Walk the walk

So, does my walk give me away? Maybe it’s my “I’m trying too hard to look like I fit in” swagger, or my “please don’t ask me anything” walk, but I can tell by their eyes that they know that I don’t belong here. Oh yes, they know.

The woman at the grocery store certainly knows. She asked me “darle una fombra porquisiera dromiera juntores buioas por cuoers hoita mierles parate?” (or something like that) to which I intelligently replied “huh?”

I try to hide the fact that I’m a fish out of water by using all the Spanish I know and answering questions whenever possible. The taxi driver asked me if I want to go to the mall in Providencia or the mall in Las Condes and I answered “si”. Now he knows. The Starbucks guy found out when he asked if I wanted my coffee to go and I said “the strawberry one, please”.

But no one is rude. (At least, I don’t think they are, but who knows since I can’t understand them). They could be saying “those poor gringos, they could use some help”, or maybe “I wish those idiots would go back to where they came from”. But most likely, it’s along the lines of “I hope that American woman doesn’t trip over the sidewalk strutting down the street that way”.

Sisma