Cuban Lullaby

In the seventh month of pregnancy, my editor gave me a touching gift: The CD Cuban Lullaby. I had never seen it before and when I glanced at the song titles, nothing struck me as familiar.

But that evening, as I waited in the drug store's drive-through lane for horse pill-sized pre-natals, I slid the CD in. And then, the singer sung words that shook me so hard I started sobbing: Duermete mi nina, duermete mi amor, duermete pedazo de mi corazon....

Though I had not recognized the title, I recognized the words and tune as those sung to me by my grandmother. The memory had not been lost, but stored in the folds of my brain and released when the song started to play. Perhaps the strength of my sobs had something to do with the fact I was drowning in crazy-making mother-to-be estrogen, but really, I know it also had to do with the fact a woman I loved, and missed, had sung those same words to me many, many times. The child I was remembered, even if the adult had forgotten. How perfect to be given back the words just as my own child was to be born.

So, a few days ago when a lovely lady who reads the cositas de nada I spill onto the screen sent me a trove of links to Cuban videos and songs, I was thrilled and grateful. Music has been a big part of teaching Maria to speak excellent Spanglish. This reader, by the way, is storing up the songs and links for the day when she is an abuelita. She makes gift books of Cuban songs for children she knows and she said I could share the links with you.

There are more than 100 songs listed in this link, which contains sweet classics like Señora Santana, La Vaca Lechera and Había Una Vez (you know, the never-ending boat song), but so many others too that I, at least, had never heard. They’re about brujitos and chickens and this one, which promises to become a staple at my house:

Qué rico el baño!
Qué fresca el agua
El nené lindo
Feliz se baña!

If you don't speak Spanish, it's basically a "Isn't bath time, great?" song. In my 3-year-old's opinion, at times, bath time ain't so great.

And then here are the videos, which she said are classics, or remakes of classics, from her 1960s Cuban childhood.

Vinagrito
El Soldadito de Plomo
Marinero quiero ser

Finally, this one, which used to pop onto TV at 7:55 p.m. to announce bedtime for all. Don't we need this here in the states? Especially, for the Mami's who stay up too late cruising the internet?

Buen provecho, all.

(Y gracias, otra vez, amiga)

American Chica

I am, seeing, hearing

with half my soul at sea and half my soul on land,
and with these two halves of soul I see the world.

Estoy, mirando, oyendo,
con la mitad del alma en el mar y la mitad del alma en la tierra,
y con las dos mitades del alma miro el mundo.

-- Pablo Neruda

This beautiful poem is on the first pages of American Chica by Marie Arana, which I was lucky enough to stumble upon today during a library visit. How suddenly struck I was by its appropriateness to my own soul. Given the notes I get on this blog and in e-mail, it's appropriate to a lot of us. So, I post it for you.

The first pages of Arana's book promise to be a delicious and insightful read. The pages I skimmed are pure art. (And hey, of course, she's a journalist.) The book is about living with her Peruvian father and American mother in both Peru and Wyoming in the 1950s. Talk about a split.

Tonight, this book is my dessert.

Zumba, baby

Genetically, I only am half-Cuban. Let me tell you how it shows: Start the Latin music and my bottom and waist wiggle. All on their own. Then look at my feet. They likely are not doing the correct uno-dos-tres.

My feet are very un-Latin. The genes cut off at the knees. And torpe que soy, I never let my mom - an amazing dancer -- teach me.

But, I started taking Zumba, aerobics Latin-style, y honey, dejame decirte, I am J-Lo in there. A little Shakira too. Hips don’t lie and all that. Who cares if I am going left when they are going right, si?

I never dreamt we’d get Zumba here. I asked once when the gym opened and they were not enthused. So when they posted it on the board, I nearly cried with joy. The class is taught by a tall, white woman from the Midwest. She may not have the azucar, but she makes it so very fun and encourages everyone to shake their bottom and “make it your own.’’ Most do, including the two older gentlemen who are regulars. I have no problem shaking my bottom, but feel a little naughty when I look back and see faces pressed to the glass and mouthing things that look like “Oh, Lord!’’

It really has been a religious experience to shake my parts - correctly and incorrectly - while Celia sings Rie y Llora. For one hour, I am in a tropical state of mind. And because I am sweating, bye-bye forever dreaded Step class.

I admit that during most of the class, I also cannot stop thinking about the fact I am doing this in my humble suburban Tennessee gym…that is of course, when I am not staring in the mirror imagining myself in red high heels twirling with Juanes and not in a sweat-stained tank tripping over my tenis.

And then, she says too much

Maria and I went on an "adventure'' yesterday. It's code for "Get in the car, we're going to Atlanta.'' We went to pick the Pollitos up from my parents, who hauled them north from Miami and delivered them to the home of my aunt, The Cuban Marilyn Monroe. The parents are making their way to Jersey, to visit my brother and family.

Hey, it's cheaper than UPS to do overnight and back...but I am Diego-ed out.

Anyway, my parents and Tia took us to a great tapas restaurant where they teach salsa in the evenings. I ate an inspiring trout with jicama and orange salsa, Maria danced on the stage, my mom danced with the instructor. And for sure, she showed him a few moves. Esa vieja es candela!

At the end of the night, as my mom comes out of the shower, all prepped for bed, my daughter says:

"Abuelita, did you wash your culo?''

Aye.Dios.Mio.

If you don't speak cubanism, the 3-year-old basically asked her elder if she washed her ass.

My mother, known for her own colorful language, howled with laughter. The Cuban Marilyn Monroe was not impressed and I was mortified. I swear I don't speak to her like that.

It was funny though...and say it with me, "At least it was Spanish.''

Spain. Part 3.

Cadaques

We went to Spain mainly because, having traveled there a couple of other times, we love it. We also felt that immersing our daughter in the language would juice her bilingual brain. But, we did not know that Catalan, not Castillian, would be the primary language she would hear.

We went to Barcelona and the Costa Brava for the first time 15 years ago. I do not remember hearing Catalan as much as we did this time. I do not remember sitting down at restaurants and only having a Catalan menu offered. When we travel, I always try to get some basic words down, so when I stumbled I felt like a bad tourist. And, as I said in previous posts, I really had a hard time getting it. The language is more French than Spanish and my French, which once was less-than-adequate is now at the level of Pepe Le Pew. The locals told us there has been a revival in the language, which once was banned by the dictator Franco.

Now, people did speak Spanish, but Castillian was not what was in the air. Even finding kid-appropriate TV programs in Castillian was a challenge. I think even The Simpsons was in Catalan.

Maria, however, did hear me speaking in Spanish a lot more than she does back home. Folks were very kind to her in shops and bakeries and in parks, asking her where she was from and telling her to practice her Spanish. Toward the end of the trip, we felt she was offering up more Spanish of her own free will, though she continued with "I don't speak Spanish in Spain.''

A few days ago, back in our own kitchen, she and I were baking sugar cookies. I told her, in Spanish, not to eat the dough. "Porque tiene huevo?'' she asked. I threw doughy hands in the air and did a little Sardana.

That was a sentence and it was unprompted. She's had other moments since. So, the Spanish in Spain experiment helped, even in Catalunya. It just also really shows that if I -- lazy ass -- keep up my end of it and continue to plug away, she will respond. She is a sponge. Una esponja.

Next Spanish-focused trip, however, maybe we should think more along the lines of Calle Ocho. Won't cost as much and she'll get an ear full, and learn a few native inflections. And I won't end up with fried smelt and blood sausage on my plate.

Painted feet, tickled pink

When quiet time was over yesterday, I climbed the stairs to find a daughter with green marker smeared on her face and a green right foot.
"What happened?'' I asked.
"I painted my foot and then I tried to lick it off so you wouldn't see it.''

Ayyyyyyeeeee!!!!

A little while later a friend called. I told her the story, which both delights and frightens me. She came by today with a book called "I Ain't Gonna Paint No More!'' It's about a little boy who paints the walls, floor, ceilings and yes, his whole body. My friend, who works with little kids, rightly knew Maria would appreciate it.

The child insisted it be read to her a half-dozen times before bed and each time she cackled. Completely pee-her-pants laughed. Should I ever get Alzheimer's, the sound of this laugh is among the only things I care to remember.

The book is funny and naughty and it has lots of rhymes, which my nena loves. Of course, someone wrote an Amazon review that ohmygod, it's full of incorrect grammar. Whatever. My kid nearly tinkled her pants from the joy and a little bit of "ain't'' is worth it. Besides, around here "ain't'' ain't wrong.

Spain. Part 2

The butcher and his wife

We stayed in a renovated 18^th century house about two hours north of Barcelona. The downstairs was all arches and walls of brick and stone and it is where owners of old used to keep their animals. In the mornings, we were woken by birdsong so loud it almost felt like we were sleeping in trees. The swallows swooped up and down the street all day long and the fattest sparrows ever nested in the building facades.

We were surrounded by fields of glorious golden wheat, wild poppies, apples, corn and olives. Gravel roads cut through the fields encouraging a slow amble from one tiny town to another. (Ignore the veal cows. Ignore the veal cows. Ignore the veal cows.) In the distance, we could see the Pyrenees, all blue and strong. (The house was restored and is owned by an American expat and his charming Irish wife.) The coast, with long sandy beaches, was three miles away.

There was one restaurant and one little grocery store, where when we bought a chicken the head and feet were stuck in the bag too. So not Publix. The owner made his own sarchichas and the wife was always kind in offering cooking tips, history lessons and directions to local parks para la niña. Though half the time I didn’t understand what they were saying (damn my Catalan), it was a highlight of the trip to visit with these two people. I regret we did not accept their invitation to go country line-dancing. Yes, you read me right. Line dancing in the Spanish boonies. How I regret not going, but the party didn’t get started until sometime between 10 p.m. and midnight. Me in jammies then, even in hard-partying Spain.

Another highlight of boonie living Spanish-style was going to the produce markets to buy gigantic peppers, olives made in heaven, and fat fava beans.

One day, I bought fava beans from a lady who gladly gave me her recipe for fabada. She told me to walk over to the butcher for the chorizo. When I told the butcher I needed enough sausage for a fabada, he told me I needed three different kinds and then he gave me his recipe. But, then he told me to forget what he said and called his wife over. She gave me her recipe. How much water to add, no oil, just a little salt and let this last bit of chorizo just melt into the beans, she instructed. Then, a guy tapped me on the shoulder and told me to add more water than the butcher’s wife suggested. When that guy walked away, the butcher’s wife said no way, don’t put too much water in. She waved a big knife around the whole time.

Well, my fabada was OK. Who knows if I followed the instructions correctly, as I surely missed some words. Our friends ate it. I ate it. It didn’t look like any pictures I’ve recently googled. More than the taste, I loved the experience. That slice of life might just be one of the coolest shopping moments of my life.

And guess what I have in my fridge? Fava beans scored at the local and wacky Hispanic/Asian grocery. I even bought a piece of chorizo in pig casing, something the inside of our fridge never has seen.

Travel makes me brave.

I will be very happy with my Tennessee fabada, for sure...but really, what I most want is some state-side condensed milk in a squeeze tube.

Spain. Part 1.

Afternoon walk
Torroella de Fluvia, España

Ten years ago, my husband and I sat in a plaza in Rome looking at a building built before Jesus walked the earth. “I am but a speck in time,” I remember thinking. It was a liberating experience.

Since then, in moments of distress or angst, I try to remember what that moment, which truly was epiphany, felt like. It is my own personal reminder to take a chill. That in the end, it all works out. There was life before me, and there will be life after me.

Each time I travel I come home with new insight, new hopes.

And so, watching my 3-year-old daughter dance on Spanish streets and delight in new sounds, tastes and vistas, was joyous. It is my hope that exposing her early to foreign cultures will inspire her to be open to the new, and to want to learn about and know people whose daily life is different from hers. I hope she’ll forever want to travel, learn and explore and that in that exploration, she finds new pieces of herself, revelations she can turn to in moments of need and quiet reflection.

And I also hope one day she stops saying: “I don’t speak Spanish in Spain.’’

See pictures here.

Cositas Cubanitas

Cositas

Pictures from Cuba Nostalgia. I didn't take many, as we were busy and I skipped out early to fly to Spain, but here's what I do have.

A grand thank you and an "un placer'' to the readers, and long-time Pollitos customers, who stopped by to say Hola. It makes the hard work worth it.

Viva España

Pueblo español, Barcelona
June 2007

So I used hand soap for lotion for two weeks before I figured out why it went on so strangely, and I ordered a plate of fried smelt (a whole school of it) instead of sole, and I confused many a waiter with all my questions about whether their food contained any frutas secas...(Kid. Nut allergy. They didn't get it. Crazy American.)

It was still an amazing trip, though my Catalan really needs some work.

My family and I, and three dear friends, were in north eastern Spain -- Catalunya and Barcelona -- for two weeks. We spent time in tiny villages, at breath-taking beaches, at colorful outdoor markets and in the plazas of Barcelona. (And um, no...it wasn't paid for by Pollito millions. We're still waiting for that day.)

We are full-up on Serrano ham, Manchego cheese and more Catalan flan than anyone should be allowed. Maria was an A-plus traveler and turned into a true española, declaring it way too early for bed anytime before 11 p.m. and doing her best Sardana on cobbled streets and busy plazas. She picked up some additional Spanish and got really good at saying "Yo quiero helado!'' Figures, no?

Pictures and stories to come...after I get through the mountain of laundry and piles of mail, both paper and electronic.

While I do admit to sipping my cava and dreaming of burning my passport, it's good to be home.