La Primera Noche

My plane arrives in Oaxaca and I go through customs. The English lady who sat next to me on the plane had told me the part that said "maletas faltas" was for indicating checked bags, and though that didn't seem quite right to me, I followed her lead because she'd been to Oaxaca before. The inspection officer who is about to search my bags looks at the list of 2 "maletas faltas" and gives me a questioning look and says, "dos maletas faltas," and I suddenly remember a day in Jackson Heights when I was popping a letter in the mailbox and this man hanging out on the corner said, "falta, no completa," and then that letter got returned four days later because it had no stamp on it. "No maletas faltas," I say, "tres maletas aqui," and the guy starts taking my stuff out of my bags. 

The host dad, Juan, a sixty-seven-year-old white-haired man helps me get my luggage into his car and we talk a little bit and I'm able to get it across that this is my first time in Oaxaca and he gets it across that he hasn't traveled much because he has six sons. It's a pleasant conversation and he strikes me as friendly, earthy, kind. 

We get to the house and meet Sylvia, Juan's wife, who is in her fifties. I break out the "I love my abuelitos" t-shirt and they love it. They especially like the Arizona socks I give them with images of saguaros and roadrunners to which Juan says, "Correcaminos," and "Meep-meep." Sylvia goes into the kitchen to get the tea, and I break out the chocolate chip cookies I brought. Juans asks, in Spanish, "You made these?"

"No," I say, "mi esposa."

"No, tu esposo," Juan corrects me.

"No," I say, "esposa. Es una mujer." 

Juan's eyes widen. He stretches his arms out straight in front of him as far as they will go and digs all of his fingers into the kitchen table. He clenches his eyes shut and takes a long, deep breath. 

Sylvia comes in and says, "Who made the cookies?"

I say, "Mi esposa."

"Tu esposo," Sylvia says. 

"No," Juan says, "su esposa."

Sylvia nods slowly and says nothing.