And now, and for a long time, I’ve been studying the Spanish language.

Spanish came to me like a flash in the dark. I took to it immediately and, as I was flattered to hear from one of my instructors then, I seemed to learn language as though by osmosis. The thing I liked most about all of my instructors — except one — was the nervy, noisy good humor that all of them had. The one who didn't was an Argentine, Señor Echeverria, who was a graduate student in economics at Berkeley. The poor man had no sense of humor, spoke monosyllabically in a dead voice, and had fashioned as his favorite word in Spanish the word "No!" So, for example, I would struggle through a sentence in Spanish like "I think the Pope's influence on boating world-wide was certainly enhanced by the size of the lakes at his summer retreat!" There would have been all manner of hems and haws on my part, wild gestures, long pauses and incorrect verbs as I made my way down the linguistic gauntlet. Señor Echeverria would sit silently, his hair straight and combed, his hands together on his crossed legs. His tie never had a wrinkle. Usually he looked out the window as I spoke. Once I'd arrived, exhausted, at the end of the sentence, he would release his hands one from the other, lean forward and slowly raise a finger before his head, turn the head like a great ship at sea toward me, and say "No!" His further explanations made no sense to me. They were probably about grammar or something. He was ultimately fired by the school because they made no sense to native Spanish-speakers either. I expect he has become a very successful economist.

Except for this señor, the Latins who taught me were all very well-spoken, and I've come to learn that subtle verbal expression is something quite admired by Latinos. It is important to be able to express yourself, and I've become sufficiently latinized myself now to be allowed in on the secret that all Latinos know about, that North Americans are basically silent and isolated. Conversation with them is an almost automatic recitation of received wisdom and quiet cliché. A dinner party with gringos is only occasionally interesting. One with Latinos is always interesting.

Recently I was having dinner in Buenos Aires with several friends. Because I'm an American and the very strange — to Latinos, at least — George Bush is the president of my country, my opinion about American politics was being sought as well as my thoughts on Argentine cultural habits. As dinner progressed, I would offer an opinion here or there about something (the pope's boats, maybe) and there would be a moment of total silence after I'd finished. Then an immediate eruption of talk, everyone all at once, argumentative, laughing, subtle degrees of agreement and disavowal, quotations right and left from every kind of writer right and left, voices, guffaws, high entertainment ... for about fifteen minutes until some other question was forthcoming. Then the same scenario again throughout the evening. It was an exhaustive and highly inventive party, and — by far — not the only such party I've attended in Latin countries.