Greetings from Buenos Aires! I’ve been here for five days now, and I’ll be here till next Thursday. Wish I could say that everything’s going swell, but, sadly, I’ve been quite sick the past three days. ¡Juepucha! Didn’t go out at all today until dinner, just stayed inside and moped and commanded myself to get better. I think I’m on the up and up, though, thank goodness. How pathetic to get sick while you’re traveling.

That being said, I have very much enjoyed what I’ve seen, heard, smelled, and tasted so far. What a beautiful city! It’s winter down here, and it’s very chilly, but the skies are bright blue, the city’s not crawling with a million tourists, and, of course, the cold takes nothing away from the majestic buildings and sweeping avenues. I’ll share some pictures when I can figure out how to. Everyone I’ve met has been so kind. I have no compunction in talking to perfect strangers, and they’ve all been so warm, generous, and talkative back to me. I stayed at a hostel for three nights and have since been Couchsurfing with a wonderful couple, Ceci and Gustavo, and their toy poodle, Munra. I’m quite content. Lucky, lucky me.

I find the local accent to be completely bewitching, although just as bewildering. It is so interesting and so unbelievably . . . different. Is this really Spanish that they’re speaking? I don’t really have a problem speaking with people one-on-one, but throw in another person or add a lot of background noise or have them mumble and start speaking fast and things get out of hand quickly. I’m doing my best to imitate their accent, and some of it’s unconscious on my part, but for the record I’ll say that I’m still very pleased to have (and work on improving) my Paisa accent. I do love the voseo. And all the new words are fun.

Here’s just one for you: locutorio

It’s an internet café or whatever you want to call it, seeing as we don’t really have them in the US. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one in Latin America, though, so if you’ve traveled in the region, you know what I’m talking about: places where you can make cheap local and international calls as well as get online. This word has already come quite in handy, and I most certainly would not have guessed its meaning had I not been clued in. Locu-what? It first seemed like a totally meaningless, made-up word to me, as nonsensical as quilombo. And then I thought about it– oh, interlocutor! But, of course! Then a little WordReference and DRAE detective work tipped me off to some of locutorio‘s other meanings: It can be a priest’s confessional, a visiting room in a convent or prison (separated by bars or glass), a phone booth, or a radio studio. Perhaps locutorio is used for these things in Colombia, but I can pretty much guarantee you that internet cafés are not called locutorios. There, it’s just a café internet. What about in the countries where you’ve traveled or lived?

Double triple quadruple bonus points if the title means anything to you and made you start dancing a little in your chair. Once I learned that a locutorio can also be a visiting room in a jail, I couldn’t help but associate it with Saoko from Fruko y sus tesos. In his famous song, he could easily be either communicating through one of those glass panels or calling from a phone booth. Any way you slice it, a locutorio. Y, bueno, ¡a bailar!

What about you? Did you know about locutorios? Do you know any other names for them? Any other words in Argentinian/Buenos Aires Spanish that have caught your eye/ear? If you’re a native Spanish speaker, anything to correct, clarify, comment on or concur with? What’s a locutorio in your country?

Back in the day, there was this really great site for foreigners living in Colombia called poorbuthappy.com. I remember reading a thread one time where people were soberly discussing their Spanish levels, most of them pathetically dependent on their younger-than-them-by-30-years girlfriend to get through daily interactions. One guy, though, shared that his Spanish had gotten pretty damn good. No, it wasn’t perfect, but he was fluent enough to be able to have an argument with his girlfriend over which laundry detergent to buy. I remember being extremely impressed, and it seemed like as good a goal as any to aim for. At the time, the possibility of being able to opine on the finer points of laundry accoutrements seemed so hopelessly out of my reach. And then . . .

*Flash forward three years*

In the past week at work, I’ve had to talk very in depth about laundry in not one, not two, but three different appointments. Twice it was about allergic reactions on the skin and how to minimize that via laundry changes. Another time, the patient, who works in the laundry room at a hotel, had accidentally mixed bleach and a stain-buster, which then caused a chemical explosion that damaged her lungs. For all three interactions, I had to really get into the nitty-gritty about laundry and its paraphernalia. Ahhh! I did fine, but I want to know this subject like the back of my hand. Poking around the interwebs, I found a deplorable dearth of good info on Spanish laundry vocabulary. Well, count on me, your trusty blogging bat, to fill that void. Here’s the dirt.

Lavar (la) ropa, hacer la colada (Esp.) – to do laundry

Detergente - detergent (detergente líquido, detergente en polvo)

Did you know that this comes from the verb “to deterge”? (Deterger in Spanish) I deterge, you deterge, everybody deterge! Yo deterjo, tú deterges, ¡deterjámonos!

I used to like watching those little rings dissolve

Blanqueador, lejía, cloro – bleach (these are the most universal ones)

A popular brand of bleach in Colombia

Blanquear, decolorar – to bleach

Ha pasado

Quitamanchas - stain-buster, stain remover

Suavizante - fabric softener

Toallitas/hojas suavizantes para secadora - dryer sheets

Lavadora, lavarropas - washing machine

Planned obsolescence

(That comic features two phrases I’ve shared with you on Vocabat: del todo and a posta)

Secadora, secarropas - dryer (not at all common in L. A.!)

Limpieza en seco, lavado en seco - dry cleaning

Tintorería - dry cleaner’s (and they can also do many other clothing and fabric-related services including, notably, dyeing your clothes [tinturar, hence  the name], although this isn’t very common anymore)

An authentic tintorería from way back, more like a dyeworks

Lavandería - laundromat, laundrette/launderette

I have not found self-service laundromats to be common in Latin America. I remember my ex once telling me that for him it was a very “American” concept, something exotic they saw in our movies but couldn’t relate to. Sure, there are places that will wash your clothes, but you drop your clothes off with them. However, coin laundromats (lavanderías autoservicio, lavanderías automáticas) are becoming more and more common. ¿Por qué será?

Had any of you ever heard of a washateria? I hadn’t either. The things you learn from Wikipedia!

Prenda - garment, item of clothing

Ever wondered what a unit of clothing is called in Spanish? It’s a prenda, and sometimes that word can really come in handy. If you take clothing to be dry cleaned or to a seamstress or tailor for them to do alterations (hard to resist down there when it’s all so cheap), you’ll definitely want to be able to tell them how many prendas you have.

A fleet of 3-wheeled trucks standing by in Bogotá to deliver your clean clothes to you

Tanda - load of laundry

I still remember my delight when my ex taught me this word. Its usefulness just can’t be beat. A tanda is a unit, a group, and its uses are extensive. It could be a load of laundry, a batch of cookies, a round of questions, a commercial break, etc. Basically one part of a series. You can also say carga for a load of laundry.

These are the tools that most people use to wash their clothes in the 21st century. Here’s what I used to wash mine during most of my stay in Colombia.

Yes, I was a martyr and I washed my clothes by hand during my first year in Bogotá and my entire time in Medellín. I used a big bucket (a ponchera) and the long handle of . . . for shame, a toilet brush. Plus detergent, of course. At first it was kind of fun. I felt like a pioneer woman out on a prairie somewhere. Then I just got used to it, even though it was a drag. Now it’s simply become another memory embellished by nostalgia. What I wouldn’t give to be crouched over that bucket again in that ant-engorged laundry room, my arms exhausted, stirring those clothes around and around in the blurry water.

Second load of laundry vocabulary coming soon!

As you can see, I’m now overqualified to have that discussion about laundry detergent. Tide or generic? ¿Ariel o Fab? Believe me, I’ll win any argument you throw at me. All I have to do now is go out and find a partner to pick this fight with. Or, he could always come to me.

What about you? Got any laundry experience in Spanish-speaking countries? Did you pick up any words while you were at it? Did you already know these words? If you’re a native Spanish speaker, anything to correct, clarify, comment on or concur with? Are there self-service laundromats where you live? How common are dryers?

First things first. A piropo is a flirtatious, admiring compliment in Spanish, they thrive on the streets of Latin America, and while some may consider them annoying or even verbal assault, others consider them an art form. As a verb, you can say echar un piropo or piropear. Yes, piropos often have the reputation of just being sleazy pickup lines. They don’t have to be, though; they can be an amorous compliment y ya, nada más y nada menos.

I always kind of wanted to write a blog post on Spanish catcalls in the street. I dreamed up assignments of traversing Latin America’s alleys and avenues and reporting on what the men were saying in El Salvador, the heights and depths of creativity in Chile, the levels of desperation in Puerto Rico, the poetry of the side streets of Bolivia. People talk about learning Spanish that’s more de la calle, and I remember once having a book called Streetwise Spanish (alas, lost in the great taxi heist of 2010)– what could be more callejero than piropos? While there are surely many nasty, creepy, and wildly inappropriate comments made to women in the streets, many beautiful and lyrical compliments are paid as well. It could be a pain walking around in Colombia, no doubt–sunglasses, a quick pace, and a menacing, no me jodas look were my friends. I also know that my imperfect Spanish comprehension shielded me from many things that were spoken too fast or mumbled too pasito for me to catch them. In general, I gave groups of men as wide a berth as possible, especially the omnipresent construction workers. All that to say that I was probably protected from the most lecherous comments. Still, I defend piropos in general. It all depends on who’s administering them.

What woman can say that a really charming and reverential piropo launched when she was least expecting it hasn’t made her day at one point or another? Most of what was said to me was highly respectful or, failing that, at least flattering. Look, my ego isn’t made of steel. Even the most hackneyed lines would often give me a small pep in my step, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss them. Most piropos ran along the lines of something like:

¡Estás bueeeeeeeeeena!

Uy, ¡mamasota!

Qué nena tan linda.

Uy, qué guapa.

Eres la mujer más bonita en toda la ciudad. Buenas tardes.

Sssssssssss.

Oooh, good comeback

You get the picture. And then there were two red-letter days, two piropos that made me beam inside for a good couple hours.

Eres un poema visual. (On the street)

Para mis ojos, tu hermosura es perfecta. (I was sitting at a café in Bogotá reading Cien años de soledad.)

The best piropo of my life, however, didn’t happen in Colombia. It wasn’t even in Spanish. It was right here in my city on a fall Sunday afternoon much like this one five years ago. I’d been scrunched up on a bench in front of a café for a few hours furiously reading Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! All of a sudden, an older man (they’re always older men) came up, nonchalantly handed me a small slip of paper, and walked away.

Not hitting on you. Not even leaving my name. Just know this: you are absolutely beautiful. I hope you are acting or modeling. Go well. 

I was woozy for weeks.

But enough about me and some of the kind things strangers have felt compelled to say to me. What about you? What piropos have you received? What piropos have you delivered? What piropos would you give out if only you had the guts to do so? Hmm. I am a strong believer in remarking on beauty when it strikes you, when it catches you unawares, when it overwhelms you to the point that it hurts just a little to take it all in. I want to give out piropos, I do. So I shall, somehow. To someone. Somewhere. All he has to do is walk by me.

Muy acertado

How you go about constructing your piropos is your business, your prerogative. The idea is originality, which doesn’t have to mean spontaneity. The dear, bumbling Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice had some wise words on this point.

“. . . I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies . . . These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.”

“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet,  “and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”

As unbearable as that creature was, there is a measure of insight in what he had to say–it is best that your piropos don’t sound canned. I will be more than a little devastated if hundreds of you respond to say that you received that same slip of paper while reading at a coffee shop. You will have to work on making your piropos elegant and delicate; they should nacerte, that is, flow out of you. In the meantime, here are a few basics for talking about beauty in Spanish.

For women:

linda, bonita, hermosa, divina, guapa, atractiva, bella, preciosa, (estar) buena, sexy, despampanante (stunning), una muñeca, una princesa, una reina

Those are just a few of the words that should work everywhere, and every city and country has its regional descriptors as well. For example, churra and chusca are very popular in Colombia; there’s also pispa in Medellín and chirriada in Bogotá. (though I think that’s old-fashioned) And un bizcocho (cake) is a beautiful woman (un bagre [catfish] is an ugly one).

My friend Rafael is convinced that I’m an angel fallen from heaven, and he’s been telling me so in long, lavish, strictly respectful, strictly-as-a-friend messages for years. He loves to say swoony things to me like:

Hola, ¿cómo estás aparte de bella, dulce y sonriente, preciosura?

Y vos, ¿cómo está la chica más linda del vecindario, la que da alegría a todo mundo con su linda sonrisa y su angelical cara?

Hola bella damisela.

Hola dulce y elegante flor de primavera, que por la primavera haces botón, por el verano floreces y en el otoño nos das de tu perfume y por invierno tu delicadeza. 

Hola bella fémina.

Hola bella y gentil dama.

I think this one wins the cursi (cheesy) award. And that image just kills me.

He’s Mexican, but he also does his best to woo me in Colombian Spanish.

¡Quiubo, parce!

Pues, de una, parcera.

Con mucho gusto te colaboro, bizcocho. 

¿Cómo estás hoy día, bella paisa?

Turning the adjectives into nouns, he’ll also talk about my belleza, dulzura, gentileza, nobleza and grandeza for a change. There’s also hermosura, preciosura, and a word I learned just today– lindura. From the DRAE, lindura–1. Cualidad de lindo; 2. Persona o cosa linda. Good to know.

These are just some of the piropos that haven’t worked on me (although they certainly charmed me). Imagínense the ones that have.

For men:

guapo, lindo, apuesto, buen mozo, (estar) bueno, simpático

In Colombia, they also say churro, chusco, pinta, chirriado as well as many other words I either never learned or have forgotten.

Long live piropos! When done right, they can be so musical, so poetic, so galvanizing. Now I walk down the street and everything’s silent; if I walk down a major road, all I get are prosaic honks. I drive most places, and cars are not exactly piropo-friendly. I just got a bike, though, so maybe some gallant, some knight in a shining Armada will valiantly stick out his neck to pay me a long overdue piropo. And, smitten, of course I’ll pay him one right back.

(I haven’t forgotten about that second load of laundry, btw. Still working on it.)

What about you? What piropos have you received or doled out? Are you a fan of them, or do you despise them? If you’re a native Spanish speaker, anything to correct, clarify, comment on or concur with? What other general and country-specific vocabulary can you teach us for describing other people’s good looks?

We did a load of laundry a while back, but we didn’t quite finish. There’s still another pile in the hamper, still a few more laundry vocab terms to go over. OK, so maybe more than a few. There’s no excuse for each and every one of you to not be fluent Spanish laundry speakers after these two exhaustive lists. I charge ye to go forth and launder, my little bats. But first a word from one of our Colombian sponsors, Shakira, who, as you can see by her tattoo, is just as enthusiastic about laundry as I am (and probably much better at selling it).

First things first. Where is all this exciting laundry action going down? In the laundry room, of course. Most homes in Latin America don’t have a laundry room como tal, but more modern ones sometimes do. Whether they have a washing machine or just a washtub/sink (or both), it’s very likely in the kitchen, just off the kitchen, or in some other nook in the house. That room or area can be called one of a million things depending on the country. Possibilities include lavadero, área de ropas, lavandería, zona de lavandería, cuarto de la lavadora, cuarto de lavar, área de lavado, zona de lavado, cuarto de lavado, sala de lavado, pieza de lavado, and loggia. That last one, la loggia, is said in Chile, and I find it charming because it reminds me of one my favorite movies, A Room with a View. Though I don’t think a Chilean laundry room is quite the setting Eleanor Lavish had in mind for the characters in her novel . . .

Most Latin American households are fitted with one of these beauties. Behold.

Properly attired with a cepillo and a bar of jabón REY

The most common names for this double sink are lavadero and pila.

What’s our mission? To kill the dirt. That is, la mugre, la suciedad, la roña. 

We want to take especial care with items that are percudidos. Percudido? Percudir? I’m glad you asked. When your clothes get percudido, it can mean one of two things. One meaning is when the dirt gets really deep-set in your whites, producing an insidious grime that doesn’t come out just because you ask it to. It’s when your whites get grubby and dull and blah. That’s percudido. Men, you’ve probably noticed this around the collars and cuffs (los cuellos y los puños) of your shirts. Women, probably your bras. Watch this commercial, El misterio del brasier percudido, and it will all be made clear to you.

So, another one of our goals for our laundry session will be to despercudir la ropa percudida. As for the second meaning of percudido, it can also mean what happens to clothes when they’ve been washed too many times–little by little, the fabric gets worn out and starts to deteriorate.

We could just throw our clothes in a washing machine, but where’s the poetry in that? That’s right, there isn’t any. Let’s wash this tanda by hand and see what colorful laundry vocabulary we can’t coax out of the experience.

To sort clothes – clasificar la ropa, separar la ropa por colores (ropa clara/ropa blanca y ropa oscura)

To wet – mojar, humedecer

To soap up – enjabonar

For this, we’re most likely to use bars of soap. This can be called jabón en barra, jabón en pan, or a pastilla de jabón.

To scrub – restregar, tallar (Mex.), fregar, refregar

(Reggaetón is often called restregón by its critics – think about it)

To soak – remojar; to let soak - dejar en remojo, poner en remojo

(Just to mix things up around here a bit. If you know Spanish, I can almost guarantee you can read that Portuguese ad. Môlho is a cognate of remojo from above. How’d you do?)

To rinse – enjuagar

To wring out- exprimir, retorcer, estrujar

To drain, drip dry- (dejar) escurrir

Clothesline, clothes rack – tendedero

Here’s a famous Mexican commercial from back in the day for Rindex detergent. Notice the reference to a dove on a tendedero. I find it really beautiful, especially that last stanza, and I’ve watched it countless times. I’ve put the lyrics below (On the internet for the first time ever! Go me.)

La Lola y la Bartola se dieron un agarrón,
querían saber quién usaba el detergente más buenón.
De la Bartola su ropa quedó limpia y perfumada,
mientras que a la pobre Lola le quedó de la patada.
Al mirar los resultados, Lola se puso de llorona
por mal tirar su dinero y haber sido tan gastalona.
Vuela, vuela palomita, párate en el tendedero.
Diles a todas las señoras que Rindex es el mero mero.

If your Mexican Spanish is a little rusty, Rodney did a great job in this post explaining what el mero mero means.

As you know, some clothes can secar al sol (dry in the sun), while others should secar a la sombra (dry in the shade). Another verb for to air dry is orear.

To hang – tender, colgar

Clothespins – pinzas, ganchos, broches, palillos, palitos, horquillas, perros, prensas, and, well, you can look up the rest of them here. I’m worn out. Once again, Chile wins the award for the most interesting term with perros. But what else could be expected from Neruda’s homeland?

Oh, and how could we forget. An imprescindible part of the laundry experience is the soundtrack. There’s a whole genre of music for housewives called música para planchar, and I see no good reason why we can’t enjoy some jams during the entire laundering process in order to break up the tedium. As it’s pretty hard to beat Juan Gabriel, here’s a great song to set the mood.

Sometimes laundry goes haywire. Here’s some help in talking about it.

To fade – desteñirse, decolorarse, desvanecerse

To bleed, run – desteñir, despintarse (Mex.), soltar color, echar tinte

To stretch out - estirarse, agrandarse, ensancharse, dar de sí/darse de sí

To shrink – encogerse, achicarse

There are, of course, all different kinds of encogimiento.

Did I miss anything? Surely not! Believe me, I have scoured the internet, and these two posts form THE list of laundry vocabulary terms in Spanish, the mother of all lists, if you will. Would-be copycats are better off not even wasting their time trying to reproduce such a master file. I don’t think the internet’s big enough for two such lists, anyway. All right, batlings; you’re all set. A very happy and fluent laundering to you!

What about you? Got any laundry experience in Spanish-speaking countries? Did you already know these words? Which ones? If you’re a native Spanish speaker, anything to correct, clarify, comment on or concur with? Which of these words do you use in your country?

As you all know from the lists of funny search queries that I occasionally post, the sundry ways that people find Vocabat often make me chuckle. Sometimes, though, the specific Spanish questions me dejan gringa, and then I want to know the answer as badly as the lonely Internet wayfarer. When I don’t know the answer or can’t even make heads or tails of the question, I turn to Google and see what I can’t uncover. Usually what I find is of questionable usefulness or importance, but other times I’m fascinated by what I learn. And sometimes, like today, that info comes just in the nick of time!

Yesterday, someone wound their way to my blog with this search term: what does it mean when you find a muneco in a rosca

I had no idea, nor was I sure what a rosca was. It was ringing a bell, but that bell was far, far away and muffled under a pillow. So, I copied and pasted the phrase into Google, and, voilà! My blog came up as the very first result. So proud.

Did I once blog about finding muñecos in roscas and then forget all about it? Is this what it’s come to? No, thankfully not. At least not yet. The search took me to a popular post of erstwhile days, ¡Que te rinda! wherein Grace left me a comment explaining exactly what finding a muñeco in your rosca entails:

. . . cuando festejamos Reyes, comemos la Rosca que contiene unos niños Dios escondidos adentro. Si encuentras un muñeco en su pieza de la rosca, ¡tienes que hacer tamales y atole para el día de la Candelaria!

When we celebrate Three Kings Day, we eat a rosca that has some baby Jesuses hidden inside. If you find one of the figurines in your piece of rosca, you have to make tamales and atole for the Día de la Candelaria! (Candlemas)

Mexican rosca de Reyes

As it happens, el Día de los Reyes was yesterday, January 6. (Epiphany/Three Kings’ Day) In many Latin American countries, children receive their gifts on this day, not on Christmas. Apparently, a very important tradition in Mexico and some other countries for Reyes is eating rosca. As they don’t do that in Colombia, I’d never even heard of it until yesterday. Shame on me for knowing so little about our neighbor to the south! Mexicans, discúlpenme.

Spanish roscón de Reyes

Today at work, I had to ask a patient to tell me everything that she ate yesterday. Everything sounded pretty ho-hum, and then she said that after dinner she had had un poco de rosca y un poco de pastel. Come again? Believe me, if I had not briefly read about the Reyes tradition of rosca yesterday, I would not have understood her and would have had to ask for clarification. A light bulb went off in my head, though, and I went, ahhhh. Rosca! Of course. And then I asked her, ¿A usted le tocó el muñeco? When the provider stepped out for a minute, I got to ask her what roscas usually have in them. For once, I felt culturally with-it—it was a great feeling. Of course, my knowledge was a little belated; next year I will definitely have to be on top of things beforehand so I can actually try a rosca and share it with Mexican friends. I guess I have a whole year to look forward to it. Don’t they look delicious?

Argentinian rosca de Reyes

Did you eat a rosca de Reyes yesterday? Did you celebrate el Día de los Reyes Magos some other way? If you’re from another country, what day are gifts exchanged in your country? Who brings them? All right, people, keep the searches coming! You guys are great teachers, and even when you’re just looking for things like “bat teeth” or “donald daisy duck lovestory,” I always get a kick out of you.

(As a side note, in Colombia, a rosca is usually a clique, exclusive ingroup, or “mafia.” It’s frequently used when talking about not being able to break into a certain job or industry because you don’t know the right people. Or if [you perceive that] your favorite sports team or player is consistently screwed over, you’ll probably bitterly blame it on a rosca.)

During the two years that I was in Colombia, my parents were kind enough to safeguard my many boxes of junk–mostly books, papers, and CDs–in their attic. When they sold their house and moved to Nicaragua a few months ago, they insisted that I take it back. Out of sight and out of mind, those forlorn boxes then proceeded to sit in the trunk of my car until today when I finally took them out and took some time to pore over the many mementos of my life. Confieso que he vivido. So I have lived, after all. I lived as quiet as a mouse in Colombia, and this last year has been more about surviving than truly living (certainly not thriving), so I haven’t left many signs of my passing through in the last few years. Before that, however, I lived loudly, colorfully, and left lots of evidence. I was so moved to recall past stages of life via letters, pictures, and other miscellanea. One thing that especially moved me was being reminded of a special little girl named Carolay who used to be my pen pal.

Carolay was a girl that I used to sponsor through the organization Compassion International. I know that these programs are not perfect, and not everyone would be comfortable with the religious aspect of the charity. Still, it sure seems that they’re doing an awful lot of good work. I hope my sense of doing a good deed wasn’t entirely illusory or self-serving. Anyway, I started sponsoring Carolay in the Dominican Republic my senior of college–2008–and continued to do so until I moved back to the U.S. in December of 2011. I was broke as a joke at the time, and it was with great sadness that I discontinued my support as I felt I could no longer afford it. Carolay sent me so many loving letters over the years as well as drawings and pictures. Deciphering her fat curlicued cursive always took a while (I would refuse to look at the translation below), but I was always so touched by her sweetness. Here are some excerpts to give you an idea.

Gracias por acordarce de mi cumpleaños, eso me puso muy contenta. Le pido que sigas orando por mi y yo boy a orar por ti. Te quiero mucho.

Te pido que ores por mi tia que sufre de azucar para que Dios la cuide y este trancila. Espero que me escribas pronto. Con amor me despido.

Y a mi me gusta jugar el escondite con mis amigas. Me gusta maquillarme con mis amigas. Y a usted ¿le gusta maquiyarse? 

¿Tiene hijos? ¿Estas en la iglesia? Yo quiero que sigas orando por mi, y recuerda que Dios te ama por siempre. Y te mando muchos abrasos. Te mando un dibujo, espero que te guste. Te quiero.

Te pido que ores para que en este nuevo año escolar me vaya bien y pueda pasar de curso. Con mucho cariño.

Yo quiero hablarte de mi amiga un poco. Mi mejor amiga que se llama Génesis Alexandra que es como mi hermana por que nos contamos todo y ella es muy muy alegre. Ella es blaca y tiene el pelo rubio y andamos para arriba y para bajo todo el tiempo. 

Gracias por estar pendiente de mi y gracias por ser mi amiga. Yo quiero que ores por mi, que yo oraré por ti. Que Dios te bendiga mucho. Chao. 

So, so, so, so cute. As cute as a button, this little Carolay. Oh, how I hate that I stopped supporting her and getting her precious letters. I found a card covered in flower and butterfly stickers that I had written her but apparently never sent. This was back in 2009, and it gives you an idea of my Spanish at the time.

Querida Carolay, Hola, ¿cómo estás? Gracias por escribirme una carta y por el dibujo. ¡Tú dibujas muy bien! Me gustó especialmente la cara del sol :) Es bueno que te guste estudiar lengua española–a mí me gusta estudiar la lengua y la literatura española, también. ¿Cuántos años tienes? Yo acabo de cumplir 22 años y estoy en mi último año de la universidad . . .

I also gathered together random items of interest and scribbled little notes on them. One was a postcard of Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. On the back, I wrote:

Éste es un cuadro muy famoso. Se llama, “El Beso.” Lo vi hace 2 años cuando viajé a Europa. Está en Austria. Pienso que es muy bonito–¡me gustan las formas y los colores!

Oh, how I wish I’d sent it to her! A whole lot of good it does anyone now, sitting in a box, and now shared on a blog. Well, maybe it will give you some ideas. There are millions of ways to use and practice your Spanish, and one way could be by supporting and befriending a needy child in Latin America. Improve your Spanish and do a good deed–what could be better? I promise you that it’s so wonderful to receive their letters and be able to write back. Do you think they would care about your mistakes? Desde luego que no. For just $38 a month, your support helps to provide food and clean water, medical care, educational opportunities, important life-skills training, and Christian education. (from their website) On their website, you can even choose the country of the child. I just looked at the pictures of the kids in Colombia, and my eyes watered a little. So adorable.

I’m glad that I held on to Carolay’s letters and glad that I ran across them when I did. After a long period of inward reflection and focus, I want to reach out again to help and encourage others around me–both here in my community and abroad, especially in Colombia, pues, my adopted second country. It’s a drop in the bucket, but it’s at least something I can do to try to make one kid’s life better. Maybe even their future as well. Have you ever supported a child through a program like this? What have your experiences been like? Do you have other suggestions for how people can combine Spanish practice and giving back? I’d love to hear your ideas and stories. 

Tu nombre me sabe a hierba
de la que nace en el valle
a golpes de sol y de agua. - Joan Manuel Serrat

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars. - Walt Whitman

Hierba común, señora. De esa que comen los burros. – La hojarasca, Gabriel García Márquez

Such is life; and we are but as grass that is cut down, and put into the oven and baked. – Three Men in a Boat, Jerome K. Jerome

One of life’s chief pleasures is walking barefoot on grass, don’t you agree? I think one of my favorite things about being back in the U.S. has to be that I have two small parks of my very own– my front yard and my back yard. Down in Colombia, I didn’t have a single blade to call my own–ni una brizna. In Bogotá, it was all concrete; in Medellín, bricks ruled the scenery. There are undoubtedly some advantages to living in dense, urban environments, but I think my soul is generally happier and more at peace when it has a carpet of green.

I’ve just remembered that when I first started this blog back in 2011, the header was an image of me lying in a bed of grass in Medellín. If you’ve been reading me that long and remember back that far, you definitely deserve a prize! Or a kiss. See, even in Colombia I dreamed of green. That is, especially in Colombia.

I told you a while back that I was considering moving back to Latin America. I wrestled with it for a long time, but I eventually decided to stay put while sitting on my front porch one day and just surveying my idyllic neighborhood. I had been dwelling for several days on one of my favorite songs, Mercedes Sosa’s Canción de las simple cosas. Its wisdom is so very poignant for me.

Uno se despide, insensiblemente de pequeñas cosas . . .
Uno vuelve siempre a los viejos sitios donde amó la vida 
y entonces comprende como están de ausentes las cosas queridas. 
Por eso, muchacho, no partas ahora soñando el regreso, 
que el amor es simple y a las cosas simples las devora el tiempo.

Without even realizing it, you say goodbye to little details. And when you later realize their worth, it’s too late to go back and recover them. So, think long and hard before you take off because you won’t be able to just waltz back when you realize how good you had it before. Don’t blithely leave only to be haunted by wistfulness and regret down the road. These oh-so-simple things, like love, all evaporate over time. Ah, how this song gets to me. Who’s got a hanky?

Cortacésped anti-crisis

Well, I thought hard about what small details I take for granted now but would come to miss immensely. I didn’t want another bout of the regret I experienced after my last departure, even though I knew full well at the time how much I would miss what I was leaving behind. And as I sat there on my porch, I knew that what I would miss most would be the open spaces, the green, the tranquility, and the quiet of my city. I don’t need the stress, chaos, hustle and bustle, and anonymity of a large Latin American city right now. So, that was that. Of course, my job, friendships, family, and personal projects were strong incentives to stay as well. But, grass ended up being the clincher. Of course, I recognize that grass wouldn’t be enough to motivate another person to stay or come.

Flowers have enjoyed their day in the sun before here on Vocabat; here, then, is an ode to grass.

There are several ways to say grass or a lawn in Spanish. There’s hierba, grama, pasto, and césped. In most places, césped best transmits the idea of a manicured lawn, though I usually hear and see jardín for a front or back yard. Patio and yarda also do the same thing (yarda is obviously out-and-out Spanglish). Pasto and hierba really convey the idea of long, lush pasture, the kind that livestock grazed on once upon a time. I know that grama is strictly Latin American. It’s la grama, ignoring that -ma, -pa and little -ta rule you may have learned in a Spanish classroom. Each country will have its particular ways of saying grass, but it’s good to know them all.

And here’s the most recent word I’ve learned for grass: zacate

Nice, eh? I happened to learn it just in the nick of time for summer, and I’ve already heard a few patients use it. Thank goodness I picked it up; I wouldn’t have had a clue otherwise. It’s very Mexican in origin, but check out its purported modern-day diaspora: Mexico, Central America, Philippines, California, and Texas. Zacate comes from the Nahuatl word zacatl which is either a type of grass or merely dry weeds and grass, and the Mexican state of Zacatecas is so named because zacatl apparently is or was common in the region. I’m obviously being a bit lax today about my usually obsessive precision.

Two impetuses started me down this grassy rabbit hole: a patient used a word I didn’t know to say lawnmower, and I later learned how to say sickle-cell disease.

I only knew cortacésped for lawnmower, and all I know is that this guy was saying something else. Now that I’ve looked it up, I’d bet good money that what he said was podadora. It appears to be the most popular word in Mexico for the tool you use to cut the grass. For me, podar was always to prune, but I really like the idea of pruning the grass.

When confounded by sickle-cell disease, I couldn’t make heads or tails of how to translate the components in English. Sickle? I couldn’t even remember what that meant. Ahh, a sickle! Like the hammer and sickle (hoz y martillo). Like the Grim Reaper’s sickle (actually, it’s a scythe–guadaña). You see, sickle-cell disease is characterized by red blood cells that assume a sickle shape. So, a sickle is an hoz, and by moseying about in the dictionary I came to learn that segar is the verb to describe that motion of an arm swiftly reaping tall grass with a sickle. No surprise, then, to learn a few weeks later that segadora is another way of saying lawnmower, especially the large industrial ones.

I never was very sure of how to say the classic line, The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, in Spanish. Once I tried looking it up, though, I went dizzy with all the options and gave up. If you know how to say it, please fill me in!

When I worked at a high school in Bogotá, I’d tote my laptop to and from work every day so my students could use it for presentations. I once accidentally banged one of its corner into a wall and then watched its slow deterioration over the next few months. The protective covering on my screen fell off one corner to expose several wires I always expertly avoided, until one time when I didn’t and shocked myself a few times. This left the whole left side of my body feeling like ice for several days. I remember that one of my surrogate moms down there recommended that I walk barefoot in grass to discharge the electrical current in me. A little easier said than done when you’re living in the concrete jungle of Bogotá (she was in Medellín, where green’s a bit easier to come by), but I was charmed by the suggestion. If I ever move back to Colombia, I’m going to have to keep a Chia pet or something in my apartment so I can follow these old wives’ tale remedies to the letter next time.

From Los tres cerditos (The Three Little Pigs)

And now to go out and sit–where else?–in the grass. Do pour yourself a glass of wine and join me.

Is it getting super hot where you live, too? Ugh. Today and yesterday I went on walks that were more than an hour, and I got home absolutely drenched in sweat. It doesn’t help matters that I’m in a new house (which I adore!) and can’t figure out the thermostat, meanwhile my roommate’s out of town for the week. Suffice it to say, I’m seriously thinking of sleeping in the kitchen tonight– the only room in the house with a fan. Pajamas completely optional.

As it happens, today the word thermostat came up at work and I drew a total blank. The doctor was talking about the thyroid gland, and at one point he said that he likes to think of the thyroid as our body’s thermostat. Hmm. Didn’t know that one, so I just explained it. Can’t say I ever touched or even saw a thermostat in Colombia. Nor do thermostats come up often in books or music. ♫ Oh, it was first love by the thermostat, baby, ooh ooh ooh ♫

I remembered it later in the day, and the Honduran guy I was talking to didn’t know how to say it either. Then someone looked it up: termostato 

Termostato? Sometimes Spanish is just way TOO EASY, as if we couldn’t handle a real word. Is Spanish mocking me? Nah, I prefer to think of it as Spanish doing me another one of her favors. Isn’t she sweet?

While I had my tail between my legs for not knowing how to say thermostat in Spanish, my Honduran friend made me feel better by reminding me that you don’t see thermostats in Latin America because hardly anyone has central heating or air. Excellent point! How had it not occurred to me earlier? The same thing happens when someone peskily insists on a translation for something like a driveway or water fountain. Sure, words exist, but it’s not quite as easy as you might think it should be because these things just aren’t very common in that part of the world (at least in my experience). Can you think of other examples of household words that aren’t culturally relevant in Latin America? (Can’t be food) What about the other way around? I think of the celadores and their little casetas in the neighborhoods of Bogotá. An easy, elegant translation escapes me, but kudos to you if you could translate these ideas at the drop of a hat.

Sometimes it can even be kind of satisfying to be able to say that you can’t really capture something with a translation. To be able to say, well, if you want to experience the ineffable richness of our world, you’re just going to have to learn our language. Your language just won’t do. Not that a thermostat is some deep cultural experience, but I will say that tonight I am valuing it much more than usual now that it’s being all wonky on me. Maybe I will need to write a song to the termostato to thaw him out and get him to warm up to me (and cool down my house!). At least I know how to address him now, and so do you.

Everybody knows that there are a lot of ways to say drinking straw in Spanish. And there are almost as many words for baby bottle as there are babies. But for my money, I think the word that might have the greatest number of regional differences is popcorn. I think it’s cool that in each country a would-be poet thought that none of the numerous pre-existing denominations for popcorn sufficiently captured its popcorny soul and essence and then took it upon him- or herself to invent one that would. For his or her people, in that time. As fun as these regional words are, it’s helpful to keep a more universal term in your pocket for when you cross borderlines. 

I drew a blank on this most basic word the other day. I was interpreting at the OB/GYN clinic for a prenatal care alternative they offer for women where they meet in a group. After interpreting the chat at the beginning, the leader put in a movie about newborn care. She jokingly apologized for not having any popcorn, and my mind went blank. Popcorn! The only thing that came to my mind was a word that I knew would be absolute gibberish to the women there (all of them were from Mexico, El Salvador, and Honduras). However, it was the ONLY word I could recall in that split second, and it is a legitimate one in Colombia: maíz pira. Doing my best to mumble, I hoped that people would understand the spirit of my message from the context and not get hung up on the strange words themselves. I’m usually good at toning down my Colombianness while stateside. I know, I know: When not in Rome, nobody understands (nor, for that matter, cares) what the Romans do.

As I sit here writing this post now, I’m thinking, now how do you say popcorn? Just as convinced as I could be that the standard words for it up and left my brain a long time ago. But, aha! Palomitas graciously flys over to me. Good, good. A little longer and then . . . crispetas crackles in a cobwebbed region of my brain. Excellent! I’m re-earning my popcorn wings. Oh, why did palomitas fail me earlier? Se me fueron las palomitas. If you get that double entendre, go you.

The idea of pyre corn sounds barbaric and medieval. I don’t think you’re supposed to munch on popcorn at a funeral pyre, but that’s what they say in Colombia. (In their pseudo-defense, a pira can also be an hoguera- a bonfire.) Some people use maíz pira only for uncooked popcorn kernels, but others don’t make a distinction. I remember being teased mercilessly one time when I mentioned maíz pira at a movie theater as if this were the most ridiculous thing I could ever say. Movie theater popcorn was always crispetas, I was told. Rightly or wrongly, I then concluded that maíz pira was this unpretentious, folksy term that you only use to describe the humble popcorn you prepare and eat at home. But when you hold it up to the light and are honest with yourself, you see how unsophisticated (seriously, a pyre?) and embarrassing it really is. The term clearly can’t be used to describe the glamorous, gleaming movie theater popcorn you eat while watching Hollywood movies in English. Enter, crispetas. This term appears to come from the Valencian and Catalonian crispetes, which comes from the English crisps. In some parts of Colombia, they only say crispetas. 

Ni a “PALO” te digo un “MITO” . . .
¿Quieres ser mi palomita?

Palomitas (little doves) or palomitas de maíz is the best catch-all, universal word for popcorn. For some reason, rosetas de maíz (rosettes) is how popcorn is usually translated in movie subtitles and dubbing. No country was stepping up to the plate, though, and claiming it as their own. A prescriptive term that some translator is trying his dangdest to disseminate despite its failure to catch on after decades? Finally, Andalusia owned up to it.

Here’s a sample of the many words for popcorn, organized by themes that jump out at me. Countries mean that the word is allegedly used in at least some region of that country, and possibly all of it.

Little goats: chivitas (Mexico), cabritas (Chile)

Onomatopoeia/fun to say: pochoclos (po + choclo- corn) (Argentina, Uruguay), poporopos (Guatemala), cotufas (Venezuela)

Indigenous words: esquites (Náhuatl- Mexico), canguil (Kichwa- Ecuador), pororó/pururú (Guaraní- Paraguay, Uruguay, Argentina, Bolivia), cancha/canchita (Quechua- Peru), pipocas (Tupi- Bolivia, Brazil)

And many, many more! So, does popcorn look more like little doves or little goats? What other words do you know? Which one’s your favorite? Don’t tell Colombia, but I quite like pochoclo myself.

Last Thursday was a comedy of errors for me, but it also had some beautiful moments. For Semana Santa (Holy Week), I went to Huila, a neighboring department that Bogotá D.C. just barely nuzzles. We went to the Desierto de la Tatacoa on Wednesday, and that night we slept in hammocks under low trees with leaves like filigree beneath a noche estrellada. Around 1:30 in the morning, it started pouring and we had to make a run for it, and the rest of the night I slept in a rocking chair on a porch, two green parrots singing ditties overhead. Very memorable.

I found out on Saturday that Gabriel García Márquez had died on Thursday, making the day memorable for a much sadder reason. Everyone knew it would be any day now, of course, but I was caught off guard to learn that I’d been unaware of his passing for several days. When I found out from another tourist during a tour of the prehistoric sculptures of San Agustín, I couldn’t help but cry a little and mostly zone out for the rest of the tour, feeling off-kilter. It’s one of those times you want to call just the right person and nurse a glass of wine or a bottle of beer. What a loss for Colombia! García Márquez was 87.

I’ve blogged about García Márquez and his works several times–vocabulary in Cien años de soledad, the experience of rereading Cien años de soledad, and analyzing the marginalia of my copy of El amor en los tiempos del cólera, among others. I haven’t come close to reading all of them (El otoño del patriarca seems to be my most serious lacuna), but the ones I have read have moved me deeply. The theme of solitude seems inescapable, and I can’t help but think of the loneliness of Colombia as a country, as well as its estranged departments. (Maybe Latin America as well, but I don’t know enough about its history to say.) As people, families, towns, and civilizations turn into themselves and lose touch with reality, they become eccentric, impenetrable even to themselves, cruelly selfish and self-defeating, and trapped in marshes of loneliness. This theme moves and fascinates me, but it’s also extremely depressing. Something constructive has to be taken away, because the books certainly aren’t how-tos. Are the books universal? I’m not sure how that could be as place is so critical in them, and some say that Colombia is fetishized and exoticized almost beyond recognition. But timeless, yes. The language is beautiful, concepts of time and lineage are rendered powerfully, and–their inherent solitude exposing their naked essences and longings–the characters are unforgettable.

So, how to best pay homage to García Márquez? By reading his works, of course. Any language will do. On Wednesday, there’s going to be a mass public reading of El colonel no tiene quien le escriba from 10 am – 3 pm in all of Colombia’s public libraries, and over 12,000 copies of the book will be given away. This falls on April 23, which is the International Day of the Book, Spanish Language Day (the day after Cervantes’ death), and the date recognized as when Shakespeare died (though, going by modern calendars, it was actually ten days later; England was still using the Julian calendar at the time). Whichever calendar you use, the day after tomorrow is as good a day as any to start reading the Colombian master. That book’s not amazing, in my opinion (it was clearly chosen for its brevity); try Cien años de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude), El amor en los tiempos del cólera (Love in the Time of Cholera), Del amor y otros demonios (Love and Other Demons), or Ojos de perro azul (Eyes of a Blue Dog).

I wish I could say that García Márquez’ books–Cien años de soledad, especially–brought me to Colombia, even before I had read them, but for all I know they did. It’s not like it would be a difficult thing for a magical realist to arrange. And in large part they brought me back and help keep me here. Gracias, Gabo. QEPD.

Something sad happened a few days ago that has all of Latin America mourning: Roberto Gómez Bolaños passed away, famously known as Chespirito (little Shakespeare, a reference to his prolificness, talent, and short stature). Chespirito had a variety show where he played several different characters, but he’s most fondly remembered for the show El chavo del ocho, as well as El chapulín colorado. El chavo del ocho was and still is an absolute phenomenon throughout the region: though the show’s heyday was in the 70s, tens of millions still tune in daily to watch reruns.

If you spend time in Latin America and even halfway embed yourself into the culture, it’s inevitable that you’ll come across references to El chavo del ocho, whether you realize it or not. I remember that my first year here in 2009, I went to a Halloween party (dressed as a gypsy) whose costume contest was won by a guy dressed as El chavo del ocho. I had no idea who he was supposed to be: he just looked like a hobo to me. I was so confused, as well as a little indignant that such a shabby costume could take top prize. Saying that he was el chavo del ocho made no sense to me! What the heck was a chavo, and from the eighth what? Here are a few general pointers to know about the show, with no need to actually watch it. If you ever have an hour to spare, though, I definitely recommend catching an episode or two. Think of it as an infusion of culture.

The show was Mexican, and chavo in Mexico means boy. Ocho refers to the apartment number of where he supposedly lives, though I’m told you never actually see the apartment. El chavo is an orphan, and we mostly see him on the patio of an apartment complex. He spends a lot of time in a barrel on the patio.

Main characters: El chavo (orphan), La Chilindrina (friend), Quico (friend), plus several adults.

I think that most of the current love for the show is based on nostalgia. It gets a few laughs out of me, but El chavo is just too woebegone and pitiful for me to really enjoy myself. When it was being shown during the seventies and eighties, many countries only had one or two channels, and much of Latin America was under dictatorships. Something about the perpetual down-on-his-luckness of the beloved underdog and the working-class cast really spoke to people. Trying to describe its almost inexplicable success and appeal to Americans, one Internet commenter described it as The Brady Bunch, Gilligan’s Island, and Charlie Brown all in one show.

In El chavo, the kids all speak in these very whiny voices (and I think the Mexican accent can be a little chillón to begin with), so I sometimes find it a little hard to make out what they’re saying. If you ever catch an episode on TV, though, watch it a for a few minutes at least–it’s good language practice, and you’ll get a healthy dose of Latin American culture in you. Actually, a fair amount of the humor revolves around language: misunderstandings and double entendres, and then the meanings will be spelled out with plastilina for the slow-witted characters who didn’t get them. Great for a Spanish learner to eavesdrop on.

¡Uno de cuatro (el último) no está mal!

I watched part of the first episode of El chavo del ocho that came up on Youtube and loosely transcribed an interaction centered on language.

¿Quieres por favor poner las petacas en la escalera? [El chavo then goes and sits on the stairs.] (petaca = suitcase in Mexico; petacas = buttocks in Mexico and the Caribbean) (Could you please place the suitcases/buttocks on the stairs?)

¡Estoy hablando de mis petacas! (No, my suitcases/buttocks!)

¿Qué quiere, que le empuje pa’ que dé un sentón o qué? (What, do you want me to push you so you fall on your butt or what?)

Estoy hablando de las maletas, ¿no sabes lo que son maletas? (maleta = suitcase; idiot, good-for-nothing) (I’m talking about the suitcases/idiots–don’t you know what suitcases/idiots are?)

Ah, sí, los árbitros de futbol, dice Don Ramón. (Oh, right, soccer refs, according to Don Ramón.)

Mira, estas son maletas, [points at his two suitcases on the ground] o petacas, son sinónimos. (Look, these are suitcases, or luggage: they’re synonyms.)

¿Son sinónimos? (They’re synonyms?)

Claro. (Of course.)

Ah, o sea que [walks over to the suitcases] este es un sinónimo chiquito y este es un sinónimo grande. (Oh, OK, so this is a small synonym, and this is a big synonym.)

Voy de nuevo, eh. Esta es una maleta. (Let’s try this again, OK? This is a suitcase.)

Ah bueno, sí, también. (Oh, OK, that, too.)

¿Tú sabes si Doña Florinda ya hizo su maleta? (Do you know if Doña Florinda already packed/made her suitcase?)

No, las compró ya hechas. (No, she bought them pre-made.)

Me refiero a si ya preparó su maleta. (I mean whether she packed her suitcase.)

Ah, pues no sé. (Oh, I don’t know.)

¿Quieres echar un ojo a las maletas? (Could you keep an eye on/throw an eye into the suitcases?)

Ay no, quedo tuerto! (No, then I’d be a one-eyed man!)

Pues, por favor si quieres vigilar mis maletas mientras yo voy a hablar con Doña Florinda. (Look, just watch my suitcases while I go talk to Doña Florinda.)

Ridiculous? Absolutely. All of the humor here centers on words with more than one meaning, as well as expressions taken literally. Great practice for learners, though, and de paso you can learn some very colloquial and Mexican Spanish.

El chavo and Chespirito in general also have left a great legacy on the Spanish language. Here are some phrases you’re very liable to hear in day-to-day life.

From El chavo del ocho
Fue sin querer queriendo. (It was accidentally on purpose.)
¡Se me chispoteó! (Whoops, it just slipped out!)
Es que no me tienen paciencia. (I just can’t get a break.)

From El chapulín colorado (The Crimson Grasshopper)
¡No contaban con mi astucia! (They never saw it coming!)
Calma, calma, que no panda el cúnico (Pobody nanic.)
Lo sospeché desde un principio. (I smelled a rat from the beginning.)

These shows are really near and dear to most Latin Americans’ hearts, so I recommend that you at least have a cursory knowledge about who their beloved Chespirito was! The comedian made generation after generation laugh, and people will always be grateful for how he brought so much cheer and love to their lives. Que en paz descanse.