Talking your way to Spain

No hablo español. For our band of travelers, those Spanish words weren't a tourist's plea; they were a job requirement. We were volunteers for Pueblo Ingles, a weeklong English immersion program with 20 Anglos and 20 paying Spaniards.

My fellow English speakers came from Canada, England, Ireland and Australia. Among their ranks were retired teachers, students taking a semester break, bankers, writers and blue-collar workers ages 18 to 80 who had signed on solo or in couples (husband/wife, sister/sister, mother/son). The Spaniards were mainly middle-managers of multinational companies who believed that improving their spoken English would help them get ahead in their careers ("Think on your feet" was one of the first idioms we tackled). They arrived able to read and write but terrified of talking.

But talk we did, starting on the bus that ferried us from Madrid to L'Alberca, a tiny medieval town two hours north. For a week, conversation burbled nonstop from 9 a.m. to after midnight. For the English-speakers, that was the cost of free room and board in a villa in one of the program's remote Spanish towns.

Beyond transportation to Madrid (I used frequent-flier miles and arrived a few days early to explore the city), the only requirement is a sociable nature and an eagerness to mingle with those of another culture, as potential volunteers indicate in a brief essay on the website's application form.

The deep and lasting bond that results between people of diverse nations is the real reward. And for tourists in a foreign country, how often does that happen?

Rewarding, yes, but also tiring. Conducting hourlong conversations with one new face after another turned my brain to Jell-O. But the Spaniards' brains must have been quivering, too. They have a far more grueling time of it, required to listen and respond to English during every waking hour.

Richard Vaughan, a Texan, taught English to Spaniards in a traditional classroom setting until he discovered a better way to do it and launched the program in 2001. "Speak like an English teacher -- e-nun-ci-ate -- and they understand, but that isn't useful," he instructed. "It's important for the Spaniards to understand perfectly, so Anglos should do 60 percent of the talking," he directed.

We primed our vocal cords with café con leche and a breakfast that including tortillas, resembling egg pie, and churros, sugar-coated doughnuts. We sat, as we did at every meal, at tables of four, two English-speakers, two Spaniards. Then, from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., it's verbal musical chairs, pairing a different Spaniard and Anglo each hour for rambling conversations, often conducted on walks through the cobbled streets of the village, stopping to wet our whistles with coffee.

The subjects were up to us. Topics at first were painfully mundane ("Do you live in Madrid?" "How many children?") until the bored-beyond-tears Spaniards encouraged us to delve deeper. We jumped into politics. "I'm from a blue state," I began. Another idiom. Maria Luisa voiced her strong opinions on women's rights and a single mother's vexations in raising a teenager. We celebrated Belen's news that she was pregnant and that Duncan and Jamie, from Missouri, had become engaged that very morning.

Oh, you do have a moment or two to yourselves, for the Spanish are fanatics about their siestas, during which I'd wander the town's narrow streets, gazing at the admonishing stone statuary from the Middle Ages and the signs carved into portals that marked a Christian-therefore-safe household during the Inquisition. Or I'd hike the wooded hills above the inn, listening to unfamiliar birdsong. Or ramble through an age-old graveyard with moss overtaking the antique Spanish names.

Then, back on the job. Afternoons were spent in hourlong phone conversations from one room to another to help the Spaniards get comfortable without the help of body language. Team activities followed, including the hokey-pokey and negotiating a "movie contract" between a team of "creative types."

Then at 8 p.m., showtime! Skit scripts were provided for the creatively challenged, who rehearsed everything from Monty Python routines to a slo-mo sketch of pickpockets in action. Finally, at 9, time for dinner. (Remember, we're on Spanish time.) Dinners lasted longer and longer as the week went on, as we lingered with our newfound friends, draining the vino tinto.

We'd started the week as a group of Anglos huddled at the appointed bus stop in Madrid and Spaniards a few feet distant, eyeing us with equal parts of timidity and terror. We ended as the best of friends.

Carla Waldemar is a Minneapolis-based freelance writer.