Bernard adjusted his oversized straw hat, squinting at the relentless Spanish sun. “Right, Nigel,” he sighed, patting his bulging fanny pack. “Emergency supplies are in order. Water, indigestion tablets, phrasebook…and a spare pair of socks. One never knows.”
Nigel, ever the optimist, chuckled. “Relax, Bernard. We’re on holiday! Think tapas, sangria, and stunning Spanish senoritas, not fungal infections of the foot.”
They were in Seville, the vibrant heart of Andalusia, a far cry from their usual Tuesday night curry club back in Slough. They’d envisioned themselves as intrepid explorers, immersing themselves in the culture. So far, they’d mostly immersed themselves in overpriced sangria and a mild sense of bewilderment.
Their adventure took an unexpected turn when they stumbled upon “The Bodega of Questionable Olives,” a tiny, dimly lit bar tucked away down a cobbled alley. Seated at a wobbly table, nursing what looked suspiciously like industrial-strength sherry, was a man who could only be described as undeniably American. He wore a baseball cap emblazoned with “I Heart New York,” spoke with a booming voice that echoed through the tiny space, and seemed utterly oblivious to the silent glares he was attracting from the locals.
“Well, bless my stars!” the man exclaimed, catching their gaze. “Another pair of tourists! You guys from England, right? I can tell by the… the… air of bewildered resignation.”
Bernard and Nigel exchanged nervous glances. “Indeed,” Bernard mumbled. “Bernard and Nigel, at your service.”
“Name’s Dale! Dale Miller, from the Big Apple! So, what brings you fellas to this… quaint little hovel?”
“We’re… experiencing the local culture,” Nigel offered, trying to sound sophisticated.
Dale roared with laughter. “Experiencing the local culture, huh? That’s a good one! I’ve been here a week, and the only culture I’ve experienced is the culture of being ripped off! They charge you extra just for looking at the olives!”
Bernard, ever the pragmatist, seized the opportunity. “Actually, Mr. Miller, we were hoping you might be able to… assist us with a little…communication challenge.”
“Communication challenge? I’m your man! I speak fluent…well, fluent enough…American. And that’s pretty close to English, right?”
Bernard pulled out his phrasebook, flipping through the pages until he found the phrase he needed. He cleared his throat and, in his best attempt at Spanish, addressed Dale. “Donde…esta…la…biblioteca?”
Dale stared at him blankly. “What in tarnation are you talking about?”
Nigel jumped in, a flash of inspiration lighting his eyes. He pointed at the phrasebook and then mimed reading a book. “He… he wants to know… where… the book place… is!”
Dale’s face cleared. “Oh! You’re looking for the library! Why didn’t you just say so? It’s right down the street, turn left at the fountain with the naked lady, and you can’t miss it. But lemme tell ya, it’s all in Spanish. Ain’t gonna be much help to you fellas.”
Bernard slumped. “We were trying to… immerse ourselves. Learn the local lingo.”
“Lingo? You wanna learn the lingo? I’ll teach you the lingo! First lesson: Forget everything you learned from that little book. Real Spanish ain’t in there. Real Spanish is all about hand gestures and yelling…and maybe a little bit of sherry.”
Dale proceeded to give them a crash course in his interpretation of the Spanish language, which involved a lot of arm waving, loud pronouncements of random words, and an uncanny ability to mimic the sound of a donkey braying.
“Okay, okay,” Dale instructed, pointing to a plate of olives. “You wanna order more olives? You just gotta look the waiter in the eye, point at the olives, and yell, ‘Más olivas! Por favor!’” He demonstrated, nearly knocking over his glass of sherry.
Bernard, ever the conscientious student, tried to emulate Dale. He pointed at the olives and squeaked, “Más…olivas…por…favor?”
The waiter, a wizened old man with a handlebar mustache that could rival a walrus, simply raised an eyebrow and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Locos ingleses.”
Nigel, however, was a natural. He slammed his fist on the table, pointed a menacing finger at the olives, and roared, “MAS! OLIVAS! AHORA!”
The waiter, startled by the sudden outburst, flinched and scurried away to fetch another plate.
Dale beamed. “See? That’s how you do it! You gotta show ’em who’s boss! You gotta speak their language…or at least, yell in their general direction!”
Bernard and Nigel exchanged glances. They had come to Spain seeking culture and enlightenment, but they had found something far more entertaining: an eccentric American who had inadvertently taught them the art of aggressive olive ordering.
As they stumbled out of the Bodega of Questionable Olives later that evening, slightly tipsy and armed with a bizarre new skill, Bernard couldn’t help but smile. “Well, Nigel,” he said, adjusting his hat. “Perhaps this holiday won’t be so bad after all. After all, we’re fluent in ‘Dale-ish’ now.”
Nigel chuckled. “Indeed, Bernard. And I think I’m developing a real fondness for questionable olives.”
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