No Habla

I get home tonight, and there's a voicemail on my machine from 1:30 this afternoon. The tone is rather strident, somehow urgent. Professional and methodical.

Only it's in Spanish, and it's for someone named Mario.

I try to decipher what it is this Mario needs to know. After hitting repeat a couple times, I piece together a location at the corner of Janss and Moorpark. But, um...that's about as far as my Spanish takes me.

I stare at the phone. What if it's a doctor's appointment? What if it's for, like, a CAT-scan and if Mario misses it, he can't get another one for weeks and weeks...what if...okay, slow down.

I may have heard some form of the word 'installation.' Maybe Mario's installing someone's windows? Garage door opener? Heart valve replacement?

I dial in my password again to hear where the call came from, and I punch in the numbers.

"Hi," I say. Then in slow, clearly enunciated tones, I add: "You left a message on my machine for someone named Mario at 1:30 this afternoon, and I just thought I'd better let you know you had the wrong number. I don't speak Spanish, so I hope you understand what I'm saying."

My new sister-in-law (who no-speaka-da-english), arrives tomorrow from Peru. Wait till she gets a-load of my Espagnol.