I don’t think you’d be able to correctly pronounce the name of the city
- Michelle Wood: SWCD
- March 26, 2018
- 1516
Every time the greatest movies ever made are listed, it seems as if “The Shawshank Redemption” gets more and more support. And that’s as it should be. The 1994 film has not only aged well as opposed to say, “Birdman,” but its cinematic depth and moral complexities have continued to intrigue viewers over the years.
Is Andy a Christ-like figure? Does Warden Norton have a Nixonian persona? What makes Red finally believe in the power of hope? Dissertations have probably been researched and submitted on all those questions and dozens more. But what I want to write about this week is a single word: Zihuatanejo.
Take a good look at it. Now if you’re like me, the word appears to be utterly unpronounceable with more silent letters than ought to be allowed by the spelling police. Even if, like me, you’ve seen “Shawshank” too many times to count, it can still be a puzzler when printed on the page.
But if, like me, you know the name of the place on the Pacific coast in Mexico that Andy dreamed of escaping to after prison walls could no longer hold his spirit, then it comes to you in a flash.
“Oh yeah,” you’ll think, “it’s ‘Say-want-to-nay-oh.’ ”
Of course when you sound it out phonetically, it makes perfect sense, but if you stumble upon it in any other context, Zihuatanejo is a brain-blocker.
Unless, unlike me, you speak fluent Mexican. Or it is a Spanish word? I don’t know.
I took two years of French in high school, and it’s kind of amazing, but I think I retained more of the basics from those classes than I did most any other. If I had to, I could probably make my way from Orly to the Louvre and be able to get a hotel room and order a meal in a restaurant. It would not be “tres difficile.”
But I probably won’t be jetting to Paris anytime soon. So my ability to use phrases like “Je suis desole” and “Bon nuit, mon amie” or “Mon cousin Pierre fait ausi son service militaire” will be of absolutely no use. Quelle domage.
Probably just as well because when my wife and I travel around our newly adopted “home” state of North Carolina, I have enough trouble understanding what I’m hearing.
You’d think, though, after having relocated to the American South at the turn of the century, I’d be better attuned to the regional dialect. Alas I’m often befuddled by the simplest words, especially names of places and their correct pronunciations.
Take for example the town we’ve lived in since the fall of 2000: New Bern. When I was telling family and friends that we were leaving for a new life in New Bern, I pronounced it like a tourist: New BERN with an accent on the second syllable, sort of like New YORK.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. It is, contrarily and delightfully, pronounced “NU-bern” with a slight stressing of the “Nu” part, and the second word actually sounds more like “bin,” as in “I bin on the road.”
But down here, “road” comes out more like “raid.” It’s fascinating.
I dated a girl from Virginia when I was in college, and one day while we were having a nice day on the beach, she said a friend of hers could get us tickets to the Hall and Oates concert.
“Sounds good,” I said. “Where’re they playing?”
“At the Scope,” she said, referring to an outdoor amphitheater, but that’s not what I heard.
To me, what she said was “at the Scape.”
We went our separate ways a few month later, owing to more complicated communication breakdowns. But I had learned a bit about Southern accents.
My wife and I were traveling to the city of Asheville (“ash-Vulle”) a few Thanksgivings ago for a week in the Great Smoky Mountains. We had a cabin nestled into a scenic valley, one that came complete with a hot tub on the deck, fire place that opened on two rooms and a monstrously large TV set, some wall-mounted HD flat screen miracle that made watching the World Series like being there.
On the way we decided to have lunch at one of my wife’s favorite places, a franchise known as Cracker Barrel. I swear I sometimes think she likes their chicken and dumplings better than me. But I’m OK with that. I’m a big fan of the meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy with corn niblets and coleslaw on the side … yummy.
Anyway, the point I wanted to make was this. If I gave you three guesses, I don’t think you’d be able to correctly pronounce the name of the city where we had that lunch. Ready? It was in Mebane.
Take your time. Take a walk around the room. Take a coffee break. Won’t help.
It’s pronounced “Mebbin.” Seriously. I know it’s odd, but when I found out, I loved it.
The county next door, where the Atlantic resides, is Carteret, which we gave a French twist to when we first put our toes in the sand.
“Cart-a-RAY,” which was so wrong, it’s almost funny. We know now it’s “Cart-a-RET,” which rhymes with “magnet,” which is what the beach has become to us.
Mike Dewey can be reached at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560. Find him on Facebook.