I had been in Berkeley, California, for around three months back in 1973. My learning English, which had begun by listening to Elvis Presley in Brazil and not understanding a word, was now taking a curious turn. As soon as I had arrived to study in a language school in East Oakland, I had been invited by the other Brazilians in the place for a small party in one of their rooms. News from the homeland, this and that, being introduced to people they knew in the school, and even meeting an interesting young woman called Debra. She was a freckled red-haired, with Portuguese ascendants and, on the next day, I discovered she was my conversation teacher. Later on, we even dated for a while. But that is beside the point. Next day, at breakfast, I explained to my fellow Brazilians, who always sat at the same table, that I didn’t want to speak Portuguese, that I found the Brazilian flag ugly, that I didn’t particularly like samba and that I wanted to learn English, so they should address me only in that language. Oh, well… obviously they became my enemies. The fact is that, from then on, I really begun learning English. Not in the school, where I stayed for barely two months, and even during these, with more classes missed than attended to. I moved to Berkeley and begun learning with the new friends I had made. Kim, an Englishman; Terry, a gipsy who walked up and down with a handkerchief around his neck and with Debra. As I spoke more than I listened – you still do, my ‘friends’ will certainly say – I learned to speak before I learned to understand.
One evening, I went to a bar called The Cheshire Cat which was on the other side of the campus from where I lived. It was a cozy little place, with tables on the sidewalk and with regulars from the university. In this particular evening, I was at a table by myself and begun paying attention at the table next to mine. They were speaking very fast in a strange language.
Fifteen seconds. That was how long it took for all the pieces to fall in their place in my mind and reach my ears. It was Portuguese. But for those fifteen seconds I heard the sound of my own language. I had the privilege of listening to Portuguese as it is listened to by foreigners, without getting the meaning, just enjoying its music. It is a melodic, beautiful, syncopated and strange language and I never forgot that sound.
