“We’ve moved back to the island for good,” Julie said. “We left here because of the high prices but after a year we decided it was too hard for us to make it in Mexico.”
Sherry and I were having lunch at a beachside restaurant when Julie wandered by and joined us for a drink.
“We couldn’t make it in Mexico because I couldn’t learn Spanish,” she said. “It caused me no end of problems.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“I went to the main market at least every other day because there was no supermarket in the little town where we lived. They had wonderful fresh seafood and fresh meats, though.”
“How did you shop without knowing what to ask for?” Sherry asked.
“I used the desperation method. I needed to buy a ham and I got so frustrated explaining that I slid my dress up and showed the butcher my thigh. He was shocked but he understood.”
“That’s actually pretty good communication,” Sherry said.
“The next week I needed chicken breasts. After five minutes of struggling I yanked up my T-shirt and pointed. He got the message.”
“It’s communication as long as it gets the idea across,” I said.
“Maybe, but the time came when I had to explain that I wanted sausages. On this one, I gave up and brought Kevin back to the butcher shop with me.”
“Oh, my God,” Sherry said. “Don’t tell me you made Kevin . . .?”
“What are you thinking? I got Kevin because he speaks Spanish.”
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