Mexico, Part III
Sometimes, when my brother and I were younger and on vacation with our parents, we would start speaking to each other in another language. It was total gibberish, but it was fun to do. We would use hand gestures, we were very theatrical, and we were convinced that people around us really thought we were speaking some foreign language. Good times.
When I was a 17-year-old counselor in Camp Seneca Lake, five or six really mean 15-year-old girls used to speak in a language that used the sound “ivig” between consonants, or maybe it was between vowels. Whatever it was, I could not for the life of me decipher what they were saying. I just knew when they were talking about me because “Banji” in the “ivig” language was pretty clear. Not such good times. These were the same girls who decided, on the first night of camp, to see what was inside a fire extinguisher. I can tell you, from experience, that it isn’t water and it is hard to clean up.
When we were in Mexico, we did not speak or understand Spanish. Correction, I remembered how to count to 10, which I learned from watching “The Electric Company” on Channel 13. I do not know if that show still exists or if there is a Channel 13 anymore, but I was able to tell the security guard, in Spanish, what room I was in. Of course, I had to count to 10 several times, in Spanish, to come up with the correct numbers.
Picture a middle-aged woman counting on her fingers and reciting, “Uno, dos, tres” about four or five times. It was a good thing our room number was only three numbers, or I might still be trying to get into our hotel.
It is amazing what you remember from when you were young. I still can count to 10 in Yiddish, and my grandfather taught me that when I was 4 or 5 years old. Fun fact.
In any event, Husband #1 and I found it incredible and funny that every time we got in an Uber (mincha and maariv multiplied by six) we would ask the driver if he spoke English. Every single driver had the same response, word for word: “Only a little bit English.” And then Husband #1 would make a joke about the inclement weather, and I would roll my eyes at him, knowing that the driver had no idea what he was talking about.
On the one hand, you would think more drivers, waiters, and waitresses would be fluent in English because there are so many American tourists. On the other hand, we were in a Spanish-speaking country, so we should speak their language.
What is very interesting is that when you are shopping and you ask what the exchange rate is, that they know the answer to. In every language.
You feel very wealthy when you are in Mexico because it is about $20 to the peso. Or is it 20 pesos to the dollar? I can only count to 10.
I went a little crazy looking for things to buy for Strudel and her sisters. This is where Danish and her sister lose out. Even though I really want to, I don’t buy them anything when we go away, because whatever I buy them has to travel thousands of miles to get to them, and it only gets to them when we see them or if I find someone who is going to their neighborhood in Israel.
So if Danish’s parents are reading this, I apologize, and I will make up for it when, God willing, I come to visit in a few months
It is amazing how you can find one item and you see that it is priced differently in different stores. Though, since Husband #1 spent a lot of time praying at the Chabad, I was able to do a considerable amount of comparison shopping, which is a win/win for all of those concerned.
And now Strudel and Marshmallow have pull toys that look like frogs banging on drums while driving a truck. And they say “Cancun.”
Now that is classy.
And to culminate this trip, upon arriving at Newark airport and getting into our Uber, we asked the driver how his day was and he responded, “only speak a little bit English.”
Now that’s not fair, buddy, you are in my country now!!!
Banji Ganchrow from Teaneck would like to say muchas gracias to Husband #1 for taking her away. This will be the last column mentioning this trip. De nada (which possibly means “you’re welcome”).
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