Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
After breakfast the next morning I dialed Francisco's number. He picked up immediately.
¡Hola! ” he sang out cheerfully.
“Francisco, this is Patrick.”
¡Mi amigo!
“Could you stop by this morning?” I screamed, straining to make myself heard about the
ear-splitting background noise.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I'd like to discuss the garden with you.”
“Yes, your garden. You like?”
“Not so much,” I said.
¿Qué?
“What time can you stop by?”
“But you like your garden, ?”
“No.”
“What you mean?”
He sounded genuinely hurt.
“Let's discuss it when you get here.”
Loud slurping noises ensued, followed by a sloppy belch.
“To me, it perfect.”
“To me, it not,” I replied.
Okay, time out. Had I just uttered the phrase, To me, it not ? Why, oh why did I always
fall into Francisco's fractured speech patterns when we talked?
“See you at eleven,” I said, as briskly and syntactically as possible.
He arrived at noon. Michael was ready to throttle him.
“Let me talk to him first, then you come down and have your say,” I urged, fearing
bloodshed.
Francisco was leaning against his truck drinking a beer as I unlocked the carport gate.
When he saw me approach he chug-a-lugged his morning brewski and tossed the empty can
into the cab of his truck.
¡Buenas dias! ” he bellowed.
Hola .”
“Welcome to your new garden,” he began, gesturing grandiosely around the barren patch
of earth that, in retrospect, had been a veritable Garden of Eden before he got his hands on
it.
“You love?” he asked hopefully.
“No, Francisco, I don't love. It's a disaster.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What you mean?”
I pulled out my notes.
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