It was bound to happen. I mean, you can’t move to a new country, fumble through a new language, and not — at some point — accidentally say something that makes everyone stare at you like you’ve just confessed to a felony.
My moment came on a Tuesday.
At a language exchange.
Now, first of all — language exchanges? Complete lottery. Sometimes you sit across from a sweet retired teacher who gently corrects your verbs. Other times, you’re stuck with a twenty-year-old who speaks like Bad Bunny on fast forward and thinks correcting you ruins the vibe.
This time I got Pablo.
Pablo was chill. Too chill.
Wore sunglasses inside.
Kept referring to everyone as hermano.
We were talking about music. Easy topic.
I said I used to play guitar back in the UK.
“Ah, te gusta tocar la guitarra.”
He nodded.
I wanted to say:
“Yeah, I love playing it.”
Instead, I proudly blurted:
“Sí, me gusta tocarme.”
Silence.
Pablo raised one eyebrow.
The girl two seats down literally snorted into her drink.
I knew — immediately — that something had gone sideways.
Because tocar means “to play (an instrument).”
But tocarme?
That means “to touch myself.”
Beautiful. Perfect. Textbook disaster.
I panicked. Tried to recover.
“No, no… me gusta tocar la guitarra… no me toco… bueno, no aquí… quiero decir—”
It was like falling into quicksand.
The more I flailed, the deeper I sank.
Pablo finally let me off the hook with a grin.
“Tranquilo, hermano. Todos aprendemos.”
I nodded. My face was on fire.
The girl two seats down was still giggling.
For the rest of the night, every time someone mentioned music, Pablo would lean over and whisper:
“¿Pero te tocas o no te tocas?”
I hate him a little.
But I also kind of love him.
Because later, over a beer, he explained about reflexive verbs, and how Spanish will absolutely humiliate you if you’re not paying attention.
Lesson learned.
Mostly.