T A B L E_T A L K Ever had to pick up a language in a jiffy? Discuss the challenges and fun of learning a new language in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Ignorants abroad By Rolf Potts Mistaking "breasts" for "prayers" -- and other adventures in language learning (06/22/98) Blinded in the desert By Andrew Bill Hospitality and hostility become blurred for a traveler stranded among Bedouins at the desolate tip of the Sinai (06/19/98) The Cup runneth over By Ethan Zindler At the World Cup, Scottish fans bare their behinds and French fans bare their prejudices (06/18/98) Mondo Weirdo A different kind of resort in Sri Lanka A reader discovers that an off-the-beaten-track resort offers a little less than it promises (06/17/98) Spiritual discomfort By Anne Cushman A yoga student discovers a real sadhu -- and spends the night in his cave in northern India (06/16/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		E m b r a c e d_..i n_.Spain _______TRAVELING SOLO IN SPAIN, A WRITER IS _______BEFRIENDED BY A GROUP OF MACHO LOCAL _______MALES. CAN HE TELL THEM HE IS GAY AND _______STILL KEEP THEIR FRIENDSHIP? BY BARRY YEOMAN | There's nothing like the approach of Carnaval to make a guy feel utterly alone. I was in the 3,000-year-old port city of Cádiz, Spain, walking along a pier that jutted out from the very corner of Europe. But rather than marveling at the ocean crashing against the stone embankment below me, or at the branchless drago trees in the distance, I was struggling against a funk that had enveloped me as fully as the salt air. The day before, I had been sitting on an airplane, excited about my trip. I imagined alleyways crammed with ancient, crumbling buildings; labyrinthine neighborhoods scented with olives and oranges; sun so intense it would bronze my skin. I couldn't wait to throw myself into a beery, music-drenched pre-Lenten celebration that had been compared favorably to Rio's. And yet, from the moment I arrived in town, I had been confronted by an unexpected disorientation. I couldn't decipher the Gaditano dialect; couldn't navigate an old city where half the intersections were unmarked; couldn't shake off my homesickness. The coming Carnaval, I feared, would only make things worse: I pictured myself, a 37-year-old American with a tenuous grasp of the language, friendless amid the revelry. I was walking back from the castle at the end of the pier, seriously considering whether I should catch the next train back to Madrid, when I thought I heard someone call me. I turned around. Sitting on a bench, in a limestone alcove that separated the pier from the gates back into the old city, was a group of 20-year-olds, maybe a dozen of them, mostly male. I immediately felt drawn to them. They looked so approachable, all smiles and sunglasses and baggy sweatshirts and denim jackets. I liked their easy physical intimacy, so common among Spanish men, the casual way hands rested on knees. I wanted to join them. ¿"Hablan inglés?" I asked. Only, those two words took about 10 seconds to force past my lips. My stutter, severe in English, had spiraled out of control in Spanish, so that every word became a battle between brain and breath. I pushed the sounds hard through vocal cords locked in spasm, until finally four discrete syllables tumbled out of my mouth. Ha. Blan. In. Gles. When I came up for air, they were laughing. Not nervous chuckles but robust, doubled-over guffaws. I had just become the star of their day's life-comedy. Not in the mood for their mockery, I said "Adios" and stormed off through the whitewashed gate and back into the old city. I had gone only a block before I reconsidered. Maybe it was the loneliness I had felt the night before, a terror so visceral that I was on the edge of puking till dawn. Maybe I needed to confront my demons, lest they trail me throughout Carnaval. But something inside me told me to return. So I walked back and looked them straight in the eyes. "I have a problem speaking," I said. "I've had it all my life. I don't like it." No one laughed. I felt proud of myself. To lighten the mood, I asked if I could photograph them. Suddenly they were beckoning every friend for 50 feet around to join them in the photo, squeezing together tight. They started singing and clapping. I took out my snapshots from home, and everyone crowded around, marveling at my modest white bungalow with its leafy yard. They periodically snickered at the stutter again, but then one would shoot another a look, and the laughter would stop. That's how I met the Boys. Throughout that afternoon and evening, these childhood friends -- a few of them working blue-collar jobs, but most victim to the city's 45-percent unemployment rate -- initiated me into life on the wharves and plazas of the city. They offered me hashish and taught me slang. They proffered a fresh-caught sea urchin, its spiny tennis ball-sized body sliced in half, and instructed me to suck out the fluorescent orange guts. By dinner time, they had decided that no friend of theirs could be without a nickname. So I became El Metralleta, which means "the machine gun." It was a reference to my stutter, of course, but it was derived from one of the Carnaval groups, a singing gangster family that carried metralletas made of anchovy cans and colored paper. That night, late, we reconvened outside Falla Theater, a pink mosquelike building named after Cádiz's most famous resident, composer Manuel de Falla. There, a half-dozen groups of teenage balladeers, dressed as sailors and flamenco dancers and disgruntled house painters, stood in the plaza, taking turns serenading the crowd with guitars, drums and joyous vocal harmonies. Between songs, the musicians jumped up and down, shook hands, chanted one another's names. Then kazoos would sound and another group would start singing. The crowd, pressed in close, cheered and clapped. The Boys were all smiles, soaking in the music and introducing me around. Eight hours into our relationship, I was still a novelty. But my stutter no longer was. N E X T+P A G E | No escaping the Boys ILLUSTRATION BY ANNALISA VIVARELLI/ARTS COUNSEL, INC.