Different wavelengths

I went to see a magic show last Sunday. I’ve never liked performing or being on stage, and it’s obvious that, in a magic show, some punters are going to be pulled out of the audience to become part of the act. With that in mind, I chose where to sit, hoping the magician would hardly notice me, let alone single me out as the person who supplied him or her with a wristwatch to pulverise or magic rings to test as being forged from pure titanium—and it worked.

Dylan hadn’t been so careful. I think he said he was eight years old. Among other things, Dylan had to draw a picture of the magician. Just before he did that, he was asked how good he was at plástica. The answer from young Dylan wasn't a description of his abilities but a simple numerical response: 7 or 8. For me, before I came to Spain, both those answers would have seemed odd. For a start, I’d have expected the question to be how good I was at Art—plástica sounds like something for recycling and, as to my abilities, I would have said something like "good", "bad", or "indifferent".

Of course, everyone in the audience understood both the question and the answer. The scoring system is universal; when people are asked in surveys to judge how well politicians are doing their jobs, the same system is used. It’s a 0–10 scale, where 5 is the minimum passing mark (aprobado). Grades below 5 are failing (suspenso or insuficiente), while those above are subdivided into descriptive categories widely understood across Spanish society. In this system, scores from 9.0 to 10.0 are classified as Sobresaliente (outstanding); 7.0 to 8.99 as Notable, indicating "very good" or "good"; and 6.0 to 6.99 as Bien for "good" or "satisfactory". 5.0 to 5.99 is Suficiente, or a basic pass.

Leaving the magic aside, I have no idea whether any old-style pubs still exist in the UK. You know the sort of place where the peanuts and pork scratchings hung on those cardboard displays behind the bar, and where the undusted and slightly tarnished darts trophy was still on display several years after the team were runners-up in the regional final. I suspect not—especially those Big D peanut cards that slowly revealed a scantily clad young woman as the packets were plucked from the backing card. I presume boozers have been replaced by gastropubs which sell Nepalese or Jordanian cuisine rather than packets of Golden Wonder salt and vinegar.

Anyway, when they did exist, alongside the framed photo of the charabanc trip to Skeggy, there might be one of those glazed tiles with a witty message that read, "Free Beer Tomorrow" and then, just in case you hadn't caught on to the idea, underneath in smaller print: "But tomorrow never comes."

I was reminded of this when I went to the till to pay for my menú del día here in Pinoso the other day. By way of light banter, I said to the grinning bloke behind the bar—whom I sort of half-know—"I suppose I have to pay now?" He gave a grunt and a smile that made it clear he expected me to hand over the readies. "So, it’s not free today then?" As I spoke, I suddenly remembered that old pub sign and added, "That'll be tomorrow, I suppose." At that point, the owner and the server standing beside him made it quite plain that there would be no free food tomorrow either. I delivered the punchline: "But tomorrow never comes." They simply looked at me blankly and reached for my proffered cash, lest I change my mind. I know it’s not funny, but in the UK, it would at least have raised a smirky groan

It's a problem I often have as I try to transfer something in English to something in Spanish. I’m told it’s called a calco—the direct translation idea. Actually, I had a bit of a conversation with the AI about the witticism and why it hadn't worked, and it was quite a job to explain to the robot voice, backed as it is by the full might of the internet, why a logical paradox was at all humorous. It happens all the time. I can't help it; it’s just the way that I think, and I foolishly imagine that it will translate to Spanish. Maggie often tries to dissuade me but, like the scorpion on the frog's back, it’s just in my nature. There isn't a chance, because the way that Spaniards and Britons approach the world is markedly different in small but important ways.

I’ve told the tale before of someone I met who had been a British cavalry officer. He told the story of one of his colleagues who had written a reference for a man under his command which read: "I would not breed from this man." I have tried to explain this to several Spaniards, but it just will not work for them. As a Brit, I think "cavalry" and I think "horses". As a Brit who wrote references before email existed, I think "references" and I think of a letter which outlines the qualities of the person to be written about. There doesn't seem to be the same perception of cavalry to the Spanish, and sealed references are also almost unknown. Spain doesn’t have quite the same horse-centered notion of the cavalry, nor is there that Robert Duvall, helicopter-borne US cavalry officer of Apocalypse Now sporting a 7th Cavalry-style black Stetson with the yellow cavalry ribbon sort of tradition. If there is, it’s specialist knowledge, not the sort of thing that "everybody knows".

It’s very easy to assume shared knowledge or that similar language expresses the same idea, but without the cultural background, that's not necessarily true. I’ve seen it happen time and time again as Spaniards and people of other nationalities presume a shared experience when that is not always the case.