I have a performance Sunday night that I’m terribly unprepared for. I could be reading the scripts over right now, but I would rather sit here and wax poetic to you, dear blog.
This past weekend I was in Mexico City. That’s right: a different country. I am always deeply ashamed when I do not speak the language of the country I am visiting, so I made it a point to mime apologies for my ignorance and be as easy a customer as possible. But one person I was travelling with was a vegan who was very concerned about food poisoning from tap water. She also did not speak Spanish, but that did not stop her from asking if there was meat, milk, eggs, honey or butter in the ingredients, and whether their ice was created using purified water. I enjoyed watching the confused servers track down their strongest English speaker who appeared baffled by the questions every time. And my traveling companion was oft left uncertain of their answers.
We went to a delicious bakery in Mexico City, and I took a picture of it so that I could recommend the bakery to other people. When I was talking about it to some people in Mexico City, I said, “Here is a picture, it was called Panadería, are you familiar with this bakery? I highly recommend it.” I showed them the photo, they looked at each other and then back at me and said, “Panaderia is Spanish for bakery.”
So, anyway, now I know one word in Spanish.
We also went to the Frida Kahlo museum in Coyoacán. I originally led my friends to the wrong part of Coyoacán using an address I found on Trip Advisor: Avenida Coyoacan No. 2000, Mexico City 03103, Mexico. This was not an interesting destination. They forgave me, and we all agreed the hour long walk to the wrong location was a lovely expedition through Mexico City. Then we took an Uber to the Frida Kahlo museum, which was the cooler part of town.
The End
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