I thought I was doing alright, y’know. I’d nailed “una cerveza” years ago, long before I even moved out here. Throw in a few confident nods, a thumbs-up, the odd gracias… job done. Fluent-ish.
That illusion collapsed on a humid Tuesday morning in June, when I accidentally told my Spanish neighbour I’d like to adopt her elderly cat. I meant to say I’d fed it. Once. Out of kindness. Bit of mackerel left over from my bait tin. The look she gave me—Christ. Like I’d just asked to marry her gran.
Turns out I said something more like “Quiero su gato, para siempre.” Which, in my defence, sounds perfectly innocent when you’ve got no idea what you’re doing.
I tried backtracking. Stumbled through something about fish, tins, “el pescador,” and waved my rod in the air for effect. She narrowed her eyes like she was seconds from calling the Guardia Civil.
That was the moment. Not when I moved here. Not when I struggled to buy cough syrup and came home with what turned out to be industrial-strength laxatives. No—that was the moment I realised I had to get serious. I needed proper Spanish. Like… conjugating verbs serious.
Enter Barry.
Barry lives up the hill. Drives an ‘02 Fiat Panda that sounds like it’s chewing gravel and smells of wet dog and BBQ sauce. He’s from Basildon originally but talks like he’s been in Spain since Franco was in nappies. Walks into my garden one day while I’m inspecting my maggots and goes, “Mate. You need lessons. You sound like a confused Norwegian tourist.”
“Where d’you go then?” I asked, expecting him to recommend some dodgy bloke who teaches Spanish in a converted shed with a ferret on his lap.
“Nah,” he says, waving his vape around like a wand. “Proper place. Real teachers. Air con. An accredited Spanish language school in Barcelona. They’ve got this thing—intensive courses, small groups, the works. Not one of those fake ones that doubles as a flamenco studio.”
Long pause.
“I accidentally signed up for flamenco last year,” he adds. “Whole week. Still got the shoes.”
So there I was, a 63-year-old with dodgy knees, half-deaf in one ear from years welding under oil rigs, Googling Spanish classes. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting—maybe a few PDFs and a woman called Clara on Zoom.
But this place, Speakeasy BCN… looked alright. Slick website. Actual reviews. And crucially: no mention of castanets.
I haven’t enrolled yet—I mean, it’s a long drive from where I am, and I’ve got a zander session planned next week—but the idea’s sticking. Lodged in the back of my brain like a rusty treble hook.
Because here’s the thing no one tells you: it’s not just about speaking the language. It’s about understanding when someone’s not offering you their cat. It’s about knowing the difference between “cansado” (tired) and “casado” (married) before you tell the waitress you’re exhausted and she thinks you’ve proposed.
So yeah. I’m thinking about it. And if Barry can survive a week in flamenco heels, I can survive a classroom.
Probably.
Unless they make us do roleplay.
Then I’m out.
