Vamonos a Batear los Murcielagos
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Language appears to travel at the speed of thought. For example, a bat is a little flitting critter; but then, so is un murcialago, which is Spanish for bat. Twice, thrice, four times as many syllables is common in Spanish. To convey the same thought with equal speed the Latino tongue must flit round innumerable consonants with bat like dexterity. Three girls conversing in Spanish sounds like a coyote snuck in the hen house. We, no doubt, sound mighty ponderous to them.
That's why, when grandpa's gardener Felipe gestured "Vamonos a batear los murcielagos" ("Let's bat bats"), it was enigma to me. Said at Spanish speed, bat sounds no way like it spells. But he had this twinkle in his eye, so I followed Felipe round back. We set up a ladder and a crate. I stood on the ladder, he on the crate; I with a broomstick, he with his machete, filed narrow as a saber. Dusk came on. All day, all round the house, Felipe had stuffed mud wherever the corrugated roof met the walls. Now, there was nowhere for bats to flee the attic except a dozen un-mudded corrugations, here below the eaves outside the kitchen. Soon they came streaming out. We batted a dozen down, but that was at most one for every hundred streaming out. Then the dog sniffed one, the bat fastened to his nose, and we had to hold the frantic dog down and pry the creature off. What a face like the Devil bats have!
At this point, we gave it up. Didn't want batted bats landing on our hats. Once the stream ceased, Felipe mudded up the remaining corrugations. The household's cistern was in that attic, so bat crap was unwelcome there.
I dunno. I don't have any clever hook linking this story to the Murcielago cigar. I just wanted to remember Felipe. Felipe had a peculiar odor I can smell now. Grandpa kept him on to mow the lawn. The lawn was citronella grass to repel skeeters. There were seven acres in all; about three in lawn in front. Grandpa would not tolerate the racket of a lawnmower, so Felipe wore away his days mowing three acres of citronella with a machete in an iron fist. That's how his machete came eventually to be filed narrow as a saber, and he came to have this peculiar odor, of citronella and peon sweat.
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A Murcielago hung in my humidor probably a year. I just liked admiring it. Just yesterday, I got spammed by a store other than c.com hawking these at a cheap price, so I pulled it out to try it out.
Isn't it nice looking? 5 1/2 x 52 box pressed torpedo. Very dark wrapper. No sheen at all, Firm packed all along. Pungent San Andreas odor. Barnyard and cocoa in the foot. A couple of brown specks and a tiny nick.
This torpedo tip did not yield to my pocket knife at all well. I'm afraid I made a ragged mess. That never happens. The draw was remarkably free and easy. Promised great volume. Tasted of distant pepper hiding down a long hall of rich tobacco, spicy leather, and cocoa.
Lit up just like it tasted unlit. Great volume sure enough. Spicy and flavorful. Then, as you go along, it all turns creamy. The pepper melts, the chocolate comes up, and the spice turns sweet, just like the Fonseca Arana, a sweet tang. You could even smell toasted marshmallow. A real good cigar. Now and then, the flavor would turn a bit ashy, and when it did I'd realize I needed to put it down, cause I'd been hitting it too hard. A quick sip of tequila would wash it all away. Then soon after I picked it back up, I'd start hitting it too hard again. Dry retro. Tangy finish.
Not a bad cigar at the price. I might score a bundle.
Spicy stinkfinger. No wheeze. Morning mouth quite good with coffee.
ooooooo___ Rated seven sotweed seeds out of ten.
That's why, when grandpa's gardener Felipe gestured "Vamonos a batear los murcielagos" ("Let's bat bats"), it was enigma to me. Said at Spanish speed, bat sounds no way like it spells. But he had this twinkle in his eye, so I followed Felipe round back. We set up a ladder and a crate. I stood on the ladder, he on the crate; I with a broomstick, he with his machete, filed narrow as a saber. Dusk came on. All day, all round the house, Felipe had stuffed mud wherever the corrugated roof met the walls. Now, there was nowhere for bats to flee the attic except a dozen un-mudded corrugations, here below the eaves outside the kitchen. Soon they came streaming out. We batted a dozen down, but that was at most one for every hundred streaming out. Then the dog sniffed one, the bat fastened to his nose, and we had to hold the frantic dog down and pry the creature off. What a face like the Devil bats have!
At this point, we gave it up. Didn't want batted bats landing on our hats. Once the stream ceased, Felipe mudded up the remaining corrugations. The household's cistern was in that attic, so bat crap was unwelcome there.
I dunno. I don't have any clever hook linking this story to the Murcielago cigar. I just wanted to remember Felipe. Felipe had a peculiar odor I can smell now. Grandpa kept him on to mow the lawn. The lawn was citronella grass to repel skeeters. There were seven acres in all; about three in lawn in front. Grandpa would not tolerate the racket of a lawnmower, so Felipe wore away his days mowing three acres of citronella with a machete in an iron fist. That's how his machete came eventually to be filed narrow as a saber, and he came to have this peculiar odor, of citronella and peon sweat.
===========================
A Murcielago hung in my humidor probably a year. I just liked admiring it. Just yesterday, I got spammed by a store other than c.com hawking these at a cheap price, so I pulled it out to try it out.
Isn't it nice looking? 5 1/2 x 52 box pressed torpedo. Very dark wrapper. No sheen at all, Firm packed all along. Pungent San Andreas odor. Barnyard and cocoa in the foot. A couple of brown specks and a tiny nick.
This torpedo tip did not yield to my pocket knife at all well. I'm afraid I made a ragged mess. That never happens. The draw was remarkably free and easy. Promised great volume. Tasted of distant pepper hiding down a long hall of rich tobacco, spicy leather, and cocoa.
Lit up just like it tasted unlit. Great volume sure enough. Spicy and flavorful. Then, as you go along, it all turns creamy. The pepper melts, the chocolate comes up, and the spice turns sweet, just like the Fonseca Arana, a sweet tang. You could even smell toasted marshmallow. A real good cigar. Now and then, the flavor would turn a bit ashy, and when it did I'd realize I needed to put it down, cause I'd been hitting it too hard. A quick sip of tequila would wash it all away. Then soon after I picked it back up, I'd start hitting it too hard again. Dry retro. Tangy finish.
Not a bad cigar at the price. I might score a bundle.
Spicy stinkfinger. No wheeze. Morning mouth quite good with coffee.
ooooooo___ Rated seven sotweed seeds out of ten.
“It has been a source of great pain to me to have met with so many among [my] opponents who had not the liberality to distinguish between political and social opposition; who transferred at once to the person, the hatred they bore to his political opinions.” —Thomas Jefferson (1808)
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