Gilbert - Mother tongue: my familys globe-trotting quest to dream in Mandarin, laugh in Arabic, and sing in Spanish, a memoir

H alfway down the street, I stop walking. The crowd of Barcelona holiday shoppers flows past me, and I let them, the weight of my shopping bags cutting into my hands. Christmas lights twinkling overhead light the path through the looming architecture of the Gothic quarter as I stand gripped in a wave of dj vu. Ive been here before. I feel like I am seeing a lithograph of my past, the paper-thin memory of a place laid carefully over the scene that lies before me.

I have been here before, of course, I know that. I am constantly seeing buildings and streets that jog some buried half memory. But this feeling is different. Somehow I have brushed up against a sense memory of that time. For a moment I remember my last visit, years ago, and how it felt to live in my skin then and how different it feels now to be just another city dweller out buying Christmas gifts on a chilly December evening. The city hasnt changedI have.

A decade ago, my husband, Drew, and I honeymooned in Barcelona. It was our first time in Europeour first time abroad, really, unless you count a few trips to Canada. We stayed in a hotel that cost way too much, cuddling in a tiny room with a double bed, peering out at the world over a wrought-iron balcony, just north of La Rambla. The whole city seemed black and white to me then. It was a rainy week in October, the gray stones slick and gloomy. But we were desperately in love, both with each other and with Spain, and nothing could dampen our spirits. We walked around this same Gothic quarter like the stunned Americans we were, holding hands, admiring the architecture, swooning over quaint cafs and stylish Catalan men and women with their dedication to trim cuts and knotted scarves. Later we collapsed in Caf Zurich, ordered strong coffees, and marveled at our lives. Could there be anything more romantic than Europe?

The kinetic sensation of being young and newly married came back to me all at once. I wish I could travel through time and whisper into my ten-years-younger ear, You will live here one day. Maybe in some way I knew, because no matter what we did in the years after, no matter where we went, the magnetic pull of Barcelona was irresistible. Ten years later, via the most indirect path possible, we would return to the romantic land of our first days as newlyweds, this time to rent an apartment, buy groceries, and settle into domestic life. We are still in love, with each other and the city, but it is oh so different. Were older. We have two kids now. We have seen the world.

On that first trip to Barcelona, my most vivid memories were of the wild curves Gaud created, sculpting buildings like they were made of melting candle wax. Now, I see the people. Its the bon dia to my neighbor as we briskly left our apartment this afternoon, the half smile to the woman wheeling her grocery tote behind her, the familiar road leading up to the bakery where the young woman with the severe bun gives us baguettes each morning. Theres the fruit stand with a display of mandarinas on the sidewalk next to the meat shop with a full Iberian leg of ham in the store window, then the wine shop where they refill one-liter jugs with tinto. I barely look up anymore at the imposing architecture. My focus is all street level, straight ahead, walking quickly toward the bus stop, la parada, so we could swipe our metro cards, squeeze past the bundled masses, and slide into our seats.

Today we were going shopping.

A Y, GUAPA! THE WOMAN CALLED to my daughter from across the bus, waving her hand. She was wearing a scarf tied artfully around her neck, a kind of quadruple knot that I had not yet mastered, with a fitted trench coat and an oversized leather purse. When her waving failed to attract Stellas interest, she quickly closed the distance between us, shuffling down the aisle, the movement of the bus propelling her forward. Mueca!

My daughter sat on my lap, unfazed by the compliments. Beautiful. Doll. Blondie. Stellas legs poked out from beneath her pink peacoat, her tiny hands rested on her lap, and she stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on some point in front of her and slowly losing focus. The gentle shaking of the bus was lulling her to sleep.

The people here call Stella bien seria, very serious, because she is so stoic and self-contained. Until recently, I hadnt taught her to smile and engage with strangersI would just hold her, talk to her, point things out, make her engage with the world. But make her interact with strangers? Pass her around? Let everyone smile and coo at her? I grew up American, and that was reflected in my parenting. I was focused more on her than on her relationship with others. But I was learning that socially adept children were highly prized in Spain. I was finding out that, like so many other things, raising kids varied wildly by culture. What I always thought was an innate quality of the Spanishthat they were warmer, friendlier, and more social than Americanswas actually a cultivated quality. They valued it and made it a point to shape their children in this way. It would influence their social landscape for life.

This emphasis on friendliness was also part of why I had fallen so in love with Spain. That natural warmth was so inviting.

Hola, joven, I said to the woman, imitating something cheeky I had heard in the market. Hello, youngster. I was becoming a more friendly version of myself in Spain, more likely to break the ice and start conversations.

Ay, tu hija es tan hermoooossssaa! she cooed, leaning over Drew and our son, Cole, to get a better look at Stella. Your daughter is so beautiful!

Gracias!

She smelled like rose soaplike jabn de rosa, I thought to myself, the Spanish translation bubbling up unbidden. We had been here for about a month, but it wasnt my first brush with Spanish. I noticed over time that the more I used the language, the more it stayed with me. By now it was a constant passenger in my head, a never-ending closed-captioning