alking along Avenida Amazonas this morning, I had my first conversation with someone other than Magdalena or my Spanish teacher. I was eyeing a charcoal and white backpack, one of the woven woolen ones about as rare as a hot dog in New York or incense in Austin. But nice nonetheless. Here is the conversation, as I remember it:

SARAH: Cuanto cuesta?
VENDOR: Dose.
SARAH: [Thinking this is too expensive but not knowing the word so trying to answer with some reluctance] Si.
VENDOR: Es bonito/a.
SARAH: Si.
VENDOR: indecipherable.
SARAH: [suspecting the indecipherable stuff was meant to butter me up, telling me it would look nice on me or would go with my outfit and so trying to imbue my language with the skepticism of someone smarter than that, mister] Si, si, si.
VENDOR: indecipherable
SARAH: Me gusta.
VENDOR: indecipherable. Gestures indicating that I should buy it.
SARAH: Es posible.

[Sarah then continues her walk, and soon gets lost]

My new favorite phrase is "me gusta." I like it because it feels comfortable, because I know what it means and it requires no tweaking for gender. If you were to talk to me in Spanish, you would think that I liked damn near everything, because I say it all the time. Me gusta, me gusta mucho, me gusta, me gusta. Sometimes I don't even know what I'm me gusta-ing. Do you eat human flesh? Si, me gusta. Do you like molesting children? Ah, me gusta mucho!
I sure do like that phrase, though. That is: me gusta.
Tomorrow, I climb a mountain.