The other day, Michael and I ventured out on our own to "do the city" and for me to take pictures for this The Best of Blog Carnival. It was an interesting adventure to say the least. It started with me forgetting my umbrella. Not good when it's rainy. Being the darling of a husband that my man is, he went up the three flights of stairs to go to 3B to get my umbrella.
Get the scene: I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and I'm wondering what could possibly be taking him so long.
Then, I listen. I'm hearing voices and I think it's my husband's voice.
I hear my husband "visiting" with another woman - well, that's cute, because he only knows about twenty words in Spanish and I can't figure out why he'd be "chit chatting" when we have a "date."
So, being the concerned wife, I head up the flights of stairs to see what's up.
To my chagrin, I see my husband at 2B - NOT 3B and I see the Griffin's key stuck in the door of 2B while the lady of the house (NOT speaking a lick of English) is trying to tell him what to do.
I'm dying. I'm dying a thousand deaths.
If you only could have witnessed the scene. I truly didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Of the myriad of thoughts, the least of which and kindest was that we have ruined the Griffin's attempt to be good and quiet neighbors in 3B (directly above 2B).
I try (OK, wives...this is NOT what to do) to rectify this most embarrassing situation by trying to communicate using my four words of Spanish. Communicate? Me? All I know is that women may not have a clue what the words mean, but we communicate with our heart language of woman.
I understood that she understood that her husband would come home and get the lock smith and bring us the bill.
Next scene: We leave - leaving the key (which was for the outside doors to the building) in the door of this woman's apartment. We leave quietly. No, not really. I'm not quiet. I'm . . . well . . . my poor husband got an earfull. This is the part that a good wife is NOT supposed to do. I'll leave my sin to your own imagination . . . ( except to say that I blew it on all Ten of These).
I'll continue the story on another post later - it's a good story of how God is into redemption and how He was in the KEY thing the whole time. Eating humble pie here.
Scene three: This is our date. We're wanting a true Basque food experience. At least, I am. And, since Michael wasn't feeling so hot about his manhood, he lets me "lead" the way to find a true Basque food experience.
Scene four: I see this sign below:
I have no clue what it says, except for the word salsa. I know salsa. I LOVE salsa. My friend Maria Chavira makes the BEST salsa in the Phoenix Valley. No, I would say in the state of Arizona - at least. For Maria's Charro Beans go here.
Scene five: My darling husband and I (I'd asked him to forgive me by this point. I truly apologized for slaying him out with my tongue.) were seated in the back of the bar area and this delightful looking server comes to our table.
I knew we were in trouble when she doesn't bring a menu and she begins to tell us what's on the days menu.
You'd think that if you have a menu, you can at least make out a few of the words - and at least get an idea of what there is to eat.
When they tell you what there is to eat - you're at risk for just shaking your head and ordering something that you might NOT want to eat.
It can be nervy telling someone that we only speak English and by this time, we couldn't hide the fact any longer . . . we had to confess.
The little darling was so kind so she began her sign language. I'm so thankful for sign language. I've actually been practicing mine since I've been here. A smile and a few hand motions go along way.
So, our darling server starts using signs and she points to her cheek.
I am thinking to myself, "This can't be a good thing. She must be talking about the cheek of something." She is.
Next, she points to her tongue. Tongue? Could it be that she's meaning tongue? Like t-o-n-g-u-e - like the tongue of something?
Yup, that's exactly what she's meaning.
Then, I think to myself, "This is NOT good. This must be God's punishment to me for being so ungracious to my darling husband."
Quick - Lylah - think of something. Cheek. Tongue. I pull out one of my four Spanish words, "Pollo."
She shakes her head NO and then says, "Fish." Phew. Yes! Score. Rad (as my kids might say). Dude (as my grandkiddos say). Blessings! Phew! Fish, I love fish. This IS good.
Scene five: I smile warmly at my darling and think, "This is going to be sweet and romatic after all. God's redeeming our "date." I relax. My darling hubs relaxes. Life is good. We smile at each other.
Scene six: Our darling server comes back with the most amazing Basque salad and after we finish (almost licking our plates) she brings the "fish."
Scene seven: I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I remember having a similar flux of emotion like this earlier in the day.
Squid. I've never eaten squid. I don't really want to eat squid again. Michael and I look at each other and laugh so hard - trying to NOT make a scene. Fortunately, the bar was noisy. It's definitely a memory. A good one . . . with lessons learned for me . . . for us. What was funny was watching my hubs face get red with each bite. He could barely swallow the stuff down. When she asked (in sign language) how it was and we said "bueno", we were sincerely trying to make a "faith statement" and later on we realized we simply lied.
Part Two is here.
