You know you’re half English, half Spanish when…
Up to the age of about ten, I was always asked “So, is you right half the English half or the Spanish half?” I’ve never found this question very funny, but I guess my legs are my definitely part of my English heritage, going on the simple fact that they are always the palest part of my body. And “Do you dream in English or in Spanish?” I’m actually usually too exhausted to dream and remember, so I can’t answer that one. But I can confirm that when I swear, it’s definitely in English. FFS comes out much more naturally in my mother tongue. What I can’t do is sit through a English documentary which as been dubbed into Spanish. My brain tries to pick out the English words that have been semi silenced over the Spanish translation and I have to really concentrate if I’m to make head or tail of what’s being said as my brain goes into overdrive filtering the two languages at once and I risk blowing a fuse in my own head.
Talking of heads, I was once told in a British hair dresses that my thick brown hair wasn’t English…now a days I’d risk having it shaved off and deported…Brexit style…
But you do know that you’re half Spanish when there is a least one member of your family called: Maria, Angel or Jesus. So at least my parents had some sense in not naming my brother Jesus or I’m not sure he would have made it through school quite as smoothly as he did. And it’s just as well my parents didn’t name me Rebecca either…Cardigan in Spanish. I’m not sure how my pale British legs, which have a pretty good side kick, would have reacted to being called Cardigan all day long.
In addition, of course you never know how to pronounce the names of any Hollywood Star whilst conversing in Spanish. Because if you pronounce it the correct way, no Latino understands whom the hell you’re talking about. I mean Arnold SCHWARZENEGGER would come out something like: Arnaal Esnorstneggar, and you risk someone thinking about you’ve just invited them to go snorkeling. Moreover, whilst we’re on pronunciation Brit dogs go “woof woof” to the Spanish mutt which goes “wow wow.” Birds chirp “Tweet tweet” to the Spanish “pio pio,” (which could easily be mistaken in that you need to do a poo poo) But the winner of the animal sounds has to go to the Cockerel instead of crowing out “Cock-a-doodle-doo” apparently says “ki-kiri-ki”?!? WTF! I’d need a few drinks first before I could associate that sound to any feathered friend.
And don’t get my started on the clash of meal times. Lunch in Spain is like some sort of mid-day daily banquet. The Brit in me makes up for this on Sunday though, the humble roast dinner is the most iconic thing about Britain, nothing encapsulates our national identity better than a piece of beef, roast potatoes and a Yorkshire pudding – that and of course and stripping off at the first sign of sun. I can spot a Brit off a mile away when I pop down to the Southern Spanish coastline, my nearest beach area. The lobster look with socks and sandals can only be Brit heritage.
As well as a nice cuppa tea. And of course we all personally know the Queen…
