Plátano, Plátano!

One of the perks of having friends from all over the world is that when we get together there’s never a dull moment.

We try to keep our nights-out interesting by choosing restaurants from every possible place of the world.

So far we’ve tried Russian food, Lebanese, Argentinean, Italian and our most recent choice: a Dominican place recommended by my husband, so we could experience the culinary offers of his home country.

The restaurant was located on Downtown Manhattan, and we arrived at the place twenty minutes late after having hunted around for parking spots on the area: there were none.

On the other hand, it was out of the question to arrive on time, since Latinos are know for their unpunctuality, so we couldn’t brake the tradition and arrive on schedule: impossible!!

My husband was in charge of ordering for the whole group and his recommendations were diverse and abundant (Latin Americans don’t practice the word: moderation) and C.T.’s husband was asking questions left to right:

‘What’s this?’ ‘What’s in it?’, ‘is it spicy?’; he even asked if we could provide the recipe for some of  the Dominican dishes.

Needless to say he was appreciating the food and what the ‘Dominican style’ cooking had to offer.

C.T.’s husband is from Germany and since they only have ‘wurst’ and hot ‘bier’ there, tasting black beans and sweet plantains was a blast to his palate and his stomach.

The dish that most caught his attention was plantains. Dominicans eat it mature or green, fried or sautéed, pureed or sliced. Any way you want it, they serve it.

My husband, caught up on the emotion of having such an enthusiastic commensal, started saying the Spanish word for plantain out loud:
Plátano! (pride and joy on his voice)

And H.T. would repeat:

Plátano! (German smile on his face)

My dear hubby, enthusiastic as he is, tried to do a fist pump with him and offered H.T. his knuckles looking for the returning pump, but H.T. (caught up in the moment I’m sure) thought that my husband was offering him a ‘hand microphone’, so he put his face near my husband’s hand and said:

Plátano! Plátano! (Still showing the German smile on his face)

We couldn’t contain the giggles and hard on laughs for the next twenty minutes.

 We spent the rest of our dinnertime, doing several impersonifications of H.T.’s ‘plátano episode’ and trying to come up with other situations were the ‘hand microphone’ was used and one of us would shout:
Plátano!, and that would be enough to bring us back to grabbing our bellies and laughing to tears.

Soccer, my father and me

We are born fanatics.

This, I learned while accompanying my father on a three-hour ride every Sunday for a soccer match.

I was seven years old and after such a long trip, I was bored out of my mind, but the excitement to see him play and score a goal was incredible.

Going with my father to his soccer matches was an adventure, we had fun and we played hard.

However, not all is enjoyable for us girls regarding the all-loving sport of our fathers.

The establishments where soccer was played (a long time ago) were created for men; decent bathrooms were rare commodities and  ‘bushes’ or ‘holes’ were our best friends.

We squatted around and did our business: that was the way for my child-self.

My sisters and I ate hot dogs with candy until we were bursting full, and then, we seated around the field (while holding our tummies) to admire the beauty of a game that, for us, was dangerous and enticing at the same level.

Amateurs’ games sometimes ended with 31 total scored goals (an outstanding number that we thought was the way - even Professional soccer - was played), and while sometimes our father was not part of the winning team, the emotion that filled the space around them, with victory cheers, hugs and back slaps made us happy nevertheless.

The winning team would take home a big golden cup, proof that even without formal training, they could be – for just a little while – the champions of their world.

My father was our childhood hero.

He was born a fan and has tried to teach us to be fans: loving the game, the emotions, the excitement, the scores and the team.

He might not have succeeded to make me a fanatic of his soccer team, but I’m a soccer follower, and even at 5,000 miles away from my home, when Argentina plays,

I still feel that I’m rooting for my father, who sometimes won, but others just played hard but lost.

My father who was born a fan, and will die one.

Note: this is my first article published at Revista 10 www.facebook.com/revista10

Bostera: female follower and fan of Boca Juniors soccer team

Most soccer fans are born to be followers of their father’s favorite team.

If you were born a girl, then your team of choice will be bestowed upon you, without conflict nor expected revelry.

You had the obligation to be a proud admirer of that unknown team that you neither learned to love nor impressed you with their winning strikes; rather by what your father thought was the best team that you could possibly be an aficionada of.

I was born a rebel and it was imparted, upon my birth, the admiration towards Independiente, an Argentinean team winner of seven Libertadores Cups, three of which, were consecutive victories. This achievement was enough for my father’s standards, but me, being an insurgent, decided that other options were better suited for my soccer criteria.

When I turned sixteen, at the prime of my rebellion, our father decided to take my family and I to Independiente’s soccer stadium for an out–of-season friendly match.

Our opponent was Boca Juniors, one of the most successful clubs in Argentina and in the world, having won 41 official titles at the national and international level.

Boca was playing with their substitute team so it was a safe bet for Independiente; hence, the interest of my father to make us witnesses of a predicted blood-bath for Boca, and finally convert us to his team.

Our seats were located just across Boca’s supporters and I was mesmerized by the enthusiasm of their songs and surprised that just in the middle of it all, there was an empty space, unoccupied and waiting to be claimed.

Independiente’s side was full, complete; however, Boca was waiting for their honor guest: La Doce, the team’s barra brava and most fervent supporter.

Minutes before the game, a commotion started across the field and I had premium seats for the development: La Doce begun to climb the stairs towards their seats, while singing and waving their team’s flag, declaring its rightful place on Independiente’s soccer stadium.

A proud and fearless supporter; tireless on the task to overwhelm their rivals with melodic weapons.

That night, Independiente lost 3-1 against Boca’s substitute team.

La Doce never stopped chanting and undulating their flag, even when Independiente scored his first (and only) goal.

La Doce vibrated harder and stronger than Independiente’s supporting public. I had goose bumps the whole duration of the game.

My twin sister and I became proud followers of Boca Juniors.

I don’t have a clue where they’re in the soccer charts, if they’re winning or loosing, which players its team has, if they changed the coach or attire, but of one thing I’m completely sure: La Doce is surely rocking the stands.