I spent a lovely evening last night in Washington Heights, checking out my girl's new apartment and enjoying mofongo at El Malecon. I would write about what my impression of the neighborhood was, and yadda yadda yadda, but one of those random gifts from God happened--the ones where something so crazy takes place and you are just thankful to have witnessed it.
So we're at this restaurant, enjoying mofongo and albondigas (sp?), and we notice a man walking from table to table with a huge shopping bag full of perfume. He's trying to sell it to the other patrons--not us though; I guess he knew we didn't speak Spanish. This on its own is a little bizarre, as I've only seen men interrupt people's meals to sell roses, but I guess perfume is a better gift than a rose!
I notice the perfume salesman sneeze. I look up at him and he looks awful! His eyes are red, his cheeks are red, his forehead is red, he is sniffling and wiping away tears...he is clearly deathly allergic to perfume. People at the table are laughing, he's pointing to his eyes, nodding knowingly. I didn't understand their conversation but I guarantee it went something like this:
"Dude. What the eff? You are crying like a girl over that perfume!"
"I know, I know, I am allergic, but I have to make a living, no?"
"Mommy, that man is crying, hahaha."
WHY would you choose to make a living doing something that caused constant physical problems; problems that actually inhibit you from doing your job? (You can't really sell something when you're sneezing, can you?) I understanding hating your job, doing something just for the money...but this confuses me.