Although I had just eaten, I stepped into a nearby restaurant and ordered some more food. I hadn’t come across many English speakers in this part of town, and had previously resorted to asking for things like ‘breakfast’ and ‘food’, given the utter inadequacy of my Spanish vocabulary. But this place had an interpretter. The only problem was that I didn’t know what any of the foods he mentioned were. I enquired about some of them and got the answer that they were typically some stuff wrapped in something flat. I asked for whatever he recommended and went to sit down by the blaring television.
A grinning man opposite me stopped his chewing to concentrate more earnestly on grinning at me. He raised a half-full bottle of Corona from the table where it rested next to two of it’s empty compadres, and taking a swig said, “Where are you from?” What followed was a one sided conversation in which the man would tell me things in English, and I would pretend to be trying to listen above the noise of the television, while waiting for my food. My food arrived and the man showed be a tattoo on his shoulder of a giant scorpion, and the word ‘LEO’ in large letters underneath. I didn’t have the heart to point out the zodiacal error, that Leo is usually depicted as a lion. The jukebox sprang to life, drowning out the television. The man continued to try to tell me a story about a scorpion. I finished my food quickly, and managed to leap into the conversation to announce my departure as the waitress jumped on an approaching giant cockroach. He told me his name was Leo as I left, and I was glad that his tattoo was appropriate after all. I went off into the night looking for cheap tequila in the citadel of dubiousness.