I’ve made my living through the written and spoken word but would have starved had I depended on communication Saturday night.
    Here’s what happened:
    My wife and I drove to Denver to pick up our son, arriving on a late-night flight from Denmark. The heavy volume of holiday traffic made it inconvenient for Adam Stan to land in Albuquerque, so Bonnie and I arrived in Denver after a six-hour drive.


    Because we knew a jet-lagged son would be in no condition to help us drive back, Bonnie and I chose to rest up, even catnap, on a bench inside Denver International. A single young woman on a nearby sofa overheard my using a term of endearment, “Tonta.” She caught my eye and asked if I spoke Spanish. So we chatted. She’s from Oaxaca, but she wasn’t interested in tourist talk.
    Rather, she needed reassurance from me — a person she indicated was the unica persona in the 5,000-acre airport able to communicate with her — that sleeping on a bench at the airport was safe.
    It was during this visit that I learned much about human nature and about myself. Not that I don’t consider myself human, but Bonnie said to leave the sentence as it is — readers will get the message. The young woman, Ana, had landed several hours earlier, hoping to make her home in Gunnison, Colo., a place she’d only heard of.
    These were her concerns: her friend, who would become her host, had just told her by phone that it’s a six-hour drive from Gunnison to the airport, and if she could, she would pick up Ana the following afternoon; it was too late for Ana to catch any public transportation; she was fearful of sleeping in a downtown hotel; although rental cars were available, she was terrified of driving in the Mile High City, and besides, the car rental folks spoke only English.
    Her question of me, specifically, was the location of Gunnison. I thought of offering her a ride, should her hoped-for adopted city not be too far out of the way, even though were about to meet our son — whose biological clock still registered 2 p.m. Copenhagen time — and we’d also thought of staying in a motel. Ana was also troubled by the difficulty of not finding ninguna persona who spoke her language. Not one. Except me.
    Strange, many people at D.I.A. spoke Spanish, but perhaps not “our kind” of Spanish. Earlier we’d ordered food from a lady who seemed quite Anglicized. But when I heard her addressing another worker in Mexican Spanish, I took that occasion to order “dos tacos con salsa, por favor,” only to have her discourage my attempt at chit-chat. With her, there was none of that you’re-one-of-us kinship. Vicente Fox himself could have had an intelligent chat with any of thousands of airport concession employees. But where were they when Ana was looking for a soul-mate?
    We learned that maneuvering the mountain roads to Gunnison would indeed take several hours, so about all we could offer her was reassurance that the airport sofa was safe for sleeping. Ana refused my offer of a modest cash gift, but gladly accepted a hamburger with fries — on us.
    At the time our son’s plane was landing, she told me, in a voice that almost seemed to mock her friend, that the last time they’d talked, sometime in February, the friend had insisted “vente, vente.” Ana said that meant to her that her friend was inviting her to live with her.
    However, I told her that many people say, “come over” merely as a perfunctory courtesy, but actually have no expectations of seeing them again. What if Ana’s friend had cooled to the hospitality idea during the months since they’d spoken, before Saturday?
    Meanwhile, our son phoned from the baggage area as I bade farewell to our new acquaintance, but not before hearing her repeat the “vente, vente” plea of her paisana. I think she was beginning to suspect her friend’s invitation was not sincere.
    As we left her at the terminal, I kept wondering, “What if the friend’s “vente, vente” was as vacuous as “let’s keep in touch” or “let’s get together sometime — I’ll call you”? I gave her my number and asked her to phone if she were facing the prospect of being stranded. Back home, Sunday, I fretted about the phone call I wasn’t looking forward to.
    Well, an out-of-state call did arrive, and it was Ana. As I contemplated making a 300-mile trip to rescue my amiguita, she said she’d been picked up by her friend, Lourdes, and all was well.
    We were elated by the news, but at once deflated over her way of thanking me for all my translatory efforts. She complimented me on the clarity of my Spanish but inadvertently put me down by saying I speak Spanish “muy muy poquito.”
    Well thanks un bonche, Ana. Next time, this estupido is going to insist that you pay for your own burger.

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