Classes at Amigos del Sol are wonderful. Four hours a day, the four of us are studying español, talking, learning tenses, and laughing a lot. The school is outside of town and the director, Rogelio, is about the nicest guy on Earth. Our maestros, Sandra and Esteban, are incredibly patient and their sense of humor is absolutely necessary after some of the things we´ve said-unwittingly-in español.
The first week, three out of the four of us got sick. The day I was ill is a story worth sharing.
After a torturous night of pipi caca, Pete woke me in the morning letting me know they´d be leaving for class. I decided, of course, to stay home in order to sleep and recover.
A half hour after they had left, while reading Angle of Repose, I heard a knock on the door, Elizabeta, our landlord, was knocking on the door. When I opened the door, I saw she was standing with a man that turned out to be a plumber, ready to get the stove hooked up to a propane tank. I amiably accepted the intrusion, expecting nothing more than a few tubes spliced and screwed together.
I continued my reading, but after a few minutes of banging from the kitchen, I heard the plumber yelling at me. In the process of punching a hole through the wall for the gas line, he busted the main water line to the apartemnt and a fountain of water was spraying across the length of the kitchen. All in hurried spanish, he told me to get Elizabeta to turn off the water valve on the roof and then turn off the water in el baño. I ran to get Elizabeta, and when she returned she started shouting, ¨"Que me digas!", or What are you telling me! After turning off the water, she came back with a mop, and they proceeded to clean up. After the adrenaline rush, I had to leave the apartment for una ¨"ahorita". I walked to the zocalo, which was full of loiterers and vendors, surprisingly so for a Tuesday at 11am. I felt waifish and thin, but happy enough.
I returned to the apartment, and the two were still working away. The plumber stayed for several hours, shuttling back and forth between the kitchen and the bathroom, by way of the bedroom in which I lay, reading. I felt a bit self conscious, which became only more acute as the afternoon passed unchangingly.
Finally, at 3 in the afternoon, the plumber came to give me advice, of course all in spanish, about how to work the stove. As he gave me a demonstration, the burner he had just lit exploded in a ball of flame, went out, and then we heard the sound of gas. We raced eachother out of the small doorway of the kitchen, and he ran to turn off the propane tank. After a second, more succesful attempt, he was satisfied and left me in peace.
About fifteen minutes after he left, Anna, Eric, and Pete came back. The apartment looked as if nothing had happened at all.
