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In commenting on my previous post about Absinthe, our friend The Big Finn noted with some alarm that I appeared to be growing a moustache.

I wasn’t, of course. It was just a combination of bad lighting and a five o’clock shadow. In fact, I haven’t worn a ‘stache since I posed for Brawny paper towels back in 1972.

But I had a bit of freedom this week, and figured…”what the hell!” I might as well grow a quick one. So here is the result after four days. I opted for a Frank Zappa meets Pancho Villa look…and threw in a Roberto Duran-type glare for good measure.

I don’t know if I should shave it off…or buy a Harley-Davidson.

My scholarly dissertation on Absinthe is now published in The Spirit World.

Check it out by clicking here.

Oh, and Mr. Big Finn… please take special note of the recipe at the end of the article.

I was in my backyard this afternoon doing the annual Spring-time edging, when the shadow of my neighbor Jesús appeared from behind the brezo.

“Sal…¡ven! ¡Ven aquí!”

I dropped my shovel and walked over to his house. Jesús whipped-out a cylindrical, foil-covered package and handed it to me.

“Wild boar sausage. I killed it myself. Very good with a glass of wine.”

I don’t know how many Hashers suffered bullet wounds so that I could be eating wild boar sausage (and drinking a glass of wine) while typing this post…but it was indeed a worthy sacrifice.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…Jesús is just alright with me.

[Note: Here is yet another essay that I’ve recently had published in Expatica Spain.]

Someone once said that, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” That’s especially true when “little knowledge” pertains to a foreign language.

For those of us who were not born with the linguistic gifts of the average Belgian, navigating the peaks and valleys of daily life in Spain—in Spanish—can be fraught with peril. Peril, that is, not to the body—but rather, to the ego. Why? Because in the hands of the lazy or ill-prepared, a little knowledge of Spanish can lead to, at best, a good laugh—and at worst, an acute case of foot-in-mouth disease.

Here are some examples of what I’m talking about. Many of these were taken from my own checkered history of bilingual ineptitude. Others (particularly the less naughty ones) were the products of a brainstorming session with my good friend, fellow US expat and Vaughan Radio on-air personality, Drew Crosby.

EXAMPLE 1: “DYC.”

Based on a poorly-controlled, roundly unscientific study I’ve conducted over the past six years, the most popular liquor in Spain is Dyc. Dyc is a Scotch-style whiskey. It is typically mixed with Coca-cola and guzzled in disturbing quantities by twenty-something Spanish men. It’s also my first (and perhaps favorite) example of a false cognate. Why? Because this product’s name is pronounced “deek.”

That’s right…“deek!”

Why-oh-why some misguided marketing executive decided to name a brand of whiskey after the English slang word for male genitalia is beyond me. Perhaps he viewed globalization as passing fad.

But it gets worse. When Spaniards place their orders with a bartender, they don’t ask for “Dyc.” No…they ask for “Whiskey Dyc.”

Spelled differently but pronounced the same, the term “whiskey Dyc” in English slang means—are you ready for this?—alcohol-induced impotence.

Ironic, isn’t it? That which Spanish men routinely request, their English-speaking counterparts routinely deny.

EXAMPLE 2: “ESTAR CONSTIPADO/A.”

The Spanish phrase “Estoy constipado/a” means that the speaker’s head and chest are congested—usually due to a cold or allergy. But its English cognate (i.e., “I am constipated”) means congestion of quite another sort. Of course, none of my Spanish professors bothered to explain this subtle yet important distinction…and the results were predictable.

I was working in a large law firm in Barcelona, and sharing an office with another lawyer. My office-mate was a woman of immense beauty, elegance and professionalism. One morning during the month of March, she entered the office and slouched in her chair.

“Good morning,” I said. “How are you today?”

“Not very well,” she answered.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Estoy constipada.”

I sat there for several seconds, frozen in shock. And then, sensing an awkward silence, I uttered the first response that popped into my head.

“Well…what have you been eating for breakfast?”

EXAMPLE 3: “ESTAR EMBARAZADA.”

Pregnancy is a time of great joy. It’s certainly *not* a time of embarrassment—unless the father happens to be one of those idiots from Gran Hermano.

Unfortunately, the Spanish phrase “Estoy embarazada” implies otherwise to the English-speaking ear. It sounds remarkably close to “I am embarrassed.” But in fact, it means, “I am pregnant.”

Confusing, isn’t it? I suspect that I’m not the only man in Spain who has announced his pregnancy at a crowded dinner party.

EXAMPLE 4: “CUCURUCHO.” ALWAYS REMEMBER “CUCURUCHO.”

Even the wholesome world of ice cream can be a minefield. Take the Spanish word “cucurucho.” It sounds like the name of that wiry guy who delivered pizzas when you were a grad student in New Haven, Connecticut. But in fact, cucurucho means a cone for ice cream.

Please, please, please…remember the word “cucurucho,” because there exists a false cognate just waiting to humiliate you. That cognate is “coño.”

Let me be clear about one thing. This word does NOT mean cone. In Spanish, coño is [ahem] a gynecological term—but one so vulgar that no respectable gynecologist would dare utter it outside the confines of a bowling alley. And it’s a word that I misused once, and only once.

I was in the seaside town of Javea; between Valencia and Alicante. It was a hot summer day, and I spotted a cafeteria with an ice cream bar. I flagged-down a waitress.

“Hello. I’d like two scoops of coconut ice cream, please.”

“Would you like it in a bowl?” she asked.

“No,” I answered. “I’d like it in a coño.”

Bless the professionalism of that presumably underpaid waitress. Looking down at her shoes, she briskly plopped two scoops onto a sugar cone. Only her furled brow and quivering lower lip hinted at the tsunami of repressed laughter that struggled to unleash itself from the confines of her convulsing throat. When I was told of my error later that day, I had only one thought. Thank God that I opted for coconut ice cream, rather wild cherry.

On a separate but equally-important note, take care to use the correct gender when ordering chicken in Spanish.

OTHER MISCELLANEOUS EXAMPLES:

A “ganga” is not something to run from. It’s something to run toward.

An “éxito” is not a way out. It’s a way up.

A “carpeta” isn’t something that’s thrown onto the floor. It is thrown into a drawer.
 
If you have high blood pressure, then it’s not sensible to be too “sensible.”

The phrase “en absoluto” does not mean “absolutely.” To the contrary, it means “to the contrary.”  

And always remember…“cucurucho” means cone.

I suppose it’s strange that a thirty-eight year old man and his three year old daughter have the same favorite TV show. But that’s the case in my house. And the TV show is…LazyTown!

Spain’s Playhouse Disney channel started broadcasting LazyTown last year, and Inés and I were immediately hooked.

LazyTown’s central premise is encouraging kids to lead healthy lifestyles—with particular emphasis on exercise, eating fruits and vegetables, tooth brushing (“Twenty times up; twenty times down…”) and getting lots of sleep (“8:08…time for bed”). This may not seem revolutionary on its face, but the first time you watch LazyTown…you’ll immediately notice that it’s no ordinary kiddie show.

No other show looks like LazyTown. It uses a seamless mixture of live actors, puppets and computer generated images (CGI). The set design is funkalicious. None of the props have straight lines or right-angles—so things like buildings, furniture and picture frames look like they’re being slowly sucked into a black hole. The color scheme is big, bold and primary. The show has that distinct Yellow Submarine feel to it. Yellow Submarine, that is, with an extra hit of brown acid.

No other show sounds like LazyTown. Some of the actors have odd accents and, at times, use odd sentence structures. This drove me nuts during the first episode. I just couldn’t place the accent. So I carefully read the closing credits, and got my answer—LazyTown is filmed in…are you ready for this?…Iceland (for God’s sake!)!

LazyTown also has amazing song and dance numbers—full of tight choreography and funky, complex camera angles. And the songs are very, very sticky on the brain. The song “You are a Pirate” has been playing in my head for the past six hours. I’m sure that I’ll be labelled a dork for admitting this, but…I actually have several LazyTown songs downloaded into my iPod. Why do you think I run so much?

I don’t know how much it costs to produce an episode of LazyTown, but it must be a fortune. And since you’ll all be programming TiVo to record all LazyTown episodes from this day forward (screw the The Sopranos!), let me give you a quick rundown on the cast of characters:

Anyway…each episode usually involves Robby Rotten undertaking some crafty plot to make LazyTown lazy again and banish Sportacus forever. His plans are usually incredibly elaborate and involve his wearing disguises. Robby inevitably makes some headway (often by tricking one of the kids into doing something naughty or unhealthy), but then Sportacus saves the day, the kids learn an important lesson, and then everyone sings and dances a number.

I never thought I’d say this, but…I like LazyTown even more than Teletubbies. And I loooove Teletubbies. But that’s a post for another day.

[Note: Prolonging my current streak of abject laziness, here is yet another essay that I’ve recently had published in Expatica Spain.]

The conversation is always the same.

Madrileño: Hi! I’m Juan.
Sal: Hi, Juan. I’m Sal.
Madrileño: Where do you live, Sal?
Sal: Guadalajara.
[Perplexed, indignant silence.]
Madrileño: Why?

I have this conversation with non-Madrileños, too. The only difference is that the “Why?” is replaced with “Where?”

Well…I can no longer tolerate such flippancy toward my adopted province. In this week’s essay, I shall unsheath Excalibur and defend the honor of Guadalajara….or fall asleep trying.

Let’s start with the basics. Where is Guadalajara?

The objective answer is that it’s a province within the Automous Community of Castilla-LaMancha—located approximately fifty kilometers (i.e., thirty miles) east of Madrid. The subjective answer, however, varies widely depending on who you ask.

If you ask a Madrileño—a creature that habitually calculates distances in the same manner that he calculates dog years—he’ll burst into hysterics. Guadalajara is “a far-flung outpost—practically a gulag!—precariously plunked-down in the middle of a frozen, desolate tundra.”

If you ask me, I’ll tell you that Guadalajara is “a suburb of Madrid.”

And I’m right, of course. The trek from Guadaljara to Madrid is less than the daily commute to work for many Chicagoans or New Yorkers. Indeed, we enlightened Guadalajara dwellers have the best of both worlds. On the one hand, we have peace, quiet and plenty of free parking. On the other hand, I can walk out my front door and—thirty to forty minutes later—be sitting in a downtown Madrid curry house stuffing my face full of vindaloo.

Oddly, Guadalajara’s office of tourism has done little to promote the area’s curry-friendly attributes. But I digress.

Whenever I offer this proximity argument to skeptics, their response is predicatable. “If Guadalajara is so close to Madrid,” they sputter, “then why not just live in Madrid?”

The answer is simple. Economics! I could live in a sixty square meter condo in Madrid. Or, for the same price, I could live in a house in Guadalajara province that’s three to four times larger. That’s right…a house! With a basement that can accomodate a beer can collection, and a yard that can accomodate a big ol’ smoky barbecue pit.

Beer cans and barbecues may seem trivial to some, but I can assure you that they are sacred cows to an American.

Yet even when faced with these arguments, some naysayers continue to resist. And they’ll invetiable turn to that most squishy of topics…quality of life. “How,” they bluster, “can you live in a place without museums? Or opera houses? Theaters?”

To which I respond, “When was the last time you went to a museum or an opera house or a theater during the workweek?”

But lest you think I’m skirting the issue, let me be clear. We may not have Frank Gehry buildings or Velasquez collections here in Guadalajara, but we *do* have other cultural gems.

We have, for instance, world-class cuisine! In my earlier essay entitled “The Celebrity Roast, I discussed at length the soul-satisfying pleasures of our wood-fired meats—especially Guadalajara’s famed cabrito asado. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. We also have Sopa Castellana—a big, heavy bowl of egg-topped, porky goodness that flaunts the convention that soup is light, healthy fare. We have Pisto Manchego—central Spain’s version of ratatouille. We have Queso Manchego—arguably the most famous of Spain’s cheeses. And for dessert, we have Bizcocho Borracho—a syrup-soaked, belly bomb of a pastry that’s tooth-achingly sweet and as dense as depleted uranium. Well…it is if it’s made correctly.

And we have nature! Enough plains, mountains, rivers, valleys and trails to please the most demanding hiker or Hasher.

And we have architecture! Unique architecture! Constructed not from undulating waves of glistening titanium, but from…chalkboards? That’s right! Guadalajara province is famous for its arquitectura negra (i.e., black architecture). The exterior of homes, churches and municipal buildings in some parts of this area are covered with layer-upon-layer of flat, thin, black sheets of slate.

Slate—for those of you born after 1985—is the material from which chalkboards were made in the good ol’ days before the invention of PowerPoint.

And let’s not forget that this region was the stomping ground of the most famous character in Spanish literature—Don Quixote. That’s Don Quixote *de LaMancha*…get it? Jeez!!! That fact alone makes me wonder why this essay is even necessary. Castilla-LaMancha, including Guadalajara province, ought to be Spain’s most popular region simply by riding on the Don’s coattails.

Unless…that same masterpiece is, in fact, the source of the region’s woes. Could it be that most Spaniards—and Madrileños in particular—poo-poo Guadalajara because they suffer an irrational fear of being attacked by windmills?

[Note: This is an essay that I published in Expatica Spain a few weeks ago.]

My great-grandparents were Italian expats. They moved to the US nearly one hundred years before the Internet.

Expats without Internet! Can you imagine?! I don’t know how the hell they did it.

I, on the other hand, have come to rely on the Internet to solve nearly all of my expat-related woes. And I’m not just talking about e-mail. It goes *way* beyond that. Let me give you a few examples:

If there’s a downside to the Internet, however, it’s that overreliance is likely to retard an expat’s learning and mastery of the local language. I’m a prime example of that.

But each expat must look within his heart and ask himself what’s more important? Knowing the correct use of the Spanish present subjunctive? Or knowing that one cup of warm milk mixed with one tablespoon of lemon juice will result in a passable substitute for buttermilk?