Dear Quambolo

I feel sorry for all the Mexican people who have to listen to me butcher their language on our upcoming vacation. Already, I’ve been having some communication struggles with the resort where we’ll be staying.  Before we booked the room, we wanted to ask a few questions about the amenities, and I drew the short straw and ended up calling Mexico.

I took a year of Spanish classes prior to our honeymoon to the Mayan Rivera.  We were engaged for a year, so I thought I might as well spend that time planning well.  My instructor was patient with me, but she frequently declared that I simply spoke French with a Spanish accent.

I called the resort and was greeted by the first person on the phone chain.  I asked, somewhat unconfidently, “Hablo Español?” (Do I speak Spanish?)

“Un momento, por favor.” Came a response, and I heard chirpy mariachi band music.

“Reservaciones,” A woman answered.

“Hablo Inglés?” (Do I speak English?) I said with more confidence.  I realized that I’d misspoken the last time. So I’d tried to correct it.

“Si, how can I help you?”  She replied without missing a beat.  She must be used to American morons calling there.

Further down the phone tree, I tried to perfect my approach even more.

“Habla Español?” (Do you speak Spanish), I asked?  I’d finally remembered my verbs.

A patient man answered the phone.  “Si, how can I help you?” 

He answered all my questions, in English, for the most part.

I asked his name, so if I needed to call again, I could ask for him directly and avoid the embarrassing phone tree moments. 

“Quambolo,” he said.

“Would you mind saying that again?” I said, thinking it was one of the strangest sounding names I’d ever heard.

“Certainly.  It’s Quam-bo-lo.”  He said it slowly, so the dumb American could catch on.  I figured it must have been a Native American, Aztec sort of name.  Maybe it’s a common one in those parts.  

I thanked him for his time and hung up.

Later that week, I sent him an e-mail with some more questions.  It went like this:

“Dear Quambolo,

Thanks for all your help the other day…”

He sent back a response within a few hours.  It was signed “Juan Pablo.”

Advertisements
Published in: on January 23, 2008 at 3:11 pm  Comments (9)  
Tags: , ,

The URI to TrackBack this entry is: https://amyletinsky.wordpress.com/2008/01/23/dear-quambolo/trackback/

RSS feed for comments on this post.

9 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. lol! if you knew how many times a day i face this with callers with deep accents! it sounds like vienna to me… so im typing that in and running with it… and eventually they get frustrated and spell out d-a-l-l-a-s…. oops!

  2. LOL.

    BTW, thanks for the note you sent with the book!

  3. Oooo…ouch.

    Cute story!

  4. That was awesome, I’m still laughing 5 minutes later… It reminded me of the “La Joya, La Jolla, Dairy Queen” story. Have you heard that one? Hope you guys have a great trip.

    Ross and Taya

  5. Haven’t heard the “La Joya, La Jolla, Dairy Queen” story. You’ll have to fill me in sometime. I can’t imagine that someone can butcher the language as bad as I did. hehe.

  6. Hilarious. Thanks for sharing this rather embarrassing story with us. I can see how you could misunderstand his name, especially over the phone.

  7. LOL!

    Thanks for that.

  8. When I forwarded the e-mails to my husband (between me and Quambolo), he laughed so hard he cried. I typically don’t like making my husband cry, but I suppose this is different.

  9. […] 5) Amy Letinsky – One of my favorite bloggers, Amy hilariously describes her attempts to get more info for her upcoming vacation. Read all about “Dear Quambolo” here. […]


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s