Have you ever caught someone talking about you in another language?

Oh my gosh, yes. Many times. I’m a tall, very busty, pale-skinned woman. I look very American, but I speak Spanish and French. I was born and raised (mostly) overseas.

But here’s one I particularly like to recount.

So there I am, sitting in a wine bar in the Zona Colonial; specifically the Plaza de Espana. It looks like this:


I was born in Santo Domingo, though I now live in San Diego, so I was visiting family and playing tourist. I’m under one of the umbrellas with my sunglasses on. I’m waiting for a friend of mine to show up, and enjoying the late afternoon and this nice glass of white wine. I had a novel lying out, sitting on the table; it was probably a Dick Francis novel or some other English mystery.

Two guys come and sit down at one of the tables close to me, just to my side. They’ve obviously come for an early happy hour or something; they’re well-dressed and groomed. They look like they have money and are top of their world. They look briefly over at me and probably see the lack of companionship, the English novel.

There are not many people around. My friend is late. I’m enjoying the breeze and my glass of wine.

Their conversation starts about what they’re going to do tonight. Where to go, what to eat. And after. They talk about the day, how it’s hot and there’s not a lot of people out. Not a lot to do.

(The conversation will be roughly translated; it was mostly slang.)

One of them motions to me with his head. “Man, look at those. I’d like to suck on them.”

The other turns and looks at me. My glasses are dark; I don’t turn my head. “You think they’re real?”

“Does it matter, once they’re in my mouth?”

“Ah, she doesn’t look that hot.”

“I wouldn’t be looking at anything, I’d have my eyes closed.”

I’ll spare you further details about the conversation; it went downhill from there for another few minutes as they dissected my body and what I’d be like in bed.

At around this point, my friend comes onto the scene and sees me. She calls out my name, and as she comes near, starts to apologise for her delay. Work, etc. She says get my stuff, we are going to meet up with other friends in another restaurant down the street.

In fluent, Dominican-accented Spanish, naturally.

I answer her, saying I have to pick up the bill. I call out for the waiter. “La cuenta, por favor.” We chat while we’re waiting for the bill, catching up on school events, gossip, people we know.

The boys are frozen at their table. They aren’t even moving.

After I pay, I move behind their table, and stop briefly. Lean down between the two of them. “I hope you don’t talk about your sisters that way,” I tell them. “You never know who is listening.” And then we leave.

Fun times.

Source: QUORA