falling for my spanish teacher

What amazing eyes. A light hazel as though reflecting the palm trees sitting amidst desert rocks and sand, a hint of blue from the sea and the sky. His confidence, self-assuredness - qualities I am sorely lacking. He exudes charm, a lightness of being. He is charismatic - I would follow him anywhere.....

If he wasn't 12 years old!!

Rein it in old girl; he's almost too young for Mary Kay Latourneau.

The Kid and his friend plopped down in the sand in front of me as I sat under the palapa reading and listening to my mp3 player. I handed The Kid the earpods and selected some old American rock and roll sung in Spanish, re-recorded by Los Straitjackets. The Kid watched my face, looked directly into my eyes, as he sang along, encouraging me to chime in on a word or phrase now and then. His English was great but we conversed in Spanish.

“Do you study English in school?” I asked.
“No. I just understand it.”
“How do you say ‘where are you from’ in Spanish?” I asked.
Very slowly he said “Dohn day es ta ban?” Okay, so that’s the third way I’ve heard that question asked.

The Kid leaned back on his elbows, his legs stretched out, and his friend laid back and rested his head on The Kid’s crossed ankles. The Spanish lesson continued:
“How old are you?” The Kid asked me.
As I fumbled for the Spanish number he butt in and guessed my age – within three years, the little shit.

We carried on in Spanish:
“What is your name,” The Kid asked.
“Antonia. What is yours?”
“Ricardo and this is Danny, Daniel.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“12.”
“How old are you?” I asked his friend.
“14.”
The Kid asked me “When is your birthday?”
In return, they told me theirs.
“When do you go back to school?” I asked them.
“August 26,” they replied.

I took them to my trailer for glasses of ice water. Even though this is one of the few phrases I actually know, The Kid v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y said “dos vasos de agua con hielo”.

They thanked me profusely for the water and went on their way down the beach, back to town, jumping in and out of the waves.

The Texas Couple joked that I was maybe going a little too young. “They sure were cute. I think learning Spanish from children is the way to go” I said.

Later, Mr. Texan stopped by when he saw me grilling. “You know, you’ve got to be careful with the locals. They’re not really allowed in the park.” I nodded politely. I do agree that the gringos down here have to be careful. We have so much – even those of us in little trailers with minimal possessions. We have televisions and air-conditioning and refrigeration and roofs that don’t leak (most of the time) and computers and mp3 players. But I am not going to shy away from meeting the local people because of this. I will be careful to keep my trailer door closed when I’m not around but that’s about it as far as my security measures go.

But I had to wonder why it is that people want to put a damper on other people’s joy? Why not let them learn for themselves? Make their own mistakes?

Like The Skeeper.

“I’m bankrolling a cop in town”, he said to me and the Texas Couple the night he got here, when we were sitting around drinking beers. “The time before last, when I headed home, I’m spacing out, fumbling with the cd player when I see a cop jump out of his car and aim his radar gun at me, legs wide apart, arm straight out like he’s pointing a damn 6-shooter. Anyway, he waves at me to pull over and I do. He says I’m going 96 km/hr [in a 30 km/hr zone] and he can write me a ticket and take me to town but that will take about an hour. Then he pauses and I ask ‘well how much if we skip all that and I pay here?’ and he says ‘800 pesos’ so I peel off 800 pesos and go on my way. I’ll be damned if the last time I go home, just a couple weeks ago, the same cop doesn’t pull me over in the same exact spot. This time I’m only going about 80 but you would think that I would’ve learned my lesson. Anyway, the same conversation ensues, he asks for 800 pesos but I’ve smartened up and offer 200 and he takes it and I’m on my way. Damn, you would think I’d know better.”

Mr. Texan says “You know that’s not the way to do it. You agree to go to town with them because they don’t get any money that way so they’ll just let you go.”

I know, I think, but The Skeeper’s story is much more entertaining and enlightening.

I hear loud Mexican music, even in my closed-up trailer with the AC going. I think it’s coming from the space next to The Skeepr’s RV. This morning about 30 or more people arrived by bus. They set up tents and hammocks and tables – old people and young people and kids. It might be another religious group. I can’t help but smile and wonder how Mr. Minutemen is gonna like that.