If only San Geraldo and I spoke the same language.
Christmas morning, my allergies (OK, I should just admit it’s a cold — a miserable cold) had hit a really unpleasant point. For the first time in my life I had lost (mostly) my voice. (I’m sure there are plenty of people who would have enjoyed my company more than usual.)
There was no running water in the house (and there isn’t any still). The kitchen was a disaster area (and it is still). So, despite my unhappy condition, we had to go out for breakfast (and I would much rather have stayed home just this once). San Geraldo (he is a saint) kindly waited on me hand and foot at Los Niños del Flor, ordering at the counter, delivering everything to the table for me: tea, tostada, water. Getting up again to bring me sugar (because it feels good on my throat and they didn’t have any honey). Like I said, the man really is a saint.
I rasped to him, “Gracias.”
“What?” he asked.
I repeated, “Gracias.”
He repeated, “What?”
“Gracias!” I loudly croaked.
He looked around the restaurant and then, clearly confused, said, “We have guests?!?”
Spanish is the least of our problems.
|SISTER-IN-LAW LINDA AS THE VIRGIN MARY.
THERE HAS NEVER BEEN A VIRGIN MARY IN MY FAMILY.
NO WONDER WE SOMETIMES DON’T UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER.