Sociophobe Goes to a Party

It happens every so often. Such as when the world rotates backwards and the skies turn orange. But last night, I actually went out.

I was merrily reading something or other on the internet, stuffing my face with cheese and raw garlic (as recommended by a friend, and damn, it's good) and considering winding down for the night. The clock struck 10. Well actually, it didn't because I don't have a clock that strikes, but you get me. I telephoned my friend out of concern because I had not heard from her all day.

"Ahh!" She said, "I was just texting you. There's a BBQ going on with some Erasmus (exchange) students in a flat near you. I'm going and (her flatmate) is already there. Would you like to come?"

"Er..." I replied.

"The hostess is French, but there'll be Spaniards and a few Brazilians, apparently," she informed me. "I have to go to the gym first though," she said. I looked at the clock. It was definitely gone 10pm. I didn't even bother to shake my head in disbelief - I'm used to this nocturnal country now.

She telephoned me again about 40 minutes later to confess she'd failed to get to the gym, but would be leaving imminently for the party. I agreed to meet her at an appropriate landmark, and rushed about trying to 'de-garlic' myself and find some clothes that made me look less like someone's unemployed father.

Then, I did something I haven't done in so long I genuinely cannot remember the last time I did it. I went to someone's house party. I normally avoid such things because it's so much ruder to leave someone's house than a bar or pub. And it is inevitable that I would get to a point where I would want to leave. But as my friend said afterwards, you never know when you're going to meet someone actually worthwhile meeting. I yielded to this truth.

So I entered the room.

Everyone was speaking French, and everyone looked about 12. Someone took my coat, and I tried with all my heart, mind and soul to disappear. My friend went for the wine and I went for the soft drink. I'd had a glass of Martini Rosso before leaving, the end of a bottle of a substance I only really use to keep warm or in case of emergencies. This situation qualified in both categories. However, it has been some time since I last drank and I was somewhat alarmed to feel my arms going numb, so I made a mental note to stick to soft drinks for ever more. Not difficult. I prefer apple juice every time.

I stood like Queen Ackward of The Uncomfortables, back pressed up anxiously against the side board trying to avoid contact with anyone without really knowing why. A short, hairy Brazilian (the three are rather inseparable, I find) had waved at me when I first arrived, and looked like he wanted to make full and fascinating conversation with me. I made sure there was a sofa and at least 4 chairs between him and myself at any one time. This is with no disrespect to him - he was a really sweet guy. I just happen to be psychotic.

However, the blessing was that having emerged myself in the Spanish language of late, I couldn't remember a word of French, and I've never attempted Portuguese. Which meant that I had a 'get out of jail free' card. I never know what to say at these occasions in English. The fact that even if I did know what to say, I couldn't, meant I was free to smile and remain detached to my heart's content. Perfect for me.

"Parles tu francias?" I was asked.

"Un petit peux" I replied, and proceeded to completely not understand anything else the poor girl said. She looked sympathetic and graciously spoke to me in Spanish, so I was able to discover she was from Lille in northern France.

I decided to stay where I was and let the confusion come to me.

"Parles tu francais?" I was asked again.

"Un petit peux" I replied again. This time I followed some of what was said and found myself mysteriously reacting in French. Strange what 5 years of compulsory learning does to your brain, even after 12 years. When I first came to Spain, I would use French words automatically because it was my second language and I defaulted to it regularly, as many of my Spanish students do too, when learning English. Now, it is the other way around.

I was then offered a sausage.

"No thanks it's half past eleven." I said in English with a wry smile, and got away with it.

However, at 11.35pm, I succumbed to the idea of food at such a ridiculous hour. In the midst of attempting to eat, I was joined by two blonde girls.

"Parles tu francais?" They asked, catching me off guard.

"Un petit pois." I panicked. "PEUX" I then corrected myself, spitting food across the room. They smiled politely and went over to the other side of the room. I was presently joined by my friend who was having a ball - she speaks perfect French.

"You OK?" she asked.

I nodded.

"There's French and Spanish so we should get Portuguese soon," she said with scientific detachment, as if awaiting the climax of an experiment.

At that moment the hostess plonked down a glass dish of food onto a glass coffee table for the 3rd time that evening. I shook my head.

"Why is it that in a whole room full of people, I'm the only one thinking, 'ooooh that could have smashed'?"

"Yes, why is that?" She asked as if I'd know. "That's one of the few things you think that I don't."

"Like slamming doors?" I asked.

"Exactly." She said.

"I can't cope with people who slam doors. I want them to die." I said, scowling at my food. "Well, not really, but I do think they should be punished." I smirked evily into my drink.

"I think it means you're meant to be a hermit and you should live in a cave with no loud noises." She announced.

"That'd be great. Or maybe I should live in a Church. Though it would be a bit cold and musty."

"Free mice though." She said, enthusiastically. I frowned.

"I paid £3.99 each for mine."

"Oh." I said. "I don't really want mice."

"Yes, they will eat your cereal. They are rather indiscriminate when it comes to...."

"Kelloggs?" I ventured.

"Precisely." She confirmed.

I went on to tell her about the time my University dwellings were invaded by a fleet of mice and I fled to my boyfriend's house in hysterics. I then pointed out that escaping vermin is not a sound basis from which to go into co-habitation, and that on reflection I would have saved a lot of heartache between myself and my ex if I'd have just called the council. She looked like she didn't know what to say, so I returned to the relative comfort zone of eating my sausage. I forgot, however, that Spanish sausages are not of the gentle 'bangers and mash' variety in England, but are in fact frisky little buggers. I immediately produced a violent splutter which I tried to conceal by giving it a French accent. It's true. I could swear I sneeze and cough with an English accent. It's very embarrassing.

I soon gave up trying to consume things and went to the balcony where a Brazilian was flipping more food on the BBQ (at midnight). He was very nice. He spoke to me for about 20 minutes in Spanish about all kinds of things and I understood everything and engaged myself fully in the conversation. I was beginning to feel vaguely intelligent when a girl approached me and asked me a question in French. At that point I could not remember how to say anything in any language whatsoever and I stared at her like a startled deer.

"She's English" explained the Brazilian (I can't remember which language he said it in.)

"Ahhhh," empathised the French woman.

"Sorry," I said, sheepishly.

I exchanged email addresses with the Brazilian on the off chance that I may need to sleep on his floor one day in the future (and I was shamelessly honest about it - we travellers help one another) and returned to the main room, which had become like a scene out of Eyes Wide Shut. A giant bowl of strawberries had been placed on the table amidst two equally giant bowls of cream. Guests were dipping a strawberry into the cream, placing it in their mouths and passing it to one another. It got more and more decadent as it went on. I found a sofa to stand behind where two guys, clearly a little bit older, were engaged in a French conversation and completely ignoring the action. I stood, hands on my hips, quite transfixed (because actually it was all rather funny and civilized) feeling once again, like someone's unemployed dad, and waited for my friend to remember herself and stop passing strawberries erotically.

By this time it was 1am and I was thinking, 'time to go home' when one of the guests shouted out - where are we going on to? 1am is devastatingly early for Spanish party lovers. However, I saw my opportunity and got myself and my friend away from the madding crowd as we were leaving the appartment block, and on the road home.

We bumped into some Germans on the way back. This is always a sheer delight. Germans can speak English better than a lot of English people, know about 6000 languages and are generally very clever, I think due to being in education until they're 47, so as well as having someone to translate for you, you can have a darn good conversation whilst taking the piss out of everyone else with our jointly 'invisible to other races' dry sense of humour. We all sang and danced to 'Singing in the Rain' (because it's been raining for 3 days) and then I finally went home and ticked off "Go out at some point" on my list of things to do.

Hurrah.