So much fun

Two nights later, around six, the phone rings.   

"Hi Elizabeth!" Such a happy voice and so happy to hear mine.  "It's Tom.  Can I ask you a favor?"  He laughs, his voice turns sheepish for sympathy.  "Can you order us a pizza?  We tried...but they didn't understand my English.  Jeez."  He can't believe the whole world doesn't speak English.

I am silent.  This is how it begins.  I refuse to become their fixer.  Been there, done that with way too many gringos.  A fucking waste of energy.

Brightly in a singsong: "I know a good language school for you."  Still lighthearted:  "You guys have got to learn Spanish." 

"Definitely.  Give Bob the number tomorrow."

"I'll give it to you now."  I gave them the number for the Spanish school many times, but in the nine months they lived in Merida, Bob never learned anything other than hola, por favor, gracias.  Tommy used one word all the time for everything, perfecto.  He loved saying it.  Everything, no matter what, was always perfecto. He said it with authoritative gusto.  When the waiter brought the bill, it was perfecto, when he brought back the change, perfecto.  Tlapaleria, Bancomer, the garbage man:  perfecto.  With one word he made everyone feel good.

Suddenly I found myself saying, "OK.  What kind of pizza do you want?"  I couldn't believe it. Why would I do something for them that I would have never done for anyone else?  

With this gesture, I entered into their "learning to be expats journey."  They were so loopy, so out of it, I felt sorry for them   Never occurred to me, not being able to order a pizza.  I would do this one little thing, but nothing more.  I would not stand on line with them at the electric company.  I would not go to the doctor with them.  

"Vegetarian with sausage, meatballs and bacon."

These guys are a riot.   I call Messina's Pizza.  Because it is so much fun.