In the grocery store check-out line. The lidded flan pan I want won’t scan. Checker can’t read the small UPC numbers.
“Ño! Pal carajo! Esto nadie lo ve. Pal carajo.’’
Rough “nice” translation: “Damn. Hell. No one can read this. Hell.’’
Me thinking: “Ay, I can’t believe she’s cursing in front of me.’’
Pal carajo. I must not be used to this anymore.
We just returned to Tennessee from Miami, where we celebrated the landmark 40th year with mucho primos and tios. Bocaditos and pastelitos were served. Sweet merengue was consumed. The beach was supremely enjoyed. My kid played — and fought — with her third cousins and my 92-year-old great uncle was clearer than the rest of us.
Pictures to come.
Right now, I’m just enjoying the silencio.
Even as I live on the edge of Little Havana, “pal carajo” would not sit very well with me!
“Mierda”, maybe. But not “pal carajo”.