Scuffgate

I mentioned my high school trip to Spain yesterday and it brought back some memories. I realized there is a story from that trip that is perfect for the tone of this blog; meaning it's embarrassing and about me.

My high school organized a trip for students taking Spanish to go to España as a way to learn first-hand all about the culture. For the first half we stayed with host families, and for the second half we traveled around and stayed in hotels. It was awesome.

My friend Mary and I were assigned to the same host family. While we were staying there, we embraced the experience by hiding in our bedroom and speaking in English to each other. Sometimes, we would go to the homes of our friends' host families and hide in their bedrooms and speak in English to them. It was muy bueno.

One afternoon, Mary and I were hanging out at our friends' host family's home, having a great time. We were sharing stories about various uncomfortable interactions and communication gaps we'd been experiencing, when someone said something so funny that I fell off the bed laughing.

Prior to falling off, I had been lying on the bed with my shoes up on the wall. [Because that's polite.] So when I rolled off the bed and onto the floor, the black sole of my running shoe left a long, black, scuff mark down their clean, white, Spanish wall.

It was a problem.

We knew the mark was bad, and we went to work trying to get it off. I don't remember what methods we tried specifically, but I am sure they were stupid. Nothing was working, so someone tried to gently scratch it off with the hard side of a toothbrush. (Because when you scuff someone's wall, what you want to do is damage it further, to show them you MEAN IT.)

Eventually, we attempted a lame cover up with some awkwardly-placed pillows and got out of there. We were leaving soon, so maybe they wouldn't notice . . . ?

Well they noticed. And they were mad. Consequently my friends were mad at me because their host-parents were yelling at them in Spanish while I was back at my host family's eating delicious paella.

A couple of days later, we were on the bus getting ready to leave the city of Salamanca and our beleaguered host families when my friends came to tell me that their host mother wanted to see me. They said she wanted to tell me that it was okay, and not to feel too badly about the scuff mark. She wanted to make peace.

I got off the bus and went to find the woman. She flagged me down, and said hello. I said "Hola" and then, to be extra charming, I added: "Lo siento mucho." 

What happened next is a little blurry, but I can tell you she screamed at me in Spanish for a while. I didn't catch most of it, because it was more complicated than what we'd been learning in school. (Why wasn't "You are a spoiled American brat and your parents should be ashamed" on our useful phrases sheet?)

Once they noticed what was happening, one of my teachers stepped in and ushered me back onto the bus. There, in typical annoying-teenage fashion, I was met with hoots and hollers and general peer approval. It was great. I went around the rest of the trip, intentionally scuffing famous historical landmarks and various Platha Mayors. I told you this story was embarrassing.

When I got back to the US and told my own mother the story, she informed me that we could have just rubbed off the scuff mark with our fingers.

Now I know for next time. And now you know for when this exact same thing happens to you.