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

Adventures in Tree Decorating 101

That time of the year has come, the days when you dig out storage the funky decorations that you string on the fragrant branches of a tree. In my case, due to moving back to the United States in 2011, I had none of the decorations that my French BFF Mimi had given me at Villa Verde.  I also live in a compact room so whatever tree I got had to be an appropriate size to accommodate all of the stuff that has accumulated in the space of nearly four months.

One trip to the Foir'Fouille, land of cheap housewares, and I acquired 40 Euros' worth of Christmas decorations and a fake tree.

It looks nice, doesn't it? 

With Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree playing in the background, I opened the box, hooked the tree bits together and decorated it with the lights and ornaments.

Or at least I tried to. Due to the flimsy, collapsible stand and the weight of too many ornaments, the poor tree kept falling over.

With each slip and dip that occurred, my frustration gradually kicked up a notch. Then one of the stand's planks broke. I resorted to using a pink Hello Kitty CD case to keep it propped upright. I even gave my tree a nickname: Timber. As in "TIM-BERRRRRRRRR!!!!" *crash*

The result?

Don't forget to notice the pink Hello Kitty stand.

Um.

Let's take a look at the picture on the box again...

LIES. ALL LIES.

I couldn't help but start to feel vicious animosity towards Timber. It looked terrible and, even with the makeshift support, it continued to fall over.

This is clearly what a fake Christmas tree looks like when it has given up all hope.

Deep in my gut, something told me that Timber simply wasn't going to cut it. I sadly removed all of the ornaments I had strung with care and dismantled Timber. Determined, I promised myself that I would get a real tree on Saturday.

Tree Decorating, Take 2

I walked over to my nearest Point Vert, the Villa Verde wannabe store filled with hunting gear and gardening supplies. Within minutes, I found my dream tree. Despite its cumbersome size for my tiny bedroom, it was the perfect tree. I purchased Chrissy (yes, that's its name) and a stand to keep it standing straight.

But once I returned home, I then had to deal with a second factor: my tiny bedroom.

Once you have purchased a tree, playing Room Tetris is inevitable. 

The solution was quite simple, really. In order to clear a space, all I needed to do was move the boxes, suitcases and packages under my desk.

TA-...

...-DAH!!!

(Clearly, not all Latinos fall under the stereotype of being cleaning fiends. I feel sorry for whomever ends up being my husband because he's gonna have to deal with living with my messes. Or maybe I'll acquire the tidy gene once I have a ring on my finger?)

Christmas Tree Decorating 101

1) Place all the Christmas/Fairy Lights first.

Trust me on this one. 

2) To set the mood right, organize all of the ornaments.

Looking at this hoard still makes me giddy.

I couldn't resist getting these horse ornaments. I consider it a tribute to my many Neigh-bors. 

When I was younger, my mother had a bunch of basket ornaments. On Christmas day, I would discover that Santa had magically left some chocolates in them. I wanted to make sure that the Man in Red continues that tradition.

Yo dawg, I heard you like Christmas trees. So I put a Christmas tree in yo' Christmas tree.

These are actually wooden gift tags. They're ornaments now, okay?

3) Do make yourself a cup of your favorite hot beverage.

Mine's Colombian hot chocolate.

4) Pop in your favorite Christmas music or movie and have the songs/dialogue running in the background. White Christmas is a two-for-one deal: it has music and a plot.

Now you are set to decorate.

Make sure you have even spacing between branches for the ornaments. The tree shouldn't look too overcrowded. 

If you have any garland/ribbon, add it after you've laced the tree with the decorations. Add the tree skirt last.

If you lack space, place the Nativity scene/Christmas village under the tree.

Chrissy makes me so happy that I don't even want any presents this year.

I really wasn't kidding about living in a compacted space.

I don't know who is more excited for the Christmas break to come, my students or me. Bonne chance (good luck) with your own decorating!

To make matters even more interesting about my compacted space, I shall have to factor in an inflatable bed within a week's time. Why so? I will have the pleasure to travelling to Paris to greet my mother at the Charles de Gaulle (CDG-Roissy) airport!  It'll be the first time in nearly four months (I moved to Sablé-sur-Sarthe on August 23rd) since I have seen her. We've done a couple of Skype chats in between, but nothing compares to being able to hug her in person and give her a big kiss.

Back in October, when I was dreaming of having two weeks off to just relax and do absolutely nothing, no grading papers, no planning lessons, not having to wake up in the mornings, I received a phone call from my very matriarchal Colombian Mom.

Me: Hi, Mom, what's up?

Mom: Well, I was thinking...

Me: About?

Mom: About how I'm going to France to spend Christmas with you this year.

She hadn't asked a question. It was a statement. It was definitive. Whatever she says, goes.

I had to be a responsible adult. I kissed my two weeks of laziness rest and relaxation good-bye and booked airfare for Mom.

I am a bit concerned for her, though. Ever since we moved from the frozen tundra of New Jersey twenty years ago to Miami, it might take her a while to become acclimated to experiencing proper winter weather once more.

I'm also scratching my head as to what we will do in the time she visits me. Paris at Christmas is a must, and I still have yet to see the Champs-Élysée lit at night. As for Christmas day, Mom and I will probably spend a few days with my dear friends who live in Sens to exchange presents and cook some Colombian cuisine. After that, I might take Mom to my very humble abode in Sablé so she can meet the horses. Maybe we will even get the chance to visit the surrounding cities of Angers and Le Mans to see their Christmas markets.

On a more serious note, my mother is quite nervous for this trip. It wouldn't have been so bad had I been able to find a cheap direct flight for her from Miami to Paris, but, due to financial destitution, we had to opt for her to make a stop in London's Heathrow airport (or is it aeroport?). Now, in all reality, having a layover in London isn't such a big deal.

However, when you are a Colombian lady who, thanks to Miami's Spanish-centered bilingualism, rarely speaks English and who has never set foot in the U.K., it suddenly is a frickin' big deal. She actually considered canceling the trip due to this inconvenience.

The following conversation happened to us in Spanish:

Mom: WHAT AM I GONNA DO?! Can I use Euros or Dollars in England?

Me: Um, no, I don't think so. The British use the Pound.

Mom: *Incredulous pause* Ayyyyyyy ¡¡¡¡Dios mio!!!! (Oh, my God!) Why can't these Europeans use the same currency everywhere?! It's so backwards of them!

Me: Oh, Mom...it's not a big problem.

*I looked at the flight schedule*

Listen, your flight arrives in London around lunchtime. You should exchange some Dollars to Pounds when you are still in Miami so you can have lunch in the Heathrow airport.

Mom: What am I going to eat there?

Me: I dunno...eat some Fish & Chips? Buy some Cadbury's Dairy Milk?

Mom: What's Cadbourri's Dari Milk?

Me: It's chocolate.

Mom: Ay, you know I don't like chocolate.

Me: Yeah, I know. It was a joke.


Mom coming to visit me plus a Christmas tree is enough of a gift for me!

Joyeux Noël! 

Barb the French Bean

The Time I Was Outsmarted by Cockroaches

At the risk of  giving you all the impression that my home is a dirty, roach-infested wasteland, I present a horror story so foul that will make you want to go to sleep with the lights on... so those little insects have the keen sense of not emerging from their daytime hiding spots when everyone is asleep in the dark. As everyone knows, cockroaches are the Keebler Elves of the insect world.

If you are mortified of roaches, please find your softest and most cuddly teddy bear before you start to read. Or skip reading this post altogether.

Still here? Okay. Let's continue.

It doesn't matter how intelligent I am, nor that I have a college degree that proves I am a cultured, literate young woman: experiences with the animal kingdom inevitably show that I can't control my very instinctive and human reactions.

One late evening (technically, it was very early morning), I made my way to use the sole bathroom that is in my apartment. Since I do not live alone, I have the habit of locking the door to prevent any mishaps of someone walking in on me. The locking mechanism of said bathroom's door shuts with the push of a button. This is easier for my grandmother so she doesn't have to struggle to twist something minuscule with her shaky fingers.

Anyway, over the years, I have developed a fairly mindless procedure for entering the bathroom. I open the door, I turn on the light switch and, still having the door open, I lock it.

But that late evening, something was different. When I looked up at the ceiling and glanced around the walls, I realized that I was not alone.

I saw not one.

Not two.

But THREE cockroaches crawling on the bathroom walls, all at least 2 inches /5 cm long.

Now, I am not one to become squeamish at seeing roaches because I don't have a particular phobia against them, and growing up in Florida only helped me to get accustomed to seeing all sorts of animals invade my home: ants, roaches, Anole lizards, even the odd snake or two. Hanny, my blogging partner-in-crime, can certainly confirm that when it comes to killing those dastardly insects, I will be the one to step forward and destroy them with steel resolve.

I'll admit that I cringed momentarily when I was confronted by three of them at once in the bathroom, yet was determined to not be conquered by these ghastly intruders and let them get the better of me.

Still, their sheer size alone should have been an indication, nay, a warning, that they had weathered enough difficulties in their tough, roachy lives to have survived to grow that large.

It didn't matter that I was at least 32 times taller than they were and outweighed them by maybe 500 times their body weight; when those menacing creatures spread their wings and kamikazed off their horizontal perches straight at my face, all bets were off.

Oh, the joys of living in Florida. We get heat, humidity, hurricanes, thunderstorms, the occasional tornado and congregating flying roaches that participate in monthly meetings of "scare-the-crap-outta-humans."

Fearing that those little, brown, turd-shaped bastards were going to kill me, I shut the door in instinctive fright and created a barricade that separated me from the trio of evil flying roaches.

A locked barricade.

Yes, I had slammed the door shut. With the lock set in place. To the only bathroom in the entire apartment. I refer to this scenario as a classic "oh, shit" moment.

The second I realized that I had locked myself out, it was as if my life of having access to a bathroom  flashed before my eyes and horrid thoughts of impending doom filled my head. "How am I going to shower? Or brush my teeth? My shampoo is in there!  Where am I supposed to pee? MY PAUL MITCHELL HAIR MOUSSE IS TRAPPED IN THERE! NOOOOOO!!! I MUST SAVE IT FROM THE ROACHES!!!"

On the bright side, no matter how much heaving and pushing I did against the door, I can confirm that the lock works perfectly at keeping it shut. This will prove to be extremely useful when I take cover in the bathroom from the robbers, rapists and serial killers who are sure to invade my home one of these nights.

However, I couldn't let the bathroom stay shut forever. There had to be some way to wrench it open. As I took a deep breath to control the panic that had seeped into my nervous system, I leaned down and observed the door knob. I noticed that it had a very small hole. One that needed to be pierced by a small wire of some sort. I gasped. This was going to be my chance to practice all of the cool stuff that I had seen on T.V.!

First, I tried to open the door by poking the hole with a bobby pin. That didn't work.Then I MacGyverred a trombone-shaped paper clip into a spear and fidgeted with the hole for a few minutes.

But it was no use. I was going to need the key. Thus my promising career as a world-class jewelry heist thief was dashed because a lock and three roaches foiled me. The only question remaining for me was: where was the key? I had a vague knowledge that the key did exist. Somewhere. In my apartment.

The only person with that knowledge was Mom and I didn't want to wake her up at 2 a.m. Feeling like a rather useless child instead of a fully-functioning adult, I wrang my hands and nervously danced on the spot. What was I going to do? What was going to happen?

When I thought that I would sink into my deepest despair, a totally anonymous, costumed avenger appeared next to me with a key. Oddly enough, she had my mother's build and short hair-style. She didn't say much, only revealing that she called herself Super Mom. She inserted her magical golden key into the door knob and saved the day.

Seeing that a little ol' sissy coward like me had been traumatized by the disgusting roaches, Super Mom bucked up and charged into the bathroom with a broom. Soon, my dreaded enemies were defeated in three fell swoops.

It's moments like these that make me wish that I were half of the woman Super Mom is. I may be twenty-five years old, but I honestly don't know what I would do without her courage, guidance and foresight. Super Mom is my hero.

I also add that this experience of locking myself out of the bathroom has made me question whether or not I am fit to survive in the world alone (the fact that I still live at home further proves this point). I mean, having a job and paying the bills is the easy part, but should that fateful day when I become independent come, who will be there to exterminate kamikaze roaches for me? My flip-flop? Raid bug spray? The Exterminator, the Terminator's much-less-well-known cousin?

Barb the French Bean