pancan

Oh yeah, the Spanish lessons continue. I'm doin' a helluva job.

An older woman's been coming through the park with who I assume are her grandkids, a girl and a boy. She is selling this bakery item I like which is bread filled with cheese, jalepenos and ham.

She is a riot. Wide-bodied with short gray hair and not too many teeth, she wants to chat which is a wee bit difficult given our language barriers. The first time I bought from her she kept saying "pancan" and I looked to her grandson for help but that was a no-go. Then she said "calabaza", pause, "pancan". She wouldn't give up and we were getting nowhere. Finally I see Jose trimming bushes and even though he doesn't speak english I have to do something so I shout out "Jose, que es calabaza?" Grandma's pretty sure this is going to work but we feel a bit dejected when we see Jose walk away. However, he rapidly returns with Raphael who shouts out "pumpkin". Pancan! You know how relieved you feel, how you can finally go to sleep or move on with your day when you remember old what's-his-face who was in that whatchamacallit movie? That was the feeling. Pancan. I think she was telling me that she'll be having some calabaza-filled pastries when they're in season.

The next time Grandma (abuela) came by she told me that she likes Tecate Lite beer. She drinks 6. Tecata roja is too filling which she demonstrates by rubbing her tummy and looking all sluggish. She also likes "boodwiser". I can't believe that I couldn't pick 'Budweiser' out of that but I needed her grandson's help. She made spitting noises when she described Coors. I agreed that it tasted like rat piss and her grandson seemed to understand that phrasing pretty well.

The other day she was in a hurry, people were waiting in the car, so as she was leaving she shouted out "pancan" and I responded "calabaza" which also means fool or idiot which I hope she didn't think I was calling her but maybe that's what she's been calling me all along.

My most successful lessons are when the words are written down. I had to buy a disposable razor and through some handy-dandy miming I was able to acquire the right thing and not lotion which is what the clerk first thought I wanted. So far my spanish dictionaries are pretty useless when it comes to things like this. In my dictionary razor is "navaja de afeitar". Nuh-uh, not here. The clerk said it's "rastrillo" ("rastrilio" in spanish is "rake" which sort of fits). Anyway, I am happy to report that a lot of english words are as difficult for the Mexicans to say as spanish is for me. We wrote down our respective words on the back of my shopping list and the clerk had a hard time wrapping her tongue around "razor" while I suffered with that middle "r" in "rastrillo".

Two new spanish words. I'm making great headway in this foreign language learning. I think this week I'll make an effort to go to Jorge's with paper and pen and sit with Edgar and the bartender while we learn new words. Edgar's favorite expression is "okie dokie". I'll try to add to his repertoire, nothing obscene, although 'fuck a duck' is just dying to come out.

you're in Mexico; speak Mexican

Felix comes by with his ironwood carvings. He knows I want some as gifts (los regalos). Besides, today he needs 450 pesos for the electricity.

I pick up a hummingbird. "Chuparosa" he says. This must be a Mexican word because I can't find it in my spanish dictionary (so the spelling is a guess).

I pick up a road runner. I can't grasp what Felix calls it and the next time I see him, I'll ask him again because that, too, is not in my dictionary. This time I'll write it down.

I bring out a bag of grapes as a gift. "How do you say that in ingles?" he asks. I say: "grayp". He has a difficult time with this word. "In espanol", he says "uva" and I think "great, another word that sounds likes eggs and thursday".

At stores, shopkeepers will say the price in spanish, and I'll repeat; then often they will attempt an english pronunciation and I'll help them. Back and forth, we trade words. People are hungry to learn my language. They hope for more tourists from the north and because most tourists from the north are reluctant to learn their language, they need to know the tourists' language. It is their bread and butter, tortilla y queso.

Yesterday at the Pemex, the woman filling my tank asked if I wanted "magna" or "premium". Why I had a hard time saying "magna" I'll never know but I did so she suggested that I ask for "verde o roja". Mucho gracias, I respond.

I remember this: My friend who is a bartender reprimanded a Hispanic man for asking for an ashtray in spanish. She said "You're in America; speak english." When she relayed this story to her daughter and I, we both reprimanded her. "You don't know," I said, "he might have been a tourist."

The next time my bartender friend and I visited the border town and we sat at an outdoor cafe and she asked for an ashtray, I said "you're in Mexico; you should've asked for that in spanish."

In the three months that I have been here, no one has been rude to me. No one has made me feel less than human because I don't speak their language. No one laughs because it is impossible for me to roll my r's.

Jose at the ice plant says, "you have to ask for a bag of ice this way: una bolsa con hielo" and as I carry the ice home, I say "una bolsa con hielo" to myself over and over because learning a new language is difficult, especially at this age. The next day I go to the restaurant and ask for a glass of ice "una vaso con hielo". To my ears "bolsa and vaso" sound a lot alike. I wish the Mexican "v" wasn't pronounced as a "b", it would make my life so much easier.

Felix says: "Every day I will help you with espanol and you help me with ingles, okay?"

I say: "Mucho gracias. Hasta manana."

Felix says: "Say it in ingles."

She asked for soup and I gave her soap

In the six weeks I've been here I've done just 3 loads of laundry because I've given away most of my clothes. Even to women who are three times my size because they have daughters or granddaughters who could use my ropas. And nail polish, perfume, coffee mugs. No more clothes to give away, having ridded myself of my only perfume, I pulled out a box of earrings I had made - dangly things made with Swarovski crystals - and we traded for those. The earrings were a big hit. I now have a lot of shell necklaces in their place. The women are quite specific in their wants/needs. "Antonia," Henrietta said, "Uno mil pesos y musica for this basket. You have cassette? Radio?" No, sorry, just these Bose speakers attached to my laptop.

Ignacia and Henrietta were the first to visit. Turns out that Ignacia is Lydia's best friend. Then Josefina and Juana came by. Josefina is Lydia's sister and Juana is Ignacia's; Henrietta is her best friend. Lydia seems to be the matriarch. She showed up near dark last night. I was surprised to see her. "Antonia, I am so hungry. Need pesos for food." She brought out more shell necklaces and I bought one for 30 pesos. "Do you have sopa?" she asked. I went inside my casita and returned with a bar of soap. We both got a good laugh out of that. I know sopa means soup but I was suffering from foreign language exhaustion. I told her not to eat it. I found a small can of frijoles so I gave her that.

When she left, I returned to cooking my dinner of pasta with chicken, artichoke hearts and sundried tomatoes.

Yellow Ice

I walked on the beach this afternoon, toward an assemblage of pelicans, gulls, comorants and terns taking siestas facing the Sea of Cortez. If I'm quiet, I can get pretty close, almost sit amongst them, and eavesdrop as a low-flying gull yelps "help help" followed by laughter "hahaha" from the gulls on the beach. The pelicans can't be bothered to participate in such tomfoolery. Overhead a turkey vulture circles but I am far too healthy-looking to be an afternoon snack.

I leave the gull convention and walk and think and gather shells as I head back towards my casita. I do not need any more fucking shells but shell-hunting focuses me inward; makes the thinking and walking seem less like exercises of the mind and body. I am the only human on the beach but then I see another human walking towards me. As he gets closer he smiles and I recognize him as the Mexican vendor I saw last week who I agreed to meet the next day at 2:00 so I could buy a bracelet or two but it was too windy - muy viento - and so I stood him up.

We shake hands and he remembers my name. "Buenos tardes, Antonia," he beams, and I "buenos tardes" him back. He's fine, I'm fine. That's about it for my Spanish. He sits on the sand, opens his case, and motions for me to sit next to him. We practice each other's language. He asks me my age and when I tell him the truth, no longer interested in evading the question, he pats me on the leg and expresses surprise and pats me on the leg again. He asks if I have an esposo and I have learned that I better have one, even if he is imaginary, in this little Mexican village. Si, si, I say. His name? I say "Steve" (the name of my most recent lover who is, ahem, in jail). "Como se dice 'Steve' in Espanol?" I ask. The vendor doesn't know. I end up buying a leather bracelet which the vendor kindly ties to my wrist. I guess I could've had my esposo tie it on, if only I had an esposo.

Back at the casita I decide to work on making the perfect margarita-from-scratch but I don't have ice. I hop on my bike and head to the ice plant which is only a few blocks away. I pull up and there is Jose and another man. "Hola, Antonia!" Jose relates to the man sitting next to him on the ice plant loading dock how we met. "I was asleep," he said, "and she woke me up." So that's our running gag. Whenever I walk by the plant I yell to Jose "No siesta?" I tell him that I need a bag of ice, hielo, which sounds like "yellow". He brings out a bag and I ask "how much?" "It's on me," he says. I mucho gracias him and tell him I'll get him the next time.

I am single. Middle-aged. Too young for retirement. Unemployed. Trailer Trash. I am wasting away in my own personal margaritaville. Life's good but not perfect; however, I am working on that perfect margarita.