Mexico struck me mute. Not just the vivid colors, vivid smiles and vivid flavors. It was also ignorance. I spoke no Spanish. Over five weeks – back in the single, summer, semi-employed days when weeks came easy – the clatter clumped into words and the words into rapport. I loved every minute of Mexico.
In my rented room, I patted the bed: cama. I stripped down mango for supper: cena. Days, I charted verbs; nights, I studied ramble, guitar, tequila. I was adept at present tense, the verb “to linger” and the vocabulary of street food.
At the taqueria, I watched the masters lime-marinate carne and grill it asada. I studied – over and over – green onions charred brown. I took in smoky, sharp and sweet.
Over long and sunny, I learned climb and vista. Over late and starry, I learned confide and friend. I skipped the last class, the one where we practiced farewell.