Guatemala, Part Six: Tom and Asa Buy Fruit

(continued from Part Five)

We headed into town by the western route, on the busy road that runs past the building supply places. This would take us straight to La Bodegona, and afterward we could go east in search of good bread and then continue in the same direction to Fifth Avenida, the other main way back to our neighborhood. I had a nostalgic urge to walk Fifth Ave, the road full of surprises that Tesi and I had traveled by Jeep a week earlier, on the first morning, still disoriented and excited by the newness of it all. It was a little longer and dustier than the western route, but also freer of heavy traffic and the horrible fumes of trucks and buses.

As we went along, we talked of this and that.

Tom: There’s a Spanish word I keep running into. One of those connective words that doesn’t add a lot of meaning to a sentence. Sort of a signpost word.

Asa: Are you going to tell me what it is?

Tom: I keep not quite figuring out what it means, and I keep not getting around to looking it up or asking someone.

Asa: Are you going to tell me what it is?

Tom: It’s pretty long for one of those little words.

Asa: Are you going to tell me what it is?

Tom: entonces

Asa: I wondered if it might be entonces.

He told me that it functions much like “so” or “then” at the beginning of a sentence. Then he went on to muse about the nuances of the word, to explore his own understanding of it. Is it more like “then” in a chronological sense, or like “then” in a logical sense, or is it both? He drew parallels with some words in English. It was a nice glimpse of a thoughtful mind at work.

He went on to talk about a song they sang in Mads. That’s the Amherst College Madrigal Singers, a huge part of his life. They don’t just sing madrigals; they sing a cappella music from the Olden Days, the Renaissance give or take. One of the songs they learned last year was from Catalonia, and it had a three-word phrase in it that had given him the idea that the Spanish word entonces might have been formed by smooshing together essentially those same three words. I forget the details, but maybe he’ll remind me and I’ll edit this. [Or maybe not. See his comment below.]

We kept walking. His phone rang. It was Tesi, saying “and a small bottle of olive oil, please”. We kept walking.

When we got to La Bodegona, Asa initially took the lead, because he knew some things. He had been there before. He knew where the dairy section was, and that it was organized oddly. I chose a large plastic shopping basket, of the kind that converts into a wheeled vehicle with a long handle. The handle was a little short for me, so I picked the basket up. This made for a certain amount of tricky maneuvering, lifting it over people’s heads and so on, where the aisles were narrow. At one point Asa looked up from his search for milk and yogurt and thought he saw me dancing with the basket to the piped-in music, but I wasn’t dancing exactly. I wasn’t exactly not dancing, either. We explored the most relevant-looking dairy case until we had what we wanted, though many things were not quite what we expected and some things were not quite what they seemed. Asa took his time with one plastic jug, reading the fine print several times over. “I just wanted to be sure," he said "that it was whole milk and not whole something else.”

Then on to the fruit.

There was a gleaming array of neatly stacked bright red apples. Well, apple is a fruit. But, hey, we can get apples at home. Besides, these look like a kind of apple that we would turn up our noses at at home: probably all shine and no flavor. And anyway we’re not supposed to eat the fruit here without either peeling it or soaking it in a bleach solution for a good long time. Do we really want to buy apples if we can’t eat them like apples?

What else is there? Aha: right here, a sort of little table divided into three bins, full of various fruits.

The first bin held melons, nice-looking big melons, sort of like what we call honeydews at home. And big. I wonder what they’re called. Did you know that there is no Spanish word for melons in general? There’s a word for watermelon. Yes, I know. There’s got to be a word for this kind. Is there a word “cantalopa” or something? Wait, who cares what they’re called? They’re melons. They look big. They might even be ripe. Yeah, but they’re big. Do we really want to carry them all the way back? I’ll carry the melon if you carry everything else, ha-ha. No, listen, last week we got a melon when people were coming over, and we couldn’t finish it even with all that help. Forget it. We’re flying out of here in like 36 hours. No, I think we could finish it. Remember: we had a pineapple, too, that other day.

Yeah, but it’s so big. Do we really want to carry it?

The second bin held bananas. Some were green. Some had too many brown spots. Some looked good. I guess we’ll take a couple of bananas.

The third bin held several round things which suggested grapefruit. They were citrus, and they were the right size, but on the other they were lumpy and blotchy. Also, on top of the pile there was something else, one unidentified oblong fruit.

We looked around for more options. We looked all over the store. Nope. We asked an employee: is there any more fruit elsewhere in the store? Nope. We postponed the fruit decision and went looking for other things.

Here are some onions. They're not red, but they'll do.

Tom: I was guessing the sugar would be somewhere near the salt.

Asa: Yes, but it’s not.

Asa got a text from Tesi suggesting we pick up a bottle of red wine. Unnecessary: I had already had the same thought. Asa found paper napkins. I found red wine. I pointed at a giant bag of Froot Loops. This was good for a laugh. Thirteen and a half years ago, when we went to Guatemala to adopt baby Amadi, six-year-old Asa discovered Froot Loops at the hotel’s breakfast buffet and ate them every day for a week. There are pictures of this. He had never heard of them before that week, and he has never had the urge to eat them at any time since.

Tom: Hey, I found the sugar. It was near the salt.

Asa: Oh, I thought you meant really near the salt.

The fruit question. Right. We’ll get back to that.

Ice packs? We were looking for either the reusable ones that go in the freezer or else the chemical ones that you activate by hitting them. We had a little  fantasy about the hilarious conversation that might ensue if we asked about things that get cold when you hit them. That sounds pretty funny in English, and we didn’t even know the Spanish for “ice pack”. But Asa got a few sentences lined up in his head and summoned the nerve to politely bother a busy-looking employees with our question. She informed him that the phrase he was looking for was “bolsa de hielo”, and she got on her walkie-talkie. While we waited for the answer, we wondered aloud whether this was going to end with somebody showing us a nice bag full of ice cubes.

No, no ice packs. On to the kitchen towels. We found them, but none were distinctively Guatemalan.

There was no more avoiding it: it was time to face up once and for all to the fruit decision. We went back to the three-part bin and considered our options. It seemed to me that we could use a little more information. Of course Asa, as the Spanish speaker, was going to be the one asking the questions; my role was mainly to goad him into bothering somebody. At this point my increasingly heavy basket was on the floor, on wheels, handle extended, never mind if it was a little short.

After some slight hesitation, he managed to flag down an employee and ask her about the things that looked sort of like grapefruit. We knew the word for “orange”; in fact, I believe Asa had used it in his question. We did not know the word for “grapefruit”. As she answered, we were pretty sure that we were now hearing the word for “grapefruit”. “TOR-onja”, she said, coming down very slowly and heavily on the first syllable as if to make it clear to the meanest intelligence that this was not the same word as “naranja”, and repeating herself several times for further emphasis. She let us know that they were not as sweet as oranges, that they had a bitterness. Although she was being quite friendly and helpful, we could not help feeling just a little bit condescended to. Anyway, we figured they were grapefruit.

Asa remarked that he doesn’t really like grapefruit. I remarked that in that case he could eat bananas. We seemed to be getting close to a decision, but I had a sudden curiosity about the oblong thing.

After some further hesitation Asa found someone — the same person, actually — to ask about this. “Papaya” was the answer, delivered with a certain look. (Well, to tell the truth, papaya would have been my first guess.) At this point she was fairly close to openly laughing at us — not in a mean way but in a “what planet are you people from?” way.

I happened to know that Tesi cannot eat papaya: it does something bad to her. So we chose three of the probable grapefruit and three of the biggest bananas and stepped toward the checkout.

“Wait!” said Asa. He had remembered the one thing on the list that we never wrote down — the thing Tesi had called him about. But when I say “remembered” I don't mean that either of us could remember what item it was. We stood there staring, thinking, muttering for a minute. It was Asa who got it (oh, for a young brain!): olive oil. And there it was, right in front of us! (No, Asa, we are buying the smallest bottle. We are not buying the second smallest even if it’s cheaper by the liter. You need not bother with that computation.)

Our business at La Bodegona was done.