Last night I had my first cup of coffee in Bolivia. I was in cross-cultural mode and hadn´t even considered the fact that I hadn´t had coffee in many many years, I was simply following the lead of everyone else at the dinner table and didn´t want to create a scene by turning down this hospitable gift. It was Nescafe, which I hear is one of the finer blends of instant coffee, and it predictably messed up my digestive system the way I had feared. I have to stop forgetting that I´m not particularly a chameleon regardles of however hard I may try.
Doña Mary is the queen of the household. She reminds me of my own grandmother, bustling about the house ensuring that everything is handled correctly and on time. She radiates a tranquility that I find exceptionally comforting, and I have spent several evenings sitting at the table watching Christian television shows with her late into the night. John Hagee is a lot better in Spanish ;)
Her sister, on the other hand, is the epitome of Cosmopolitan. She’s one of those people who greets you, understands you’re a foreigner who is there learning Spanish, and then promptly ignores all of that by riddling you with questions at 2 million miles per hour. She´s from España and just visiting. Spaniards... pah. I imagine she has several small animals at her villa in Spain that she carries around in overpriced handbags. As we ate dinner she continued plying me with questions and like an idiot I continued to respond with “si” and “no” whenever I heard an inflection in her voice. She’s one of those people who assumes because you’re smiling and you’ve responded with one word answers to all her questions that clearly you’re fluent. You can probably imagine the trouble I waltzed my way in to. I’m pretty sure everyone at the dinner table now thinks that I’m a 27 year old Zionist who has been divorced twice, believes in reincarnation, and thinks Obama will win the next election in a landslide. I´m sorry, I tried... I really tried... But you know what? That’s OKAY, because Dona Mary’s sister also thinks I speak perfect Spanish. Mission accomplished.
In spite of my efforts to categorize her as completely bourgeoisie, as we were clearing the dishes from the table she grabbed my hand and held it between hers and said, ¨now you´re part of this family, you can call me Aunt Sara¨ and proceeded to plant a wet one right on my cheek. Sigh. Okay she probably doesn´t own a villa, and i´m sure she paid a fair price for her hand bags, which were of course made using fair labor practices in the local community. Tia Sára is alright with me.
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