4th Meal

Geese and ganders,

Two house-cleaning items:

First, if it weren’t for Halloween, I’d wish killer fire ants decimated all pumpkins.

They taste like emu stool samples.

This of course means my host family loves them. Luckily, they always serve it in the form of cannelloni and because they are prepared in the early afternoon they are easy to spot and allow a convenient escape to dinner elsewhere.

Second, it has come to my attention that there is a rumor going around that I will have four-day weekends all semester. This is not true. This will only continue until Mid-November at which point school will be out and I will have either 7-day-weekends or non-stop holidays, I haven’t decided.

Recently there seems to be an unusual recurring theme: the ride/walk home after going out every Saturday has proven more of a story than the night itself.

Two weeks ago I went out with two gringo friends, one male, the other female. As the vodka tonics and Quilmeses poured down, the night went from “Friends Night Out” to “Him, Her and a Third Wheel.” Thanks to my newly appointed wingman status, I came to terms with the fact I was taking a cab by myself. There was no way I was walking 35 blocks, in the pouring rain at 5 a.m. home. There was no way except for the fact that I had no money.

20 blocks of walking added hunger to my list of ailments. I walked into the first restaurant and ordered a milanesa and a tomato salad. I thought: I’m hungry from walking, I shall eat a meal. The six emo kids in the booth opposite me thought: this 20-year-old kid in soaked, pin-striped coat jacket is clumsily carving into a full tomato at 6 in the morning by himself, and my dad calls me socially incompetent.

After Gerardo, my 65-year-old waiter, had told me his fifth tip as to ‘how to juggle simultaneous ‘relationships’ with a 28-year-old, a 50-year-old, and a 28-year-old’s mother’, I headed on my way.

I still had 15 blocks and very little patience left. I sprinted down the major six-lane avenue, wearing a drenched sport jacket and shoes that are a soft-sole away from being slippers. I made it home, but not before I face-planted and skidded four feet on my stomach down the dirty sidewalk. Everybody thought it was hilarious. I thought it was a drag.

The following Saturday I was once again hungry after being dropped off. This time my hunger had a name and a face: Big Mac and fries. Fortunately, McDonald’s is on a 24 hr system; their lunch policy, however, is not. Apparently, 6 am is “breakfast-only” time. “I cannot serve you a Big Mac and fries,” cashier lady Mabel said. I was determined to get both. The following exchange ensued:

- Listen, Mabel, I really want this meal. Could you help me out?
- No.
- Please?
- No.
- Ok forget the Big Mac, just give me the fries. You gotta give me fries.
- No.
- Pretty please?
- No.
- I will give you 20 pesos (roughly 400% what they cost) if you make me fries. It’ll be our secret.
- No.
- 30.
- No.
- 40.
- I will give you 50 pesos if you make me a batch of fries. I can see them from here. All you have to do is dip them in delicious frying grease.
- No.
- 50 pesos for a dip!? Why not?
- Angrily Either you order a breakfast meal or I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.

The guy behind me: I’ll double his offer (read: morning bribe). You’ll make $100 pesos if you make us a batch of French fries.
- Angrily, Insulted-ly, but not tempted. NO!
- Fine, I’ll have a breakfast sandwich.

The sandwich was great but not filling. I had to go order another one.
- I’ll have a Big Mac and fries, please.
- Security!!
- One breakfast sandwich and an orange juice to go, please?

Always pack a snack on Saturdays. Write that down.

‘Tis all for now,

Grego

P.S. Would you rather be a super hero or a super villain?

P.P.S. For anybody who ever went to a quinceaños in Central America, I am paying 40 pesos to listen “Sigue Bailando” live on Saturday.