Excuse me, officer?

(Before I get into things, I´d just like to mention that tomorrow I´m going on an all-day excursion--leaving at 7:00 AM, and returning at 8:00 PM--so this will most likely be my last post until Saturday afternoon.)

Now that we´ve taken care of all the administrative details...

Today was my last day of classes for the week, and at the end of each week my professor fills out a short evaluation form that notes my progress (or lack thereof) in a number of different categories. In all of the "participation" categories--attendance, homework, class participation, etc.--I received 100%. (Remember, I´m the only student in the class.) And in all of the other categories--reading comprehension, oral comprehension, written communication, oral communication, etc.--my marks have increased, from the high 80´s last week, to the low 90´s this week.

As for negatives, the professor only had two small points of criticism:

1) He told me that I´d be well served to study some more vocabulary on my own.

2) He told me that I think too much.

I´d say he has me pegged pretty well: I´m a lazy overthinker.

We had a conversation about how sometimes, when learning a new language, it´s best to just absorb what you can and to try to speak it freely, rather than to construct each line in your head before opening your mouth.

"If you get your point across," he said, "you´ve done your job. But you don´t always have to worry about sounding correct. That´ll come with both time and practice."

In other words, he told me I should stop thinking before I speak.

So, when I left the school today I was determined to transfer this pesky case of diarrhea from my ass to my mouth. I said hello to everyone I passed on my walk into town, and when I arrived at "Main Street" I took a moment to decide what to eat. I saw a small chicken stand with a sign that read, "Pollo Asado y Frito."--chicken, grilled and fried--so I decided to see what it was all about.

I marched right up to the counter.

"Buenos dias," the girl said.

"Buenos dias," I replied. "Como viene el pollo asado?" How does the grilled chicken come?

Looking back, I now realize that this was a fairly broad question. It probably deserved both the ridiculous look, and the state-of-the-union-length answer I received.

I didn´t understand a word, so I politely asked the girl to repeat herself, this time a bit slower. When she finished talking, I gave the gears in my head a moment to cool off.

Still nothing.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Do you need some help?"

I slowly turned my head, and the first thing I saw was a pair of shiny black combat boots. Then I saw a gun. And finally, my eyes found a patch, stitched to a sleeve, that read, "Fuerza Publica."

It was Costa Rica Five-O.

Well, to make a long story short, I got my grilled chicken.

Maybe next time I´ll be able to do it without the help of law enforcement.