On Saturday, ten minutes after we arrived at the Don Mario Hotel in Chinandega, I concluded that our hostess Iliana was a bit distant, abrupt, and dour.
On Sunday, I sit in a wooden rocker trying to remove spots from Marlo’s white shirt. When it was laundered in Granada, it came back with a freckled collar.
While Don Mario cooks our supper, Iliana stops to see what I am doing.
“Tengo algo para eso (I have something for that),” she says.
“Sopa?” I ask.
She looks puzzled. I laugh and quickly correct myself.
“No, no sopa—jabon. (No, not soup—soap).”
She beckons me to the laundry room and with a brush and soap, deftly rubs out the spots. I ask if she thinks they are from insects. She says she thinks they came from an iron.
She rinses the collar, buttons it carefully over a hanger, and we return to the dining area.
Don Mario has dinner ready. She looks at me, shakes her head, and chuckles, “Sopa,” she says.
As I laugh with her, she squeezes my shoulder in a gentle hug.
And I relearn a lesson from kindergarten.
For safely crossing cultures—as well streets—
It is crucial to stop, look, and listen.
Often.
In fact, always.
No comments:
Post a Comment