Super Charo, Huecazo, and Esquipi

One of the greatest things about growing up with parents whose first language was different to the one spoken in my homeland is that there will inevitably be some misunderstandings when trying to communicate with each other, often due to pronunciation.

My dear Colombian mother's first language was Spanish, and while she has certainly adopted a working knowledge of basic to intermediate English in the thirty-plus years of living in the good ol' U.S. of A., there have been moments in which a slight change in pronunciation due to her accent have led to some lost in translation gaffes.

The following is a selection of some of the more memorable highlights.

Super Charo

My mother once needed to go to the airport to catch an early flight and no one at the time could provide her with the lengthy drive from our Miami home to Fort Lauderdale International Airport to catch a low-cost flight. To solve her transportation problem, she enlisted the help of a service she referred to as "Super Charo."

Her utterance evoked a mental image of the eccentric Spanish singer dressed in a Superman outfit.

Super Charo: the most flamboyant superhero of all

For days, I was left perplexed thinking what the heck "Super Charo" could possibly be. I began to seriously entertain the possibility whether or not a red-caped Charo would arrive to our doorstep belting show tunes.


(C'mon, sing it now! Ervry meng/Han ervry hoomang/Want the same thing)

On the morning of her flight, as my mother busied herself with last-minute verification that she had everything necessary for the trip, my grandmother exclaimed that the transport service had arrived. I eagerly rushed to the window to satisfy my curiosity over what "Super Charo" could be.

Lo and behold, I saw this pull up to the driveway:

Link to image

Cuchi-cuchi, indeed.



Huecazo (Large hole)

The Spanish word for "hole" is hueco. A huecazo denotes an impressively-sized hole, one large enough to swallow an entire village or, in the following case, a car tire.

Driving across the parking lot of a nearby supermarket, I spotted a large hole in the road. I felt it was important to make its presence known to my mother so she could avoid it.

"Mom, look out, there's a huecazo."

"WHAT?! REALLY?! WHERE IS IT?!"

I thought it was odd to see her so enthusiastic about a hole and decided to shrug it off.

"It's right over there."

"Where? I don't see it."

"The huecazo is right there! You are about to drive past it. Watch out!"

"But I don't see the huecazo anywhere!"

"Don't worry, you just drove by it."

"Hold on, let me drive around again because I want to get some burgers!"

Huh? What? Burgers? What was she talking about?

"What do you mean 'burgers?' Do you want to go to McDonald's?"

"No! Not McDonald's! Didn't you say there's a huecazo around here? I can't believe they've brought them to Florida! I really miss their mini-burgers."

That's when it clicked.

Prior to moving to Florida, we originally lived in New Jersey, home of the famous White Castle burger chain (and their sliders made infamous by the film Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle).

Coincidentally, there will be no French Bean Goes to White Castle. I'm not high enough to make the journey from France to the nearest White Castle location (which is apparently in New York). 

Apparently, the way I said "large hole" was similar to the way she pronounced "white castle" with her heavy accent, something around the lines of "why-kasso."

(Note: "huecazo" is not pronounced like "why-kasso.")

"No, Mom, not WHITE CASTLE, huecazo, as in a large hole?"

"Oh. So...there's no White Castle?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Dang it. I was hoping to eat some White Castle burgers..."

Huecazo has become a bit of an inside joke between us and to this day whenever Mom mentions having spotted a large hole, I ask her where the burgers are.


Esquipi (Eh-skee-pee)

In late 2009, I moved across the Atlantic Ocean to live in Dijon, France. Being the first time since I had left the proverbial nest, it was crucial for my mother and me to maintain contact. Moreover, in my absence, I worried over how my mother would cope with a general lack of knowledge over all things computer-related.

So imagine my surprise when she proposed a solution and announced:

"You should get Esquipi! You can use it on the computer!"

Esquipi? I thought. What the heck is that?

"Mom, what's Esquipi?"

"You don't know what Esquipi is?"

"Uh, no?"

"How can you not know what Esquipi is? EVERYBODY knows about it! Even I know what Esquipi is!"

In a rare moment of her one-upping my technological savvy, rather than letting her berate me further due to my ignorance of this damned Esquipi, I asked her to elucidate on what this unknown technology entailed.

"Well, essentially, So-and-So said--You remember So-and-So, right?"

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you know who So-and-So is! How can you not remember them?"

"Mom, I don't--"

 "Anyway, So-and-So told me that Esquipi is this thing that you find on the Internet (I don't know how that's done), that lets you call other people by telephone and have conversations with them. You can even see them on the camera."

Her explanation caused the wheels in my head to turn. Back in 2009, this thing that she had described was still a bit of a novelty, but I had certainly heard about it. Putting the pieces together, I had to ask one more question to be absolutely certain on what she was talking about.

"Mom," I started cautiously, "how do you spell 'Esquipi?'"

"Hold on, hold on, I have to find the paper where So-and-So wrote it down for me."

The phone clattered on a hard surface. I waited for her to retrieve the information. The silence from the phone ended with some rustling and her voice returned.

"Okay, I got."

"Great. So how is it spelled?"

"S-K-Y-P-E."

My palm crashed against my forehead, leaving a red, five-fingered silhouette.

"Mom, that's pronounced SKYPE!"

"Es-sky?"

"NO, Skype!"

"Es-sky?"

"No, SKY-PUH!"

"Ah, well, you understood me."


Speaking can be a real hoot sometimes.

Barb the French Bean

How Iño the Cat Saved Me from the Playground Bully

Back in my earliest memories of growing up in New Jersey, long before my family decided to trade the frozen tundra of the North for sunny mosquito-and-humidity-ridden Miami, I used to have a cat plushie that I christened Iño the Cat.

If you are wondering how to pronounce Iño, it's Ee-nyoh. I credit his Spanish-sounding name to the fact that Spanish was my first language. This is perfectly normal when you are under the age of five and are surrounded by said language because your parents speak Spanish, and their neighbors speak Spanish, and your parents' friends speak Spanish, and your cousins, uncle and godparents speak Spanish and the Disney Channel is in English (hey, I had to learn my native tongue somewhere).

Iño wasn't even mine to begin with. He belonged to one of my older cousins, but from the moment my toddler self laid eyes on him, I knew that it was love at first sight. I began bouncing like a caffeinated rubber ball chanting "Iño, Iño, Iño!"

What did that mean?

That meant that I had a new toy. My little arms clutched tightly to his velvet texture and squeezed into his fluffy body with deep admiration. He was so soft and inviting, and I was never going to let him go.

Iño and I were nearly inseparable. Ours was a great love story. We were like peas and carrots. Cookies and milk. Peanut butter and jelly. PG Tips and milk. Escargots and parsley garlic butter sauce. Lechon asado and arroz moros.

(Is it just me, or are the best pairing examples often food-related? Either that or I must be hungry.)

The peculiar aspect of Iño the Cat was that he was, in reality, a Felix the Cat doll. You remember Felix the Cat, doncha? The black cat that has a yellow magic bag of tricks?

(I would so carry a yellow purse marked with crosses and dots.)

But in my hands, Felix the plushie was no longer Felix. He was Iño. My parents tried, to no avail, to correct my mistake by saying that my new toy's name was "el gato Felix" and not "Iño."

Their adult reasoning was no match for my toddler vociferousness. He was Iño the Cat, not Felix, and that was that; they accepted it. Persistence triumphs over logic.

Anyway, the only vulnerable moments in which Iño and I were separated were when my mother washed him and when I would go to the park to hang out in the playground. I've been told by people older than myself that I was a fairly amiable and sensitive child who could at times be hyperactive but had an overall pleasant demeanor. In other words, these wholesome traits made me bully fodder and I was highly susceptible to accept any invitations to be abused by the neighborhood playground tyrants.

And I was.

I don't remember his name, but for the purpose of this post, I'll refer to him as "Dickwad the III."

Dickwad the III was your average bully, the despotic kind that because of his bulky stature and questionable personal life feels the need to belittle others to give himself a false sense of superiority. I also suspect that his anger was fueled due to his lack of some decent-sized "manhood."

Since he was far too young to purchase a gigantic car to compensate for his minuscule genitals, it was unfortunate for everyone that Dickwad the III sought out to justify his dominion when he crowned himself king of the slide, see-saw and swing set. Woe unto me when I invaded "his" territory.

Poor sensitive me ran away in a flood of tears. His treatment towards me was unjust and unmerited and I couldn't understand why he would abuse me in this manner. Some adults suspected that he may have had a crush on me, but who were they kidding? That couldn't be possible; he called me dumb. No one says that to me and gets away with it. But how was I going to face him when he could easily overpower me with his pinky?

I had a revelation. I couldn't bring myself to vanquish this bully, but I knew someone who could.

In my child's imagination, Iño could accomplish anything because he was the Honey Badger of stuffed toys (he didn't give a shit). Iño would help me face Dickwad the III because he was my guardian, my sentinel and, most importantly, my valiant friend.

Under Iño's protective aura, I had the resolve to face my playground nemesis. Nothing was going to stop me  from seeking justice.

The following day, my mother took us to the neighborhood playground. I searched the area until I spotted Dickwad the III traumatizing some smaller kids over by the swings. I couldn't take his arrogance any longer. Holding Iño at arm's length like a shield, he and I charged like the pair of enraged banshees we were and confronted Dickwad the III's tyranny head-on!

You gotta face your problems directly, folks. It helps to make your opposition scared straight because you went right after them with a high-pitched war cry and shook a cat plushie in their face.

Let it be known that from that moment on, Dickwad the III knew better than to mess with the little girl on the playground. I will never forget Iño's act of bravery. To this day, whenever I see Felix the Cat in stores, I brush a tear from my eye, reminiscing about that one glorious, fateful day when my cherished Iño beat up a boy who was much bigger than I was.

Barb the French Bean

The Language Barrier in the Same Language

As I revealed in an earlier post, I come from a mixed background. My mother is Colombian and my father is Cuban. Though both of their respective homelands speak Spanish, their accents, vocabulary and colloquialisms are not the same. If you have a hard time getting my point, think about how different British and American English are from each other.

Growing up in Cuban-populated Miami, I didn't have too much trouble hearing differences between their patterns of speech. Mom had already become accustomed to my father's way of speech and thus spoke to me using Cuban Spanish.

Yet sometimes there were slip-ups with vocabulary that led to misunderstandings. One particular word comes to mind.

Papaya

In any normal South and Central American country, the word for said fruit is papaya. In Venezuela, they say papaya. In El Salvador, they say papaya. In Peru, they say papaya. And, inevitably, in Colombia, one says papaya.

That is not the case with Cubans.

This is because "papaya" in Cuban Spanish is an extremely vulgar word that references a lady's parts (cut one of these fruits in half and you will see what I'm talking about). Ergo, Cubans use a completely different word for said fruit. "Frutabomba," which literally translates to "fruit bomb."

So, imagine if you will, the shock my dear old Cuban Dad had when, in the mid-80s, his Colombian bride went to do the grocery shopping and suddenly announced something around these lines:

I'm sure he got the point when Mom returned with a fruit bomb instead.

Barb the French Bean

Coffee Bean's First Post

Hola! Welcome to our blog!

I cannot believe that Barb and I have actually started our own blog! It is too surreal, but very exciting. :)

At the moment, I really do not have much to say, except that I will probably be using Spanish words, gibberish, psychological terms, and other words that come to mind in my future posts.

(Don't worry I'll translate most of it).

I can't wait to post up more stuff, but for now I bid you farewell.

Thanks for reading,
Hanny the Coffee Bean