as “ben”, it can rather easily be mistaken for “bend”. (Perhaps not, but to save face, I have to say that.)

De hecho, it means “come over here”.

Ah …