Solo

The grocery list on the refrigerator was growing longer as the supplies inside diminished. That trip to the store that was postponed last Wednesday--and Thursday--became a necessity this afternoon--one week later. Cecilia, Will, and Daniel were quietly holed up in their room. I grabbed four recyclable shopping bags, and tucked the door key and list in my purse to start my first solo flight in the neighborhood.

Cecilia and Will's next-door neighbor, an Asian lady, had her kitchen door open to the hallway; she poked her head out and caught my eye while I waited for the elevator. For a moment, I thought she might be speaking English, maybe even with a little Asian accent, but not today. With body language and a few words that I've learned this past week, I deciphered that she was inquiring about the baby. Has the baby arrived? "Sim." When was the baby born? "Sabado." Girl or boy? "Menino." "Seu nome e Daniel." Everything okay? "Ta bom." I was grateful when the elevator arrived. "Tchau. Boa Noite."

Down in the lobby, the portero greeted me and pressed the latch under his desk to unlock the door. On the inside of the door is a knob and a sign that reads PUXA (POO sha). Gets me every time . . . I'm that little kid in the Gary Larson cartoon trying to push open the door of The Midvale School for the Gifted when the sign is clearly marked "PULL." The guys at the front desk are always the model of decorum. Wonder if they place bets on what the Gringa will do next time? . . .

The sidewalk was busy with people just off work. Mom and little girl rushed to the steps of one bus while a crowd queued up for another. But I don't catch a bus today; just go around the corner, down and over one block to the Real--a neighborhood grocery store. Passing a sidewalk cafe, I saw three salty retirees having beers while they gazed up the street. Up around the corner shared by the rug store and the sidewalk artisan who canes chairs I walked. Apartment entrance, beautiful blue and green patterned tile wall, Campao (my favorite resource for that watermelon with mint juice drink), drugstore with popsicle box in front, Five and Dime type store displaying plastic buckets full of really cheap plastic flowers, a fruit and vegetable storefront, and then Real.

A delivery truck was unloading large bags on a pallet right in front of the entrance. I dodged, entered the open-front market and grabbed a cart, making note that I would get only enough to fill my shopping bags--which I would be carrying on foot back to the apartment a short three blocks away. (Not like my trips to the Barker-Cypress HEB, where I can load up the trunk of the Toyota and cruise back home in air-conditioned comfort.) Noted.

List in hand, I started up one of the five aisles. By the time I found everything on the modified-to-carry list, I had tracked and back-tracked each aisle so many times that store security was beginning to get suspicious. Not one label on any item was recognizable. You know those Family Circus cartoons where Billy's steps are mapped out in random abandon as he goes about his day? That was the Gringa in the Real.

I stopped a nice young couple to ask the location of the milk. Excuse me. I speak just a little Portuguese. Where's the milk, please? Rosetta Stone rocks! Emboldened by my successful communication, I got in the check-out line and was greeted by a petite twenty year-old checker. Again, I informed her that "Eu falo um poco Portuguese," complete with the hand gesture that looks like you're measuring about an inch with your thumb and pointer finger. She looked right at me, and spoke a word, just one word. It was not "credito o debito" with which I've become accustomed. It was one of the 485 verbs (out of 500 common ones) that I've yet to comprehend, much less masster. Was she asking if I wanted paper or plastic? I showed her my shopping bags. That wasn't it. She repeated the mystery word. All I could do was shrug my shoulders. She laughed out loud. Then turned to the checker next to her and said that I didn't speak any Portuguese. That's what I told her in the first place.

Right there in the check-out line at the Real I started to cry. I ducked my head to unload my cart so that Giggles could process my groceries without a small scene. I thought, "Go ahead and laugh while I patronize the store that pays your salary, little Miss." I needed to straighten up before I heard announced over the loud speaker the Portuguese equivalent of "Clean up at Checkstand 3," which certainly would have been a possibility if I had melted into a puddle then and there. I stuffed three bags full, parked my cart, and shouldered my load for the short trek.

For four weeks I've been greeted by nothing but gracious people who are eager to help the Gringa communicate. There was a man on the bus last Friday who saw that Cecilia and I were separated, and spent at least three minutes composing enough broken English to tell me that he wanted to switch seats so that C and I could be together. That gesture was like a gift to me. A server listened patiently as I tried to find the Portuguese words to order Gnocchi with garlic, Marinara sauce and grated Parmesan cheese. Or the owner of the Crepe Place by the Maternity Hospital who seemed delighted that I would attempt to speak his language, no matter how poorly.

The tears weren't really about an insensitive, awkward young female, you know. They were more about the new family that I left sleeping in the apartment; and my Valentine I left at IAH exactly one month ago today.