“Why do you call them French fries?”

Hmmmm ... did they originate in France? I didn’t think so.

I couldn’t answer his question, but I did notice the way they made the salty treat was different than I had ever seen. Two teenagers sat in the back of the booth peeling actual potatoes. The potatoes were then stuck through a hand-pressed cutter that made them long and thin before they were thrown into the frying pan.

As I was moseying around the papas fritas stand, an older, creepy looking guy who very well might have been intoxicated approached me. He started speaking to me in Spanish, and I was caught slightly off guard. He reached out his hand, and trying to be polite, I shook it. Before I knew it, he leaned in close and kissed me on the cheek ... a little too close to the mouth. Augh!

I thought it might be custom for people to greet each other with a kiss, so I tried not to freak out too much. I did, however, quickly walk away, but I didn’t want to seem rude if it was supposed to be a natural thing. Pedro asked me later, though, why I had let that man kiss me. I hadn’t realized I let the man kiss me ... I didn’t even know what was going on! I suppose if that’s the most uncomfortable thing that happens to me on this trip then I’m doing pretty well.