It started, like most of my bad ideas lately, with overconfidence. That stupid little spike you get after, like, three good days where you think you’re suddenly fluent. You nod at the café waitress with the casual “sí, gracias” like you belong here. You feel it. The lie of progress.
And then you think:
“Maybe today’s the day I tackle some serious Spanish listening practice.”
I googled:
“Intermediate Spanish listening exercises.”
Big mistake.
You know what’s worse than a Spanish podcast designed for intermediate learners?
One that was actually recorded by native speakers who think intermediate means you grew up in Madrid but maybe have a slight lisp.
I put my headphones on. Sat cross-legged on the weird, overly firm bed in my little hotel room. The air conditioning made that unsettling clunk noise every twenty minutes, like it was swallowing itself.
The host’s voice came on:
“Hoy vamos a hablar de las diferencias culturales entre España y América Latina.”
Cool. I caught that. Something about cultural differences. We’re rolling.
Five seconds later:
Total white noise.
They were talking. Or rapping. Or maybe auctioneering. I don’t know. I heard what I thought was the word for “table” at one point (mesa?). Or maybe it was “mass” (misa?). Then someone laughed.
That laugh cut me deep.
I paused it. Rewound. Tried again.
Same result.
My brain, bless its optimistic little heart, kept trying to grab individual words like they were coins rolling off a table. But it was like those nightmare carnival games where the coins are greased and the table’s on a slope.
I panicked.
I slowed the speed down to 0.75x.
Now they sounded drunk. Or underwater. Or both.
Still couldn’t understand them.
At 0.5x, one of them said something that sounded exactly like:
“El perro de mi abuela fue al supermercado a comprar sandías.”
The dog went to the supermarket to buy watermelons?
That can’t be right.
I opened the transcript.
Turns out it was:
“Pero de mi abuela fue algo super complicado comprar sandías.”
Oh. So. Not the dog.
Just my broken brain inventing canine grocery errands.
By the 23rd minute (it was a 26-minute podcast), I realized I had no idea who was talking, what the subject was, or frankly if this was even Spanish anymore. Could have been Portuguese. Or Klingon. At that stage I was willing to believe anything.
Then came the real humiliation.
I texted Marta — you remember, the cheerful exchange student I met at the café last week — and asked if she wanted to practice. Figured a human being might be easier than two hyperactive podcasters.
Her reply:
“Claro, si quieres podemos hablar mañana. Me hace ilusión ayudarte :)”
I stared at that text like it was ancient Sanskrit.
“Me hace ilusión”?
What illusion?
What is being made?
Is this some cultural idiom? A spell? A threat?
I googled it.
Turns out it means:
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Of course it does. Because Spanish is a cruel, beautiful language that wants to see me cry while simultaneously making me fall in love with it.
Tomorrow’s going to be worse. But at least it won’t be a podcast.