I sit in the middle of the greasy, crowded restaurant. The Sunday crowd has turned out in full, trying to hang out to the last bit of holiday cheer remaining in the last few hours of the holiday break.
In walk two men, good looking, sharp, with impeccable styling. They are dressed in the casual, but fashionable way, shoes even being on trend.
When two young men with great looking shoes walk into a restaurant together, there is only one thing to think: they must be from out of town.
And so they are...from Mexico, speaking fluent Spanish. I try to piece it together, snags here and there, but it is no use...I cannot speak Spanish, although I try. I can say a few phrases and so I try...I try to say hello.
They look at me, four eyes - four spanish eyes -- trying not to laugh. They succeed.
I then try the next phrase, "How are you?".
They respond, respectfully, "Good. What is your name?"
I say, "Maurie is my name. Your name is?"
They say, "Juan. And Estevan."
Then, I say -- or try to say, "I am hungry...", although in Spanish you say, "I have large hunger."
But I don't say that. I say something similar, but altogether different. I say, in Spanish, "I want a large man".
This time, they cannot help but laugh.
"No, they say, say it this way.." and they tell me what I have done, what I have said. We share a laugh and I try some more lines, all butchered, none quite right.
I am amazed how they, in a few short years, speak English so well, so beautifully. Perhaps they speak it even better than I might. I am ashamed at how terribly I have learned their language and I make a resolve to do it better.
I leave without eating. I have lost my appetite.
