Friday, December 4, 2009

The unassuming attraction

Yesterday I was enjoying a little post-shopping respite--working on some logic puzzles I got from another Volunteer--in the cafeteria of La Sirena, the closest thing this country has to Wal-Mart. I have a four-person table to myself, until an elderly man sits a raggedy looking 7-something boy down next to me, puts a big plate of pasta and vegetables in front of him, then takes off. Though I was happy to have company, a "Is it ok if the boy sits with you?" would have been nice. Now, questions: who is my new lunchmate? Could he be a shoeshine boy, eating what's likely the most delicious meal of his life on a kindly old man's tab? Placed next to the white guy, inspiring the jaded American to work tirelessly in the service of shoeshine boys? Or more likely, but far less romantically, he's this old man's son or nephew or something, and this white guy doesn't look as much like a child abductor/molester as the other guys sitting alone at other tables. Either way, I try to engage in a little small talk, you know, about his food--"¿Está buena la comida?" and "Pero, ¿ya has terminado? Imposible"--and the weather--"Que sí hace frío aquí en La Sirena, con este aire acondicionado, ¿no?"; curious stares are his only response. Meanwhile, three fine-looking 40-somethings seem to think it's cute, the little boy with his big ol' pasta, the big ol' gringo with his little yogurt--the kind that comes with a small thing of Oreo bits attached to the top, that you mix in. They look over at me and smile; I reciprocate, and I might have treated it as a come-on, except that I was busy with my puzzle and yogurt and they probably had 10+ kids, three husbands and five boyfriends between them. Then a girl sat down with us, maybe his shoeshine sister, or just his regular sister--more attempts at small talk, more stares. Then a minute or two later they left briskly, silently and unceremoniously, to go sit with what appeared to be their family.

I'm still working on my puzzle, when a middle-aged woman, maybe the same age as the man who sat the kid down, asks me if I'm from around here. Like all Volunteers, I have a prefabricated answer ready for instant deployment: "no, I'm from the United States, but I live in Las Maras and teach English and computers there and in Villa Palmarito. My organization is called the Peace Corps...", etc. But I vacillate a little and she cuts me down with question #2: "My daughter is wondering where a good pica pollo (fried chicken place) is around here. Do you know of one?" The following is what I want to ask at this moment: "Is your daughter hot? Where does she live, if not around here? If I buy her pica pollo, will she give me digits? Why are you asking me, almost certainly the only non-Dominican in the cafeteria, about pica pollo? And why you and not your presumably hot daughter?" Instead, I duly point her towards my favorite pica pollo, the one three or so blocks towards Autopista Duarte on Gregorio Rivas, the one that you've missed if you've made it to the Banco Popular. It's called Don Julio. She said thank you and left. I never saw her gorgeous daughter.

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