Every time we’re in Zihuatenejo, we go to the same restaurant for lunch, what we call “Monkey’s.” Monkey, or Chango, is our usual waiter, and it’s not our nickname. He got his moniker from climbing palm trees and grabbing coconuts at night. He calls his two kids Money 1 and Monkey 2. Every week, we go see him and have some lunch. “Porque no?” he’ll often say after you order. When he sees us coming up the path, he’ll hide behind a tree or a plant and try to scare us. It’s becoming a bit of a friendship.
Today when we came for lunch, he said he had something for us. He gave us all baby blue bags, the cover a little boy made out of foam pieces. Inside the bags was an assortment of Mexican candies and hot sauce packets. They were from Monkey 2’s birthday just a few days before, and the party Monkey had excitedly talked to us about the week before. I was really touched by the whole thing.
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