In Spanish perro is dog and pedo is fart. If you don’t roll the double R’s properly, well . . . . The
other night Rob, Ananda’s father wanted a doggie bag for his leftovers and asked for a “carton por perros” (box for dogs); however, he didn’t roll his R’s properly and ended up asking for a “carton por pedos” — a box for farts. Fortunately the waiters at La Cueva have a great sense of humor.
Que pedo (What farts?) is a slang Spanish expression for What’s up? You would only say this to your closest friends. Apparently they say the same thing in French according to Martin from Belgium. I don’t think we have anything like this in English.
Last night was a total washout, and my languishing social life took a nose dive. Miguel, one of the CEA administrators, invited us to his birthday party in Puerto Morelos, about an hour away. Dario, Martin, Linda and I planned to go with David. However, there were no plans how to get there and no one seemed to know exactly where it was. Nevertheless, I blasted myself with bug spray, put on my best pink camouflage pants, beautiful, new coral-reeflike beaded bracelet from the art gallery and even lipstick. But by party time, Linda wasn’t back from work yet and we were milling around looking for David and calling Miguel. David was already there, it turned out, and the party had begun. Linda wasn’t back from work yet and by about 9:00 it was too late to think of going so far, and we still didn’t know how to get there.
I walked over to La Cueva to see if I knew anyone and the waiter told me there was a party at CEA — you never know if they’re kidding or not because they’re always making things up just to tease you. I walked over to CEA and sure enough there was a big shindig with lights, white streamers, candles and music. People were dressed up in tropical finery and milling around nicely set tables with fancy wine glasses. Oh boy! Then I spotted Alan looking elegant in white slacks and a chic, azure Hawaiian shirt. I was definitely underdressed, but walked over to Alan to find out what it was. “It’s an anniversary party for Wendall and Linda,” he said. “Oh,” I said, “Invitation only?” “Yes,” he said, and I sadly slunk away. I hadn’t been invited. I felt like a lonely, social outcast, definitely not in with the in-crowd. Never mind that I’d only met Wendall last week and didn’t even know Linda. It looked like quite a pricey celebration. Wendall’s from Texas and had treated me to a margarita when I met him.
So I slunk back to La Cueva for some ceviche and a margarita. Of course waiter Carlos the Card told me no ceviche just to harass me and I ended up with octopus and conch ceviche, which wasn’t what I was hoping for. I consoled myself with a chocolate-covered vanilla ice cream bar and read my book.