Sarita

This is the little girl that lives down the street. She is the daughter of one of the outstanding mechanics / body workers who have their shop there. Every morning when I pass her house, if she is up and sees me she comes out, smiles, waves and says “Hola Gringo”. And I smile, wave and say “Hola Sarita.” It’s always the same and always starts my day off nicely.

In the afternoon when I come home and have cookies in my bag, I’ll stop and offer her one. She has yet to say No. Our ritual for this is : Sarita exclaims “galleta”. I give it to her and she says “Gracias, Gringo”. I say “Es mi placer” (which I like much better than “por nada” – what does that mean anyway – for nothing) and our afternoon ritual is done.

Except if I didn’t get any cookies and she sees me, she just gives me the hairy eyeball look, crosses her arms and I slink on by – shamed by a very young girl. Her mother has told her that my name is Goyo, but she insists it is Gringo. Ladies are always right.

It’s not much, but it is something I kinda look forward to. And something I will remember, Maybe Sarita will, too.