Ignorance is bliss, they say.

They are 1000% right.

Sometimes I wish I had forgotten all that I have learned, especially when it comes to learning other languages. Because once you understand what is being said, there is no going back to the “mute” version of yourself. You wish you could just magically go back to blissfully nodding along, assuming everyone is discussing the weather or what’s for dinner.

Let me start from the beginning, and you can decide for yourself.

A Peaceful Sunday… or So We Thought

It was a quiet Sunday in southern Spain. Too hot to walk, too sticky to function. When I say quiet, I mean we had absolutely no plans. Between June and September, unless your hobby is being slowly roasted on a beach, the best place to be is indoors, with the shutters down and the air conditioning working overtime.

Our neighbour, however, loves to create a bit of Spanish drama. From time to time, she treats the whole building to a performance involving raised voices, colourful language and, occasionally, a little too much alcohol. We’ve learned to ignore the theatre and look at the bright side instead. It’s fair to say the experience has been rather educational. Unfortunately, the Instituto Cervantes doesn’t examine Spanish swearing. I’d probably get my highest mark there.

Shame.

So, while another Netflix-worthy drunken episode was unfolding next door, our household was living through the usual boring summer day.

The dog was sleeping in her usual position. Belly up, legs sticking up in the air, radiating her “I don’t give a f*ck” attitude. Every time she flops into her dead beetle position, I swear she’s doing it just to rub it in.

B*tch.

Still love her, though.

The Free Spanish Lesson Next Door

Meanwhile, Daddy and our second-born decided it was pool time. Since our communal pool is literally twenty steps from our front door, it would have been rude not to.

Feeling jealous?

Good.

To add to the Sunday excitement, I braced myself for another English lesson with our teen son, who loves to push my patience to the limit. His Cambridge exams were literally around the corner, but his attitude was an exact copy of that furry lump on the floor, which had now started snoring.

What have I done to deserve this?

So, as we went through exam preparation, practising dialogues about free time and extreme sports, the drama next door started to invade our space. The shouting got louder, the swear words became juicier, and the walls started to shake with loud banging.

Maybe they were moving away?

We looked at each other.

“This is a new level.”

I paused for a moment to see if there was any new vocabulary worth adding to my collection, but they’d apparently run out of inspiration.

Which was disappointing.

Spanish insults are an art form. They’re like verbal fireworks that last longer than London’s New Year’s display.

Feeling slightly disappointed that the educational part seemed to be over, I went back to explaining English conditionals.

BANG!

A door slammed with such force that we looked at each other, thinking we’d been invaded.

But no, it was just half of our family returning from the pool.

“We are baaaaack,” the little cheerful voice announced.

Pool time was over.

Time to finish the English language suffering as well.

The voices next door grew louder and louder, until it almost felt as if the neighbours had moved in with us.

When the Drama Came Knocking

BANG!

A door slammed so hard our walls shook.

We all looked at each other.

“That was… different.”

Then came another slam.

The doorbell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Then continuously.

Dear God, she’s going to wear the thing out.

I peeked through the spyhole.

It was her.

Leaning against the opposite wall.

Her finger was glued to our doorbell.

Then she switched to using her fists.

“Open the door!” she shouted in Spanish.

“I’ll call the police,” I shouted back at her, also in Spanish.

Admittedly, rather naively, I expected her to stop and go back where she came from.

But she started attacking the door even harder.

Is she crazy?

It seemed I’d finally reached the point where I had to switch from English to Spanish.

Over the phone.

To the police.

The English Woman and the Spanish Woman

They arrived about thirty minutes later. They probably got lost on the way, which wouldn’t surprise me. Our postman seems to get lost most of the time, too, judging by how little of our post actually makes it to us.

To my surprise, when I opened the door, the woman was standing next to them, acting as if she were part of the team.

Shocked, I invited the policeman inside, and we had a brief chat. I showed him the evidence, and he acknowledged her indisposition before going out to speak to her.

This was no longer a Spanish comedy drama.

This had suddenly become very real.

We all glued our ears to the door. We could hardly hear the policemen.

But we could hear her.

Then she said something strange.

“They are English!” she shouted.

The policeman said something. We couldn’t make it out.

“No, that one was Spanish!”

Again, something we couldn’t hear.

Doh.

Can the police keep up with her so we can piece the conversation together? This isn’t making sense at all.

“No, I am telling you, she spoke perfect Spanish. She took revenge on me by calling you!”

Huh?

What is she on about…

“Wait…”

“She’s talking about us.”

“She thinks…”

“We’re English?”

That’s news to me.

Apparently, in her version of events, there were two women living in our flat: an English one and a Spanish one.

I happened to be neither.

Then she shouted something about paranoia, marched back into her flat, and slammed the door behind her.

Some Things Are Better Left… Untranslated

The police left.

No update.

It didn’t take long before the educational programme resumed on the other side of the wall. This time, there was plenty of fresh vocabulary to add to my collection. Of course, they were all directed at me.

Or perhaps at the mysterious Spanish woman who had called the police (also me).

But to this day, I still don’t know what started the whole thing.

Perhaps that’s for the best.

Some neighbours are simply better left… untranslated.

Ignorance really is bliss.