Nerves jangled; bells rang in her ears. The 23-year-old still smelled slightly of frat keggers and 2 a.m. runs to Jack-in-the-Box.
Now she found herself in Mexico City. Dressed to impress. On a business trip.
Adiós, Corona-infused nights on the crowded porch of a run-down, college-row house.
Bienvenido to the world of cocktail parties at expense-account restaurants.
Thank God for the four years of high school Spanish, followed by a college minor. At least she might have a decent conversation.
In the restaurant of the four-star hotel on Paseo de la Reforma, she contemplated the breakfast menu. Huevos, for sure. But I can’t read this—the words all look the same. So much for the post-secondary degree.
I’ll just wing it. Thanks, Señorita Toliver, for teaching me something way back in 9th grade. Who knew that Español Uno would come in handy?
“Huevos y jabón, por favor.” Luckily, the waiter wasn’t a literal guy. And he had patience with the newbie gringa, trying to act so adulta.
Her stomach was twisted in knots already. Soap and eggs would have been quite unsettling.