I recently heard a Zumba instructor translate the title of the song “Aguafiestas” as “water party”.  I chuckled as I conjured up images of the celeb pool parties and glam yacht soirees I assumed this person imagined when she said this. After all, she’s from Miami, where water and parties are inherently intermingled.

But that’s not what the word means at all. The compound noun is made up water + parties, but the meaning is far more complex. An “aguafiestas” is someone who ruins the party, aka a “party pooper”—another doozey of a term. Try translating that literally into another language and see how that goes.

This party pooper faux pas brought back memories of my father, who was himself a very literal person. One day, while watching TV he asked me about the word “friendship”. You see, he had interpreted it to mean “amistad de barco” or a “friend you made while on a boat or ship.” I didn’t just chuckle then, I cackled. I figured he was joking. I mean, after all, “friendship” is a pretty common word. And he was a smart man with plenty of friends, none of whom he’d met on a boat. So, after a few good laughs—he actually had a great sense of humor and didn’t take things very personally—I proceeded to utterly fail at explaining in clear and credible terms why “friendship” didn’t mean “friend from ship”. Following several minutes of debate, “It’s just another language” was the best I could come up with.

Although on that day my dad learned that friendships need not be borne at sea, I never let him live it down. And when my parents became US citizens, I ordered a cake to celebrate the auspicious event. It was decorated with a giant ship flying the American flag, and a couple of stick figures standing on the bow holding hands. The name:  Amistad.

There are a myriad of everyday words, compound and simple, that make language rich and colorful and sometimes downright muddled, especially—as in these two cases—when they’re taken out of context or translated literally into another language. Why, imagine trying to translate party pooper to an alien who loses control of his spaceship and literally crashes your Super Bowl party. I’d love to see your responses below.

For wholesome debate on compound words, a good laugh over something that just cannot be literally translated but is, or to find out how you can improve awareness and sales with the right messaging in either English or Spanish, contact This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. . 

I have close to 1,000 contacts on my LinkedIn network. Kind of impressive, right? Well, not really. You see, I know very few of these contacts. I mean, if you’re reading this, chances are you’re one of them. How well do we know each other?

Pondering on this, I recalled something that happened years ago while working in the Miami office of Ogilvy on the IBM account. I was tasked with interviewing an elderly couple living in Sarasota, FL, gather their story, and submit it to NY for evaluation as potential ad material. The product must have had something to do with databases. If any of you remember what IBM was working on in the mid 90’s besides teleportation, feel free to chime in.  

The couple I interviewed collected Waterford crystal—glassware, dinnerware, figurines, vases, ornaments, you name it. Their house was jam-packed with designer collections—beautiful, delicate, exotic, exclusive, and obviously, highly, highly valuable. The duo had spent a great deal of their life in the pursuit of these pieces, undoubtedly their pride and joy. I walked around their home as they opened up custom-made cabinet after custom-made cabinet and invited me to ogle at their precious merchandise. The pieces were stored in every single room of their average-size home, mostly under lock and key. Some boxed, others clustered together behind bulletproof glass, with no apparent rhyme or reason. I took notes, pictures, and after the tour, thanked the couple for opening up their home to me and assured them someone from NY would be in touch.

As I drove away, two thoughts occurred to me. One, who the heck does the dusting in that house, and how much do they get paid? And two, what a pity that most of these masterpieces had to live in hiding.  

Which leads me back to LinkedIn, in a roundabout way. Each one of the connections I’ve made here is special, each one a unique individual with unique stories to share. So, I’ve decided there’s no point in growing my network if I can’t grow my relationship with those already in it.

Therefore, my New Year’s resolution is to reach out and get to know you better.  I hope you won’t mind an occasional email or phone call from me just to see what you’re up to.  And don’t worry; I won’t hound you. I won’t have time. There are currently 994 of you I have to get to.

I wish you all love, health and happiness during the holidays and the coming year. And look forward to hearing from you, too. In fact, that should cut down on the time it’ll take me to go around.

LET’S CONNECT!

Too much eating and drinking is almost inevitable during the holidays especially if you have a big family that loves to eat, or lots of friends that love to drink, or if you’re lucky, both. So, what can you do to prevent your zipper from splitting up with your designer pants? The answer is simple.

Eat what you love and leave the rest

Remember, you’re not a vacuum cleaner; you’re a human being. You don’t have to suck up full servings at each and every sitting of each and every house you frequent on Thanksgiving Day. I mean really, how much turkey can you ingest and still feel smart?

Here are some tried and true tips to follow:

• Make believe you’re Gordon Ramsay and take only a bite of each dish. Then curse.
• If you’re going to sin, make sure you won’t regret it. If it’s not a “to-die-for” dish, don’t bother.  You’ll experience even more weight gain due to guilt. 
• Remember when you used to dump your Brussels sprouts on your baby brother’s plate when your parents were busy arguing at the table? Well, do it again. If you don’t want to hurt your wife’s brother’s cousin’s feelings but really don’t care for her liver and blue cheese casserole, you can do one of three things: 1) drop it on the floor - time and time again. Tell her you have a nerve disorder; 2) feed it to her pet gerbil (they eat anything); or sit next to your baby brother.

Whatever you do, honor your body

There’s nothing like indulging in a fabulous meal with friends and family. It lifts your spirits—spirits do that, too, btw—and gives your body and your mind a reason to celebrate and give thanks. But eating too much, especially if you’re doing it to please or appease others, will have the opposite effect. It’ll make you feel bloated, groggy, and worst of all, keep you from your 4AM appointment with Walmart the next day.

A client recently contacted me to work on her firm’s new website. Well, theoretically, She wasn’t a client until now. I “met” Her when I worked for one of the top communications company in the US. I was in the editorial department; She was hired to craft white papers and other thought leadership pieces. Theoretically, we were competitors as the work her team did took away from the work we would have done internally. But truth be told, our little group was stretched to the max, so even though She seemed to get all the juicy projects—don’t you hate it when that happens?—I was glad to offer my knowledge and guidance and collaborate with Her and Her team to ensure the end product was the best it could be.

After leaving the big communications company, I contacted my now client and let her know I was freelancing again. She was glad to hear that. She liked my work very much and was looking forward to bringing me on as part of her writing team. That was almost two years ago. We have been in touch off and on via LinkedIn and   email, but she never sent any work my way. Hmm, I wondered, what the heck happened?

And then I got a call. From her partner. Who explained that She was interested in using me to revamp their website.  I was speechless—which happens on occasion when I’m trying to make sense of what someone just said, but only then. She wants me to work on what will probably be the most important piece of her company’s self-expression? Wow! I’m honored, was all I managed to utter.

After our initial brief, I had to ask: Why me? Now, don’t get me wrong, I am aware of my conceptual and writing talents. After all, writing is not only a gift, but a craft I’ve been honing for years. So, I wasn’t flabbergasted by the fact that she called me for a job, but rather that not having given me any previous work, was entrusting me with nothing less than her firm’s online personality.

Her response was simple: I loved your Barefoot Chronicles. I’ve never seen anyone tell their story quite like that before. I couldn’t put it down. That, and the experience I had working for the big communications company, she added, were the factors that led to my selection. Whatta you know?

I tell you this not because I want you to link to my piece (which, of course, you’re free to do), but because for years (even before social media) I’ve tried incessantly to get corporations to stop thinking about themselves as the mighty heroes, and concentrate more on their customers and their issues and perspectives; to use stories rather than self-aggrandizing messages to draw them in; to be more humble, empathetic, conversational and transparent.  

My story is about me and my career. After all it’s my “portfolio” where I show, rather than tell, prospective clients what I can do for them. A good story is universal, relevant, and ironically, it sells better than any other marketing tactic out there. Mine just did. Once again.

What’s your story? And how are you using it to acquire more clients so you can, in turn, help them tell theirs?

It’s funny how as children we accept the things we hear our parents say as gospel. Some of us pass on these words of wisdom without ever stopping to assess their meaning. Then, when we do, we’re startled. What the…?  I’ve been saying what?

That is the case with some Cuban sayings, or should I say, most of them. One that recently came to mind was “le zumba el mango”. My father used to say that all the time. What does it mean, you ask? Heck if I know. A literal translation would be something like “he heaves the mango”. I told you it wouldn’t make sense. A more correct translation may be “don’t that beat all!”.

Either way, what it does express is annoyance and frustration, as in:

“I'm out of gas – ¡le zumba el mango!"

“You’re late again - ¡le zumba el mango, chico!"

“¡Le zumba el mango that you can’t pick up your room!"

You get the drift.

As a curious lover of language and all things bizarre, occasionally I try to dissect these crazy Cuban sayings and come up with their true intentions. I mean, there has to be a reason behind them, right? So here’s what I imagine as the original source of this peculiar phrase:

Picture a young man on his burro cart travelling on a dirt road in the middle of Matanzas somewhere. Wearing his Sunday best, he’s on his way to pick up his “enamorada” (sweetheart) and her family and take them to meet his parents for the first time. But just as he’s helping his potential mother-in-law into the cart, the burro decides to let it rip, splashing his breakfast on the unexpected family members. The young man takes a mango and heaves it at the burro. “¡Le zumba el mango! 

Have any better ideas?

At first sight, it appears to be a giant gumball or a tiny lime with green, leathery skin. Break the skin, and inside you’ll find what I can only describe as a seed surrounded by a peachy, creamy, savory pulp. Picture fuzz on a baby’s head or a tangy Caribbean-esque lychee. That’s a a mamoncillo!

The object: to suck on the fuzz until it’s all gone. But be warned: if you swallow a mamoncillo by mistake (or on purpose, for that matter), it could very well be your last meal. I’m talking from experience. I must have been five or so when one day quietly sucking on this exotic fruit, the seed slithered down my throat, sticking to my windpipe. Windless and anxious, I managed to find my mother, who instinctively knew what to do. No, she didn’t pick me up by my feet, or perform a tracheotomy.  She just proceeded to stick her hand down my little throat and summon that hairless little pit to the surface. Phew! Eight more lives and counting.

So, if you’re ever in Miami, Mexico, the Caribbean or parts of Latin America, grab yourself some mamoncillo, sit in a quiet place, break open the skin with your teeth and chump on the pulp. By the way, the word mamoncillo comes from the word “mamar” = to suck, suckle, or nurse. So make sure your mom’s around in case of an emergency. 

A few days ago, while playing a little “lotería” with my nearly octogenarian mom, the word “fotingo” came up. I hadn’t heard that term in ages. Typically I’d say “lemon” because fotingo is just that: an old clunker, a jalopy, a banger, a beater.  Something your teenager wouldn’t get caught dead driving today. To me, it conjures up images of 1950’s Fords, Dodges and Buicks, which can still be seen and their fumes inhaled as they roam around the island of Cuba held together with scotch tape and loads of ingenuity.

Fotingo is a great word, full of playful melodic tones. Too bad it hasn’t passed the entrance exam to the Royal Spanish Academy. In my opinion, more people should know about it and use it. It’s a lot more fun than a sour lemon.

The pronunciation goes something like this:

PHO – For foodies with a special sensitivity for Vietnamese cuisine 

TIN – As in can 

GO – Think soccer and Andres Cantor

Anyways, I started evoking other words that end in “ingo” and recalled a nursery rhyme that has been passed down through generations and continents. It’s more like a cradlesong that ends in a ticklish assault followed by that irresistible child’s laughter so akin to glass chimes teasing each other in the wind. Different versions abound, but here’s the one I remember:

Tilingo, tilingo  (sound of kitschy cowbells)

Mañana es domingo (Tomorrow is Sunday)

Se casa la gata con Juan Pirindingo  (The cat is marrying JP)

¿Quién es la madrina?  (Who’s the godmother?)

Doña Catalina (Mrs. Catalina)

¿Quién es el padrino? (Who’s the godfather?

Juan Barrigon (Pot-bellied Juan)

El que hable primero se traga un melón (The first one to speak swallows a melon)

Del tamaño de la torre de Juan Simón (The size of Juan Simon’s tower)

As you can see, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But maybe it did at some point. You know, like in advertising when there’s a great idea that gets everyone so excited they start making changes to it because they’re so excited. Maybe it was a perfectly sound lullaby about two people getting married and Dona Catalina wanting to put Juan on a melon diet, or maybe it was about two cats mating over a melon patch. But then someone suggested children should be seen and not heard and the writer had to adjust the copy to include a call to action: put a whole melon in your child’s mouth and they’ll be busy chewing for about an hour or two so you can have some time to talk and laugh boisterously with your adult friends and family members. And so the perfectly sound lullaby morphed into a rhythmic, memorable but incomprehensible bunch of words, like an ad everyone recalls but can’t remember the brand or what it was trying to say.

Tilingo, tilingo, yo quiero un fotingo.

I frequently get asked how I came up with my company’s name: Fried Green Bananas. The answer is easy: Rice and Beans was already taken, and fried green plantains doesn’t quite roll off the tongue.

But, to be clear, the plantains are the ones you fry. Although, you could, of course fry bananas if you wanted to, but they’d turn out mushy. Plantains, on the other hand, hold up much better. But if you’re not sure which one to buy, or how to cook it once you get it home, think of it as a human being.

Plantains are human, too

When first picked, the plantain is green, hard, and on the bland side, like children from infancy to adulthood (new, stubborn, and not too cunning, although they may think they are).

But once the plantain ripens, aaah! It becomes softer, sweeter, and oh so much more interesting, like most of us over the age of 40. But don’t hold on to it for very much longer after that because it’ll turn black and mushy and lose its teeth just like a banana would.

Which begs the question:  How did you get caught up in reading about plantains vs bananas in the first place? No matter. But since you did, I’d like to send you a little something for your trouble. 

If you shoot me an email at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. with Plantains in the subject line, I’ll ship you out a bag of homemade plantain chips.

No charge but no preservatives, so I have no idea what condition they’ll be in when you get them. Don’t forget to include your name and address. And no Congo addresses, please. Just the good ole US of A.

Pronounced something like gun-gar-ree-ah and defined by La Real Academia Española (The Royal Academy of Spain) as:

1. cencerro – cowbell

2. adorno de mal gusto – jewelry or accessory in poor taste 

When I was growing up, I thought this word meant something like fashion jewelry but in the aggregate like lots and lots of it clustered around a single person’s neck, wrists, ears, ankles, fingers and toes. Being the innocent little girl that I was, I didn’t realize then that it also meant “in poor taste”, although I did find the excess a bit garish. But now that I think about it, a word as musical as this could not possibly suggest sophistication. This word is not a waltz; it’s a rumba. It’s not ballroom; it’s conga, carnival, mambo, cha-cha-cha. It’s from the streets and belongs to the people. It’s a happy word that doesn’t know it’s gauche, especially since it made the Academy’s highly selective list. Touché.

Personally, I agree that this sassy little polysyllable resembles cowbells much the same way that bracelets and necklaces, charms and bangles sometimes ring, ding and bong when they clash and smash, whether they’re exquisitely magnificent or just plain tacky. Hmm, I wonder if Macy’s would ever consider having a Gangarria Sale? What do you think?

Azúcar –Spanish for sugar– the granulated sweetness we love to scoop into our coffees and pour into our custards, it’s not always what it seems. Preceded with an upside down exclamation mark and followed by a right side up mark, ¡Azúcar! becomes a honey of a word that can be ascribed several meanings, such as: “Oh YEAH, baby!”, “How sweet it is!”, and “Let’s get this party started!”, all of which are valid when used in the right context and accentuated by a shimmy for proper body language.

For the precise enunciation, I recommend that you listen to Celia Cruz, the Queen of Salsa, may she RIP. I think you’ll find she added a boatload more flavor to this wonderful expression. And after all, isn’t that what sucrose is supposed to do? ¡Azúcar!  

My husband was born in Seattle to a mother of German descent and a father of Italian lineage, both from Washington state. Guess that makes everyone American, or as me and my peeps would say, gringos. But my hubby hates the word. Says it’s disparaging.

While, like any other term, it could always be used to put someone down, I disagree with him. I grew up using this word on a regular basis among my non-gringo family and friends. Never once was it meant to denigrate or humiliate anyone. On the contrary, it was used more in phrases like “Se acabaron las clases y los gringos se van de vacaciones. ¡Qué envidia!” (Now that school’s over, the gringos are going on vacation. I’m green with envy!)

In his popular song, “Mister, don’t touch the banana*” Willy Chirino introduces us to the secret rites of “Santeria” and the world of Changó (the god of thunder in Yoruba mythology) and what happens when a gringo witnessing the mysteriously enchanting proceedings unknowingly digs into the table of offerings thinking it’s brunch.

When I first heard this song, I laughed. I had to; it’s meant to be funny, but not only that, I could actually see it all in my head: This “Americano” and his two friends −engulfed in this whirlwind of chants, music, dances and costumes− gets up and grabs a banana belonging to the god, and all hell breaks loose.  

A couple of decades ago, as I was stopped at a light on Lejeune Road, near the Miami airport, fishing for something to do –having no cell phone to text with or TV to watch− I glanced at a nearby billboard. Read it. And immediately did a double take, fighting my eyes’ desire to bungee jump out of their sockets. Then roared with laughter. Right in front of my eyes was one of those messages that you store in your cerebral cortex for recall even during the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s. It was a translation (I quickly understood) from the English phrase “Travel on Leather” akin to "Travel in Style", a then new and excitingly aromatic call to action by one of the top three US airlines. However, in Spanish, it read “Travel nude”. You see, “cuero” does indeed mean leather. But “en cuero” means in your own skin, or basically “naked”. Guess someone forgot to check with Spanish-speakers. Oopsie!