Amigos?

I have written before about how our family enjoys a routine (Can we live here?). One day, sitting by the pool discussing the day with Charlotte we made an interesting observation. It was near the end of our week, after we had a week under our belt with nearly the same daily routine. We realized we gotten to know many of the workers. We had formed a friendship, no, that probably isn’t the right word. We had formed an understanding of each other that went beyond, “more coffee please”. Laura, still to this day, will smile, probably cover her mouth with both hands and get embarrassed if you ask her about Andres. Andres was our breakfast waiter. We sat in his area daily. When he saw us coming he set out a table for five. Well, one day Laura had a runny nose. She was doing fine wiping it. Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed it. I guess it was bothering Andres because he sweetly came up and wiped her nose. The look on Laura’s face was priceless. She was shocked.

We thought of our life at home and realized that we have similar relationships at home. Through our routine we have figured out that we interact with the same people more regularly and in doing so we’ve seen that an understanding of each other develops. I may stop to get a diet coke for Charlotte at “our” 7-Eleven and the worker may ask me where the kids are today. Or he may ask Andrew “What’s up little man?” which Andrew loves. Charlotte has some workers who know her order without asking, “the usual”, “yes, please”. When we talked about this observation we actually found it comforting. There was something to be said for the interacting with the same people regularly. There’s probably a word for these relationships. They aren’t friends, but they are no longer just the person that you exchange money with behind the counter, or the person who serves you at a restaurant. I guess the very profound observation is that they are human.

You’d be surprised (or maybe you wouldn’t) at how inhumanely these people are sometimes treated. I watched a lady (who was trying to communicate that she wanted an egg-white omelet) rudely yell at the Mexican chef, “does anyone here speak English?” Remember, we’re in Mexico. I looked at her dumbfounded and said (in English), “I do.” She did not laugh as she huffed away. I shared a smile with the chef when he had no problem understanding my order, which was given in English.