It wasn't much of a joke, as far as jokes go.

I saw the man wearing two hats, one on top of the other. The second hat may have been for his wife. It was decorated with intricate drawings. He was walking with her, a third hat tied to the handle of a stroller, and the family was making its way through the artisan market, where hats and ceramics and glass and handwoven, hand-carved, handmade items of all types are sold.

The man had his hands full, guiding the stroller loaded with purchases and keeping an eye on his wife, who was darting in and out of the artists' stalls and, as I passed him, noting his two hats, I gave him a serious look and said, "I believe you need another hat."

The man touched his hand to his hat, remembered he was wearing two and burst into laughter.

It was a real laugh, a belly laugh. He suddenly realized he looked silly, and he thought it was funny that I was bringing this to his attention in such a serious voice. And I was ridiculously pleased because I'd made the joke in Spanish.

Language is so tricky.

For decades, I've been able to ask where the bathroom is located and how much something costs. I've steadily picked up vocabulary because so many cognates are shared between Spanish and English. But then I've gotten stuck. I have to plan sentences before I say them. I have to ask people to speak more slowly or to repeat themselves three times. I do better with cab drivers and hotel employees because they have made it their life's work to understand the fractured sentences of tourists and can make a reasonable guess as to what I've said.

But I've never been able to make a spontaneous joke.

I reached the conclusion about 10 years ago that I was never going to be fluent, so there wasn't much point in trying. I'd become a writer, and I realized in a new way how inadequate my Spanish was, how far I was from being able to say anything important or meaningful. And so I quit.

But coming back to San Miguel de Allende has changed my mind. Because at its core, language is not about putting together beautiful sentences or showing off my vocabulary and grammatical skills.

Language is about connecting with people.

I will never understand people as clearly as I would like. I won't get the subtle inferences, the implied meanings. I'll always be a little naive and clueless and have to have things spelled out for me. But, as I think about this, I realize I'm a little like this all the time -- in any language.

What matters is that last night, I overheard two elderly Mexican tourists who could not find their way back to their hotel. The hotel was only a block and a half away. It was not an emergency. But I understood their confusion and said, "I know where that is. I am going there."

They looked a little skeptical. This blond woman did not look like a local. But they slowly followed me (one had a cane) and, when we finally made it to their hotel, I was absurdly pleased.

My progress in Spanish is slow. I lose hope on a regular basis.

But yesterday, I helped two old women find their way. And the day before that, I made a joke. It wasn't much of a joke, but somebody laughed and -- at least for today -- that is all the motivation I need.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

I sometimes envy people who have a family home to return to, a place where they grew up, where their parents or even their grandparents lived.

The closest thing I have is the farmhouse where my mother grew up. My grandparents lived there until they died, and my mother's older brother, Andy, and his wife, Bea, live there still, despite everyone's insistence that, at 90, Andy might want to think about moving to a place with fewer stairs, a little bit closer to town.

"I've lived here almost all my life!" Andy says. "Why should I move now?"

People could say, "Well, because you're 90 years old, and you broke your leg a year ago and it's a big old house for a couple of people who are no longer young."

But most people don't bother to say that because it wouldn't change Andy's mind. He likes sitting in the kitchen. He can watch the birds on the feeders that Bea keeps stocked with seeds and look out on the fields that used to be filled with peas or soybeans but are now horse pasture. He can see where the barn used to be before he tore it down rather than have it collapse on itself. He's got things the way he likes them, and he doesn't see the point in upsetting the applecart -- that's my guess.

Mother moved to the farmhouse when she was young. She had 10 siblings, and that was a lot of kids to keep track of. This is why I cannot really blame my grandparents for failing to update the youngest three on the exact date of the move.

The school bus dropped them off at their house, but everyone was gone. They didn't know what to do. My mother was the oldest of the three, and they sat together on a roll of linoleum until someone came and brought them to the new farmhouse. That was a very long time ago, and my uncle Andy has been there ever since.

The home I grew up in was sold long ago. When I married Peter, I sold my house, and we lived together in his home. We sold Peter's place when we moved to the city. Then we started coming to Mexico. Last night, I realized my idea of home was, once again, changing.

This little apartment that we do not own -- where we have no more than two matching plates and bowls -- this place feels more and more like coming home.

Jorge, who owns the hotel we stay in, was raised here with even more siblings than my mother had. There were 13 of them, and they all grew up in the home that occupied this space that Jorge has converted into eight apartments. Jorge lives here still, in a small apartment in the front, always available if a guest arrives late or loses a key or has any of the problems hotel guests are prone to.

There is a lot about this hotel that does not seem like a proper business establishment. There is a lot of unnecessary kindness and art and laughter. I think it is because this is -- and will remain -- Jorge's home. Sitting at the front desk in the afternoons, Jorge is always delighted to see everyone, delighted to share his home.

I don't think it has to make sense any more than Andy's choice to remain in the farmhouse kitchen. Home is where you find it. Home is what you know. Home is where you feel at ease. That makes sense to me.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

I was walking down an old street in an old part of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

Brightly colored wooden doors line the streets. There is no indication from the outside what might be within. It could be a courtyard filled with flowers and a fountain, or a small business, or somebody’s kitchen. It is a mystery what is behind these doors, and so, when one is open, naturally I look inside.

Last week, a door was open, and I saw a few items of clothing for sale, so I stepped inside. That’s when I met Piccolina.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“That is Piccolina,” a woman at a sewing machine answered in Spanish.

Piccolina was a fat little puppy with blue eyes and black-and-white spots. She was delighted to meet me, and I was delighted to meet the woman with the sewing machine because I had a square tablecloth that I wanted to be round. I had thought of bringing it back home with me to the States to do the alteration, but that seemed like a lot of heavy fabric to haul back-and-forth when, the odds were, I would run into someone like Piccolina’s mother. And now I had.

I explained my tablecloth situation as best I could, and it was clear from the woman’s nodding and pantomimed gestures that she understood the project. I agreed to bring it the next day.

“And then I get to see Piccolina!” I thought.

The next day I called, “Where is Piccolina?!” and the little dog came running and the woman, whose name was Marta, also came running. I handed off my tablecloth, and we agreed on a price that seemed like far too little for the work involved.

A few days passed, and I came back. The floors had just been mopped, and Piccolina was not being allowed on the floors until they were dry. She was being held by a young relative of Marta’s and this made her unhappy, which she indicated by chomping down on my finger when I went to greet her.

“Oh, no! Piccolina!” Marta said. She didn’t think Piccolina should be biting the customers, but they were just puppy bites, and the customer had been asking for it.

The tablecloth was not finished because Marta was proposing something more complicated -- and prettier -- than I had envisioned.

“Fine!” I said, even though I wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying. I promised to return in a few days.

“And then I get to see Piccolina again!” I thought.

The next time I arrived, the tablecloth was finished, with a fringe all around the edge that transitioned from one color to another, with a mixture of the two colors in between. It had taken a lot of thread-pulling and time, and I paid Marta more than she had asked for and I said goodbye to Piccolina.

But not for good. Yesterday I stopped by, even though I had no business with Marta.

“Piccolina, where are you?” I called, and she was easy to find because she was waiting at the doggy gate that Marta had installed.

“Piccolina has a gate!” I said.

“Piccolina has been running onto the street!” Marta tut-tutted.

The street is quiet and cobblestone, so I don’t think Piccolina was in much danger, but I also imagine Marta got tired of running outside to retrieve her.

“You are a naughty little dog!” I informed Piccolina, and Marta agreed.

You can tell friends things like this, and we are all friends now -- Marta and me and Piccolina.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called “Blue Yarn.” Learn more: CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS