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SE HABLA ESPAÑOLBy Joyce Gregory Wyels"Siete, por favor." The operator punched the button for the seventh floor. Then he turned to me with a radiant smile. "You espeak Espanish berry well." I resisted the urge to throw my arms around the young man. Nevermind that he had delivered his good-natured flattery in English--my first attempt at communicating in Spanish had been a success! Even before I stepped off the elevator to my hotel room, I resolved that I would one day master this language that brought such immediate rewards. In quest of my goal, I did the obvious: sat through snail's-pace adult evening classes; bought language tapes that promised native-like fluency in thirty days; and traveled to Spanish-speaking countries whenever I could. But after languishing for some years in an intermediate-level limbo, I took the plunge. I enrolled in a Spanish immersion course at the Center for Bilingual Multicultural Studies in Cuernavaca, Mexico. I knew I had made a good choice when I walked onto campus for the first day's orientation. "El Centro Bilingüe" presents a nondescript face to the street, but, like Cuernavaca itself, inside the gate it's all flowering trees and fountains and flagstone paths leading past bougainvillea-draped walls. Instructors striding by toss out welcoming smiles along with a "Buenos días" or "¡Hola!" Students sip coffee at outside tables or stretch out on chaise lounges around the pool. There's scarcely a furrowed brow to be seen. You may think this bespeaks a lax attitude toward learning. Al contrario. El Centro's relaxed, friendly atmosphere is part of an approach to language learning that's both current and effective. Unwittingly, I had stumbled onto the campus of the most highly-regarded language center in a city that makes language learning its business. With more than twenty schools dispensing Spanish lessons, Cuernavaca is to language learning what Hollywood is to film-making. In language learning as in life, motivation is everything. Experts have determined that those verb conjugations I used to struggle with are useful mainly for passing grammar tests; memorized dialogues work best if you converse with someone who knows the other half of the dialogue. A smarter tactic, say linguists, is simply to focus on real communication in a non-threatening environment. Sometimes the best language learning takes place when you don't even know you're learning. At the Centro Bilingüe, they've taken the application of this theory to new heights. For three hours each morning, instructor Maria Luisa managed to keep things moving as she nudged upward the language level of each of her four students: a prison administrator from New York State, two young women from Germany, and me, a linguistic dilettante from California. Grammar exercises segued into discussions of social issues or cultural idiosyncrasies or personal passions. Isa, a pretty blond Fräulein with a serious bent, often continued the discussion into recess. Sometimes Isa and I carried on our Spanish conversations over dinner at one of Cuernavaca's al fresco restaurants. At Casa de Campo, looking out over the lush gardens where Mexican generals once plotted military strategy, Isa and I debated women's issues. Alvaro, a charismatic soccer player, served as my afternoon tutor. With Alvaro, I learned how to argue politics and how to embroider my basic Spanish with subtler nuances. "Don't you think that sounds a little abrupt?" he asked one day, after reading an essay that I had polished until I thought it was devoid of errors. I revised the piece until it earned his praise. Beyond the daily classes--and this is its strength--El Centro offers a dizzying array of conferences and mini-cursos and activities and excursions, all, por supuesto, conducted in Spanish. With offerings in history, archeology, dance, cooking, sports, sing-alongs, it would be unthinkable not to find something that interests you. The ostensible goal of these lectures and demonstrations is to teach students something about Mexican culture. But there's more than meets the eye--or the ear--to all this activity. The talented instructors use history or dance or whatever as a vehicle to develop listening comprehension, that essential but elusive skill that gets short shrift in traditional courses. At the end of the school day, I went home to more Spanish practice with my "Mexican Mama." María Elena welcomed me into her elegantly-appointed home in a gated complex, complete with swimming pool and two German Shepherds. I occupied the room belonging to one of her college-age sons. Since the house lay beyond walking distance to the school, María Elena drove me each way. "Sea lista a las siete y media en punto," she directed me the first evening. Watching María Elena jockey for position on Cuernavaca's narrow, car-choked streets the next morning, I could see why she was anxious to leave the house at 7:30 on the dot. So much for stereotypes of Mexican time. María Elena, a sophisticated, fortyish divorcée, introduced me to the cosmopolitan side of Cuernavaca. The city has been a favorite vacation spot for Mexico City's elite since the days of the Aztec emperors. Now the grand mansions belong to modern industrialists and government officials who forsake their smoggy capital on weekends for "The City of Eternal Spring." The wealth concentrated in Cuernavaca supports a fine selection of galleries, boutiques and restaurants. María Elena and I sampled French cuisine at Ma Maison, and Japanese delicacies at Sumiya, the Japanese showplace that heiress Barbara Hutton imported from Japan. We also dined at the ex-Hacienda de Cortés, a marvel of ancient stone interspliced with tree trunks and branches. Whenever I could break away from school activities, I explored other reminders of Cuernavaca's legacy--the cathedral begun by Cortés in 1525, or the complex built by Taxco silver baron José de la Borda, or Emperor Maximilian's House, now restored as a small museum. No one should miss the grander museum at Cortés Palace, where Diego Rivera's bold 1932 murals depict in chilling detail the destruction of local Indian civilizations by their Spanish conquerors. With the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement, a large contingent of North American business persons enrolled at El Centro. Among them were "Ricardo," a telephone company executive from St. Louis, "Carlos," who managed a maquiladora on the Texas border, and "Laura," a computer salesperson from the midwest. (VIPs, like everyone else, had Spanish names conferred on them.) If anyone appeared stressed out, it was these executives, who endured nine hours per day of intensive instruction. I couldn't help reflect that the college kids frequenting the town's bars and discos were probably acquiring more Spanish. They were certainly having more fun. One evening I accompanied the business executives to Las Mañanitas, the legendary restaurant-hotel where a couple of signature margaritas and a gourmet dinner do wonders for flagging spirits. We watched peacocks strutting across a broad expanse of lawn ringed by poinciana trees and birds of paradise. Strolling violinists serenaded couples dining under green umbrellas. I hate to tell tales outside of school, but the execs dropped their Spanish at the gate when they finished their classes for the day. Not so Claudia, a UNICEF employee from Austria who was learning Spanish in order to work in South America. This was her first trip to Mexico, and she was making the most of it. Claudia and I took one of the school excursions to Taxco, the silver mining town that defies visitors to leave without purchasing at least one silver recuerdo. But our best discovery was the resort at Cocoyoc, a sixteenth-century hacienda that combines dark colonial aqueducts with turquoise pools for a stunning visual effect. Its grounds served as the setting for "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," one of many movies filmed in the reliably sunny weather of this region. One thing puzzled me. I seldom saw anyone making use of the school's language lab, that sixties-era high tech contribution to language learning. "It's available for anyone who wants to use it," explained Javier, the school's director, "but in Cuernavaca, who needs it? The whole city is a language laboratory." He was right. Waiters and taxi drivers seemed to bend over backwards to accommodate fledgling Spanish speakers in their attempts to communicate. The real proof came when I dropped off my laundry at "Hall's Super Clean," the laundry service nearest the school. A handout on the counter provided a bilingual list of phrases, from "What's the price per load?" (Cuánto cuesta una carga de ropa?) to "What time will my clothes be ready?" (A qué hora recojo la ropa?) Talk about motivation! This was functional Spanish at its best--the right phrase at the right time directed to the right person. By now, that overused term, "immersion," held new meaning for me. If my previous Spanish courses could be compared to wading in a toddler's pool, this immersion experience was akin to jumping off an ocean pier. ("The fire-hose approach," one of my fellow students called it.) All too soon, the day of my scheduled departure arrived. Victor, a young taxista whose mother worked as secretary at the school, came to drive me to the Mexico City airport. Instead of the modern cuota highway, we took the old two-land road that winds up into the mountains, through surprisingly rural vistas that separate the capital from its favorite weekend retreat. Victor pointed out the striking view of the snow-covered volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl, afforded by the seldom-used route. When he inquired about my stay at the Centro Bilingüe, I related my experiences with enthusiasm. I'll never know if it was part of the overall program, but as we descended fragrant pine-covered hills for the sprawling capital, Victor studied me in the rear view mirror. Then, with disarming sincerity, he proclaimed, "Usted habla Español muy bien." “Gracias," I murmured. For
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