Oh, I Get It, You're Brazilian!

I have good and bad language days. There are days when I come bouncing back home, after a string of functional conversations, compliments on my accent, and questions about where I learned. Other days I come home quietly, hoping that my hosts won’t come out to greet me and reveal my truly dysfunctional Spanish; days when little kids have tricked me into saying dumb things, friends have laughed at my mistakes, or, at the very worst, someone has given up on speech all together, resorting to mute gestures in order to communicate with the dumb Yankee.

The most welcome and shocking of compliments is when someone mistakes me for a local. It never happens with anyone who has spoken to me very long (save once, with a Japanese volunteer, his own Spanish still in fledgling stages, who exclaimed, fully in earnest and with an adorably stereotypical accent, “You’re NOT Paraguayan!!??”). I am always flattered and thrilled by these mix-ups, rare as they are. They let me know that one day, maybe, I might actually speak this language well.

And then there is the other side to appearing local, the appearance part. A Peruvian friend, himself conspicuously dark by Paraguayan standards, once told me “you’re accent is OK but no local will ever think you’re Paraguayan because of your, ah, complexion.” Still, last weekend, watching the Paraguay-Colombia World Cup Qualifier in a hotel lobby, an Ecuadorian guest told me “you seem like a local.” “It’s true,” an Argentinean agreed, “how long have you been in Spanish-speaking countries?” Ironically, I misunderstood the question. But the Ecuadorian wasn’t talking about my Spanish, I had barely spoken to him before his comment. Maybe it was the red and white shirt I was wearing, sporting my support for the national team. Or maybe it was that fact that I had hardly moved from beside the grill, helping to prepare Paraguay-style meat to celebrate the game.

At a game on Sunday, several people rattled off paragraphs of Guaraní to me, obviously assuming I was Paraguayan. Later, as opposing hinchadas waged a rock-throwing battle for control of the main exit to the stadium, I chatted with an older guy who had chosen to hide behind the same wall. “I hope they arrest them all,” he said, “I have to drive out through that door, I can’t go the back way, and I’m afraid their going to break my windows.” Then he said a few things in Guaraní, at which I smiled (apparently inappropriately). “Oh, you must not be Paraguayan,” he realized. The police came and arrested some members of the smaller hinchada, escorting the rest out of the stadium. The officer in command explained that the fans of the opposing fans were too numerous to arrest but that they were waiting for buses and would go home soon.

I waited 20 minutes and walked out to catch a bus with the last of the trouble-making fans, now more tired, less drunk, and significantly calmer. I took three buses to get home, finally getting off a few blocks too late in my still unfamiliar neighborhood. Walking home I stopped at a gas station store to buy a hot dog. Actually, I bought two, my gluttony revealing to all the Paraguayans in the room that I come from the country of great portions. I sat down to eat, watching the Paraguayan soccer wrap-up on the store’s T.V.

Two bites into my second hot dog, a little kid, probably about 8, sat down next to me, eyes fixated on the highlight reel in front of us. We watched in silence for a few minutes before, my he looked up and said “Cerro has 18 points now, right? That means we might have a chance.” “Ah you’re a Cerrista,” I said, “and do you know how the Luque game came out today?” “1-0, Luque won,” he responded. “Oh, must have been a good game.” He misunderstood, “Oh so you’re Luqueño, where do you live?” “Well I live just across the street,” I replied, “but I’m neutral.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m neutral, I don’t have a club.”
“Oh, I get it, you’re Brazilian!” he explained, his face lighting up with understanding.
“Well, I’m not Paraguayan, but I’m not from Brazil either.”
“Where are you from?”
“Guess”
“Argentina,” I shook my head, “Uruguay…Chile…Bolivia,” and he seemed to have run out of ideas.
“I’m from the U.S.” I gave in.
“So that’s why,” he said. And he looked at me with wonder. Too young to be judging by my language abilities, he had probably just never met anyone from so far away.
“Do they eat meat there?” he asked, wide-eyed. “What about yucca?”
“Not really.”
“Seriously, they don’t? That’s so odd”
Brazilians are weird, which explains their lack of Paraguayan club preference. They are, however, at least sensible enough to eat normal food. North Americans are downright alien. My new friend could pardon my accent, in fact he may not even have noticed it. He could pardon my club soccer neutrality, if it was because I was a Brazileiro. But to not eat yucca, well…“don’t you get hungry?” An exotic bunch we are.