I like my little melting pot of a neighborhood. I could almost see myself living there, if the landlord was just a little easier to get along with. Wait, I am the landlord, at least a couple of afternoons a week. Guess that’s the self-absorbed thing, again, isn’t it?
I was stopping off between apartment buildings, digging around in my pocket for some change so I could snag a quick taco. Conjunto was blaring on the radio, painting an aural background for the kitchen, frying meat, sizzling onions, all of that was drifting out through the little window.
The cook looks up at me, and I start wondering out loud if she could understand in French.
“Tu le comppris, que fancaise y’etais plus simple pour moi?” I asked.
I continued, undaunted, “Je prefere francaise?”
Years of college French, like [i]that[/i] was a good idea.
But let it never be said that I didn’t try alternative forms of communication. I can say “thank you” in Chinese now, I tried learning “June, July, August” in Portuguese, you know, just trying to be a well-rounded – “Saheeb” [some Indian dialect, I think].
I was learning a few words in that dialect, but I’m little suspicious because of the smirks I elicit when I try the words out. I have to wonder if I’m being taught to say, “thank you” or “I want to have carnal knowledge with your grandmother.” Can’t tell.
Still, after Portuguese being so close to Spanish, I just figured I could give the old college French a try.
I tried a second time, “Francaise?”
She replied, “Tocina?”
My Spanish is none too good, but from what I understand, “tocina” means bacon.
I think there’s a message here, I’m just not sure what. Might be that all white males are pigs. And that might mean that I’m self-absorbed. Either way, it’s not much of a revelation.