This evening, I bought a blouse from a nice woman named Adela. On Sunday, we made plans to meet today, Tuesday. She was going to bring me a black blouse (with no lace or other embellishments). Tuesday, she said, we’d meet by the church, or I was to look for her around the corner. I agreed. A woman of my word, I returned. Adela saw me and said, “Tomorrow, Heather” in her most strained English. I warned that tomorrow I would not be walking by the church because I’d be in the town teaching English. She remembered and suggested I’d look better in a natural color. She had just the shirt for my coloring. In order to discover this great shirt I just needed to follow her. Sure, what else was I going to do? I didn’t have to be anywhere in particular.
People watched as I followed her to get the perfect blouse. After the transaction, she left me to guard her disheveled (because she tried to convince me of many other options before deciding which one was perfect) pile. One man approaching me looked at me, looked at the pile, looked at me. I know he wanted to ask what the heck was happening. I wanted to say, “?Una blusa, amigo?” (Would you like a blouse, friend?)
She finally returned, and she promised a black blouse next time. I headed to the Zocalo to watch the evening grow darker.
Sitting in a café on the Zocalo means subjecting oneself to the hordes of people selling candy, necklaces, bookmarks, dolls, paintings, scarves, skirts, and blouses. One man selling blouses was fairly persistent even after telling him I’d already shopped with Adela tonight, even showing him the perfect blouse for me. He said, “OK, para tu madre.” I said, “No.” He said, “?Para tus amigas?” I jokingly said, “No tengo amigas.” (I don’t have friends.) He said, “OK, para mi.” That’s what he was asking for all along. He wanted me to buy a shirt for him, to help his business, but after Adela I couldn’t buy a shirt for him, even if I wanted to. Plus, how many perfect blouses can one woman have?
shewhodaresnothing 