Hubris, in Spanish

Hubris is one of those sophomore English terms we can't escape. It pops up all the time in literature, from Homer to Shakespeare, and in sports and politics, where the mightiest set themselves up for the greatest falls (How was that trip to Argentina, Gov. Sanford?). In recent times, even Wall Street has gotten in on the action, practically defining the term for our modern era.

In ancient Greece, where the idea originated, hubris set the tone for many a Greek tragedy. Check out Oedipus and his father-killing, mother marrying downfall. "Pride breeds the tyrant violent pride," laments the Chorus in Sophocles' "Oedipus the King." "Gorging, crammed to bursting with all that is overripe and rich with ruin." Or look at poor Icarus, whose wax-and-feather wings could not sustain his flight so close to the sun.

For the audience, there is a sort of sweet retribution to these endings, as if the prideful protagonist finally got his due. The problem with hubris is that it's easy to spot in others and hard as hell to identify in ourselves. As I recently learned.

Earlier in the year, I spent four weeks in Central America, ostensibly to learn Spanish but really to travel and eat cheap tortillas. I met a lot of people during my stay, and I'm now Facebook friends with a host of international hipsters. Some I remember — the young couple from New York there to score their first taste of hard drugs — and some I don't — the man with the Spanish name who sent me a message in Swedish. When one of these forgotten friends posts a message on my Facebook account, I respond with a nice reply (What can I say? I'm hard-wired for politeness).

"I wrote back, in Spanish, 'Yes, I love Italian cats.' To which my 'friend' replied, "Actually, I wasn't talking about the cat..." So, when I uploaded pictures from a summer trip to Italy and received several comments in Spanish, I had to write back. "Que linda foto," wrote one Facebook friend, "What a pretty picture." "Gracias!!" I replied, the two exclamation points for emphasis and because that's the extent of my Spanish.

For another picture, this one of me petting a stray cat in Rome, the same friend wrote, "Que gatito tan lindo, no?" ("What a pretty — something") This is where the hubris comes in. My Spanish isn't great, but I was confident I could figure out the new vocab. I know that "gato" means "cat" and the "-ito" ending means "little," so I assumed "gatito" must mean "little cat" (and assuming makes an ass out of you and — wait a minute). wrote back, in Spanish, "Yes, I love Italian cats." To which my "friend" replied, "Actually, I wasn't talking about the cat."

Not talking about the cat? Then what was this "gatito" business? At which point I Googled "gatito" — which I should have done in the first place. The Naughty by Nature rap song O.P.P. says it best. "The last P

. . well . .

that's not that simple. It's sorta like another way to call a cat a kitten. It's five little letters that are missin' here." Those five letters? Starts with P, ends with Y. I should have known better, but my pride got the best of me. And that's how you spell "hubris" in Spanish.