El Chivo del Santo Domingo

Depending on when you catch me, what shape I'm in and what I'm wearing my features have been likened to those of everyone from Kool Moe Dee to Darius Rucker (Hootie), Sam Cooke and a few others. While traveling in the Tampa Bay area, though, that was probably the first time in my life that someone actually thought I was from another country!

Growing up in Germany gave my sisters and I an advantage when it came to foreign languages and accents. We heard German everyday as spoken by German people and so were able to adapt the local accent as we picked up the language. Back in the United States when it came time for high school Spanish I was blessed with an American teacher who also had an ear for accents and was able to impart that extra flavoring in the lessons. In short, when I hear a language, dialect or even accented English I try to pick it up as a means of being understood as well as finding common ground with the other person.

Fast forward to Tampa and an evening out with friends from high school who now live in that part of the country. Being from Central America their accent is different from that of other Spanish-speaking parts of the world or so they tell me. I can pick out English accents from all over the world but still have a hard time with Spanish ones outside of how quickly it is spoken or whether or not some of the consonants are softer. Yes, those all add up to the "accent" except I haven't been able to identify the location of that difference like I can between Boston and Charlotte!

Anyway, we decide to go out clubbing for the evening and end up at a local watering hole in south St. Petersburg. A mixed entertainment place they have a performance stage, a dance floor, a pool area and a few bars and tables so it's a catch-all for that part of town, reaching out to as wide a clientele as possible.

By the end of the evening we had received the attention of a few lookers who weren't quite sure what to make of us but they were curious just the same. The bravest of the bunch strikes up an interesting conversation and before it is all said and done he decides to nickname me "El Chivo del Santo Domingo," the big goat from the Dominican Republic! Big goat?!

We're all having a good time and laughing but hasty explanations inform me that "goat" is to Spanish culture what "dog" is to Americans in that setting. It was a compliment to be called, in translation, "top dawg," the man in charge, the big kahuna, the cheese! Lesson laughingly learned.

I was still a bit curious about where the Santo Domingo angle came from, however. Our new friend who himself was from Argentina explained that when I spoke to him in Spanish my rapid fire pronunciation was right out of the Dominican Republic. That about put the icing on the cake for me because I've never been there!

Gotta go!

The Jerusalem Underground

We were towards the end of our second day in Israel where my three friends and I had wrapped up the standard list of must-see highlights. After a day of touring Jerusalem the four of us were wondering how things were settling down around town. The day before there had been a sniper attack in the city that had claimed one victim. The folks back home both crowed about being right and worried all the more for our safety.

“Stop worrying, Ma,” I implored before leaving. “Things are worse in the ghettos.”

“I don’t go over there, either!” Whaddya gonna do?

The evening scene was so normal it could have been the Gas Lamp district of San Diego. Instead of cowering in doorways or quivering behind locked windows people filled the gloaming streets, enjoying a night on the town as if, for them, nothing unusual had happened. We even saw the mayor himself walking the streets, pressing flesh and soothing those nerves that had indeed frayed from the incident.

As we continued along Yael Solomon we found a very unique example of “normal” nightlife in Jerusalem. Beckoning off our left shoulder was an exact copy of the London “Underground” sign. Jerusalem doesn’t have a subway, we thought. Oh, cool! It was a nightclub! We skipped the patio area at ground level and went downstairs to the dance floor. The lone female in our group was a trained dancer and had been dying to let off some steam after touring and the sniper. And they were playing Bob Marley!

Our lady companion took the floor with a swan’s grace and a tiger’s eye, spelling each of the three of us in quick succession. We noticed, however, that a good third of the crowd were soldiers of the recently recruited variety, young, hormonal and deadly. Our expressions went cold at the sight of uniformed militia in a club. We softened a bit upon realizing they were simply out for a good time but went even colder when we noticed their rifles stacked along the walls. They took turns, though, some hanging back at their table and guarding the weapons while the others did what young soldiers in a disco do the world over. We settled down, determined to relax like any local in the place.

“Crack!” The music faded instantly in our minds and everything fell to a slow motion crawl. Someone had gotten too close to the rifle pool and bumped against one, sending it clattering to the floor with a sharp and rattling report. It was an accident. There was no gunshot and in more than one language we realized in a blink’s eye that felt like hours that the safety was engaged and had held true.

Not good enough! Leading the way to the stairs and the now relative safety of the streets above, our dancing queen had had enough night crawling and dragged us three protesting fellas by the hand back to our hotel. Oh well…

Gotta go!