Mexico City, Mexico -- When I arrived in Mexico, my phone adapted far more quickly than I did. In fact, it acclimatized itself so well to its new environs that it suddenly refused to speak to me in English. The rich, familiar cadences of James Earl Jones vanished. Cindy, my snippy, snotty U.S. Voicemail Lady, was AWOL.

It wasn’t just that my phone had watched Sesame Street on the sly and picked up a few handy Spanish phrases—could count to 10 and whatnot. Instead, overnight, my phone transformed into Carmen, a sophisticated senorita who had little patience for my awkward tinkering with the buttons. Sure, she said “Por favor,” one of the few things she said that I could understand, but I could tell she didn’t really mean it. Carmen the Spanish Voicemail Lady was convinced that I was too stupid to own a cell phone, and I was inclined to agree with her.

Desperately, I plugged in the combinations of numbers that was supposed to connect me with loved ones in the states. Ruthlessly, Carmen broke in and told me that I was a fuck-up. I think she said this politely, but I really can’t be sure. No hablo espagnol, and Carmen was as disgusted by this as I continue to be.

World-weary and well-groomed (I could tell she was wearing expensive shoes and had just had her nails done), she sat inside my phone, long legs crossed, one foot tapping angrily, flicking cigarette ashes into my voicemail box. Like a particularly gifted soccer (futbol) goalie, she skillfully rebuffed all of my clumsy attempts to place calls. She kept saying something long and involved, but I’m pretty sure it translated to “Give your phone to someone with a higher IQ and purchase two tin cans and some string, por favor.”

This is what happens when you make a spontaneous trip to Mexico. Your phone turns into Carmen and leaves you floundering in a murky pool of high school French and regrets.

With the assistance of my friend Elizabeth, five Spanish-speaking operators, two operators who spoke English, one nameless Verizon dude who hung up on me, and a Verizon dude named Bobby, Carmen and I reached an uneasy truce. In the end, Verizon Bobby was my savior, but we had a very bad moment when he suggested that—to solve my inability to call the states—I purchase a plan that would allow me to call Mexico for 30 cents a minute. I don’t think what I said to Bobby in response scared him. I think the hollow, spawn-of-the-devil tone of my voice scarred him.

Carmen is still with me, but most of the time she just sits there quietly doing her nails with one eyebrow arched. Very occasionally, when I make like a monkey and forget to put in the country code, she flicks me with ashes and a sarcastic “Por favor” or two. She will never cut me a break, and I don’t blame her a bit.

In contrast to Carmen, the people of Mexico have been very kind to me. Yet, it is their gentle look of “you poor moron” pity—in response to my distressed caw of, “No hablo espagnol!”—that cuts to my very soul. Even the dogs, with whom I am able to connect via the universal language of “scratch my ears,” look a bit askance when I tell them “No hablo espagnol”—just in case they’re expecting me to tell them they’re pretty boys and girls in Spanish.

In my second week in Mexico, I VERY much want to be able to hablo espagnol. I’m pining to do what I do in the states with the people that I meet—casually compliment earrings, commiserate about rude customers, ask how the day is going, talk sports, gab about the weather, learn about people’s lives. Instead, I’m giving the patient people of Mexico the best of my apologetic body language—beseeching grins, sheepish shrugs, and idiotic, bobblehead doll nods, “No, NO!” “Yes, YES!” Taken as a whole, my lexicon of body tics says, “My god, I wish I’d taken Spanish in school.” I’m trying to pick the language up as quickly as possible./p>

I can understand much of what I hear, and I can understand some of what I read. It’s the conversation that stumps me. And, conversation and communication is what I crave the most. I dabble in Spanish immersion with my friend, Elizabeth. This usually ends poorly, with me barking out, “Habla Ingles, for the love of god, por favor, okay? No mas, no mas!”

The answer is simple, yet profound. When I speak Spanish, people speak Spanish back to me. It’s not just about proudly popping a sentence out of my mouth. And, more often than not, when I “proudly pop a sentence out” it’s a lot like your cat spewing out almost, but not quite, recognizable mouse parts at your feet. I can see my prospective conversational partner thinking, “Did she really just say a dirty word? Was that a verb? Did she just put eight nouns together with a por favor and expect me to know what to do with it?” Like your cat’s dismembered mice, most of my sentences deserve a swift, decent burial.

Not only do people speak Spanish back at me—they respond at the same breakneck, auctioneer speed with which I speak English. This is both perfectly understandable and absolutely terrifying.

I lob the conversational ball over the net, and zzzzoooom! When it comes whistling back to me, spinning and sparkling with color, wit, and warmth, I stand there with my eyes dull and my mouth agape. Clearly, I am an amateur badminton player who has stumbled into Wimbledon. I can’t bluff, the ball smacks me upside the head, and out comes, “Disculpe…No hablo espagnol.” I’m getting really good at saying this—far better than I want to be, in fact.

I’m gravely dissatisfied with the baby steps I’m taking toward the promised land of hablo espagnol—even when I get things right, I doubt by myself. For example, today I bought two Spanish language newspapers from a very nice woman. I thought I paid the right amount, but she said something back to me that I wasn’t expecting, so I stood there, beaming at her expectantly. I’m guessing she said something like, “Have a nice day.” But, I thought maybe I paid the wrong amount, so I double-checked by pointing to the prices and smiling and nodding. At that point, she said something like, “Yes, you are free to go, please let me proceed with my day,” in a very nice way.

Clearly, gestures and expressions are useful at times. Indeed, I have very successful, minimalist conversations by animating my eyes, providing an astonished glance, and offering an appreciative twist of the mouth. Very simple, cool communication can happen as long as my smiles stay focused and I’m not beaming blissed-out encouragement at a dude who thinks my face is saying, “Take me, big boy, I’m yours.

Yet, simple, cool communication isn’t enough for me these days. I want to taaaaalk. And, I want to understand. A yellow truck with a rusty metal framework in the back and a loudspeaker mounted on the side just drove slowly by on the dirt road in front of Elizabeth’s house. A male voice kept urgently repeating a message over and over. Something about children. Something else. What the hell is he saying? We’re in a volcano evacuation zone here, and I’m hoping it was nothing like, “Women and children get the hell out, we men are going to stay and fight the lava.” God…maybe they were just selling ice cream. Or, maybe I’m staying to help fight the lava. It could go either way. Just before that, a police truck drove by, with the typical guys with rifles hanging out in the back. I believe that’s just their usual post-lunch patrol to aid their digestion, but who knows? It’s important to me that I understand what’s happening around me, and I just don’t. All of the poignant Marcel Marceau body language in the world won’t help me with this stuff.

As this is the case, it is time for me to stop bitching and head back to my phrase books. I’m looking forward to the day when I’ll be able to know whether I should evacuate or not. But, even more important, I’m dying to win the grudging respect of Carmen the Voicemail Lady. I want her to drop her mango lipstick-stained cigarette, shocked that she’s not dealing with the village idiot after all. I want to crack the code of what she says before she throws in that half-hearted “Por favor.” I’m not holding my breath, but it’s worth a try. Mostly, it’s just worth it to be able to connect. I’m thinking that’s how they should teach language to children in schools: “Learn 18 languages because when you grow up, and you decide you need to run away from home, you’ll be able to buy newspapers, flee volcanoes in your country of choice, and avoid being mocked by your voicemail lady.”