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!