During the summer of 1972, I was doing some consulting work that involved visiting every IBM mainframe computer center in El Salvador. I stayed the week in a large mansion with a wealthy family and I seemed to have the entire first floor of their mansion to myself. Each morning after showering, shaving and dressing, I pulled a dark green velvet ribbon in my room and, within seconds, a nice uniformed lady came into my room and said, "Buenas dias."
I smiled, said, "Buenas dias," and, in my broken Spanish, told her that I wished to have my breakfast in my room. She smiled, said, "Bien," bowed ever so slightly and turned and left. For seven mornings, I waited as long as I dared but breakfast never appeared in my room as I thought I had requested. My Spanish may need some work.
So, each day after a suitable wait, I walked out of the bedroom, through the foyer, library and day room and into the dining room where a 22-person table was set for just one person. I sat down to the gold place settings and examined the mounds of fruit and breads sitting there.
Within moments, a nice uniformed gentleman came into the room from my right, walked behind me and to my left side, bent over slightly and showed me a large silver tray filled with warm food--eggs scrambled, fried various ways and poached; mounds of bacon, ham and sausage, potatoes, grits, and gravy; and some things I did not recognize. As he stood with spatula ready, I pointed at various items, and, he gently and carefully placed quite a number of items on my plate. When my plate was full, or, when I began to feel embarrassed, I smiled and motioned for him to stop. He said, "Bien," rose and retreated from the room. As I began to attach the mounds of food in front of me, I decided that this is how I wanted things to work when I get back to the states.
Actually, I was alone for only moments, because, the nice gentleman who brought the food had reentered the dining room and stood at white-gloved attention to my far right beside the door to the kitchen. I never looked him in the eye but he never disappeared from my field of view. (I wondered if he and his wife ate the food that I left on the tray. I hope so. Maybe, I'll leave more on the tray tomorrow. Maybe.
Each day was the same ritual--request breakfast in my room, wonder why it never came, walk by the circular staircase and over the echoing wooden floors to the dining room, watch my plate filled to overflowing and eat to my heart's content. Only one day did this feast of breakfast not go my way.
Halfway through my meal, I laid my utensils on the plate, pulled my handkerchief from my back pocket, turned left away from my plate and blew my nose. When I turned back to my plate, Mr. Stand At Attention Gentlemen was disappearing through the kitchen door with my half full plate of heavenly food. I raised my hand to say no, but it was too late. He was gone and so was my food.
I nibbled at the cantaloupe and papaya and, then, after a deep sigh, rose and returned with heels clicking on the wooden floors to my suite where I brushed my teeth and made a mental note, "Don't ever leave crossed silverware on your plate and turn momentarily away."
One evening, five of us were sitting on the back ground floor veranda surrounded by acres of lush green lawns, streaming colorful flowers and tinkling, lighted waterfalls scattered around the yard in too many places to count. As we sipped black, molasses-thick coffee from tiny white cups, the El Salvadorean home owner and his French wife told us, all in perfect English, stories about El Salvador's recent civil war when partisans tossed hand grenades from Cessna and Piper aircraft flying low over San Salvador.
Suddenly, a door at the far end of the veranda opened and a uniformed lady entered leading a four year old boy wearing a white shirt and blue shorts. Seeing his parents, my hosts, the little boy ran happily across the veranda, by the house guests and into his dad's arms. He and his dad spoke excitedly in English about what he did today and then and he turned equally as excitedly to his mom and told her everything as well, but, he communicated with her in French. The uniformed nanny caught up with the boy and, standing by the now excited family, smilingly listened as the boy and his parents shared the day's events. When the boy needed confirmation of some story he was telling, he would seek from the nanny in Spanish, her confirmation or addition. She responded in Spanish and he translated her words into French and English for his parents.
I sat in my chair enjoying the family's enjoyment until the parents shooed the nanny and boy back into the house so that the visit on the veranda could continue. After things quieted and down and demitassed sipping resumed, my host explained to me that the boy spoke only English to his father, only French to his mother and only Spanish to his nanny. I acknowledged and marvelled at the amazing abilities of their handsome, mannered and talented young boy but I saw no reason to share with the boy's parents that, back in Amarillo, Texas, little four-year old boys do this all the time.
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