My name is (insert name here), but everyone calls me . . .

Another fabulous post brought to you by: Amy (who would like people to start calling her by her new Cuban nickname: Kikita)

During one of my many adventures with Tio Timbiriche and Luza (my abuela), one of them was commenting on the clutter in my room (I think it's artistic - but that's not important right now) and they called this clutter a "timbiriche."  I've heard them use the word in a few other contexts that did not involve my Tio, so I had to wonder . . .

• What does "Timbiriche" mean?
• Why do we call him "Tio Timbiriche?"

According to my Spanish Dictionary, a "timbiriche" is a noun for a "small store."  Not to be confused with a "bodega" which is more of a grocery store.

At this point, I have no idea how ANY of the translations or explanations I've heard could be used to describe my Tio.  I was forced to ask for a further explanation on the name.

It seems, it all started with a guy named Pancho Acuña.  Timbiriche's GRANDMOTHER took Acuña into her home and raised him as a son. (No, I didn't ask why)  He grew up as a brother to Tio's father.  So Acuña was like a Tio to my Tio.  (are you following all this?)

Anyway, when each of the 5 children were born, Acuña gave each of them a nickname and Timbiriche was the one that fell to my Tio and it stuck.  (Luza's nickname was Muluchote, but it didn't stick and she now uses it for my brother Adam)

There's more . . . it seems Timbiriche was not the only nickname my Tio had.  For a long, long time people called him "El Chino."  I'm sure that has something to do with his eyes, but I spent a long time thinking Tio Timbiriche's real name was Chino (it's really Gerardo - I swear it's as bad as a hip-hop star like Puff Daddy, I mean P. Diddy, I mean . . . AY CARAMBA).

This is not the first time I've run into this phenomenon. 

"My name is Jose, but they call me Pepe."

"My name is Fulano, but they call me Hachi."

"My name is Maria, but they call me Cachita."

Luza says that Cubans pick their baby's nickname before they pick the real name . . .

In blatant defiance of this Cuban law, Mami chose a name she thought was impossible to turn into a nickname and she did well.  Many have tried to give me a nickname, but usually all they come up with is "Aim."  Which is . . . let's be honest . . . Lame.  :-)

So, as I continue to get in touch with my Cuban self, I have decided I need a "hard-core" Cuban sounding nickname . . .

You know the galletas "Kika"?  Well, I thought that "Kika" was cute . . . and the first person I told my idea to said "Kikita" sounded better. 

And now . . . I've taken to introducing myself Cuban-style:

"Me llamo Amy, pero me dicen Kikita."

("My name is Amy, but they call me Kikita.")

Fast forward to this afternoon:  Mami overheard me saying, " . . . and they don't call me Kikita for nothing!"

and then she muttered (loud enough for me to hear) "They DON'T call you Kikita . . . for Nothing!"

A Day Without My Cafecito . . .

The following post is brought to you by:  Amy, La Hija de Marta.

Since Tio Timbiriche has been here I've gone all over Southern California and have learned SO MUCH.

The day of the Gran Cucufate was no different.  I woke up late, so the first thing I had to do was call and tell Timbiriche and Abuela that I was going to be late.  Fabulous, I'm already in trouble and I haven't even had my cafecito yet.  After hurrying everyone out the door because today is the day they are taking the train to San Diego.   Yes, we (Mami & I) had the brilliant idea of sending everyone to San Diego on the train, everyone except me that is . . . My job was to drop off at the Orange County Station and pick-up at the San Diego station.

Since everyone was running late, there was no time for a cafecito . . . do you see where this day is going?

20 minutes before the train is scheduled to depart, I drop off Timbiriche, Luza (abuela), Mami, & Adam.  (Jonathan kindly offered to join me in my driving adventure.)

Just as I'm jumping on the freeway, my phone rings . . . "Come and get us, they have no I.D. so NO TRAIN."
Just as I'm exiting the freeway, my phone rings again . . ."Okay, instead, go back to their house and get their passports."

And so it begins . . . (and I STILL have not had a cafecito)

Once Jonathan and I get the I.D.s, we haul back to the train station.  As we pull up, Timbiriche, Luza, Mami, & Adam all pile in.  They've decided to to take the train on the way back instead . . .

After a LONG drive to San Diego (where we were busy pointing out the train tracks so that Timbiriche didn't feel like he'd missed too much) we finally make it to beautiful La Jolla.  We disembark and set-up our delicious picnic lunch.  It was a lovely day.  All of us were wearing our summer clothes and left our sweaters at home because the day before had been blistering hot.  Halfway through our picnic, the weather gave us a spectacular show . . . We got to watch the fog roll in . . . and feel the cold it brought.  Suddenly our beautiful day had become overcast and chilly.

Adam was sitting next to me and we were both freezing so we huddled closer together.  Timbiriche was sitting next to Luza and they were both freezing too, so they huddled closer together.  At that moment, I had a flash forward.  I leaned even closer to Adam and said, "Adam, that's going to be us one day . . ."

"Yeah, but I have every intention of going deaf in one ear and making sure you're always on that side."

This had us both cracking up, so Mami asked, "What's so funny?"

"Mom, that's going to be us."

Mom started looking around the park frantically, as if we were talking about some random person walking by.  This only made us laugh harder . . . (I'm sure it was delirium from the lack of cafe).

At that point, we were just too cold and had to be moving on.  Deeper into San Diego we went.  Finally . . . around 2:30pm . . . I got my cafecito.  All was right with the world again . . . for a bit.

Now I had to figure out how to get these people to the Downtown San Diego Train Station and then get myself home all before Rush Hour traffic.

I did well, I got them to the Train Station and got myself home . . . I only got lost once and I DID NOT end up in Mexico this time!  (yeah, I've accidentally taken myself to Mexico more than once)

In order to make the train ride more of an adventure, Mami let Timbiriche and Luza sit by themselves:

(As it turns out, he's deaf in his left ear . . .)

My Favorite Tio

Disclaimer: It’s Amy,AGAIN. Being mostly unemployed (I am doing some work for my dad, but it isn’t much) has left me with plenty of things to say and plenty of time to say them.  So I hope you don't mind that I've been hijacking my Mom's blog so much recently.  :-)

 If you’ve been reading this past week, you know that Tio Timbiriche is here and we are having a blast together. Timbiriche, however, is not my favorite Tio. He’s my favorite Tio-abuelo . . . but that’s not important right now.

 Let me tell you a little about my favorite Tio, my mother’s brother. 

(here's a picture of him with my Mom)

First of all, I don’t get to see him very often because he lives in Texas, but when I do get to see him I am thrilled beyond all reason. He and his wife (one of my favorite Tias – don’t tell the rest of them) were here in California for just a couple days back in February. I was so excited to have them, that I made my Mom's famous Arroz con Pollo de Perez-Puelles.  Since it had been years since we’d seen each other, they had no idea how Cuban I’d grown up to be . . .

“Would you like a cafecito?”

“If your cafecito is anything like your arroz con pollo, I definitely want one!”

I was so lucky to get to spend time with them without the rest of my big, fat, Cuban family around. I even had the guts to ask him about what leaving Cuba was like for him . . . (it’s something we as a family don’t really talk about when we’re in a big group, but he did not hesitate in sharing the story with me.)

I always learn so much from him, even if we are together just a short time. 

For example, he has this thing about “gifts.” He told me that a true gift is something that comes from the heart, something thoughtful, not something you ask for. . .

It is a physical representation of a feeling that words can no longer express.

(Which means Jonathan really hit the nail on the head with the hat thing.)

This is the same Tio who has had a video camera since they came into existence. The Christmas videos I put together every year would be nothing without the priceless footage that has been provided by my favorite Tio.

This Tio also happens to be the father of my cousin Michael (the one who is getting married to Kimberly in Miami in July) . . . thus providing what is sure to be a big, fat, Cuban family vacation! YAAAYYY!!!

 Anyway, today is my favorite Tio’s happy birthday and I just wanted to say: 

Felicidades Tio! Te quiero mucho!

(See you in a few months!)

The Traveling Hat

This is my younger brother Jonathan.  (Yes, it's Amy again.)  Doesn't he look adorable in the hat?  I think he knows it too and that's why he wears it everywhere he goes . . .  no, the real reason he wears it so much is because his hair is in the awkward phase of turning curly and he hasn't quite figured out how to master it yet.  :-)

Anyway, the other day Jonathan was wearing the hat and Tio Timbiriche loved it so much, he plucked it right off of Jon's head and put it on.  After a quick laugh, he gave it back to Jonathan and told him how much he liked it.  I really like it too.  I think there's something so Cuban-esque about them . . . but that's not important right now.

After the "party" (it's always a party these days), Jonathan was walking Timbiriche, Abuela, and me out to the car and then he asked me what the word for "gift" was in Spanish.  "Gift is regalo, why?"

Just as Timbiriche sits down in the car, Jonathan takes off his hat that he loves so much, hands it to Timbiriche and says, "Regalo."

Timbiriche was both touched and amused by the gesture. "What sort of kid gives away his favorite hat to an old man he barely knows?"

Jonathan is exactly that kind of kid.  He has a heart of gold and I adore him for it.

Now Timbiriche wears the hat everywhere he goes, but I don't think it's because his hair is getting curly . . . ;-)

Lost in Translation.

Amy here.  (You know, The Blond One.  Please bear that in mind as you read today.)

Since Tio Timbiriche has been visiting from Cuba, I've been very busy showing him the sites of Southern Cali.  I'm the official driver and, as such, I have certain responsibilities.  For example, I have to tell him when I'll be picking him up (and arrive at the house early enough to make us cafecitos).  But the most important thing on these long drives (to San Diego or Temecula or L.A.) is the music.

Once we are on the road, Timbiriche starts paying attention to the music and is so excited to be listening to songs he recognizes.  He was getting a real kick out of quizzing me on what the songs were about (and explaining them when I didn't know) or who they were by.  He could not believe it when I played his beloved Beny Moré (and knew he was called "El Barbaro del Ritmo") and was pleasantly surprised to find out that I also knew who (and could sing along with) old school groups like Trio Matamoros, Orquesta Aragon, and Fajardo y Su Orquesta were.  Enter blond moment.

The song "Caimitillo y Marañon" comes on and I begin whistling along to Jose's flute.  Because I've known this song for so long, I haven't stopped to think about the words now that my Spanish has been voted most improved.  Mentally, I've stuck with the translation I came up with years ago which is that "Caimitillo, Mamoncillo, & Marañon" were three dance styles and there was a cowardly girl ("cobarde") who didn't want to do the "marañon" dance because it was too . . . tight or close together or something like that.  (My young mind also wondered why everyone loved a song with that kind of message so much, but - like mom says - that's not important right now.) 

Anyway, as I'm singing along, Timbiriche turns to me and asks if I know what the song is about.  During the pause while I tried to find the words for my rough translation, Timbiriche asked what he thought was a less complex question, whether I knew what a "marañon" was.

Nope.  No clue.  What is it?

At this point, my Abuela decides to jump in and help explain it to me.  Between the two of them and my lack of vocabulary, what I was able to gather was that a "marañon" was a fruit that was delicious but you make a funny face when you eat it and the seed is on the outside and works like a handle.  I could've accepted that and gone on with my life never really knowing what it was other than a Cuban fruit, but then my abuela threw me a curve ball . . . She said that the seed of this fruit is cooked and sold in stores here (in the U.S.) as if it was a nut.

HUH?

In order to help me understand, she tried telling me the word in her version of English, "Cas-co."

I'm sorry, did she just say Cosco?  They sell this fruit at Cosco?  I'm LOST.

Let's not forget that I'm driving on the freeway which means asking Mr. Google is out of the question so I do the next best thing . . . I text Mom: "What is a maranon?"  (I figured that if I knew the English name of the fruit, I'd understand the whole seed/nut concept)

Mom writes back to tell me "it doesn't translate."  Not trusting her Spanish skills, I send the same message to everyone else I know who speaks Spanish.  This group includes two of my Tias, a Peruvian, and a couple of (recently arrived) Cuban friends.

I heard it all:

"It's a river."

"There is no real translation."

"A big pig"  (I later found out that this answer was a direct result of the lack of "ñ" in my text message - can someone please call Verizon and get them working on this issue?)

And then . . . "Cashew."

CASHEW?!?!?!

When Abuela heard me yell it out, she gave me the classic Cuban sound of approval, "Ang-ha!" mixed with an "I told you so" look.

Yeah, abuela, "Cas-co." sounds just like "Cashew."

As it turns out, "Caimitillo" and "Mamoncillo" are also fruits . . .

(And No, I never did end up sharing my - obviously wrong - idea of what the song meant.)  :-)

La Misma Lengua

Que bolá?
It's Amy, AGAIN.  But my new Cuban nickname is Kikita.  (more on that another day)

Anyway, my uncle is in town.  Ok, he's actually my mom's uncle which makes him my tio abuelo, but we call him Tio Timbiriche. (like I said, more on nicknames another day)

So his first night in town, Luza (my abuela) has made congri as part of the welcome feast for Tio Timbiriche and my aunt made empanadas. Everything was delicious. Obviously, my first question to this tio abuelo that I haven’t seen in years is, “Quien es San Apapusio?” ;-)

And so it begins. I thought I spoke Spanish well and could hold my own with Cubans. I thought wrong.

Day 1 and I’m already lost and asking for all kinds of explanations.

My abuela starts talking about how she cooks “con ojo de buen cubero.”

I won’t even tell you what I thought I heard her say . . .

But I will tell you that I’d never heard her say it before. So I ask what it means. And they explain it to me.

The conversation turns from cooking to baldness. (no, I have no idea how it happened) We start discussing who in the family is more prone to baldness. Random, I know. My cousin starts talking about genetics (in English because it’s easier for her). As it turns out, baldness is genetic.

While she and I are deeply involved in genetics, the Spanish-speakers have moved on and someone says something about “la familia de Roque Pilon y Perendenge.”

Excuse me? Who are these people? Are we related?

These questions get peals of laughter from the older crowd. And they tell me to give up asking questions. I try to explain to them that I don’t even care where it came from anymore . . . I just need to know when would be a good time to use it. I’d hate to go and try to my practice my new Cuban phrases on my two Cuban friends and mess up something as fun to say as “la familia de Roque, Pilon, y Perendenge.”

Yes, I admit it. I thought it was three people, not one guy with three names.

I’m finally starting to understand all the new things I’ve learned today when my cousin (who missed most of the Spanish conversation) sticks out her tongue and says, “You know what else is genetic?”

 

So it starts. The tongue twisting.

And finally we have a "lengua" we all understand. ;-)

Excuse me, Mr. Google?

Hello, mi gente!  It's Amy again.

I'm having issues.  I need help.

The other day, I was talking with my Mom and I was messing with her a bit when out-of-the-blue and for the first time in my life she exclaimed, "San Apapusio, baja!"

Umm . . . what?? who??

Obviously, she was frustrated and asking for a particular Saint to come down . . . I understand that part, but most Saints are famous for something and that's why you call on them.

So, what is San Apapusio famous for?

Before admitting to her that I didn't know what she was talking about, I did what any modern-day Cubana would do.  I asked Mr. Google and guess what?  HE DOESN'T KNOW!!!!

El Señor Google left me hanging.  So I went to the next best source, Abuela.  But, you won't believe this, she said, "It's just something we say when someone is being difficult and we're frustrated.  I don't know why.  Ask Mr. Google."
Great.  This Mr. Google guy has only been here a couple days and already he's letting me down.

Not ready to admit defeat, I called my one Cuban friend who has only been here a couple years.  He started laughing at me and said he had no idea who it was.

Ay, caramba!

WHO IS THIS SAN APAPUSIO?!?!?

ANYONE? ANYONE?

(you get extra points if you can link him to Kevin Bacon)

Señor Google is in da house!

Hello everyone!  It's Amy.

I've been living with my Abuela for almost 3 years now and she has never had internet.  Because, really, what would a 90-something Cuban grandmother need the internet for?

(Yes, it's been hard on me, but - when I can no longer live without it - I just go to Mom's house.)

Anyway, my Abuela is slowly learning about the "in-ter-neh."  She'd heard it mentioned, but didn't really try to understand it until the whole "Depende" thing started happening to her in Miami.

What "Depende" thing?

Every time someone says the word, "depende," everyone else in the room interrupts with a loud, "DEPENDE DE QUE?"

After a year of people doing this to her, she asked me why everyone always said it the same way.  How do you explain talking eggs and bongos?  Ugh.  I promised her that, one day, I would show it to her and we left it at that.

But then, someone (not sure who) attempted to explain the concept of Google to her.  It didn't quite work.  So she started saying, "Pregunta al Señor Google."
("Go ask Mr. Google")

Yes, MISTER GOOGLE.  She thinks there is a little man sitting at a computer who is just waiting to answer people's questions and help with with their searches.  Obviously, "El Señor Google" is a very busy man.  And a good friend of "Señor Internet."

Well, now that I'm working for my Dad and most of our work is web-based, it only made sense for me to have internet at home instead of commuting the whole 10 minutes to Mom's house everyday.  ;-)

So I told my Abuela that "El Señor Internet" is coming to our house this week.  Monday morning, the Cox Cable guy arrives with a modem and gets me all set-up.  I'm sitting at the table in the kitchen letting him work when Abuela turns to me and says, "Oye, pero el Señor Internet es muy guapo!"
Great, my Abuela (who is more aware of my Single-status than I am) is thinking I should make a pass at the cable guy (who she thinks is Mr. Internet).  Mrs. Amy Internet?  I don't think so.

After the cable guy left, I told my Abuela there was someone I wanted her to meet.  I took her to Google and then typed in "huevos cubanos" as my search and we watched the following cartoon:

Her favorite is the one with the broken bongo.

Meanwhile, I'm on Yahoo Messenger IM-ing with Mom, but I have so many windows open that you can't see the whole word "Yahoo."  So Abuela asks me, "Porque dice 'Ya?'  Eso significa que ya se acabo algo?"  (For our English Only readers, "ya" in Spanish means something along the lines of "done, no more, finished."  Abuela wanted to know if my computer was telling me that Internet time was over.)

She also wanted to know why I was touching all the little buttons so much.  (She was talking about the keyboard.)  When she understood that I was talking to Mom, she told me to ask if Mom had received the pictures from some cousin.  Mom said she would forward the pictures to my email.

Once the pictures arrived 30 seconds later, my Abuela decided she wanted the laptop on top of her lap, because "that's where it's supposed to go, right?"

After she finished looking at the pictures and Mom's blog and everything else, she called everyone she knows to tell them that "El Señor Google esta en mi casa."

That's right, Mr. Google is in da house.

I'm More Cuban Than I Thought!

Hi everyone, it’s Amy.

 I’m not sure if you know this or not, but my Mom and Dad divorced when I was 3 (which totally worked out because I have a really awesome Dad now!  ;-D)

Anyway, after the divorce, we (Mom, Adam, & I) moved in with Mom’s parents who lived in Anaheim.  Anaheim is still where many Orange County Cubans are. 

But back then, it was THE PLACE in the “Oh Si” for Cubans. There was and still is a large Latin Community in Anaheim.

My street was called Ken Way, which was a cul-de-sac.  My house was at the end of the cul-de-sac on the right side. It was in that house that all the great Noche Buenas happened.

There was the perfect tree for climbing in the big front yard. There was a “club house” in the back.

The back!

The back was big enough to play baseball with my cousins. It was lined with roses. There were giant trees . . . it was a GREAT backyard. (Both AWESOME and BIG.)

And inside! There was this super long hallway that led to all three bedrooms and the one bathroom. But if we shut all the doors, this long hallway was pitch black. So whenever my cousins would come over, we would make the hallway really dark and play a game we called “Darky-darky.” (Original, I know.)

At night, my abuelo would call me into his room and tell me a bedtime story. It was in that house that I remember my first café con leche. I remember watching the novela “Pobre Diabla” with my abuela. (Why she let me watch it, I’m not sure . . .)

 I have so many memories in and of that house. I could talk about it for hours. Days even.
Plus, the neighbors all adored me. I even went to school with a girl who lived across the street. 

Our school was just a few blocks away (or so it seemed to my young eyes). I went to kindergarten there and had the same teacher my much older cousin had had. Mrs. Axel. I loved it there. I went to first grade there. I was THE. MOST. POPULAR. GIRL. IN. SCHOOL.

No really. I knew everyone. I liked everyone. Everyone knew me. Everyone loved me. (Mom says I was also the only blond at that school, but that’s not important right now. ;-D)

There was even a boy who adored me and I adored him right back. His name was Andy Garcia. I swear. What are the odds? 

When I started second grade, Mom told me we were moving to Mission Viejo. My teacher invited me to be part of a special book club of advanced readers, but I had to decline because I was moving.

And by mid-October . . . I was in a new school and I didn’t know anyone. Sure, I made a couple of friends, but there were cliques at this school.
I was an outsider.
And no-one in this new town spoke Spanish. (which is lame because it had a Spanish name “Mission Viejo”)

And I’m not sure if I’ve ever quite recovered from it.

 Last week I was driving through Anaheim (ironically, I feel “at home” there) and found myself in my old neighborhood. I found my old house. It was different. Someone had taken out the great climbing tree and added a bedroom. It was a different color. There were other people living in it. But it was still my house.

I know it’s childish, but I have this secret dream that one day “when I grow up” I’m going to buy that house and move back.

My 97 year old Tio Abuelo talks about buying “una finca en Cuba” and moving back too.

Sometimes people will ask me about Cuba and say, “How can you miss a place you’ve never been? How can you identify with your Cuban side so much?”

Sometimes I’ve wondered how I can feel so strongly like I’m in exile too . . . How is it that I can weep as if I lost my childhood home in an instant and have never been able to go back . . . As if I had to acclimate to a new world, but desperately miss my old one?

 Oh wait . . .

. . . maybe I’m more Cuban than I thought.

She's living the life I want (A Rant - By Amy)

It's not fair. 

(This is Amy again, by the way)

Today, my abuela is 94.  NINETY-FOUR!!  And where is she?  MIAMI.

Perhaps you don't quite understand.  I live with her, HERE, in Orange County.  But about a month ago, she decided to take a trip to MIAMI and visit her OLDER (yes, OLDER) brother.  He will be 97 in May.  (but, as Mom always says, that's not important right now).

So my abuela left for Miami, went to my cousin's 30th Birthday Blow-out party in South Beach, and has been visiting all her friends and partying all month.

I WISH I was in Miami.  I belong in Miami.  I should've been at the birthday party.  But instead, I'm knee deep into funeral preparations.

Speaking of funerals, I would like to take this moment to thank all of you so much for your kind words.  I really appreciate all the love being sent this way.

That being said, last year when my abuela turned 93 I spent the whole day with her and then that night we threw her a party.

This year, I call her to say, "Felicidades Abuela!" and the response was:
"Gracias, hija!  Te extrano mucho, pero no puedo hablar, me voy pa' una fiesta!"

Great.  She's going to a party tonight and I don't even have a date with Blockbuster. :-(

So what's the lesson here?  That I have to wait until I'm in my 90s to party in Miami?  I am SO NOT OK with that.

Despite the fact that I wish I was there, I'm thrilled to have such AWESOME genes.
I love that I can say, "My 94 year old abuela is celebrating her birthday in Miami."
And I'm grateful that she is still around and so "with-it" (even if she's more "with-it" than I am).

HEAVY SIGH.

Felicidades Abuela!