Making Friends, MANO to MANO

Foreigners always seem held to a different set of standards. The local population assumes the person with the different language, the different skin coating, the different body odor --- they figure this person is an idiot. Or naive. Ignorant, perhaps. This foreign entity just doesn´t get it. Especially, most especially, when the newcomer is trying to speak the native language.

So, when a Jordanian is walking down the teeming streets of New York City, and approaches a local female with the inquisitive, “Please, I ask you lady, I look to touch the boobs. You show me where I can find the boobs” ----the specified victim of the language barrier will simply chuckle and pass off the maligned question as an error in translation. However, if approached by a fellow paisano, whose perfectly dictated New York accent proclaimed, “Yo lady, You gotta nice rack. You, uh, mind if I give em a good squeeze” ---- this interrogative man would find his chubby bagel stuffed face imprinted with the backside of Ms. Boobie´s Hand. And maybe forced to endure a litany of vulgar degradations to the actual function of his manly centerpiece.

Being aware of the existence of such Culturally Accepted Mistranslations, I occasionally exploit the theory for the amusement of myself and those lucky enough to be located nearby.

The market was bustling with native women selling a variety of freshly picked produce. Other vendors were hawking a motley mix of chickens, rabbits, and the local favorite – the guinea pig. I had befriended a particular saleslady specializing in milk products. Her story centered around the cows that lived on her property and the long hours she put in to eventually create her cheeses and yogurts. Somewhere in the middle of her personal daily recap, I loudly proclaimed that she liked to “te gusta se paja la vaca”. The aisle of vendors responded swiftly --- the men broke out into uncontrollable laughter while the women simply stared at me with a curious mixture of disdain and pity. The milk byproduct hawker shook her head in disbelief, and gently raised her hands into the air, as to exclaim “just another silly gringo, who doesn´t know anything”. I had knowingly stated, “you like to jerk off the cow”.

It was during the ensuing crowd reactions that I noticed him. A non-descript (thus, he will receive no description) late thirty something man. He expressed neither amusement nor disgust. But adorned a brief smirk. It’s a smirk I would see again.

Breakfast is often a solitary time. A part of the day dedicated to one´s own awakening. A preparation for the day´s battle. A meditation on the misery of work. A General Mills flashback to the liberty of childhood. Lunch is sometimes sacrificed in adherence to modern work-slave principles. Other times the mid-day meal serves as rebellion to the enslavement of the office. In South America, lunch often acts as the Northern Hemisphere´s dinner. And the final meal, the celebration of another day survived, this course deserves company. A partner, or two, who can share stories of embarrassing Jordanians, and utter yanking Americans. Dinner often serves as the artistic showcase of food´s potential, and creates an environment to remind it´s participants that community remains an unbroken joy of the human experience.

So, basically, eating dinner alone SUCKS. And eating dinner in a restaurant alone, well, that really SUCKS. Traveling in foreign countries, having no access to kitchens, a solo traveler often finds that dinner can be a completely unrewarding experience when a partner is unavailable to share the lord´s feast.

On one such night, I found myself in a popular restaurant, full of laughing couples and raucous groups of friends. Alone. With a book to shield myself from the prying pity laden eyes of nosey tables. What´s wrong with that guy? I feel sorry for him.

The table next to me had two business partners who would cast occasional eyes on me. How did this white man find our local dining spot? Wanting to break free of my novel´s solitary confinement, I cast off a casual pick-up line, Do you guys eat here often? And within minutes I found myself part of a normal dinner party, learning the complexities of the computer import business. If that line would only work with random women, I could finally find my South American wife and open up our guinea pig farm.

And that´s when he passed by my table. The man with the golden smirk. He was a waiter at the restaurant. He barely stopped, but his stare was one of recognition. Did I know him before the market incident? Have I finally found my Guardian Angel?

Along the lines of the Dining Alone Dinner Theory (University of Chicago Press, 1957),there is a Going to A Bar Alone Theory (Florida State University, 1992) that casts extreme awkwardness on those who dare enter the social confines of a watering hole sans conversational partner. I wanted to wear a shirt that said, My previous bar partner just left me to go home to her husband, but I wasn’t ready for bed, so I came here for a nightcap. But the local silkscreener couldn’t fit it on my t-shirt. Even though it was the truth. I swear.

The Live Music sign sucked me in. I could always pass myself off as a music aficionado desiring some local tunes. According the Going to a Bar Alone Theory, this exception was tolerated. The bar was empty. I pulled up my stool, suffered denial of charming small talk from the frigid barkeep, and focused my attention on the group of young guys enthusiastically singing Latin songs on the nearby couches. They were good. So I sent over some beers. Soon after my charitable gesture, I was lounging amidst the next big band that no one has heard of. The intriguing part of the musical experience was that every member of the 6 person group could play guitar. They would each play a song on the guitar while the others clapped percussion beats on the wooden coffee table. And most of the songs were traditional songs from a variety of South American countries. Really rich, beautiful songs. I wish I could have sang along too. They knew every word. Eventually, when the voices were wearing thin, they asked their foreign guest to sing a traditional song from his country. I chose Rape Me, by Nirvana. I was allowed a one-time pass under the Geneva Conventions, article XVMCVIIIc., regarding Moronic Things that Foreigners May Do and Why You Shouldn’t Shoot Them.

As I left the bar, invigorated by my shared experience with the musicians, a familiar face approached me. The smirking man. Apparently, he had been sitting in the back of the bar enjoying some post-work cocktails. He didn’t understand my song, but said he enjoyed it. He invited me for another drink, an opportunity to mock other bar patrons who had fallen prey to THE THEORY. He was really interested in sharing a drink, but the nightcap had already taken affect. Besides, sharing drinks with drunks deserves its own theory and should be avoided at all costs. Upon denial, he began to tell me, in a debauched stutter, how he would probably just go home and paja el carne. Thinking I didn’t understand, he began to physically demonstrate the universal hand signal for yanking the cow utter. And at the moment, I realized that I was no better then the pathetic drunk. As I would probably retreat to my quarters and partake in that international ritual known as post-bar time solitude.

The following evening, the clock approaching midnight, I had actually forgotten to eat dinner. How do you forget to eat dinner? Is there some sort of primal law that requires humans to eat the evening chow?

Only one place was open. Mexican. In certain cities in America, this establishment could be considered an authentic opportunity to feast on Mexican delights. But when another culture attempts to recreate burritos and tamales, the results can be frightening. Like getting pizza in Tokyo. As I read the local newspaper, amazed how much easier it was to read a second language then to verbally understand it, I spotted another lone diner. According to the dinner theory, these two conversationless grubbers should unite to form a productive dinner partnership.

Was it fate? Who was this guy? The smirking spanker was here again. I took precaution. We would enter into this relationship slowly. Just friends, from a distance. We began to talk across the empty expanse of hanging sombreros and forsaken Corona bottles.

The conversation began innocent enough. We were now acquainted with each other´s countenances. He was a 38 year old waiter who apparently enjoyed de-stressing after work. And he didn’t like women because when you went out to eat with them, they could never make up their mind. And they always took so long to get ready. Well, I clearly agreed with him, but stated that this was no reason to swear off an entire gender. But he was sick of women. Couldn’t take them and their procrastinating ways. After some moments of hesitation, he confessed enjoyment of his fellow gender.

Movie pauses. At this junction, most single men in a foreign country would excuse themselves and run down the street. I thought I would hear this guy out. Obviously, he thought I was free range meat, up for the taking. The Geneva Conventions stipulation that all single men in bars without woman in foreign lands are free meat for the gay community was clearly being summoned. And shortly after his confession, he utilized some indecipherable slang that was given the international symbol of a finger disappearing into a hole.

Without invitation, the smirking spanking hole prodder joined my vacant table. His sexual frustrations began to rain. The conservative Catholic community made life as a perverted gay man very difficult. He just wanted to get laid. Couldn’t I help? Pretty, pretty, please. I couldn’t simply deny this guy without somehow trying to save him. It was the Christ in me.


Following an avowed declaration of my waning heterosexuality, the smirking spanking hole prodding stalker (S.S.H.P.S) was to take advice from the solo dining Gringo. I began with a lifestyle change. He had to leave the small town and make his way to the capital city. Its in the capital cities of the world, where one can find any semblance of a gay scene. And until he allowed himself to be near a place that accepted his lifestyle, he would remain miserable, stalking unsuspecting foreigners. I then made an economical plan that laid out a savings program that would allow him to leave with some financial security and enough time to find a job. He even received advice on how to find out if a guy is straight --- stalk him only long enough to see a beautiful girl pass his vision. Then a handsome man. Depending on which one made his head turn, he´d get an answer without having to ask the embarrassing question. He listened attentively as I continued the uplifting speech on How to be a Homo and Really Really Enjoy Yourself.

His name was Javier. He thanked me. I left the restaurant feeling that maybe I actually made a difference in somebody´s life. A person who only wanted what all other humans want – Happiness. And an environment to achieve it in. Hopefully, Javier would move to the capital and enjoy years of no-hassle fornicating.

The streets were as empty as the day after Armageddon minus the troops. The air was cool, and as I looked back toward the restaurant door, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe my Spanish wasn’t translated in Javier´s ears the way it should have (with no recongition of the foreign translation transgression theory). Maybe he took my advice as a sign of my interest. Would the Geneva Conventions really protect me at this hour? Despite the challenge of uneven cobblestone streets, I ran the 6 blocks home. I went to bed, wondering who was that person downstairs, pacing the street?