Am I the Thing I Hate the Most?

I've gone to this pub a few times, I don't need to look at the menu.  

Something grilled, something fried, and a bit of banter with the waiter.  He's BMX by way of a poetry reading and we probably exchange fifty words with him the entire hour but we cover everything important.  "Yes please" to an ice cold drink and "No cheese on that" in a tone that said I like you but don't you dare fuck this up.

I'm confident in restaurants.  In fact I'm confident everywhere.  I have a big smile and I know all the right things to say.

Well...at least in English I do.

But somewhere between the first bite and calculating the tip I realized that today may be one of the last times I walk into a restaurant and don't have to struggle to talk to a waiter.

I felt the icy grip of Ugly American-itis taking over my brain.  Ugly Americans are right up there with Planned Parenthood protesters and tourists on the DC Metro on my list of Things the Velociraptors Should Have Eaten Instead of  Robert Muldoon.

And I'm a bit concerned that I'm about to become one.  Because, you see, I don't habla any español and that is (apparently) very, very bad when you're three months away from moving to Spain.  Or something. 

It's not like I haven't had this problem before.  I've been to Spain a few times and I was fine with just English.  Everyone was so lovely and accommodating as I butchered their beautiful language and demanded that they understand my frantic hand gestures (who the hell doesn't understand that drawing circles with your finger means "What time do we have to check out of our room tomorrow?").

It's amazing the role language plays in who you are.  I wouldn't be me without my English, without my ability to argue, to voice my opinions, to express happiness and sorrow and anger with my words.  And I know the second I step off the plane I'm going to lose all of that.  I won't be me anymore.  I'll be yet another American walking the city in a bubble, hearing this huge world around me and not understanding any of it.

Another ugly American using her hands to express what her voice cannot.

So to Madrid: I'm sorry.  I'm working on it.  Be patient with me.