Why is this guy staring at me?
He just asked me a question, what did he say?
Where am I, again?
Another restaurant.
Doys? Menu en Ingles?
Ahhhh, there’s that look.
The look of acknowlegement.
The look that my pronunciation was flawlessly wrong.
Every part of it.
Except the last word.
He always gets the last word.
And the phone gets picked up, the manager dialed.
Do you speak Italian, he asks?
Or maybe it’s German or French.
Of course not, we speak Ingles.
Actually, I’m not sure my English is any good anymore either.
But for now the necessities of life must be provided.
Food, Transportation, Toiletries, Translation Books.
Goh-streeh-yah falar Portuguese.