This is what happens when I sit on a story too long.
What was once timely and pithy becomes dated and jejune. But circumstances have conspired to breath relevancy into it.
Last summer I lost my glasses.
How or where, I do not know. One moment they were perched in what would be called my bodice if my name were Stephanie, the next they had taken French leave. I could not find them in any of the familiar places.
There was nothing left but to order another pair. I had updated my prescription while I was in Oregon, and even though the optician showed some reluctance to use it for a re-order, my formerly-boyish charm persuaded her. A week later she called to inform me my glasses had arrived from Mexico City.
Because I no longer make regular trips to Manzanillo (in fact, I avoid driving there as much as I can), it was a week later before I popped into the La Comer mall to pick up my glasses.
My Spanish is at a point where I try to think through what might happen in any given contact with the outside world. Sometimes phrases taught in language classes are just not very helpful in some (or any) situations.
You know the phrases. What time will the train arrive in Barcelona? Did you deposit a million pesos in the bank? The blue fountain pen is stuck in the baked chicken. (I think I stole the last one from Shelley Berman, but he died two years ago. So, I am not worried about being outed as an unreconstructed plagiarist. Of course, I just did.)
I actually translate lines and try to memorize them. Steve's handy lines for A Visit to the Optician include: "¿Podrías ajustar mis lentas? Se están deslizando por mi nariz." Could you adjust my glasses? They are slipping down my nose.
It may not be a great translation, but it does cover all of the elements I wanted to communicate. Adjust glasses. Slipping. Nose. It is a big improvement over what would have come out of my mouth without some rehearsal. Something like: Me glasses. Nose. Not here.
David Sedaris may think his "Me talk pretty one day" in French marked him as a linguistic tyro. When it comes to eviscerating Spanish grammar, I am a professional.
Armed with my possible lines, I confidently walked into the shop. The optician was not there, but her let-me-show-you-some-frames-that-will-make-you-look-beyond-guapo assistant was.
That did not faze me. I was armed with my on-the-apron soliloquy.
I tried on the glasses. Sure enough, they slipped down my nose. She did not seem to notice even though she was watching my glasses.
So, out came my canned phrase. As far as I could tell, I pronounced everything correctly and slowly. She simply stared.
Most of us would resort to mime at that point. I did. Partially. I repeated the line while moving the glasses up and down my nose.
At least, it amused her. She giggled. But she did nothing.
Then one of those oh-I-get-it looks flashed across her face. She took my glasses, opened a drawer, and took out some cleaner and a cloth. After cleaning my glasses, she gave me a "mission accomplished" smile. Along with my glasses.
I went home.
About a month later, after not wearing my glasses because of the slippage, I stopped by the shop during another Manzanillo trip. (I was probably picking up dry cleaning.)
Once again, the optician was not there. This time there were two clerks in the shop -- a young man and a new young woman.
I tried my line. The young woman perplexed looked at the man. He said something very rapidly. She smiled.
And, sure enough, the young woman took my glasses, opened a drawer, and took out some cleaner and a cloth. After cleaning my glasses, she gave me a "mission accomplished" smile. Along with my glasses.
Same line. Same result.
I went home.
I now have another opportunity to put that show on the road again. Somewhere around Zamora, I lost my glasses. I cannot tell you how, but I suspect while pulling my camera on and off my neck, I inadvertently flipped my glasses into the grass of a park.
On Monday I ordered another pair. There is a very good chance that they will not arrive before I leave for Australia next week.
But, if they do, I may just skip my desire to treat this as a fitting at my tailor. For some reason, adjusting the glasses does not seem to be part of the new glasses process.
Maybe that is a job the clerks leave to the optician. Or maybe it is my Spanish that falls into blue-fountain-pen-in-the-baked chicken mode. Or it simply could be something as simple as Mexicans taking responsibility for adjusting their own glasses.
Whatever it is, Act Three will be opening at an eyeglass store near me -- either next week or in another month.
Mexico is delivering on my decision to move here. I wanted to get out of the stultifying comfort zone of Salem. And, like both clerks, I now have a "mission accomplished" smile.
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