The Helpful Kind of Guy, 'Haber' - Learning Spanish (3)
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Just when you think you’ve memorised the regular and irregular verbs up pops some odd little verb that seems to tap you on the shoulder to remind you that you never, ever stop learning a foreign language.
What verb might this be? It’s ‘haber’. He means ‘to have’ and is used as an auxiliary verb. Yes, he’s a helpful kind of guy. You use him when you want to form the Present Perfect – I have eaten, You have gone, She has walked, etc.
(I know, why can’t they just use the verb ‘tener’ which also means ‘to have’?)
Can you conjugate ‘haber’?
I can hear you scream! Those of you who prefer to memorise lists of vocabulary words are probably trembling right now. I know you don’t want to bother with yet another verb conjugation. But, ‘haber’ is just a little baby. He’s like ‘ir’, another tiny verb that gets people’s dander up. Both are harmless and both are just words.
Here is Haber in all his glory:
HABER
He Hemos
Has Habéis
Ha Han
Do you see what I mean when I say he’s just a little baby?!
Can you come up with sentences using ‘haber’?
Let’s try.
Yo he comido nueve bocadillos. I have eaten nine bocadillos.
Tú has bebido una botella entera de vino. You have drunk an entire bottle of wine.
Ella ha trabajado veinte horas hoy. She has worked twenty hours today. (Ay, caramba!)
Right now, you might be wondering about the past participle. It’s not so difficult to form. Take off the ar, er, ir endings and add the endings of the past participle. ADO for the Ar verbs, and IDO for the Er and Ir verbs.
Nosotros hemos hablado mucho en español. ¿Habéis vosotros vendido la casa? Ellos han asistido a la clase.
Now, you just know there has to be some irregular endings! That’s what makes learning Spanish intriguing and fun. It just wouldn’t be Spanish if it were too easy. The good news is that many of the past participle irregular endings are verbs that you use in general conversation, so you’ll get the hang of them quite quickly.
¿Quién ha roto la ventana? Who has broken the window?
¿Has escrito alguna vez a Papa Noel? Have you ever written to Santa Claus?
Ya hemos visto la película. We’ve already seen the movie.
Ellos todavía no han vuelto. They still haven’t come back.
I’m thinking that the above sentences might be just too simple for some of you.
Let’s move to the present subjunctive. Absolutely! That way when you get mad at your significant other you can let that person know without beating about the bush. We can just use the second person singular to get started.
Haya Hayamos
Hayas Hayáis
Haya Hayan
íEspero que hayas sacado la basura! I hope you’ve taken out the rubbish.
¡Espero que hayas preparado la cena! I hope you’ve prepared dinner.
¡Espero que hayas pagado las cuentas! I hope you’ve paid the bills.
He or she replies,
No he tenido tiempo. I haven’t had time. (Yeah, right!)
Trying not to be too annoyed, you respond,
¡Has pasado toda la tarde leyendo una revista! You’ve spent the whole afternoon reading a magazine!
No es verdad. Mira, te he comprado un regalito. It’s not true. Look, I’ve bought you a little gift.
Gracias. Es bueno que me hayas comprado chocolates. Thank you. It’s good that you’ve bought me chocolates.
It’s good that you’ve read all this. Es bueno que hayas leído todo esto. Gracias. ¡Hasta pronto!
If you'd like to read about the seventies and eighties in Spain please click here.
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Do you like Mysteries?! Rota, Cadiz, Spain, 1973
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
I always find late afternoon a mysterious time. To start with, there’s usually nobody else out and about, except for me, and maybe a donkey tied to a tree. Shops and shutters are closed, and even the flies are sleeping. But then, all this changes shortly as people get ready to begin their day once again.
Sunlight smacks shadows on the white houses and dirt roads as women dressed in black slowly appear outside to mop their patios already pristine, already cleaned just a few hours earlier. They water the flowers hanging on the walls of their homes, dust orange butane bottles sitting underneath the green window blinds.
I often wonder why they clean so frequently and what they are thinking about during this delicious peaceful interlude that permeates each afternoon. I’ll probably never know, for mysteries abound here and I can only wonder at everything before me.
Blinds and shutters go up slowly, click by click, and I suddenly hear a radio blaring through open windows piercing the stillness. The voice of Manolo Escobar singing 'Que Viva España' (Long live Spain!) rings out heartily in the late afternoon. Stray dogs are stretching their skinny legs as they uncurl themselves underneath trees, and their long noses look lazily up at me walking by. Tiny birds in tiny cages are silent, lifting up their beaks, searching for something.
I saunter along the narrow road pronouncing words in my mind, pleased that Mr. Escobar repeats the lyrics over and over so many times that even I could sing them without hesitation. I feel as if I'm making progress in Spanish simply by understanding just three words, Que Viva España.
Little boys dash out from behind beaded curtains, knocking over the bucket and mop leaning against the white wall of their house. They play Cowboys and Indians around the fountain whilst old men wearing berets sit down on red chairs and place their hands, just so, on top of their walking sticks. I sit on a bench near them and tell myself that it's quite fine to be idle, despite feeling I should be doing something more useful and productive. They begin talking, slowly at first. Then the words run into one another and before you know it the old men are all talking at the same time.
I like the challenge of trying to understand each and every word. It's impossible, however, for the sentences seem never-ending. I keep hearing the same word over and over. It's 'verdad'. I equate it to 'n'est-ce-pas' in French. People nearly always finish their spiel with 'verdad' which they pronounce as a question or even sometimes as a command. I think that the rhythm of the Spanish language sounds like the Morse code, that something very mysterious is being transmitted.
I feel as if I'm a spy being swept away in a fascinating, foreign land where my senses are stimulated into experiencing sensational delights as I investigate mysteries. It is intriguing to watch people interact with one another. It seems to me that they are either really angry with one another as their voices get louder and louder, or they are the greatest of friends strolling along arm in arm. Their heads are so close to each other that nobody can really hear what they're saying.
Whenever I meet someone they invariably hug me with enthusiasm, kiss me on the cheeks and call out my name as if I'm somebody important. They are so delighted to see me. I've never, ever heard my name pronounced with so much vigour! I must confess that I don't really like all this touching and intimacy, and I have to add that I don't return the embraces or pecks on the cheek.
Gosh, maybe the local people find me a mystery?!
Want to know what I find an even greater mystery? Books. It's always a surprise when I open them only to find that some pages are joined together. The spines crumble and pages come loose so very easily. Even the print is at times illegible. I tend to slide my fingers across the words just as a blind person would do whilst reading braille as if this will help me comprehend what is written. I place the pages carefully back inside the covers, hoping the books will remain intact, that their meaning will not ever be lost.
Mysteries are fine things, but the written word should be preserved, intact, and free of extraneous error.
I do like to read the magazines. "Hola" is my favourite one. There are so many interesting photos and articles that it has become a pleasure to read Spanish. In fact, whenever I see anyone munching on a bocadillo I sometimes think of the fancy people I see in "Hola" magazine. The singer Raphael, who married Natalia Figueroa just last year, does he bite into crunchy bread with the same gusto as children playing in the streets? Do Carmen Martínez Bordiú and her grandfather, the dictator, Francisco Franco eat bocadillos filled with thin slices of jamón york or thick chunks of tortilla española? Do they smile just like the knife sharpener does after filling their bellies with a humble barra de pan de un duro?
(a 5 pesetas baguette)
I can only assume they do.
Well, if all these people are eating bocadillos, quite possibly on a daily basis, then the humble barra de pan unites them, ¿verdad? Munching heartily on one is the favourite pastime all Spaniards share. It's the ritual that binds them, regardless of who the person is, dictator or singer, peasant or aristocrat, old man or young child, and unlike so many books, this ritual will never crumble. Pun intended.
Yes, if not for the bocadillo there would be no Spain, of that I am convinced. At least, not the Spain that I see before me now.
Have I just solved a mystery?!
¡Que viva el bocadillo! (Long live the bocadillo!)
Saludos!
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Needing Wits and Getting Diddled - Talavera de la Reina, Spain, 1980
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
My neighbour across the hall, the Lady from Leon, rushes over to inspect my purchases from the Simago supermarket as I step out of the lift. My arms are yanked almost out of their sockets with heavy loads of potatoes, onions, apples, tomatoes, garlic, bottles of gaseosa, and even a rotisserie chicken.
Her head disappears into my net bags as she pokes and squeezes, examines everything carefully for freshness. With huge grunts and groans she then glances up at me and announces, “Why pay high prices at Simago for vegetables that aren’t even fresh?! Next week, you and I will go together to the market. I’ll show you how to really shop.”
I guess she’s right. The merchandise at the weekly market is indeed probably fresher, so I might as well agree to go with her.
The following week arrives and The Lady from Leon rings my doorbell. Before we can even say an 'Hola' the lift arrives. Many times you have to wait for ages on one, so I dive over and hold the door open for her.
“Are you ready? Now, you have to be alert.” She talks as if she’s scolding me.
We make our way downstairs and outside onto the busy streets. A woman is holding a little girl who is urinating at the curb. I’m always surprised to see things like this, but the Lady from Leon doesn’t comment, so maybe it’s quite normal here. There are gypsies wandering around with their hands outstretched. I never know whether to give them money or not. I have heard that if you don’t give them a few pesetas they’ll put a curse on you, but the Lady from Leon ignores them, so I do too. I really don't like how one of the gypsies looks at me, however. If something awful happens to me, you'll know why.
“You need your wits about you at the market. Don’t let them diddle you.”
“I won’t. I mean, I will… try to be alert.” I feel as if I’m going on a field trip. Maybe I should be taking notes?
The Lady from Leon is well-prepared for shopping. She has the tools of the trade and is ready to go. A huge basket dangles from one arm and inside the basket are net bags. All will be filled by the time we get back to the apartment, of that I’m sure. This is serious business shopping at the market.
“You don’t have a bag with you?!” The Lady from Leon looks appalled. “Here, take one of my net bags. How else are you going to carry your things back?!” She hands me one of her bags.
“I wasn’t planning on buying much.” I guess I need to acquire more wits about me if I’m going to succeed in this excursion.
The Lady from Leon marches down the road as if she’s on a mission. We are soldiers, protectors of the non-diddling group who will never, ever be diddled, and we walk in step towards the market. She waves at acquaintances with the flick of her wrist and a loud “Buenos dias!”
“Want to know how to get free food?” Her eyes are twinkling at me mischievously.
I nod, even although I don’t really want any, especially food that’s lying outside under the sun with dozens of people coughing or blowing their nose over it, never mind all the flies buzzing about.
“You ask to sample whatever it is that they’re selling. After going round different stalls, your belly will be full!” The Lady from Leon laughs heartily.
People are pushing and shoving, and the vendors are calling out, trying to get everyone’s attention. The pungent smell of strong cheese fills the air. The chirping of budgies and other small birds add to the noise. Children chase one another and squeal loudly. There’s a strong stench of body odour emanating all around me. Flies squat on the bread and pastries and gaze up at us defiantly. People are sipping on coffee, some are slapping back Anis or brandy, others are spitting seeds onto the ground, or picking their teeth with toothpicks. I feel as if I’m entering a play being performed on stage. Everyone seems to know his or her role, including the stray dogs prowling around looking for scraps to eat. I think I'm the sole member of the audience, but that's still a role, isn't it?
I spy a vegetable vendor. His tomatoes are enormous and covered in dirt. The Lady from Leon picks some up and squeezes them. She shoves them to her nostrils and sniffs loudly, then places them down and starts the process all over again with other tomatoes.
“There. These are good ones. Very fresh. Fresher than the ones at Simago! Clean them with vinegar. They’ll be fine.” The Lady from Leon assures me.
“I think I’ll get myself a kilo.”
“Watch the scale. The people here could diddle you. ”
“I’m going to look at the table covers. The women in the small villages make them. Meet me over there when you’re done.” The Lady from Leon weaves her way through the crowd towards the stall selling table covers and napkins.
I hand the vendor the pile of tomatoes that the Lady from Leon has chosen for me.
He places them on the scale. Guess what else he does?
He places his elbow on the scale, too!!
Now, he wasn’t even surreptitious about this. I mean, he stands there right in front of me complete with his elbow on the scale. Does he think I don’t notice?
“Senor, your elbow is on the scale.”
“No it isn’t.” He quickly removes his elbow. Then, guess what he does?
He places his hand on the scale!
I need to do some quick thinking to prevent an escalation of this potential tomato battle.
I stare at his hand, then stare at him, making eye to eye contact. I’m trying to embarrass him into removing his hand from the scale. Does it work?
I calculate that he’s possibly only diddling me out of one tomato, but who’s counting?
I quickly pay him, place the tomatoes in the net bag, and rush over to meet the Lady from Leon.
“Ah, you got your tomatoes! Did he try to diddle you?”
“Em. Well, no. Not too much.”
The Lady from Leon chides me with the look she gives the milkman any time he tries to diddle her out of a few pesetas. She has very expressive eyes, without a doubt.
“You’ll learn. Don’t worry. Just look at the lovely table covers! Hand embroidered. I think I’ll buy one to take to my sister in Leon.”
I’m relieved that her attention is now taken up with the hand embroidered linens. She is right, however. I do need to have my wits about me. I should have insisted that the vendor remove his hand from the scale. Oh well. On top of it all, I have to lug around two pounds of tomatoes all through the market. I always get mixed up thinking that a kilo is a pound. It never fails.
Thanks for stopping by. If you'd like to read more about my life in Spain during the seventies and eighties please check out my wee blog at http://www.seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com
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