I have lived virtually my entire life, personally and professionally, in a state of tilde indifference. The tilde key on every keyboard I’ve ever owned is still in pristine condition. Since moving to Costa Rica, however, I am beginning to move farther to the left (side of the keyboard) and am becoming somewhat pro-tilde. So much so that I spent an embarrassing amount of time this afternoon trying to coax my laptop keyboard to expel a tilde over the letter “n”. When at long last I achieved success it was difficult to coñtain my eñthusiasm.
Cindy may have mentioned my rather embarrassing incident in Spanish class this week in one of her blog posts. The instructor asked each of us how long it had been since we last rode a bicycle. I knew exactly how long it had been, since we were just getting back into bicycling and purchased new bicycles shortly before I accepted a job in Columbia, South Carolina. It was exactly three years ago (just before my move) that I last rode a bicycle. In my exuberance I quickly responded using two of the few Spanish words I knew (or thought I knew), “tres anos.” The instructor questioned my answer. “Are you sure?” “Sí,” I responded being completely confident in the time frame since it coincided with a fairly significant milestone in our lives.
Slowly I began to realize the instructor wasn’t questioning my recollection of the time frame but rather my pronunciation. My brain is wired for puns and making connections so it didn’t take me to long to make the connection between what I said and what I should have said. I had forgotten that the word for years is actually “años” instead of “anos.” But what had I said that was generating such a smirk on the instructor’s face? “Oh, crap!” I was beginning to realize the likely translation for my utterance of “anos.” In Spanish, “anos” without the tilde, means “anus.” Tildes matter!
I mentioned that my brain is wired to make connections. It suddenly made the connection to an incident 30 days earlier while I was being fingerprinted in a San Jose police station. Perhaps I should explain. Cindy and I were on our second pre-move trip to San Jose / Escazú. We were working on our residency application with our local attorney/law firm. As part of the application process we had to be fingerprinted and registered at a local San Jose police station. The police station was a rather third world-looking, fairly open-air facility with old wooden benches and a very filthy, free-standing sink in the front of the waiting area. It was fairly intimidating, the kind of place where rules are followed.
The law firm sent two very young, very green, but very nice paralegals to accompany us to the local police precinct just a few blocks from their office. Their assignment was likely a rite of passage for interns. The young woman and young man seemed somewhat at odds in terms of how to get to the police station (literally 3 blocks away). They each consulted google maps on their smart phones. Neither was very adept at navigating a map. We smiled and followed as they led us, while they seemed to be carrying on a bit of a power struggle in español. We walked a circuitous route seeming to re-trace prior steps on multiple occasions. During our 12 block walk to cover a 3 block distance the two alternated the lead several times. Cindy and I continued to smile and blindly follow. Clearly our fate was in … hands. (And on an additional note, we went yet another way back to the office!)
Upon our arrival at the police station the assigned paralegals obtained the registration forms that needed to be filled out, in Spanish. We sat in the middle of three decrepit wooden benches perched on a slope. It was all we could do not to slide off the end. One of the policemen immediately came up and insisted we move from the middle to the last of the three benches. There was nobody at all in the other benches, but we moved. Did I mention this was the kind of place where rules are followed? The paralegals questioned us and filled out the required forms in Spanish. Of course the forms required our height in centimeters, our weight in kilograms and a description for all of our tattoos and disfigurations. We all scrambled with our smart phones trying to quickly find conversion apps. The paralegals completed the forms using pens, and tended to make quite a few mistakes. When they were finished, they told us that we may have to do it all again due to the cross-outs on the forms!
The paralegals informed the policeman that our forms were finished. We were now allowed to move to the first bench nearest the door to the interview room. Now, we had to wait for them to call us into the interview stations where we would be interrogated individually, in Spanish, without the accompaniment of our paralegal security blankets. Cindy was interviewed by a not-so-friendly woman at the station next to mine. I was interviewed by a much nicer woman. We shared moments of elation when we occasionally happened upon a Spanish, English or Spanglish term that we both at least partially understood and seemed to communicate her question and/or my response to the satisfaction of all. Well, to the satisfaction of my interviewer – Cindy’s interviewer never seemed happy with anything and kept glaring at her over her reading glasses, occasionally muttering, “huh” in an indignant tone.
Once the interrogation was complete I was directed to wait by the fingerprinting table. When it was my turn to be fingerprinted a nice young man who spoke a little bit of English instructed me to relax my fingers (easier said than done) while he applied an excessive amount of ink to each one. My fingerprints were nothing more than giant smeared blotches of inkiness that resembled a set of Rorschach tests. He made some pleasant conversation, probably trying to practice his English. I don’t think they see many English speakers at this particular precinct.
During the conversation I responded that we would be living in Escazú for “uno ano” and then moving to Nosara. I seemed to strike a nerve as he quickly corrected my pronunciation. “Año,” he said. “Año,” I repeated. “Año,” he said again. “Año,” I repeated again. “Año,” he said one more time. “Año,” I dutifully repeated. At the time I failed to comprehend the urgency in his teaching. A month later however, the context suddenly became clear. Tildes matter!
After the fingerprinting I was led to the previously described sink of disgust in the front of the waiting room. Beside the sink was a bottle of heavily diluted soap or perhaps just a bottle of water pretending to be soap and no towel of any kind. I rinsed and rinsed my hands managing to get off some but certainly not all of the ink. I was relieved the ordeal was over but clueless of the faux pas I had made.
Thank goodness for the kindness of Ticos who try to protect me from a life of “anus” faux pas and becoming the gringo butt of many local dinner table conversations.
Remember, it's an adventure. 