The lights dimmed as a single spotlight illuminated a man standing at a microphone. My cheeks ripened with the sudden heat, and a wave of private embarrassment sunk in. It occurred to me that I was not about to see the philharmonic symphony as I’d been expecting all week.

I turned to my host mother, Leti, with a sheepish look on my face and asked her why there were no musicians or instruments. After all, she’d invited me to see a performance at the Teatro Filarmonica, the Philharmonic Theater. Didn’t philharmonic refer to the symphony?

Leti stared back for a few seconds considering my question before the two of us broke out in silent laughter. I realized I’d made a classic mistake of a student learning a second language—I jumped to conclusions based on vague understandings. I was a victim of the Spanglish brain; the more Spanish I learned, the more English I seemed to forget, and the more I felt uncertain about my ability to complete a sentence in any either language.

Our silent shakes of laughter ebbed away. Leti squeezed my hand, and I imagined the gesture said, “You amuse me, funny girl. I’m glad we can have a sense of humor about these things.” And with that, the man at the microphone began speaking at a boggling rate.

Leti and I had actually come to the Philharmonic Theater to watch a stand-up comedian. The free performance was organized by Amnesty International in celebration of the 60^th anniversary of the Declaration of Human Rights, and the comedian’s act focused on the immigrant experience in Spain and the country’s recent history of human rights abuses under the Franco dictatorship—serious topics for a comedian to tackle with style and class.

Less than 30 seconds after the comedian began, I became exceedingly aware that I was American and Spanish was not my native language. The man’s tongue moved like a speeding bullet, and my ears strained to hear the flow of noise separate into distinct, comprehensible words.

In case you’ve never found yourself in a foreign country listening to stand-up comedy in a second language, I’d like to divulge a secret of the situation: understanding jokes is like trying to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without milk—it’s rough.

It had never occurred to me how much humor relies on cultural nuances, a people’s history, language-specific proverbs and play on words.  A profound understanding of these things is essential when it comes to comedy. Not to say, you must be particularly intelligent to pick-up on stand-up. For the average person, a profound understanding of language and culture is simply acquired through the natural process of growing up and living in a certain place.

If you haven’t grown up listening to sayings spoken in their proper context, they often seem absurd. One of my favorite Spanish sayings—estar como un flan—literally means, to be like a flan, which is a custard-like dessert often compared to crème brulee. As you can imagine, the use of such a saying to a freshly jet-lagged foreigner may cause total confusion.

“Did she ask if I wanted flan for dinner?”

Actually, no. In such a case, your host mother is trying to say you look very nervous. Apparently flan sweats before it’s eaten. I suppose I would too, if a wide-eyed giant lurked above me holding a great silver battering rod named spoon.

Despite the difficulty I had understanding all of the subtleties and innuendos, the performance left a major impression on me. I recognized the power of phrasing and gesture. Without knowing what a joke was about, I could tell exactly when the comedian was going to deliver a punch line or begin a new beat. The man was a true master of his craft. His movements were large and unrestrained when they needed to be, but in an instant he could transform his body to reflect the utmost precision and control. He guided the audience through the murky waters of Spanish stereotypes, stale traditions and unflattering history without embittering or offending.

My host-mother, Leti, laughed hysterically throughout the show. Watching her react to the comedian’s shtick was the most humorous part of the evening. She would begin with silent shakes and build steam until she’d hit a maximum speed of full-blown chortling. When a joke truly hit Leti’s funny bone, she’d throw one hand out towards the stage and use the other to clench my unsuspecting elbow.

I tended to find myself in this position fairly often with Spanish women. It seemed they always wanted to make their point by grabbing my arm. I felt like the women enjoyed this small display of power—if they couldn’t force my ears open, at least they knew I wasn’t going to run away. As they’d speak, their free hand would jump around in front of their bodies like a tiny person anxiously trying to communicate without a mouth.

Since Leti was the Spanish woman whom I spent the majority of my time with, she was usually the one who reached out to me in this manner, and I won’t deny, I loved it. Of course, Leti’s grabbing was always followed with a hug and a besito on the cheek.

Besos (kisses) are a Spanish mother’s favorite thing in the entire world, and I accumulated at least several hundred during my three-month trip abroad. I’d consider it an accomplishment if they weren’t doled out with such happy regularity.

Besides acting as the house supplier of besitos, my Spanish mother considered herself a master of two things: cooking and diminutives. Nearly every sentence she spoke included some word with the suffix ito or ita. As I learned, the meaning of diminutives really varied when it came to Leti. Sometimes it was clear she wanted to dress the word up and make it more interesting just for the sake of it. Other times she used her itos as a way of expressing affection for the listener. Occasionally, she would use a diminutive to lessen the meaning of a word or make it smaller. A besito is a little beso, a cuter beso, a little one just for you.

Leti was not a sappy person besides her love for diminutives. She was a strong, straightforward woman, and this came through in her cooking. Creating meals defined her role as a mother and wife, and she took pride in the work. She cooked traditional food of Asturias, the province of northern Spain where we lived.

Many meals included seafood because of the close proximity of the Atlantic Ocean. Calamari, sea bass, salmon and mussels were among Leti’s favorite fruit of the sea, and she made an excellent paella con mariscos, a mixture of soft and shellfish over a bed of saffron spiced rice. This dish was my favorite; although, the logistics of eating the seafood troubled me.

The Spaniards have a different sense of what looks appetizing. They like to serve most of their seafood with the head still attached, which means you’ll often find yourself in the position of staring your dinner in the eye. I found this unappealing, but it didn’t seem to phase any of the locals. Quite the opposite was true. The Spaniards I observed seemed to enjoy the process of beheading and de-shelling at the table. Messy hands weren’t impolite, they were expected from all the squirting and crushing.

To accompany our midday and dinner meals, Leti always served wine. Drinking wine was a central part of the dining experience used to compliment the food and conversation. Typically she offered red and white wines from Spain because of the great taste and affordability, but occasionally she poured my host father and I full glasses from mysterious dark green bottleswithout labels. I later learned these bottles were from her native Portugal. They were homemade wines straight from the rustic farmhouse table of her relatives. I'd drink every last drop. The homemade Portuguese wine was what Leti called /joven/ or young-an apt description in my opinion because every sip was sweet and invigorating like a quick run through a field of rain showered grapes in the early morning light. In general, wine was the drink of choice at the dinner table and on a night out at the restaurants and bars. As a light weight and self-declared connoisseur of drinks fruity and tasty, I can personally attest that ordering a glass of wine is the most economical and delicious choice you'll make in a night. One glass and you'll be smiling for hours.

When the comedian delivered his last punch line and the audience came to a standing ovation, I turned to look at Leti’s final reaction. The light from the stage reflected in little streams of tears and mascara running across the wrinkle lines of her face. She interrupted her applause to wipe around her eyes with the backs of her thumbs, and I laughed at the content look on her messy face. She’d been chortling away for nearly two hours. 

Seconds after I turned away, I felt a familiar squeeze on my elbow. There was no mistaking what the gesture meant—“That’s good that I can amuse you. Now we’re even.” 

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