Living in Spain for exactly four years and five months, and having successfully passed the B2 level of Spanish at the local language school, qualifies me for the following:

Understand most of the menu, and order and receive the food as expected.

Review and dispute the bill when imaginary items have been added.

Be a fully accepted member of the neighbourhood Radio-patio (gossip distribution gang).

Discuss and express appropriate disgust about rising property prices with the waiter in our favourite café.

Exchange phone numbers with the local grandma, offering to help us with our property search.

Receive our full order without saying a word in our favourite ice-cream shop, including a double portion of ice cream.

Explain my health problems to a doctor who keeps suggesting that I need to lose 8 kg while looking at the larger-than-average body part below my neckline.

As you can see, I’ve achieved my goal of learning to speak Spanish within five years.

This means that sometime in the next seven months, I should leave Spain in search of another language to humble me.

Then There Is the Snoring

While I managed to successfully conquer Spanish, I am currently facing a different issue.

Snoring.

No, it’s not my hubby who snores. Well, maybe he does, but I can’t hear it. It’s me. According to my sleep study, I snore successfully 100% of the night, and 53% of it severely. Basically, I am a snoring champion! Me, a woman who can outperform a good number of men! That’s called equality!

Thankfully, we live in a small apartment, so hubby has nowhere to escape. He developed selective hearing loss. The noise that comes from my body, which has been described as the mating of hippos, does not bother him anymore. What scares him the most is the part of the night when I go quiet.

He thinks I died.

At that point, he is probably imagining all the funeral bureaucracy, which in Spain is a killer task on its own.

But just before he starts panicking, I take a big choking breath and continue with the hippo mating noise. Yes, poor guy, but thanks to his observation, and inability to escape to a spare bedroom, I was forced to see a doctor.

Hence the mentioned 8 kg that I need to lose.

I was diagnosed with moderate apnea. According to the study, I stop breathing 19 times per hour during the night.

Since I refused to sleep with the machine, proclaiming that I am too young to live the life of an old woman, I now face different specialist appointments at the hospital, where doctors are trying to figure out which body part is choking me to death.

Aaaaand with all these appointments come real-life Spanish lessons. Isn’t it marvellous??? Now I can further expand my language knowledge in a medical setting.

Enter the Spanish Doctor

During the latest appointment, I faced an otolaryngologist in Marbella, an Andalusian town where on the street you can hear almost every European language, but predominantly English, German, French, Russian, and Scandinavian languages.

I know, I am a weirdo, but I was looking forward to this meeting for two reasons: first, the Spanish practice; second, hoping he can fix me. 🙂 Once he does, I can finally buy the campervan and travel with the family, who are currently refusing to sleep with me in one room, apart from my already half-deaf husband.

Once I entered the room full of hope, I faced a man with a very serious look.

Oh dear, this is not going to be fun.

“English or Spanish?” he asked before any introduction.

“Spanish,” I said proudly, standing up straight.

He nodded and smiled.

For a second, I saw a smirk dancing on his lips, and his eyes narrowed. A flash sparkled in his eyes as he looked directly into mine.

I relaxed; it was clear he appreciated the fact that, finally, he had met a guiri who was willing to speak Spanish. Well, no surprise. I’ve heard many locals complaining about foreigners who have lived here for ages and can’t even order a pint. Or their attempt ends with asking for cherries (cereza) rather than beer (cerveza).

Well, that’s not me.

Then he started the introduction monologue, and I understood it all. The smirk, the sparkle in his eyes.

It was not a delight. It was a challenge.

Fight or Flight — But in Spanish

For a second, I froze. My brain started to run around inside my head in panic. The words, or better described as the sounds coming out of his mouth in one long syllable and vowel flow, filled the room.

What the heck.

I sat down in the chair he offered me with a gesture, took a deep breath, swore a million Spanish swear words in my head, and looked him in the eye.

A challenge accepted.

I summoned the adrenaline rush. We are in fight-or-flight mode, buddy. I sent a signal to the brain. We don’t lose.

The battle of the words began.

He was firing questions at me.

Me answering back, God knows what.

He was noting down the answers.

Me praying I could sustain this pressure.

None of us was willing to budge and fall back on English. English was the white surrender flag that neither he nor I was willing to wave.

The battle intensified into a full-on war when I had to move to a chair, open my mouth, and follow the instructions.

It was hit and miss.

When he moved my head or demonstrated the action himself, I knew I had missed.

Still, I was not willing to give up.

The examination took only a couple of minutes, including some tongue and jaw movements, sticking something into my nose and mouth, and making me gag.

And Then He Mentioned My Tongue

I need to see a speech specialist.

Why?

Apparently, my tongue is not moving as it should.

We need to what?

Cut it?

Shut the front door, I wanted to scream.

Did I understand that right?

Damn it. This time, I hoped I was wrong, but apparently, I understood correctly. How do I know it?

I asked three times. Three times to confirm that I understood correctly.

I need another appointment to get my tongue checked out, and another appointment back here.

Here we go. It seems I am going to get more Spanish practice than I bargained for. More appointments and operations.

This is going to be fun.

Apparently, I Haven’t Mastered Spanish

So, if I survive my nocturnal bear-breathing pauses and whatever they decide to do to my tongue, I’ll be back to report how it went.

In the meantime, I’ll continue the snoring orchestra and keep learning Spanish, as it took one Spanish doctor to destroy my linguistic confidence.

It appears I haven’t mastered Spanish after all.

Maybe Spanish was just waiting for the right opportunity to remind me who is in charge.

But I never give up!