While shopping yesterday
I stopped at the meat department in the grocery store. About a half
a dozen smiling faces were busy at work doing the messy deeds that their
jobs require. When I stepped up to the counter about three or four
of the fellas came to assist me. To say that my Spanish is bad is
an understatement…I attempted to ask about a particular cut of meat.
One after the other made their best attempt to convey the information.
Alas, Mr. Butcher man stepped up to the counter to take his turn to help
the silly Gringa. With a perfect combination of broken English, Spanish,
and hand gestures I knew exactly what he was saying. We all laughed
as I acknowledged that I understood.
Here’s
the thing that makes this story worth telling. How many times have
we run into a Spanish speaker in America who was struggling to convey a
message and we simply got frustrated and thought to ourselves…
If they are
going to be in America they should learn to speak the language! How
about…Sorry, I don’t understand you, I don’t have a clue as to what you
are saying!
I have been
impatient with those who don’t speak my language. It was so often
easier just to not even try. Now, I find myself once again an outsider
in a country that for some strange reason doesn’t speak my language.
By the way, I am working to rectify the language thing.
I don’t want
you to think I am a total slacker! These guys could have looked at
each other and said one of the things I’ve said in the past. I am in their
country and I should know their language, but I don’t and I am here and
there are things I need to know! These jolly fellas smiled their
way through the process one at a time until Mr. Butcher man and I could
communicate on a very elementary level, but communicate we did!
Everyone laughed
and cheered as we were able to ask and answer several questions that resulted
in my purchasing several wonderful cuts of meat and getting totally grossed
out by others.
It was funny
because each time he successfully conveyed a message to me he would look
back at his fellow butchers as they eagerly awaited his next feat of greatness.
He’d give a knowing nod as if to say, “You may worship me, for I am the
King of all butchers!” They would all give their accolades and wait
for the next exchange between us. It was great. also fell into
the rhythm of the look, wait, and cheer routine.
These guys
were wonderful; they actually cared that they could help me; they were
proud of the accomplishment. How often do we have that kind of effort
in America? In my experiences..not very often and as I have said, I too
am guilty of not trying or caring enough.
I tell this
little story, not because it will convince anyone to buy meat at this store
or because I know any of these guys.
I tell this
story because we all have heard the horror stories about the locals.
We hear about
the crime, the political unrest, and the anti-American sentiment that runs
rampant throughout many Latin American countries.
What
we don’t hear are real stories from real people who are here.
It’s easy to
repeat the same old rhetoric and parrot the negative press, but before
you form an ironclad opinion come experience it all for yourself.
I’m not saying that you should go anywhere blindly - do the research, listen
to everyone’s account, but reserve judgment until you arrive in a new place.
I have to go
back to the states one more time to tie up a few loose ends. I dread
going. I don’t want to deal with the traffic, the construction, the
frantic pace, or the frustrations. Here, other than a crazy Frenchman
who lost his mind and decided to bang on pots all night and cut the cables
to everyone’s tvs….it is peaceful and relaxing. Tony and I had a
fantasy about what life would be like - we wanted our biggest decision
of the day to be, “Do we sleep in the hammock or do we go fishing today?”
In reality our biggest decision is “Do we really want Direct TV or do we
want to wait for the cable to the central antenna to be fixed?”
It’s not as
mindless as we had hoped, but it’ll do!
Ahh,
the butchers…and others like them.
