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Walking down the street in Spain to the local bodega is usually a pleasure. This time, there was a moderate amount of apprehension. This was my first solo flight. I am booted out of the nest and am expected to fly or . . .  Why does there always have to be an ‘or’? I mean, would it upset some vast eternal plan if there was not an ‘or’ in every situation?

Anyway, with my Spanish an inferior quality of nonexistence, I am armed to the teeth for the bodega. We are going to have BLT’s and all I have to remember is one little word, ‘lechuga’ (lettuce). That’s it. No mas. A simple task for a college educated man.

Quickening my pace downhill, I find myself repeating the word over and over in my head. “Lechuga.” Lechuga.” “Lechuga.” When the transition from psyche to vocal takes place, I am not sure. Audibly I find myself saying, “Lechuga.” Lechuga.” “Lechuga.”

Talking to myself in public does not bother me (I hold to this solemn practice to this day), but saying ‘lettuce’ repeatedly might give people bizarre impressions of thus lanky blonde gringo.

Stepping into the tiny bodega whets my appetite as hundreds of foreign aromas greet me. The store is large enough to hold 8-10 people semi-comfortably, so I stuff myself in with the other 15 sardines. Barely over six foot, I nevertheless tower above the Spaniards.

I patiently wait my turn, while two women (as opposed to ‘ladies’) entering after me continually move me forward with their grocery bolsos. Either that or they were trying to bag my backside for a foreign takeout. I move forward under duress, giving body hugs to all in front of me.

Finally my turn, the man behind the counter asks, “¿Que quieres?”

My moment has arrived. With all the confidence I can muster, I blurt out, “Luchega.” Somewhere within a block-and-one-half, ‘lechuga’ turned into ‘luchega’. The buzzing gossip of the three million other customers goes silent as all the Lilliputians stare up at me.

The owner looks dumbfounded. “¿Que?”

I gulp. There was an immediate expulsion from my armpit sweat glands. “Luchega?” I scarcely utter.

Knowing business would slow to a crawl (or even cease for the day) the owner begins to point and ask at the same time, “¿Esto?” “This?” “¿Eso?” “That?” I never have seen so many things in one microscopic store so fast.

My self-confidence is bolstering to new lows. I would rather be bobbing for anchovies. However, it is as if I have started a new game show and everyone wants to play. There were so many “¿Estos?” and “¿Esos?” and little fingers pointing in different directions, I become faint and nauseous.

Finally, the now sweaty proprietor claps his hands and exclaims, “Lechuga!” The room goes silent. As if shown a cue card, everyone in the room simultaneously throws their hands into the air and cheers to congratulate the winner of the grand prize.

Everyone but me.

I wish I was home having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.