Aguas Caliente, Peru. Restaurant.
A few days ago a discriminating beer desire sneak-struck me. I ordered a beer: Pequeña Negra. And couldn´t thwart the thought that a small black child was forthcoming, expecting to be drank.
Visions of me picking up said small black child, situating on my lap, and spoon-feeding it harassed my brain. I´m smitten with children. Especially when drunk. I know this because in Vegas a few months ago, after three hours of bottomless mimosas, I proclaimed my obsession with small children to my friends. They later unearthed me huddled on the edge of a table like a collapsed cow. This table had a gaggle of pequeña children seated at it.
When the waitress positioned a black beer facing me, I couldn´t evade nostalgia for anyone under the age of seven. I have since assuaged this longing by waving to young Peruvians and pronouncing ¨hola,¨ in my best attempt at child-aficionado, non child-molester.
Noted: it is not prevalent in Peruvian culture to wave.
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