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Lost in Translation
Father Calvin took us to the Hong Kong Restaurant. The menu had two sides: one written in a Chinese-y Spanish, the other in a comical version of English. Instead of chicken breast, the restaurant offered chicken bosom, which was served with deep dry noody. I took this odd-sounding side to mean deep fried noodles when I ordered it, and was relieved when this was actually what was served, as I had no idea what a “noody” might be!
I tried not to laugh out of respect for the earnest restaurateur who was extremely excited to have Americans in his restaurant—not an everyday occurrence Calvin explained—but it was too much. I giggled my way through the gastronomic options, trying several times to slip a menu into my purse because my friends would never believe me if I didn’t have proof. The squat Chinese owner, who had the waitresses cutting napkins into four pieces and refolding them into tiny squares, was vigilant, making it a point of stopping at our table every few minutes to ask if we were ready to order, his hand extended to take my menu. We returned to the restaurant many times during our stint in Germania, but I was never able to get a menu out the door.As we walked back to the parish house after dinner, I couldn’t believe the change in the atmosphere of the small town crisscrossed with roads, many of which were dirt and some of them little more than rutted paths. From two-story lean-tos with screen wire for windows, a number of songs from Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" album competed for attention. While “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin'” blasted from one disco, “Beat It” throbbed from another. A block away, the rock superstar crooned “Billie Jean” from yet another smoky room.Bare-chested men holding cold cervezas leaned against the facades of restaurants and bars while women in their best dresses sashayed by. One particularly tall woman stood on a well-lit corner where the streetlight leaned at a precarious angle toward the ground. She was mesmerized by a group of children playing nearby. Her revealing dress in a juicy shade of red contrasted her wiry, dark hair that was pulled back to expose the smooth, sepia-toned skin of her face. I thought it odd that a lone shock of white ran along her hairline above her right ear. She didn’t look old enough to have sprouted gray hair, which made me wonder if the swath could be the result of hardship or trauma. Though I saw her for only a few seconds, I was convinced she’d lost a child. Her expression as she watched the children’s antics was part peaceful wonderment and part agonizing longing.It was remarkable how the inky air had turned the town into an antithetical version of its sun-drenched self. The streets had come alive, which made perfect sense because nighttime was the only tolerable time to be outside in August in the tropics. Like those of the discos, the windows on the parish house were unadorned openings cut into the building’s façade, covered over with screen wire. Until the wee hours of the night, the songs chosen by the DJs congealed into a soundtrack for my drama—a protracted tossing and turning on the single cot with its thin mattress. To their credit, Jacko, Springsteen, Madonna and Aretha held their own against a retrospective of the history of Reggae.If you are new to my blog and you'll like to start at the beginning, here's the link to the earliest post. Reading the "Start Here" sidebar gives you the very first information. Thanks for stopping in!
