Two thumbs up for movies (and poporopos).

When I travel in Latin America, I love going to see movies. It is a very interesting way to experience a new culture and an excellent way to learn more Spanish. Now, I am not going to lie and say it is a complete immersion experience, because it definitely is not. Nor am I going to tell you that “it’s just so different than going to the movies at home,” because it’s not (at least comparing it to the U.S.). But I love movies, and that is no different when I’m traveling in a different country.

Most of the movies shown in Latin America are from the U.S., released to the region a bit later than up north. But the beauty of it -- especially to someone who is interested in learning Spanish and will take almost any measures to learn more of the language -- is while the majority of the movies are in English, there are subtitles in Spanish. It’s really quite helpful. You can learn a lot of vocabulary, idioms, colloquialisms … and swear words.

Most of the movie theaters I’ve been to in Latin America have been very similar, if not equal, to the ones in the U.S.: big mega-plexes in malls, selling junkfood and showing the most popular movies.  But tickets are considerably cheaper and so is the junkfood. Popcorn is still the snack of choice, but it comes with fun Spanish names like palomitos and poporopos (one of my favorite Spanish words ever; it's from Guatemala).

One of the interesting “cultural lessons” you may learn by going to a movie in another country is that movie-going etiquette is different than at home. Granted, people in the U.S. seem to get ruder and ruder all the time, not caring that the bright light from their smart phone is annoying, kicking the seat in front of them, whispering loudly to their date who doesn’t understand the plot, etc. But that is the norm in Latin America, and it's not considered rude. People talk to each other. They talk on the phone. Detailed conversations take place during the entire movie. They’re social, even in the darkness of a theater. But when you’ve only paid a couple bucks to see a movie, you just deal with it. It’s like a movie party!

Another lesson: humor is cultural and doesn’t always translate. I remember going to see Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls in Panama City back in the day (the Spanish title was El Loco En Africa). Keep in mind that those in the audience who didn’t speak English were getting most of the story from reading subtitles and from Jim Carrey's facial acrobatics. I laughed and laughed while all the Panamanians sat there in silence, evidently wondering what the hell was so funny. Maybe they were too busy reading to notice Carrey's face, I don't know. (Or maybe that is a bad example. I guess that could’ve happened in the U.S., too … but wasn’t Ace quite popular?).

A few years after that, I was in Guanajuato, Mexico, a marvelous little city that is also a college town. The university was having a foreign film festival and there were movies showing all the time. Some were in English with Spanish subtitles, but when I really felt like being challenged, I went to those in an entirely different language with Spanish subtitles, or one that was just in Spanish with no subtitles of any kind. Again, it was a really good exercise in language acquisition. I may not have absorbed everything going on in the movies, but for a few pesos, it didn’t matter.

I went to the same theater one night after the festival, accompanied by two Danish women I met at the guesthouse. American Pie was showing, and I was thinking that there was no way this humor was going to translate; it was going to be Ace Ventura all over again, I was sure of it. But I was wrong. The crowd was mostly Mexican college students and they were roaring with laughter. At all the right moments. I’m sure they, as well as the Danish women I was with, left the theater thinking that the movie truthfully and accurately depicted high school life in the United States.

I know that when you are planning a trip to a new land, the last thing you are thinking is “Gee, I hope I can go see some Hollywood movies while I’m there trying to immerse myself in the culture.” But if you like movies at home, don’t feel it isn’t “authentic enough” for your travels to go to a theater and eat popcorn. It can help you learn some choice phrases in your new language, it can show you another facet of life in a new country, and it can give you an opportunity to witness another way you differ from those in another culture (i.e., you may have your own Ace Ventura moment).

Want some fries with that shake?

Ladies, this blog post is about something you may have thought could only be found at construction sites in the U.S., and then only occasionally. You know … that extra attention women get from some men while walking down the street: ogling, whistling, cat calls, obnoxious shouts of approval, lewd comments about shakin’ various things. In some places in Latin America, this is taken to a whole other level. During my first long-term stay in another country, when I spent several months in Panama, it was amazing to me how much attention I got from men on the street. There, the sign of male admiration was expressed with the hiss. Hissing was as inevitable as the thick humidity, more certain than the afternoon rain during rainy season, more common than the tree frogs nightly burping. And please don’t think I am bragging. I was far from the only hissee and it wasn’t because I was some “exotic foreigner.” Most all women were hissed at: local, foreign, short, tall, fat, thin, all ages, skin colors, styles of dress. I suppose then, that all women were appreciated in some way, at least on the physical level. Granted, I never saw an old lady getting the “hey baby” hiss, but by and large, it was common to be admired in this manner.

Coming from a country where most women do not appreciate such attention, at least not in such generous daily (or hourly) doses, I do get a little sick of it. It’s just too much. I ignore it, but I want to yell, “What? What do you want? Do you want me to check out your new shirt? Do you want me to see if there is spinach in your teeth? Do you want me to meet your mother? What the hell is it that you want? I don’t speak hiss. So please be a little more specific.”

But I never yell that. I just ignore it. I put on my game face, act like I cannot hear a thing, and keep on walking.

“Here I am, walking down the street, I don’t hear you, obnoxious dude yelling from the rooftop instead of securing that metal sheet as your job requires. I don’t hear you as you continue to yell louder and louder the further away I get. If I look at you, or acknowledge your existence, you will think you’ve won. If I say anything, you and your buddies will think I am interested. I will have no part of that. You will not win. And it looks like the woman coming up behind me, the one who is from here, and grew up here, is on the same page with me. She is also ignoring you. So it’s not just me. Although I suspect she is much more used to it and more tolerant, i.e. she is not screaming at you inside her head. Man, if you could only hear what I was thinking! But instead, you just get to see me walk away.”

There was one particular instance in Panama City that drove me to a different solution. I had just had lunch with a friend, and was waiting for a taxi outside the café alone. The afternoon rain had started, so the downpour made it more difficult to get a taxi. I was just waiting outside, under the building overhang, and two guys started talking to me. Yes, this was a little braver than the distant hiss. I still tried to ignore them. I just wasn’t in the mood to play their little game. I ignored them and pretty soon they decided that I didn’t understand Spanish, so they switched to English. When I continued to ignore them, they didn’t get the hint. They just kept trying and trying to get me to engage. So finally, I turned to them angrily and said, “Vischde rpenonloweniogs co ystteose dpoehioeqe tpoexksa! Qeionsoizp sodgiupds!” Or something like it. That’s correct; I made up a language and yelled it at them. And by golly, it worked. They looked at each other, completely baffled, and said “I don’t think she speaks English.” I tried to keep from laughing until I was in the taxi.

Guatemala was another place where over-the-top male attention was hard to avoid. Although the hiss wasn't their thing, the men did do a lot of talking. And sometimes more. A guy rode by my Danish friend on a motorcycle and slapped her butt. She said it hurt like hell. One afternoon I was walking down the street near my host home and some guys leaned out of their SUV, yelling at me, and took my picture. Seriously? There are many similar stories that I know many traveling women could tell you about. It is part of visiting another culture. You’re not always going to appreciate or like the cultural differences you encounter. It is what it is. Just know that really all you can do is ignore this particular difference. Maybe even try to appreciate it a little bit (okay, that might be pushing it but at least they're not throwing rotten fruit at you).

I have been to countries in Latin America where this behavior is not very common, so it does not exist everywhere. Sometimes, being in the company of a man keeps the attention at bay (sometimes). Encountering it doesn’t make me like or dislike a place any more or less. However, when I have spent a good amount of time where male attention like this is as common as arroz y frijoles, it is a bit odd to come back to my country, where I am virtually invisible. It is kind of weird. I almost feel neglected. “Hey North American boys, I’m not good enough for you? Is that it?”

More recently, I was cruising around Austin with my brother in his truck and almost felt like I was back in one of those countries. At every corner, men were gawking. I mean their eyes would go down, then up, eyebrows raised with a grin of approval. I thought, “Wow, I must look really good today.” And then one guy yells, “What year?” And just as I was about to answer, “A lady never tells,” my brother yells back “66!” Then I realize the gawking is not for me; it’s for the truck (check it out below). The truck!

Oh well, this ain’t Panama, girlfriend. I think maybe it’s time for another trip to Central America. 

HOW TO GET SOME ATTENTION IN THE U.S.  ... Fact: This 1966
Chevy pick-up is prettier than me. I wonder if it's ever been hissed at.

Fruit for thought.

As a traveler, one of the most enjoyable ways to experience a different culture is through your taste buds. Don’t be afraid to try new foods, even if they seem a little bizarre. I know most of us have our limits as to what we will eat, but generally speaking, eat what the locals eat … or at least give it – or some of it – a try. If you are eating at McDonald's and el Pizza Hut on a regular basis, you are missing a huge part of what makes traveling in another country so much fun. And who knows, you may fall in love with a new food or drink and yearn for it when you get home.

Today I will tell you about a fruit I had in Nicaragua, although I know you can find it in many tropical locales around the world. It is pitaya, or dragon fruit (and undoubtedly goes by many other names in other languages). My homestay hostess in Granada made it into a delicious and refreshing drink that was perfect pick-me-up on a hot and humid afternoon. The color alone gave me more energy!

At the local market, my Spanish teacher showed me the fruit that creates the yummy juice.

Makes apple juice seem pretty lame, doesn’t it? 

Hospitality, Mexican style.

On this 5^th of May, Cinco de Mayo to all you partiers, I thought it appropriate to write in honor of one of my favorite countries: Mexico. Current drug violence notwithstanding, I really do love me some Mexico and have traveled there several times. I would also like to mention that Cinco de Mayo is not Mexican Independence Day as some people think. It is simply to commemorate a day when the Mexicans kicked some French butt down in Puebla. And since then, for some reason I am not prepared to research right now, here in the U.S. it has become a day to celebrate, mostly through food, strong margaritas, and sometimes even some mariachi music.

But I will celebrate in another way: by writing about my Mexican family. This family, who lives in Pachuca, a city about 45 minutes from Mexico City, epitomizes Latin American hospitality. I met them shortly after graduate school, after I spent some time in Guanajuato and battled my first really irritating stomach bacteria (it was doing to me what the Mexicans did to the French in 1862). I was close to returning to the United States, but called this family. I knew about them from a friend I had met on a trip during grad school, a Cuban who had spent some time with them when he traveled to Mexico, touring with a musical group. Not much of a connection, but that was all I needed.

I had talked to them a couple times from the states, but when I called them from Guanajuato to tell them I was going home soon, they insisted that I not do so until I came to see them. They made me promise I wouldn’t leave without coming for a visit first. How could I refuse? I spent a few days in Mexico City, hanging out with a friend I knew from grad school and staying with a Mexican woman who had been at the university’s English Institute when we were students. I saw as many Diego Rivera murals as I could, took a boat ride on the Xochimilco canals, hung out near the Zócalo, and checked out the homes of Frida Kahlo and Leon Trotsky. My hostess was hardly around, so I toured the enormous city on my own, or with Joe, who thankfully clued me in to the microbus, bus and subway systems (and the best way to get a taxi). Then I decided to head to Pachuca for a long weekend.

When I got off the bus in Pachuca, I walked into the station and stood there, looking around for someone looking for me. Pretty soon a woman ran to me, smiling and happy, hugging me as if I were her long lost sister, taking my hand to lead me to their car. Instantaneously, I was a part of the family. The mother, Margarita; the father, Javier; the kids, Arturo, Javiercito, Rosita, and niece, Linda. And a pregnant dog named Danna. They lived in a modest, comfortable home that was a part of a shared family building where a number of other family members lived. They were so happy to have me there. They fed me and wouldn’t let me pay for anything. They took me to the nearby town of Real del Monte to try the famous local dish, pastes, a type of empanada (or turnover pastry) with sweet or savory fillings. I told them I was interested in taking a bus to the pre-Columbian ruins of Teotihuacán, and instead they took the day off and drove me there themselves. The oldest kids, Arturo and Linda, students at a university in Mexico City at the time, took me to a cool, local coffee shop to hang out and discuss poetry, music and politics. After that weekend, when they drove me to the bus station, the entire family came to see me off. I won’t lie; there were some tears. Not just from me either.

My visit lived on in the puppies that were born a few days after I left. On the day we visited Teotihuacán, there came a point in the rather hot and sunny afternoon when I needed to break for some food. I was speaking Spanish 100% of the time with this family, but I didn’t know the equivalent for “snack.” So as I so often do, I compromised and tried Spanishizing the English word. Had I been speaking English, I would’ve said, “I could use a little snack.” But instead I said, “Necesito un snakicito” (ito/ita or cito/cita can be put at the end of Spanish words to basically imply “little,” e.g. small town = pueblito; little Javier = Javiercito). After further explanation of my new word, the family quickly adopted it. So when Danna, the pregnant dog gave birth, they named the puppy más güero (lightest) “Snakicito” in my honor. An honor indeed.

I saw the family again about five years later for a few days over Christmas before meeting a friend down in Oaxaca. And now, the college students are full-fledged adults, one of them married. Even Rosita, now known as Rosy, is grown up. She was only 10 when I met her and now she is in her 20s. Even though I don’t see them much, and we don’t stay in contact as much as we’d like to, I know they are there, my friends from Pachuca, mi familia Mexicana. I could call them today with, “Hey, I’m coming down” and they would tell me “We’re waiting for you. See you soon.” To that I say, ¡Viva México!

I’m sorry to report that although I have great photos of my times in Pachuca, none of them are presently accessible. I will try to post some down the road when I can get them out of storage.