Dragonberries / Bayas De Dragón

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

WE ATE WELL while we were in New York. And in very good company. Our first dinner was at Rocco's Tacos in Downtown Brooklyn with dear friends Anne and Brian. Great place. Great food. But my favorite was my Dragonberry Mojito.

COMIMOS BIEN MIENTRAS estábamos en Nueva York. Y en muy buena compañía. Nuestra primera cena fue en Rocco's Tacos (Tacos de Rocco) en el Centro de Brooklyn con los queridos amigos Anne y Brian. Gran lugar. Buena comida. Pero mi favorito era mi Mojito de Baya de Dragón.

BRIAN AND MY DRAGONBERRY MOJITO.
BRIAN Y MI MOJITO DE BAYAS DE DRAGÓN.

THE WAITER WITH "DRAGONBERRY" RUM. (MADE WITH DRAGON FRUIT... FROM A CACTUS)
EL CAMARERO CON EL RON QUE SE LLAMA "BAYA DE DRAGÓN". (HECHO CON PITAYA... DEL CACTUS, PITAYO.)

SAN GERALDO'S PASSIONFRUIT FROZEN MARGARITA.
MARGARITA CONGELADA DE GRANADILLA DE SAN GERALDO.

FRESH GUACAMOLE PREPARED AT THE TABLE.
GUACAMOLE FRESCO HECHO EN LA MESA.

THE SWEETEST PART OF THE MEAL.
EL PARTE DE LA COMIDA MÁS DULCE.

I THINK THESE WERE SOMEONE'S FISH TACOS.
CREO QUE ESTOS ERAN TACOS DE PESCADO.

CHICKEN TACOS.
TACOS DE POLLO.

CHILE RELLENO.

CHICKEN QUESADILLA.
QUESADILLA DE POLLO.

DRAGON FRUIT TREES.
PITAYOS.

Mused, BellaOnline Literary Review

Lo siento, esta entrada es sólo en inglés. He tenido una obra de no ficción publicada en una revisión literaria. Ojalá pudiera hacerle justicia en español. Intentaré.

I'M PLEASED TO have a work of non-fiction published in the current issue of the literary review "Mused." I've shared it below, but you can also find the story by clicking here, and the main page of the literary review by clicking here.

Raining in Sheffield

Dale died.

The skies over Sheffield mourned her slow passing for days before and days after. Winds so strong the moment she died that outside the hospice ancient trees were torn from the earth. Gnarled fingers of mud-covered roots left naked, exposed, pointing uselessly to the heavens.

Months earlier, as we drove from Darlington to Sheffield, transporting Dale to the hospital for one of her blood trans­fusions, she commented, “It always rains when we come to Sheffield.”

And when we leave it, as well, I learned.

It was not raining when we awoke the day we buried Dale. The sky was heavy with clouds and an overpowering stillness that pounded in our heads as we slept-walked to the car to begin our drive.

It did not rain during the forty-five minutes we drove in silence to the rabbi’s house where we met the limo that would take us the final two miles to the aging stone chapel on the cemetery grounds.

There was a fine mist appearing on the windows when David began silently to cry for the wife he would never again see and for the mother his seven-year-old daughter would hardly remember. The other undead — my parents, my brother, and I — were dry-eyed and silent as we traveled with him in the small black limo — a simple sedan by our American standards — following closely behind the miserable hearse. My sister, forever twenty-nine, making her final journey through Sheffield with an entourage. I wished I could lift the lid and crawl in beside her.

The mist was heavier when we stood outside the chapel and watched four short, bent-with-age strangers, wearing threadbare, worn-to-a-shine suits, lift Dale’s black-draped, plain pine box from the back of the hearse.

And it became a light rain when one of the strangers mis-stepped, losing hold of his end of the box and catching it barely an inch before it hit the cobblestone pavement. The black cloth slipped from the coffin, exposing the box’s hideous and heartbreakingly cheap simplicity.

Dave gasped, shocked by the crudeness of the carpentry. But, I tried not to laugh, even though I knew Dale would have let loose a laugh loud and hearty, when the men desperately grabbed at the cloth and restored it to its original position, briefly snagging and stretching the polyester fabric on a sliver of wood that had been partially ripped from the edge of the box and stuck out like a claw.

We followed the box into the chapel where my father, brother, and I were placed at the front, standing on either side of the coffin — Chucky and I on one side facing our father on the other. The closed and covered coffin was not positioned in the familiar way with it’s length running parallel to the front of the chapel, but instead was placed perpendicular, so Dale’s head was to the main pews and her feet to the front wall.

We three were given prayer books opened to the page where the service would begin. My mother and brother-in-law were shown where to sit, women and gentiles apparently having no legitimate place in this congregation’s solemn observance.

I looked up to see that we were standing in a tall alcove of an ancient stone chapel. I had to strain my neck and eyes to catch a glimpse of the distant wood-beamed ceiling. On the narrow wall of the dark, damp alcove, just below the ceiling, was a small, round stained glass window. Just large enough for a sister-sized apparition to slip through as it soared heavenward.

I told myself, as I had at the hospice two days earlier, that I would be a man. I would not shed a tear. I would stay in control. I would show that I was strong.

My mind flashed back to a half-hour after Dale’s powerful heart had finally stopped its mechanical pumping. When one of the hospice nurses realized that Dale’s jewelry, her rings and bracelets, needed to be removed. And no staff could legally do it. By this time, we were all in a small, private lounge drinking our brandy and listening to my father and brother-in-law sob while the hospice staff “prepared” my sister.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

Shocked, my mother gasped, half-questioned, “You can’t.”

“It’s OK. I can,” I calmly, maturely — paternally — whispered.

I followed the nurse back to what had been Dale’s home for the past two weeks, my shoulders squared, back rigid, head held high as I strode down the long hall, past the rooms containing the others waiting to die. Smiling as I strode so they would not know that death was now one room closer.

A momentary, silent gasp from deep within me when I saw Dale, stiffly wrapped in a clean white sheet, the whites of her eyes partially visible, her lips slightly parted but no longer emitting their little bursts of air minute after minute, hour after hour, mechanically, maddeningly, for days and nights on end. Her skin a shade of yellow-white I had never before seen. In just minutes, her chestnut-haired, almond-eyed, olive-skinned beauty had fled.

I may have breathed deeply. Perhaps I didn’t breathe at all as I approached the bed, lifted my big sister’s lifeless hand — the first lifeless hand I had ever touched — and cautiously fought the rings off the stiffening, uncooperative fingers. My hands shook and, therefore, so did hers.

When I was done, I stuffed the rings and delicate gold bracelets into my pocket, leaned forward and gave her one last, tentative kiss on the cheek. At that moment, I wanted to curl up beside her and sob. I wanted to go with her wherever it was she had gone. But, I remembered to “be a man,” sucked the tears back into my eyes, stood up straight, smiled tenderly and thanked the nurse, and left the room.

As these recent memories raged through my head in the chapel, my eyes again began to moisten with tears. I searched in my mind for a way to survive this day’s ordeal without losing that all-important, masculine control. I looked again at the stained glass window and heard Dale’s voice — a little boy’s big sister’s voice — singing:

“John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt.

That is my name, too.

Whenever we go out,

The people always shout

There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt.

Da da da da da da da.”

And then, just like she did when we were children whispering (although only in my mind):

“John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt.

That is my name, too.

Whenever we go out,

The people always shout

There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt.”

And then screaming:

“Da da da da da da da.”

Over and over and over again.

And I smiled, but not too broadly, and I sang along with her — silently — while remaining passively aware of our place in the service, since Chucky could not read Hebrew (or for that matter English) and had to carefully watch me for his cue to turn the page in his prayer book.

And watch me he did, my little brother the mimic — between the meaningless dips and bows he had carefully learned to imitate during his years at the Orthodox academy for "retarded" children. At the age of twenty-one, he might not know how to read or sing or pray, but he could certainly look like he did. The elders of the chapel smiled at his devout choreography. They smiled at these two good Jewish brothers, these mensch, as they periodically circled us monitoring our progress through the service. And each time one of these men reached my father’s side, they would turn the pages of the prayer book held numbly, dumbly, in his once sure and strong hand.

The service came to its end. Dale and I together completed our final chorus of John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt.

Da da da da da da da.

And then we began our death march behind the strangers who carried our sister/daughter/wife/mother out of the damp and musty chapel and into the dank and muddy cemetery, and the pouring rain.

My mother reached up high with her left hand — from her height of 5´2" to Dave’s of 6´1" — to protect both their heads with the tiny, folding, travel umbrella, a little umbrella brought all the way from Brooklyn, just in case. She was always prepared. Perhaps not emotionally prepared, but always physically. With her right arm, she tried to support Dave’s mass, which over the three-and-a-half years of Dale´s illness had increased in size as dramatically as hers — feeding her cancer — had diminished. Dave stumbled up the muddy path until my mother caught my eye with a desperate look that said, “Help him.”

I was indifferent to the rain that soaked my hair and face and clothes. I took two steps forward and gave Dave gentle, yet firm, support on his right as my mother released his left arm, and we continued our walk, umbrella-less, together through this tiny cemetery that had somehow, suddenly, become miles and miles long.

When we finally reached our destination, a vacant hilltop containing a freshly dug hole and beside it a pile of dirt under a plastic tarp, we stopped and silently, except for the sound of Dave’s sobs, watched the plain pine box — “My sister is in there,” I thought — as it was lowered into the saturated earth. 

I forced my eyes up to the sky to keep the tears from coming at the thought of my beautiful sister being left in this flimsy excuse for a permanent resting place. With little protection from the wet and the filth and the cold. ‘And the worms crawl in and the worms crawl out, crawl into your stomach’ ... and I forced myself to put another song from our childhoods out of my head.

And — inside my head — I screamed. And sobbed. And fell to my knees. And called out her name. And insisted that this all was a huge, horrible mistake. That this couldn´t really be happening. While outwardly, I remained composed and erect, and swallowed my tears.

And then someone handed me a shovel. And somehow, although I cannot remember hearing a voice, I knew I was meant to shovel some dirt into the hole and onto the box containing my sister. I had never done this before. Didn’t know this custom. A sob caught in my throat. A sob I forced back to lodge somewhere deep inside me to reside for years with all the other sobs. I shoveled some heavy, wet dirt onto Dale. I then passed the shovel to Chucky, who was also dry-eyed and “being a man,” and helped him do the same. Dave stepped forward and continued to sob loudly as he performed this rite. My father — this hollowed-out man who was always so powerful — cried like a little boy as he took his turn. And then the strangers followed.

Some more prayers were recited leading to the final “amen.”

We turned to leave. At some point between the time that I picked up the shovel and before we walked back to the limo, the rain had stopped. I didn’t notice when. My clothing must have been soaked, but I didn´t notice that either. All I noticed was that I was angry.

Angry with these men who ignored my sister’s adoring and adored husband and treated him like nothing.

Angry with my mother for not knowing how to be closer to Dale before her illness. For seeing herself as the victim, as I believed she always did, of another of life’s tragedies. For making all the funeral decisions without any input from us — from me — even though I knew she had done so because no one else could.

Angry with my father for never letting Dale know he loved her more than he loved almost anything else in this world — including me.

Angry with Dale for leaving me alone with our family and its demons — my demons.

With myself for not being as good a brother as Dale was a sister. For not being as good a human being.

And angry with God, although I doubted his existence, because — if he did exist — how could he have allowed our lives, these disappointing lives, to be.

Dale died.

And I did not.

Sea Of Tranquility / Mar De La Tranquilidad

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

THURSDAY WILL BE the day I get back into blogging. I am so tired — and so happy to be home. We left rush-hour traffic in New York and returned to post-summer season peace in Málaga. We arrived home to find that Luke and his parents had decorated our front door in welcome. At first we thought Maria Carmen (who takes care of the house and the cats) had redecorated... again. We were relieved she hadn't (outside at least).

EL JUEVES SERÁ el día en que regrese a los blogs. Estoy tan cansado — y tan feliz de estar en casa. Salimos del tráfico de las horas punta en Nueva York y volvimos a la paz aquí después de la temporada de verano en Málaga. Llegamos a casa para encontrar que Luke y sus padres habían decorado nuestra puerta para darnos la bienvenida. Al principio pensamos que Maria Carmen (que se encarga de la casa y los gatos) había redecorado ... de nuevo. Nos sentimos aliviados de no haberlo hecho (al menos no fuera). 

ON OUR WAY TO KENNEDY AIRPORT MONDAY NIGHT.
EN CAMINO AL AEROPUERTO KENNEDY EL LUNES POR LA NOCHE.

SO HAPPY TO BE OVER THE RAINBOW AGAIN.
TAN FELIZ ESTAR SOBRE EL ARCO IRIS OTRA VEZ.

SG TOOK LUKE BY SURPRISE ONE TIME, SO HE'S "SCARY GUY." I'M HIYA (CLICK HERE).
SG TOMÓ A LUKE POR SORPRESA UNA VEZ, POR LO QUE ÉL ES "TIPO ATERRADOR". YO SOY "HIYA" (HAZ CLIC AQUÍ).

THIS MORNING.
ESTA MAÑANA.

MOOSE.

AND TWO VERY HAPPY CATS WITH ME FOR A SIESTA THIS AFTERNOON. DUDO TOOK A LITTLE TIME TO FORGIVE US.
Y DOS GATOS MUY FELICES CON MI PARA UNA SIESTA ESTA TARDE. DUDO TARDÓ UN POCO DE TIEMPO EN PERDONARNOS.

Sharing / Compartiendo

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

WE LEAVE NEW York to return to Spain today and we're so excited to soon be home. Sunday was brunch with some truly exceptional extended family. Pure elation. The Kid Brother was the only one who had dessert. As he started to dig in, I said, "Hey, Chuck. That's the dessert you're sharing with everybody, right?" He reacted by waving his fist in my direction.

Once we're home, I'll share more photos and more stories — because it wasn't only about The Kid Brother, just mostly.

SALIMOS DE NUEVA York para regresar a España hoy y estamos muy emocionados de estar pronto en casa. El domingo fue una comida con algunas excepcional familia extendida. Pura euforia. El Hermanito era el único que tenía postre. Cuando empezó a comerlo, le dije: "Oye, Chuck, ese es el postre que estás compartiendo con todo el mundo, ¿verdad?" Él reaccionó agitando su puño en mi dirección.

Cuando estamos en casa, compartiré más fotos y más historias — porque no era sólo sobre El Hermanito, solo en su mayoría.

Eat And Smile / Come Y Sonríe

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

ANOTHER MEAL WITH The Kid Brother. We all met my cousin Evie for lunch at Parkview Diner, our old standby diner not far from where My Mother The Dowager Duchess lived. The Kid Brother surprised us by independently ordering a pizza burger — no menu reading for him, no prompts, no suggestions needed. San Geraldo had his usual hot, open-face turkey sandwich. Of course, they both cleaned their plates. The Kid Brother clearly would have ordered cheesecake for dessert had anyone else wanted dessert.

OTRA COMIDA CON El Hermanito. Todos conocimos a mi prima Evie para almorzar en el Parkview Diner, el restaurante no muy lejos de donde vivía Mi Madre La Duquesa Viuda. El Kid Brother nos sorprendió ordenando de forma independiente una hamburguesa de pizza. San Geraldo tenía su habitual sándwich abierto de pavo caliente. Por supuesto, ambos limpiaron sus platos. El Hermanito claramente habría pedido tarta de queso si alguien hubiera querido postre.

I DON´T TELL HIM TO SAY 'CHEESE'; I TELL HIM A JOKE. HE´S MY BEST AUDIENCE.
NO LE DIGO QUE DIGA 'QUESO'; LE DIGO UNA BROMA. ÉL ES MI MEJOR AUDIENCIA.

PIZZA BURGER.
HAMBURGUESA DE PIZZA.

HOT, OPEN-FACE TURKEY SANDWICH.
SÁNDWICH ABIERTO DE TURKEY CALIENTE.

Paying For It / Pagando Por Ello

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

ANOTHER AFTERNOON SPENT with The Kid Brother. We had some business to take care of together and then we came downtown for lunch at a local diner. He had a Monte Cristo (French toast, topped by ham, turkey, and Swiss cheese. He then poured maple syrup on it. The plate was tremendous — and not enough. So, he grabbed the slices of melon off my omelette plate to finish things off. We then went to Trader Joe's, a "fresh format" grocery store chain. He was so excited to stock up on favorites. When we got in line, I asked him who was paying for it all. He thought that was the funniest question he had ever heard.

OTRA TARDE PASADA con El Hermanito. Tuvimos algunos negocios para cuidar juntos y luego llegamos al centro para almorzar en un restaurante local. Él tenía un sandwich Monte Cristo (tostadas francesas, cubierto con jamón, pavo y queso suizo, entonces él vierta jarabe de arce en él. El plato era tremendo — y no era suficiente. Por lo tanto, tomó el melón de mi plato de tortilla y luego fuimos a Trader Joe's, una cadena de tiendas de comestibles de "formato fresco". Le pregunté quién estaba pagando por todo. Él pensó que era la pregunta más divertida que jamás había escuchado.

MONTE CRISTO SANDWICH. 

MY MELON.
MI MELÓN. 

TRADER JOE'S ON COURT STREET IN THE OLD DIME SAVINGS BANK BUILDING.
TRADER JOE'S EN CALLE COURT EN UNA CAJA DE AHORROS VIEJA. 

I Have A Bridge To Sell You / Tengo Un Puente Para Venderte

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

FOR THE FIRST time in my life, I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a blast. I have plenty of photos to share but this one will have to do for now. Another tourist stopped me on the bridge to take a picture of him and he then offered to return the favor. I walked around Lower Manhattan, had lunch at Starbucks (for the free WiFi) and then walked back. It was more than 6 miles round trip and I'd do it again!

POR PRIMERA VEZ en mi vida, anduvé por el Puente de Brooklyn. Que era una maravilla. Tengo un montón de fotos para compartir, pero esta tendrá que hacer por ahora. Otro turista me paró en el puente para tomar una foto de él y luego se ofreció a devolver el favor. Caminé por Manhattan, almorcé en Starbucks (para el WiFi gratuito) y luego anduvé de regreso. Fue más que 10 kilómetros ida y vuelta y lo haría de nuevo!

ON MY WAY TO LOWER MANHATTAN (IN BACKGROUND).
EN EL CAMINO A MANHATTAN (EN EL FONDO).

Nothing But Skin And Bones / Nada Más Que Piél Y Huesos

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

WE´VE BEEN KIND of busy with the Kid Brother. I miss you all and have lots of stories and photos to share. For now, some food photos from our breakfast at IHOP in Coney Island (the Kid Brother´s suggestion) to show you we´re not suffering. And then a photo of me after breakfast.

HEMOS ESTADO UN poco ocupados con El Hermanito. Te echo de menos y tengo muchas historias y fotos para compartir. Por ahora, algunas fotos de comida de nuestro desayuno en IHOP (Casa Internacionál de Pancakes) en Coney Island (la sugerencia de El Hermanito) para mostrar que no estamos sufriendo. Y luego una foto mía después del desayuno.

THE KID BROTHER´S PEACH PANCAKES.
LOS PANCAKES CON MELOCOTONES DE EL HERMANITO.

MY OMELETTE.
MI TORTILLA DE HUESOS.

MY RED VELVET PANCAKES!!!
MI PANCAKES DE TERCIOPELO ROJO (UN TIPO DE PASTEL DE CHOCOLATE)!!!

SAN GERALDO´S PANCAKES DECORATED WITH DIFFERENT SYRUPS.
LOS PANCAKES DE SAN GERALDO DECORADAS CON JARABES DIFERENTES.

AND I HAVEN´T GAINED A POUND.
Y NO HE GANADO UNA LIBRA.

Somebody to lean on / Alguien en quien apoyarse

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

WE ARE IN Brooklyn and have spent every day with the Kid Brother. Our first day, we had business to do, so we did it together after going out for breakfast. San Geraldo and I both had major jet lag. I tried to use the Kid Brother as a pillow. You can see below how he felt about that.

ESTAMOS EN BROOKLYN y hemos pasado todos los días con el Kid Brother. Nuestro primer día, tuvimos negocios que hacer, así que lo hicimos juntos después de salir para el desayuno. San Geraldo y yo teníamos un jet lag horrible. Traté de usar el Kid Brother como una almohada. Tú puedes ver abajo cómo él se sentía sobre eso.

You just call on me Kid Brother...
Solo tienes que llamarme, Hermanito...

The Chic People / La Gente Elegante

THINK OF THESE from Fuengirola while we're in New York City with all the chic people. We're on our way!

PIENSE EN ESTOS de Fuengirola mientras estamos en la ciudad de Nueva York con toda la gente elegante. ¡Estamos en camino!

I LOVE THE WAY HE MATCHES THE SCENERY...
ME ENCANTA LA FORMA EN QUE COÍNCIDE CON EL PAISAJE...

... AND THE WAY THEY DO NOT.
... Y LA FORMA EN QUE NO LO HACEN.

THANKS TO THE TREE. NO FACE-BLUR NEEDED.
GRACIAS AL ÁRBOL, NO SE NECESITA DESENFOQUE FACIAL.

FLAT NIPPLES? (CLICK HERE IF YOU DONT' UNDERSTAND.)
PEZONES PLANOS? (HAZ CLIC AQUÍ SI NO ENTIENDES.)

BETTER NOT TO ASK.
MEJOR NO PREGUNTAR.

Moonstruck? / Lunático?

FROM THE TERRACE the other night. A quick post and another quickie tomorrow (nudge nudge wink wink) before we head off to visit The Kid Brother!

DESDE LA TERRAZA la otra noche. Una breve entrada y otra breve mañana, ¡antes de irnos a visitar a El Hermanito!

MY CLOSE-UP PHOTO. CAN YOU FIND MARE FOECUNDITATIS? (BECAUSE I LIKE THE NAME.)
MI FOTO DE CERCA. ¿PUEDES ENCONTRAR MARE FOECUNDITATIS? (PORQUE ME GUSTA EL NOMBRE.)

From the film, "Moonstruck." My favorite part.
De la pelicula "Moonstruck". Mi parte favorita.

Hi Ya!!! / ¡¡¡Hola Ya!!!

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

OUR FRIENDS PEDRO and Kathleen (and their son Luke) were away for the summer. We finally re-connected Sunday at Primavera (on their anniversary). Luke, who will be two in November, is bilingual. He understands everything said to him in both Spanish and English; and he became much more verbal during their summer away. Luke has never said my name. When he wanted my attention Sunday night (which he wanted non-stop), he would simply say "hi ya." When I didn't respond, "hi ya" got louder. And louder. Until one of his parents would tell him to stop.

I kept trying to get him to say my name. His response, "Uh, no." He finally did say my name a few times. Mish or Meeshoe. I loved it. But he preferred, "Hi Ya!!!!!"

NUESTROS AMIGOS PEDRO y Kathleen (y su hijo Luke) estaban lejos para el verano. Finalmente conectamos el domingo en Primavera (su aniversario). Luke, que tendrá dos años en noviembre, es bilingüe. Entiende todo lo que se le dice en español e inglés; y se volvió mucho más verbal durante el verano. Luke nunca ha dicho mi nombre. Cuando él quería mi atención la noche del domingo (que él quería sin parar), él simplemente diría "hi ya" (como "hola" o "hola ya"). Cuando no respondí, "hi ya" se hizo más fuerte. Y más fuerte. "¡¡¡HI YAAAAAA!!!" Hasta que uno de sus padres le dijo que se detuviera.

Seguí intentando que él dijera mi nombre. Su respuesta, "Uh, no". Él finalmente dijo mi nombre unas cuantas veces. Mish o Meeshoe. Me encantó. Pero a él prefería, "¡Hi Ya!"

MY PAL LUKE WITH HIS STICKER BOOK.
MI AMIGO LUKE CON SU LIBRO DE PEGATINAS.

LUKE AND I HAVE OUR OWN CONVERSATION. WHO NEEDS ADULTS?
LUKE Y YO TENGO NUESTRA PROPIA CONVERSACIÓN. ¿QUIÉN NECESITA ADULTOS?

SAN GERALDO AND I ADORNED WITH LUKE'S STICKERS.
SAN GERALDO Y YO ADORNAMOS CON PEGATINAS.

"YOU GUYS ARE SO FUNNY!"
¡VOSOTROS SOIS TAN DIVERTIDOS!

"DO YOU LIKE MY HAIRCUT?"
"¿TE GUSTA MI CORTE DE PELO?"

"AND DAD'S?" (NO MORE MAN-BUN.)
"¿Y EL DE PAPÁ?" (NO MÁS COLETA.)

"AND MAMA, TOO!"
"¡Y MI MAMA TAMBIÉN!"

SAN GERALDO PHOTOBOMBED BY MAY (PRONOUNCED 'MY').
SAN GERALDO FOTOBOMBADO POR MAY.

Luke, say my name!
Luke, ¡di mi nombre!

The Soaking Saint / El Santo Remojando

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

IT WAS CALLED a "two- to three-person spa." The salesman told us we could fit four people if we were very "friendly." We bought it for our back deck in San Diego. What the salesman didn't mention was that three or four people might fit but there'd be no room left for water. The first time we tried it with three people, half the water poured over the sides. So, when we moved to San Francisco, we installed a 9-person spa just to be safe.

SE LLAMABA UN "spa [bañera de hidromasaje] para dos o tres personas". El vendedor nos dijo que podíamos caber cuatro personas si nos eran muy "amistosos". Lo compramos para nuestra terraza en San Diego. Lo que el vendedor no mencionó fue que tres o cuatro personas podrían encajar, pero no habría espacio para el agua. La primera vez que probamos con tres personas, la mitad del agua vertida sobre los lados. Así que, cuando nos mudamos a San Francisco, instalamos un spa para nueve personas sólo para estar seguros.

SAN GERALDO, 1998. I WISH WE STILL HAD "THE THREE SISTERS"; REALTOR FORGOT TO TELL OUR BUYERS THEY DIDN'T STAY WITH THE HOUSE.
OJALÁ AÚN TUVIÉRAMOS LAS TRES HERMANAS"; INMOBILARIO SE OLVIDÓ DE DECIRLE A LOS COMPRADORES QUE NO VIENEN CON LA CASA.

The Prima

La versión español está después de la versión inglés.

MY COUSIN JESS was in Spain recently with a friend and made a side trip to spend the day with us. What a gift! Jess and I barely knew each other. I think San Geraldo and I saw her twice in her 33 years, both times at parties hosted by The Dowager Duchess — once when Jess was 3 and once when she was 9. She was adorable... Feisty (lively, determined, and courageous) and adorable.

Everyone of my aunts, Jess's great-aunts, described her over the years as "kind, brilliant, loving, generous, beautiful, wonderful..." I found it hard to believe anyone could have grown into such an angel but we finally met again last year at my mother's funeral and San Geraldo and I immediately agreed with the consensus.

Jess teaches at a university but primarily works in public service for an organization that "fosters sustainable communities," successfully improving the quality of life for people all over the United States. And, it really is true, she's "kind, brilliant, loving, generous, beautiful, wonderful..." and still feisty. How lucky we all are that there are people like Jess in the world.

MI PRIMA JESS estaba aquí en España recientemente con una amiga y Jess pasaba un día con nosotros. ¡Qué regalo! Jess y yo apenas nos conocíamos. Creo que San Geraldo y yo la vimos dos veces en sus 33 años, ambas veces en fiestas en la casa de Mi Madre La Duquesa Viuda — una vez cuando Jess tenía 3 años y una vez cuando ella tenía 9. Ella era adorable... "Feisty" (animada, decidida, y valiente) y adorable.

Cada una de mis tías, tías abuelas de Jess, la describió durante los años como "amable, brillante, cariñosa, generosa, hermosa, maravillosa..." No podía creer que alguien pudiera haberse crecido en un ángel pero, finalmente nos reunimos el año pasado en el funeral de mi madre, y San Geraldo y yo inmediatamente concordamos con el consenso.

Jess es una profesora en una universidad, pero principalmente trabaja en el servicio público para una organización que "fomenta las comunidades sostenibles", mejorando con éxito la calidad de la vida de muchas personas en todos los Estados Unidos. Y, es verdad, ella es "amable, brillante, cariñosa, generosa, hermosa, maravillosa...," y ella sigue siendo "feisty". Todos somos muy afortunados de que hay gente como Jess en el mundo.