My Cuban cousins first met Eric about five years ago. They loved him immediately and, of course, gave him a nickname. (I think it’s some sort of ancient mandate originally written into our constitution that all Cubans should have a nickname, but that’s not important right now.)
When they learned he was of English ancestry, that did it. They began calling him "the English lord."
Or "El lor-r-r-tt ingles."
I get such a kick out of if when they call him: "My lort!"
Here’s the cool and crazy part: Eric just flows with all this Cuban-ness. He acts as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for them to be calling him "lord" in their thick Cuban accents. I love that.
And they love him. LOVE him. He jumped right in when they said they wanted to drive to Vegas. That kind of spontaneity usually provokes an eye-rolling-you-must-be-mad look. But not this time. He actually drove, stopped for pictures in the middle of the desert, and even posed with wax figures when called upon to do so.
I think he secretly eats it up. He enjoys the way they dote on him and laugh at his many jokes. When they call, their first question is always, "Como esta my lort?" They insist they don’t know any Americans quite like him and I have to agree. I love that he fits right in to my big, fat extended Cuban family.
How do I feel about all this? Proud. And grateful.
You’re a good man, my lort. 😉