Encounters in the city

I walked into one of the local quick-e marts on Paseo de la Florida the other day. In Spain, they are referred to as "Chinos." Which literally means "chinese." These chinos are relatively new additions to the urban landscape here, only appearing after I left for college and immigration skyrocketed. But now they are a part of life; the little corner store that sells basic goods, exchanging price for convenience. But anyway, I was on my way to Jessica's house to make supper when I realized I had forgotten an ingredient. I popped into the store and quickly grabbed what I needed. As I was about to leave, a middle aged, latin american, transvestite approached me. He, dressed and make-up'ed as a she, was quite polite as he asked me if I would be so kind as to help him read something. He held out a small notebook containing a different number and name scrawled on each page. "What does this name say?" he asked me, pointing to a page.
I squinted at the handwriting and gave it my best shot, "Maria Jimenez," I told him, the tone of my voice that sheepishly admitting "your guess is as good as mine." He thanked me, I turned to the register and paid for my stuff. I turned towards the door and the man in makeup came over again.
"I'm sorry" he said, "could you tell me what this other name says?"
I nodded, "Mario Fernandez".
"And this one?" he said, flipping to the next page.
"Susana Dominguez"
He flips a page again, "I'm sorry, what about this one?"
By now it has dawned on me. I wasn't being consulted on deciphering shoddy penmanship. This person didn't know how to read! Each number had been written down in different handwriting, as if written by its owner at some point. I looked at the man in front of me. He was about 5' 5'', one of the many south american immigrants that had come to Spain in the last few years. His features were very indian, as they say, and I wondered how a chubby little colombian man had ended up in Madrid, and how he had then traded in his native american garb for a middle aged woman's dress and lipstick.
Feeling sorry for the guy, I continued through his booklet looking for his sister's phone number. We went through Spanish sounding names, Latin American names, businesses, clinics, cosmetic surgeons, hair removal centers, etc. No luck.
"I must have torn that page out sometime" He said in a voice that was slightly too high from hormone therapy. "Thank you so much." He shook my hand; his palms too rough for someone wearing a dress like his.