Recurring Inadequacies August 5, 2022
I inform my Australian neighbor that she has made a mistake asking for my assistance. Her mistake is twofold. First, with the knowledge that I am a physical science teacher, she erroneously believes that I must be handy with machines. Second, overhearing so much Spanish spoken in our apartment, she falsely presumes that I am fluent in the native language.
No, I do not speak Spanish, I am embarrassed to admit, although I do hear all of it spoken in my place and find the sounds very beautiful. And no, I do not understand the mechanics of a washing machine. My understanding of physics is purely theoretical; that is, in theory, I know of the science, just as I know that the Spanish language theoretically exists, but the practice of it I leave to engineers and other applied occupations. This self-image makes my actual uselessness seem almost enlightened.
Her problem concerns the new appliance she purchased across the street at Banco Azteca. These “banks” exist all over the city, but to find a teller there, one would have to navigate through lines of motorcycles, ovens, and washing machines. This financial institution is designed solely to make such pricey items affordable by securing loans. In San Cristobal, I once foolishly approached a Banco Azteca teller to request change for some 500-pesos bills, only to be told that there was no money, unless, I suppose, I wanted to take out a loan for a new scooter.
The Australian has tried to assemble her new “Mexican-style” washing machine and is unhappy to learn that it does not possess a spin-cycle to wring out her wet laundry. Worse, she does not see a drain in the machine and fears she might be forced to tip the thing over in order to spill the soapy effluent. The written instructions are like indecipherable cuneiform to the poor woman. I advise her to walk across the street and consult the nearest bank officer.
Meanwhile, and as a marked contrast to such recurring adequacies, my son Oli, only freshly arrived, has already discovered the intricate complexities of the Oaxaca bus system and even presented potential color-coded improvements for making the city more navigable. His evolving facility with Mexican slang leaves me to shame that I have lived here so long and yet learned so little. I channel my frustrations into the simplest avenue—I take a walk. Necesito Caminar, Cabron.
I am tasked simply with finding a particular brand of toothpaste. Certainly there are technologies embedded in my cellphone for such a search, but I instead resort to my trusty standby—memorizing the word of the thing I am after, followed by aimless wandering. In this particular case, my mistake is that I have misheard the word. Toothpaste is Pasta Dental, but I incorrectly remember toothpaste as Pasta Al Dente, thus propelling me on a doomed quest to pharmacies and nutrition stores asking for undercooked spaghetti. The confused clerks at each stop are nothing if not polite.
However, as the Rolling Stones are fond of singing, sometimes you find not what you want but, serendipitously, what you need. Vanessa still suffers from a sprained ankle, so she probably does not need toothpaste as much as some walking assistance. This epiphany strikes me in the form of an old one-eyed man outside the Iglesia San Francisco, who carries an inventory of wooden canes over his shoulder, all but for the one that sits beneath his underarm for support. He might reach 5-feet tall if only he could raise his hands above his head, but his hands are occupied with his crutch and supplies.
“Cuantos pesos?” I ask him.
“Dos Cientos y Cuarenta.” 240.
I have a 200, a 50, and a 20, but no coins. He is unable to make any change. I could offer 220, but my rule is never to haggle with a one-eyed dwarf who leans on a wooden crutch. I give him 250 for the cane and wish him luck, asking, against all hope, if he knows where I might find some undercooked spaghetti to clean our teeth.