No pasa nada!

by Patti


I had a conversation with M the other day that left me completely and totally frustrated. Yes, I realize that I am a wife, and that I was having a conversation with my husband, and that it is not uncommon for that equation right there: wife + husband + conversation to have the result of = frustration.  But in this case, the frustration was borne out of sheer, well, the pure fact that my  husband has no idea what he's talking about.


It all began when I received a phone call from the vet telling me that Gaucho's poop test came back positive for a very common parasite in puppies, and that the treatment was super simple and inexpensive. I of course immediately began to Google the diagnosis, and called M to tell him that our new "son" needed drugs, and that I would be home late as  I was going to stop by the vet to pick up the medicine.
"He's not taking medicine," he told me, quite plainly.
"What do you mean? He's got parasites! He needs the medicine!"
"No he doesn't. He's a dog; he has to be tough. Besides, you are falling for the trick."
"The trick?"
"Yes, the doctor is tricking you into buying medicine. It's all just a business. Just leave him alone - he'll be fine. Nothing's gonna happen."

This is SO him, this whole "doubt authority" and "no pasa nada" attitude. I blame it on Argentina, the Land of "No Pasa Nada". Undercooked meat? No pasa nada. Strep throat? No pada nada. Your arm is dangling from its socket? No pasa nada.  

.....

Years ago, on a family trip to Argentina, we rented a beach house. S was just learning to walk, and she was having so much fun toddling around the universe, making me a psychotic chaser after-er. One afternoon, after a day at the beach and a string of showers to wash away that beach, I was in one of the upstairs bedrooms organizing stuff when I heard a strange sound. "Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzzzz." I looked around, up and down, wondering where the hell that noise was coming from. I knew I recognized the sound, I just didn't know how or why. At that moment, M appeared in the doorway with an devil-eyed S on his hip. "SHHH!" I shouted. Yes, I shouted a "Shhh".
"What? What's wrong?"
"Listen! Do you hear that?"
We stood still, craning our necks towards the silence, waiting.
Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzz-Bzzzzz.
"THERE!" I pointed to the air frantically. "Do you hear it?"
M put S down and strode further into the room, S toddling behind him. I lunged for S, suddenly remembering that sound. "IT'S ELECTRICITY!" I screamed. S kicked her legs angrily, annoyed that I had roadblocked her in such an inconsiderate way.
"What? No, it's not." M looked around quickly, as if the electricity was hiding coyly behind the curtains, waiting to jump out with a "mega-watt" smile on its face, shouting, "GOTCHA!"
"YES, IT IS!" Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. "You HAVE to call the electrician!"
"Where am I going to find an electrician? It's Sunday. We're at the beach! Everyone is sleeping!" Ah, yes, the all-important siesta. The whole country  had just eaten pasta and guzzled an industrial-sized bottle of wine. Of course they were sleeping. But I told him to wake them all up, and to his credit, to appease me, he called the landlord, who called an electrician.

One half-hour later, a sleepy-eyed man showed up, the makeshift box of tools he was carrying apparently enough to make him an electrician. He marched upstairs, tapping the wall as he went, trying to look official. We followed behind - M, M's mom and dad, and me, S in my arms. M and his dad, the fearless macho Argentinian men that they are, followed him all the way into the room, while M's mom and I stayed on the fringes, preferring to live. The man walked around the room a little aimlessly, tapping the wall here and there, and then he went into the en suite bathroom, making a few official sounding clanking noises to put the finishing touches on his act. He walked out, looked at all of us, and announced (in Spanish), "It's just a little electrical current running through the floors. Just make sure you don't walk on the floor with wet feet. Nothing's gonna happen. No pasa nada!" And then, just like that, he left, the electrical current crackling ominously in the background - the perfect exit music.

We moved out that afternoon to another beach house, as even M, the consummate "no pasa nada" man, had to admit that the man had gone overboard in his lackadaisical attitude. M's dad, an Argentinian thoroughbred of machismo and doubt, came along with us, but maintained that, indeed, "nothing would have happened" if we had stayed. But I knew better. I could picture S toddling into that electrical  box of a room, her tiny feet soaking in the currents and shooting them straight up into her curly-haired head. No pasa nada, my ass.

......

After our little "debate" about Gaucho and his need for medication, I reminded M of the day we could have died from electrical shock, the whole lot of us, thanks to the "no pasa nada" way of thinking. Did he really want to take that risk with his own "son"? Stubborn as ever, he still maintained I was being naive and falling victim to "the system", and I had to feel sorry for him for just one second, wondering just how crowded it must be in his head with all that paranoia living there. Then I snapped out of my temporary pity and told him he'd better suck it up and get on board, because if he didn't, I could pretty much guarantee that tonight? No pasa nada.

I'm Latin... It's Never Too Late!

by Patti

Although I was born in the United States, I was raised by immigrants from South America, and therefore brought up in a very Latin way. Spanish was my first language - I didn't really even learn to speak English until I started school. We spoke Spanish, we lived Spanish, we were... Spanish!

When we were little, while the neighbors had their children in bed by 7 pm, my brother and I would still be up at midnight, eating Cap'n Crunch and listening to music. It was the Latin way. As we grew older, although my brother's and my Spanish gave way to more and more English, the whole concept of the "American bedtime" never took hold of our household. Instead, my family's second wind would always kick in around 10 pm, and that is when we'd start a game of Yahtzee or start baking a cake.

I distinctly remember my mom mopping the floors at 11 pm on a weeknight, while my dad was making a burnt toast sandwich. That is when my brother got the the sudden craving for a chocolate cream Hostess pie. So, naturally, we would all pile into the car to go to the grocery store. It mattered not that it was now nearly midnight and we all had work and school the next day. Right now? At this moment? Was the perfect time to go the grocery store and get some pie. Of course, once we got to the store, my mother would remember that we needed milk. And eggs. And lettuce. And, oh! Look! These chips are on sale at 2 for 1! And then my dad would inevitably head off to buy a block of cheese and some salami while my brother and I gleefully threw a thousand Hostess pies into the cart. So, in essence, we were doing the groceries at midnight on a Wednesday. But hey, when your Latin, it's never too late!

Not only did we cook, clean, and play Yahtzee at unreasonable hours, we also ate dinner late. While our friends were sitting around the table passing around the roast and potatoes at 6 pm sharp, we'd be waking up from naps and eating a snack. Dinner? Was not until at least 10 pm. How can people eat at 6? You'll be STARVING by midnight! Because, of COURSE we'd still be up at midnight.

These Latinly habits were obviously passed on to me, and since I married a man from Argentina, where it is not uncommon to find a restaurant packed with families at 11 pm on a school night, we have only perpetuated these habits and are now passing them on to our daughter.

When S was born, structure existed only in "How To" books for us. We'd be up at 1 am watching movies with our baby by our side, or out dancing to a Merengue band, S held up high up in the air between us, then all sleep in until 1 pm the next day. Why not? She didn't have a job! Let her stay up; it's not too late!

Of course, once she started school, it was a complete and total nightmare getting on that "American" time clock - for ALL of us. We'd finally get her on a schedule - which felt like prison to us - and then we'd go to Argentina to visit family, only to have that worked-for schedule promptly fly out the Argentinean window. After all, summers in Argentina mean dinner at 11 pm and ice cream at 1 am. Kids stay up with the adults and participate in every aspect of what is going on. Too late for them to be up? Of course not! The only "too" in the Latin culture is "too early", "too quiet", and "too boring". But "too late"? It's never too late!

S is now 10 years old, and fully embracing the Latin ways. She is always mystified after coming home from a friend's house. "Mom, they ate dinner so EARLY." If I finally tell her to go to bed on a Friday night at midnight, she will look at me, shocked, "But Mom, it's FRIDAY. It's too early!"

Que puedo decir? We have created a monster, much like my parents created a monster in me, much like their parents created monsters in them. The Latin gene lives on, and frankly, I just don't think we are ever going to change. For that? It's too late.