No Habla! Americano!

Your diarist was a sluggard getting to church this morning and thus had to go to the Spanish language Mass in Bellingham. Very few Anglos were in attendance: the priest with his fluent but imperfect Spanish and yours truly (“no habla… what’s that other word?”) and that was about it.

I have been christened an honorary Mexican by my actually Mexican cousins due to my general demeanor and my tolerance for extremely hot food, so you’d think I could do a better job at least understanding the language. Put Spanish journalism in front of me and I can hack my way through much of it, with a little help from a dictionary. But I’ve never developed an ear for it.

There were moments during Mass today when I was pretty sure I caught the gist of it (“El cuerpo es importante, muy importante!”) yet they were pretty brief. Maybe one of these days, when I get some free time, I’ll buy the Rosetta Stone’s Spanish lessons and bone up. That would make it muy easier to sleep in on Sunday mornings.

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Suffer the Little Collection Basket
Why I Would Make an Awful Priest
My Church Is All Wet
About Jeremy Lott