Chronicles of Falling Off the Map

the schlep is on

2007-09-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

Buenos Aires de mi corazón. It's been a few weeks on the road with surprisingly little looking back. I am missing my neighbor Margarita's empanadas. I am missing a place that feels like home and a bed that feels like mine. I miss my girls that made me feel I had a family wherever I landed. I am happy to be on the road again and feeling that every day is a new adventure. I am wondering when I will see the streets of Buenos Aires again and whether I'll see them again. I am reeling that my last sights of the city were from the back of a cab, lights on Corrientes ablaze, muddied with tears.

We are blogging over at the thebigschlep about some of the adventures of our overland journey from Buenos Aires to Santa Barbara so please go and read it. In the meantime this page will be mildly out of commission save for future reflections. Thanks one and all for visiting.

chacarita

2007-09-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

Interesting sights and sounds can still be found in unexplored corners of the city. This weekend we went on a search for tickets for the El Litoral train that will take us on Friday first to the middle of the campo, then to the swamps, then to the border - but most definitively out of Buenos Aires. After our big purchase, we finally visited Buenos Aires' other cemetery.

I am trying to enjoy even the most particular of tramites that keeps us tied to the city: waiting for medicinal laundry detergent to combat malaria, buying bus tickets, exploring the new Bolivian visa laws, and allowing dear friends to cook us asado and share laughs. Some things, more than others, will be missed.

todo se cambia

2007-08-31T14:12:00.000-07:00

Everything is in flux. Everything is changing. Gone is el jefe, his omnipresent camera clicking, his wild stories and matching gesticulation. Gone is my Gena and her outfits, perfume smell, and our Sex and the City lunchtimes. Gone is our little apartment in our little corner of Almagro. Never again will I have to play diplomat while simultaneously trying not to kick our landlord in the head. No more will Felipe the cat spring from his spot on the roof onto the dining table sending papers and cat hair flying around the room. No more mate y charla with my neighbor, Margarita.

It's just too much I feel sometimes. Packing, preparing to leave, making lists, tucking things into ziplock bags, and waking up every morning without tickets again and wondering what's next. It's all a bit strange and surreal. Like I'm saying goodbye to Buenos Aires over and over again without ever leaving and refusing to part properly with friends preferring instead to go with a hug, a kiss, and a "see you tomorrow".

Our plan to leave last week was foiled by an ATM card lost in Ushuaia. Thanks to the motherfuckers at Wells Fargo, we can't go anywhere until the card arrives. With any luck it should be here sometime soon and we should get on the road but, when?

I feel woosy. I have recently been vaccinated for Yellow Fever, Typhoid, and am waiting on a 3 months supply of Malaria medication (the stuff you take for weeks instead of the stuff that makes you hallucinate) and after a hurried chat with a holier-than-thou Travel Doctor who ended our discussion with "Don't swim in any lakes and rivers!!" have started wondering how anyone goes anywhere and makes it out alive and feeling like giving myself a gold star for actually making it to 27 without dying.

A new blog era has launched over at thebigschlep.wordpress.com which will keep interested parties as well as unfortunate web browsers updated on our overland schlep from Buenos Aires to Goleta. After a long day at the Paraguayan Consolute last Monday - our first stop already promises to be epic and if the amount of luggage in tow is any indication - it will certainly be a schlep. There is talk of Little Julie Nisbet coming to meet us for surfing in Nicaragua and Paul and I gently debate over dinner whether or not he should just "let me go" if I am the next kidnapped gringa in Colombia. If he comes home in December without me, you can guess the rest.

In the ultimate icing on the cake irony, we are passing our last days in the home of the inimitable Gena Mavuli who has kindly donated it to us now that we are homeless. We thank her from the bottom of our hearts for her generousness but reserve the right to be jealous of her Italian vacation coming on the heels of her Panamanian vacation. We live out the ticking hours in the one corner of town that we had tried to avoid for two years. Turns out the buses are awfully convenient from Gena's house, the pencil leg jeans and boots per capita is much higher, and the bullshitty, cheto restaurants are still overpriced. Who knew?

I am homesick, tired, sick from being made into a gringa traveler pin cushion, and itching to get on the road. Check out the dual blog... the Buenos Aires Adventure days are quickly coming to a close.

happy happy

2007-08-21T13:30:00.000-07:00

Today is the cumpleaños of my one and only chango.

it occurred to me

2007-08-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

that the email that I just wrote to my sister has a universal appeal and everyone should read it. It also occurred to me that although I am sad to be leaving Buenos Aires soon and not very good at handling change, that no matter where I go in two weeks - I just must get out of here. Enjoy.

jules -

i just had to leave my neighbor's birthday party because i sat down and her uncle said (in spanish) 'wow you've really gotten fat' and i said 'mmm hmmm' and someone said 'don't worry you'll lose all that weight in california' and then he said 'no but really, how much weight have you gained?' and i said 'i don't know' and someone else said 'no, he asked how much weight you've gained' and he said '7 kilos? 10 kilos?' and i said 'i know what he is asking and i said i don't know' and someone else said 'no but how much. you know, your belly (making big pregnant belly gesture)?? BELLY??' i said 'i know. i understand what you are asking. i still don't know. i don't own a scale' and then i left the room crying.

good times. i love argentina.

SERENITY NOW!!!!!!!

xo

esa mujer

2007-08-16T19:03:00.000-07:00

Esa mujer es una casa secreta.
En sus rincones, guarda voces y esconde fantasmas.
En las noches de invierno, humea.
Quien en ella entra, dicen, nunca más sale.
Yo atravieso el hondo foso que la rodea. En esa casa seré habitado.
En ella me espera el vino que me beberá.
Muy suavemente golpeo la puerta, y espero...

- por Eduardo Galeano

vistas últimas

2007-08-15T04:50:00.000-07:00

and now, which one is different and does not belong?

2007-08-10T12:42:00.000-07:00

¡Ay, amiguito... cómo te extraño! Sad but true as can be. Which one doesn't belong? I know it's tough...

rincones

2007-08-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

coming soon to home video...

2007-08-05T11:28:00.001-07:00

...is a better version than what you will find here. On the night of Paul's show, Greg kindly taped the whole thing with video and tripod. Until we get it transferred to a usable file format, my janky, hand-held, multi-section video will have to do. It's also terribly shaky (because I was laughing the entire time!) so many apologies. BUT it's better than nothing. So here are the videos (in order).

and a good time was had by all

2007-08-04T08:11:00.000-07:00

With lots of pomp and circumstance, Paul made his comedy debut last night to a wonderful crowd smattered with friends at El Bululú. It was a really lovely ambiance thanks to all the support of friends and friends of friends. Paul is now unofficially the 'funniest gringo in Buenos Aires'.

I want to say thanks so much to El Jefe, Greg Roden, for videotaping the event and his partner in all things photographic, Tommy, for taking some beautiful pictures. Luis for always schlepping us around in your cab and taking us to cool BA haunts. It was lovely, as always to see friends there: Luis, Susana, Greg, Tommy, Natalie, M.E., Ana Paula, Marisa, Gabo, Kirsten, Jason, Erica, Sergio, Pat, Isabel, Cyntia, Ana, Paulo (were you really there?!). Thanks for sharing a really fun night with us. Videos and photos to follow as soon as we overcome our technical difficulties.

are you being served?

2007-08-02T08:09:00.000-07:00

Winding down to take off time in Buenos Aires means a flurry of visiting new places as well as a rush to try to revisit all the old favorites. My continued non-smoking campaign is taking me on daily long walks to new and old corners of the Capital Federal, and mostly in search of food. Last weekend was a major stockpiling at Carlito's Tuesday was a stop in Barrio Chino for spicy fried noodles and soup, and yesterday it was a trip to Rocket Bar and Bistro downtown just a few blocks from the Casa Rivadavia, our first home in Buenos Aires where we found an old friend (pictured here) behind the bar.

For me, one of the most enjoyable thing about living in a city is finding the city secrets. In London where the mighty pound can slash through a credit card limit in the blink of an eye, I felt a huge sense of victory when I found an amazing hole-in-the-wall pasta take-out with dishes to die for at prices you wouldn't believe. Although the cuisine here in general is much cheaper and generally yummy, it's relatively unvaried and there is a beaten path of over-stuffed gringos wherever you go. When you find interesting, ethnic, spicy, or creative food here at reasonable prices that are accessible and tourist-free, you gotta jump on it. Why is it that when you leave a city, you miss the food the most? Usually when I think of home I think of family, Mexican food, and swimming in the ocean... in that order.

y ahora...

2007-08-01T15:17:00.001-07:00

A question of spelling... potatoe? potato? Whatever your problems in language, I assure you mine are still greater.

de acuerdo

2007-08-01T15:00:00.000-07:00

The headlines of today's newspapers around Argentina include a smattering of news of statements made by President Néstor Kirchner yesterday during his visit to Mexico. Sounds like the Argentine president made some bold and much-needed statements about the US plan to build a wall off the Mexican border. The whole story can be read by clicking here. Say what you want about Latin American policies, presidencies, and pundits but when they are right, they are right. Kirchner is saying what too many nations are not saying about the US's ridiculous and frivolous plan. I suppose it is more nauseating for me on the heels of an evening where I couldn't make it past the first 30 minutes of Sicko because sympathetic tears turned into a hysterical near-panic attack when faced with some of the atrocities being swept under the rug back home. The fact that my tax money is being spent to build a country-wide fence and not to ensure that our parents as well as ourselves will one day die peacefully in a bed is just... well, sick.

My mind is just reeling. These things are particularly indigestible when faced with the idea of finally having to go home and face them. The point is that, in this case, Kirchner is right. The wall is wrong. It is a hideous affront to the world and must not be tolerated. While Argentina has a long way to go in some respects, it's worlds ahead in others.

recuerdense

2007-07-31T10:46:00.001-07:00

starfuckers

2007-07-30T07:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, when I was cruising around town with my boss, he casually mentioned that Starbucks had finally signed a long awaited agreement to branch into South America. I was flabbergasted at best. I suppose all the gringos in South America, Buenos Aires in particular knew somewhere deep inside that it was only a matter of time before the day arrived. I guess the news just tore me up. Being on the cusp of heading out of here, I was hoping to miss the actual bomb dropping, but I've been struck by Starbucks shrapnel and now, no matter what I do, I can't stop thinking about it. For those with a particular interest and who missed the news when it arrived (as I did), you can read the release in a May issue of Clarín by clicking here.

I guess I don't know how to feel about it. I'm really torn in so many ways. In case you have too much time on your hands, let me tell you why...

- There was serious uproar when Starbucks hit hard in the beachside hamlet of Santa Barbara. There were actual protests (I don't think I need extrapolate on their effectiveness) and a dear friend of mine went so far as to pose for anti-Starbucks ads that ran weekly in the Santa Barbara Independent promoting a non-profit that formed to support local small business owners. I don't want to be anti-capitalist but Starbucks chose locations both out of budget to local coffee slangers and strategically close enough to Mom and Pop coffee to render all competition almost entirely obsolete in record time. Starbucks in Santa Barbara is a big, strong-arming, American bully that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

- When it all comes down to it... Starbucks isn't all bad. As a corporation Starbucks receives almost constant accolades for their well-above-the-norm employment standards. You can investigate more about this (my information comes from a source who spent years inside) but your typical college aged barrista struggling to pay the rent and take classes at City College makes well above minimum wage and is eligible for health benefits at about half the working hours of any other corporation. Anyone who has seen Michael Moore's latest Sicko, can agree that any American Corporation that's bending over backwards to provide healthcare to all its employees should be given a pat on the back.

- Lots of people here, porteños specifically, say that Starbucks just won't work in Latin America. Despite the ever-growing presence of McDonald's, Burger King (Which, by pure coincidence, I visited YESTERDAY for the first time since I arrived in Buenos Aires. So call me an American. I had visited McDonald's before on countless occasions to pee but that's it. I took this photo to prove it because I almost couldn't believe it myself!) and other corporate giants - which, incidentally, are NOT cheap here - the McIzation of Latin America seems to be somewhat curbed compared to say, Europe or most of developed cities in Asia. The Clarín article references the total failure of the Pizza Hut brand in Argentina. I can't really put my finger on why I believe Starbucks will take off here... I suppose I just do. I think it's difficult to build an American franchise of Americanized Italian food in a country of snooty eaters that think they're Italian, slap American prices on it, and expect people to dig it the most. Pizza Hut was doomed. But coffee is coffee. Coffee, for most, is as necessary as breathing and people will pay mildly inflated prices for it when the need arises and the solution is convenient (I stepped of a plane in Texas in December and paid about $6US for a soy latte... I kid you not). Coffee in Buenos Aires is good but not SO cheap that the market can't be competed for. Coffee in a cafe here means sitting down for a half an hour. I would put money on the idea that in less than one year, the financial district's caffeine source will have a new face. I hate to say it but I think the porteños are going to lose the battle on this one. Besides, argue as they will, the richest, most influential Argentine buyers secretly (and sometimes not-so-secretly) EAT UP American culture. I think they'll drink this aspect up too.

- Summer. Like I said, aside from the occasional pee emergency, I have almost entirely avoided American corporations here but if I had to live through another summer in Buenos Aires, I would LIVE at Starbucks. I could lie to you and say I wouldn't but there are several reasons I would and why half the population of this city would too. Starbucks is sure to be an air-conditioned haven when the heat index tops 110 in this sweltering inferno. It's hell, people, make no mistake. Last summer I trawled the streets in a pool of my own persperation looking for iced coffee to no avail. I spent mornings in cafes fanning myself with the newspaper and begging confused waiters in broken Spanish for coffee with a side of ice and a side of COLD milk. The waiters were, to say the least, flummoxed. It was around this time that if a frappachino had cost 50 pesos, well, fuck it I would have bought one and think most people would have done the same. It's the small convenience that will allow the big bully to win out every time.

So to sum it up I'm torn. I don't hate Starbucks like I should, I don't want it to take over Buenos Aires and when it inevitably does, I'll probably drink their fucking coffee like a little lamb. That's all I'm trying to say. Part of me is sad that I really think that this could change the face of this city. I suppose I'm glad I saw it during the McDonald's era and won't be around to watch it all unfold once and for all. Chaucito.

tarot

2007-07-29T15:28:00.000-07:00

From Miss Tango in her Eyes - Tango Goddess and soon-to-be-mamita-nueva! The little quiz is fun and the results are interesting. If you test your tarot, you should post your results in my comments.

You are The Sun

Happiness, Content, Joy.

The meanings for the Sun are fairly simple and consistent.

Young, healthy, new, fresh. The brain is working, things that were muddled come clear, everything falls into place, and everything seems to go your way.

The Sun is ruled by the Sun, of course. This is the light that comes after the long dark night, Apollo to the Moon's Diana. A positive card, it promises you your day in the sun. Glory, gain, triumph, pleasure, truth, success. As the moon symbolized inspiration from the unconscious, from dreams, this card symbolizes discoveries made fully consciousness and wide awake. You have an understanding and enjoyment of science and math, beautifully constructed music, carefully reasoned philosophy. It is a card of intellect, clarity of mind, and feelings of youthful energy.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

pompeya mía

2007-07-29T14:17:00.000-07:00

A quiet Sunday morning, cups of tea and yogurt. A phone call, a helping hand needed, a welcome distraction. A taxi to a new corner of town, a bird market, a man with papered fingers handling pigeons, tropical fish, a sad, poor neighborhood and people. A garbage heap, the stench of the Riachuelo, villa as far as the eye can see. A few photos mark the last corners of town left to map before the expedition moves forward.

¡ponele onda!

2007-07-28T12:48:00.000-07:00

About a month ago our friends Gabo and Marisa - two people that are too kind for their own good - somehow convinced Paul that he had what it takes to get up in front of a group of people and make them laugh. Despite my constant protest, insistence at his total blandness, and attempts to distract him from the task at hand by quitting smoking and constantly ordering that he run out for snacks, Paul has spent the last month compiling comedy material in preparation for his debut this Friday in the ¡Ponele Onda! show at El Bululú. The show is every Friday and features 4 or 5 up and coming local comics for short sets.

I invite all of our friends in Buenos Aires to witness Paul's comedy debut. Anyone who laughs gets a dollar...

Friday, August 3rd
10pm SHARP
El Bululú - Rivadavia 1350

Be there or be totally sin onda.

is canada so boring...

2007-07-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

that we have to result to this?! Below is a pretty hilarious video of the seriously bored Argentine under-20 soccor team that just won the title in Canada. Apparently Canada didn't offer them enough fun and they lost their minds in the hotel. The resulting video is barely scandalous, pretty funny, and has been viewed almost 50,000 times on YouTube.com as well as making headlines here at home. Someone's mamma's gonna get an angry phone call...

a muggle quitter

2007-07-17T12:36:00.000-07:00

God how I'm lumbering about this week. I promised I would stop smoking last Sunday, and once and for all. I kept my promise and four days later I am smoke free, an emotional ticking time bomb, professional speed eater, and driving everyone around me crazy. By everyone, I mean Paul who, thanks to my sometimes-severe deficiency in the friends department in Buenos Aires, is my almost entire support system these days and who has been faithfully putting up with my misdirected outbursts while coddling me with empanadas and Dairy Milk bars. I have taken the occasional walk, taught the occasional class, been swimming, shopping, eating, etc. and yet the headaches continue and so does the desire to make unnatural mouth-to-mouth contact with anyone having mouth-to-mouth contact with the Marlboro man. Not that I want pity. I do it to myself. I have one of those fateful 'addictive personalities' that people like to talk about. In my 27 short years I have been addicted to almost all possible substances both illicit and non-illicit and banishing them from my life one by one is getting harder not easier. Let's just say... I feel like a quitter. Now that there are no booze filled afternoons or cigarette and coffee mornings away from me - I wonder how addictive TV will actually become, or whether I will ever be able to cast-on well enough to be a professional knitter. To think I had so much potential as a child.

The tougher days still bring small pleasures. This week is officially Harry Potter week with the release of the 7th (and FINAL - boo!) book on Saturday (my preordered copy is waiting for me now - I can smell it) as well as the new film 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix'. To all Potter fans out there - muggles and mudbloods, deatheaters and Diggory-doters one and all, I share this week with you because I will likely be going underground on Saturday morning and not emerging until poor Harry's fate is decided once and for all.

feliz cumple, julie

2007-07-09T12:25:00.000-07:00

Happy Belated Blog Birthday to Jules, my sister, my partner in crime to whom I owe several nights sleep, a lifetime supply of Titas and empanadas, several apologies for silly arguments, a few 24 box sets, and a really big birthday cake next year when I am home and with whom I share an undying love of Zack Morris, a few physical traits that make people think we are twins, Network-TV-Slutism, half my heart, and my entire funny bone. I couldn't be more diffirent nor more exactly like both my sisters. I couldn't be more proud of them. I couldn't miss them more. Happy Old-Girl Birthday, Jules. I wish you happy barbequing in Goleta and fistfulls of Mary cake with a side of bad TV.

empty nest

2007-07-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

Parents have a way about them. Instead of just deplaning like regular folks, they seem to descend from heaven like angels of mercy wielding credit cards, good times, hot food, cashola, and priceless, kind words of advice.

There last few days with us here in Buenos Aires were spent in proper Nisbet style: nice leisurely walks along the banks of the Delta in neighboring Tigre, enjoying the sunset over the river from a boat-bus, gorging ourselves silly in our favorite Peruvian restaurant, Carlitos, during Peru's football games and cramming in as many last-minute empanadas as our poor bodies would hold.

Late last week I awoke cold and hungry, wondering if my mom and dad might be interested in a coffee and forgetting that I had put them on an airplane the night before back to California. Our house is empty again and visitors have temporarily stopped until later this month when we greet an old friend who returns to Argentina, little Laura Rivas, and Doctor Jenny Yusin who's visit might actually mark the final installment of the Buenos Aires adventure.

I am hungry. Hungry to finish my last Spanish class and have exams be behind me for once instead of looming ahead. I am hungry to be better: a better writer, editor, English teacher, helper, cook, wife and life partner. I am hungry to improve myself in every way and hungry to be on the road feeling I know every nook of every cobblestone of this city. I am hungry to visit Paraguay, revisit Bolivia, and step into Peru, Colombia, and strange coners of Central America. Most of all, I think I am hungry to go home. Though my family is continually littered in all corners of the globe from Michigan to Greece to the South Pacific back to the homestead in a little corner of Goleta, I am hungry to be home again though home may mean poor, jobless, homeless, and a whirling dirivsh of directionless.

As I write, dear friends, snow is falling in big, fluffy chunks onto our terrace in Almagro. My neighbors have taken to the streets with their digital cameras in vain attempts to record this historic day. The-little-heater-that-could is trying its very best to keep the living room above freezing and studying is, once again, being put off in favor of the Gilmore Girls.

patagonian prices

2007-06-22T14:54:00.000-07:00

- Flight to Bariloche to Bariloche, Argentina - $300US
- Proper waterproof gloves for scraping ice chunks from mud flap of rental car - $8US
- Hot chocolate and churros in 2 degrees C - $2US
- One night in the finest, homiest hotel in Argentina where you know the owner's son from Santa Barbara and stumbled into completely by accident - $50US
- Pair of boots when you realize that Converse just don't cut it in 8 feet of snow - $100US
- Bottle of the finest Argentine Malbec for end of the day chat - $4US
- Buy into the Nisbet Texas Hold 'Em Poker Game - $3US
- Wool and needles to appease Mary's knitting addiction - $8US
- Digital Camera for proper capturing of the little Mexican's first snow fall, snowball fight, snow meal, and blizzard - $200US
- Getting your rental car dug out of a snow drift by kind Argentine rescue workers after careening, slow-speed accident - Free!
- Post melt down dinner of fine Patagonian Lamb, Trout, pastas and other comfort foods - Who cares? We were post-meltdown at this point.
- View from the top of the Aerosilla at kilometer 17 of the Circuito Chico - Abso-fuckin-lutely Priceless

More photos and adventure stories coming soon. Back to harsh Buenos Aires reality on Wednesday. In the meantime I will be enjoying all the gorgeous ups and downs of our amazing Winter Wonderland adventure with Mary and Roger.

i heart julieta

2007-06-09T08:49:00.000-07:00

Last night I emerged from a divine mid-afternoon power nap, a week of semi-sick doldrums and insuportable cramps just in time to catch a cab over to Estadio Pepsi Music on Libertador and catch a glimpse of the beautiful, Mexican singer Julieta Venegas in concert in Buenos Aires. The concert, put simply, kicked ass. It wasn't as sweaty as Shakira at the giant Velez football stadium, it was less rowdy than the Beastie Boys down the street, and there were far fewer psychedelic trip outs than Creamfields on the Costanera. The concert hall turned out to be much smaller than expected giving it the kind of intimate feel that those lucky enough to catch her at the Majestic Ventura Theater just a few short months ago must have had. I think Paul enjoyed it too as Julieta dropped some Mexican-isms talking about amores gachos and singing a song about immigrating to the US of A from her querido México de que nunca me olvido. She was beautiful, sweet, hot hands on the accordion, and a general encantadora.

Her music is probably my favorite of all the Latin Music that I try to sing along to in the shower. She sings lovely lyrics with sweet, catchy melodies. Before we went to the concert I read another BA blogger's post about how music in Latin America in general has much more to do with lyrics than anyone else and at concerts you can easily find 80,000 people singing along word for word with their favorite artists. This was certainly true last night and Julieta seemed genuinely touched when the small crowd took over singing duties for her. I tried my best as a gringa to keep up. I recommend her music to anyone taking small, tentative steps into the world of music in Spanish. Her spins on the iPod have gotten me through many a difficult bus ride through Buenos Aires. Enjoy the video and here are the lyrics to my favorite song:

limón y sal

Tengo que confesar que a veces
no me gusta tu forma de ser
luego te me desapareces y no entiendo muy bien por qué
no dices nada romántico cuando llega el atardecer
te pones de un humor extraño con cada luna llena al mes.

Pero a a todo lo demás le gana lo bueno que me das
sólo tenerte cerca siento que vuelvo a empezar.

Yo te quiero con limón y sal, yo te quiero tal y como estás,
no hace falta cambiarte nada,
yo te quiero si vienes o si vas,
si subes y bajas y
no estás seguro de lo que sientes.

Tengo que confesarte ahora
nunca creí en la felicidad
a veces algo se le parece, pero
es pura casualidad.

Luego me vengo a encontrar con tus ojos y me dan algo más
solo tenerte cerca siento
que vuelvo a empezar.

Yo te quiero con limón y sal, yo te quiero tal y como estás,
no hace falta cambiarte nada,
yo te quiero si vienes o si vas,
si subes y bajas y
no estás seguro de lo que sientes.

Solo tenerte cerca
siento que vuelvo a empezar...

la tontita

2007-06-03T11:37:00.000-07:00

So after a brief hiatus, here is all the news fit to print here from Buenos Aires.

- It's cold here! Damn cold. It was 2 degrees here in the Capital on Monday and Tuesday last week and Argentines are dropping like flies. Every day the papers report people all over the country dying of cold for various reasons: lack of housing, carbon monoxide poisoning, heart failure, etc. The French woman who keeps coming to my Spanish class at the UBA contagious with fever and flu has made me sick for the second time this season so I am making a point of eating lots of soup and keeping our heaters rocking until this too passes.

- Today is election day here in Buenos Aires and around 2.5 million porteños will vote today to elect a new mayor. All pre-election polls are showing incumbent Telerman with his unfortunate bald head being ousted in favor of Macri, but only the next few days will tell as the quilombo which is the Argentine electoral process unfolds. In the meantime the election has provided political posters like the one pictured here with counter-political messages like topu, garca, and pontete pelo puto. Poor, bald Telerman seems to be taking the biggest swings.

- Last night the lovely Ana Paula, Paul's "work wife" threw a lovely party in honor of Paul leaving his job (take that however you wish). We spent a lovely evening in a beautiful area of Belgrano complete with designer stores, modern apartments, clean streets, wide green spaces, and general loveliness. Despite having no business in such a classy part of town, we had a great time nibbling cheese, empanadas, and cake washing it down with a selection of fine Argentine wines. Good times and giggles were shared by all and I think it's fair to say that part of Paul misses the 'Office Space' world. So far he's a total failure as a house-husband but hopefully even the monkey can learn eventually.

- I had a brand new 'Lost In Translation' moment that brought me to new heights of tonta last night. I was having a hard time keeping up, totally congested with a head full of snot and rapid fire Spanish conversation. Usually it's not a problem but combine fatigue, decongestants, and crankiness and you end up where I was - thoroughly lost. I finally tried to jump into the conversation with an easy topic: an Argentine friend inquired as to what, exactly, was a twinkie. I explained that they are sponge cake, cream filled, but totally disgusting because of the preservativos that they contain. Total silence. It was about 5 seconds before I realized I had committed a rookie mistake in a public setting. DOH! In Spanish preservatives are conservantes while preservativo is the Spanish word for condom. Lots of laughter (mostly from Paul) and one Scottish-level red face later, I tried to change the subject. Serious ego damage alert. Chalk it up to swollen glands.

- The longer I stay, the more homesick I get. I just heard that my dad had a nasty tumble down a flight of stairs. When I called home my sister, mum, and dad were hanging out together trying to make the best of it. I thought about Santa Barbara, how the summer must be closing in, about surfing, about going for walks with my sisters. The cold, dark, gray city makes me miss home. I think it might almost be time.

- A dear friend of mine is pregnant! Congratulations to Carla, her entire family, and her brand new bean! I need to start knitting again.

- That's all for now. I have sickness ADD and can't finish sentences, am way behind on my emails, and have procrastinated all weekend a simple work assignment. I can't wait until I can smell and taste again. Gagh! I am considering taking out a hit on the French woman in my class...

one shameless plug

2007-05-24T16:44:00.000-07:00

For those of you that just feel they are too darned busy and important to check out One Sorry Blog - get over it! Now is the time. Somehow my evil-genius Pablito has created a monster over at WordPress that just won't quit. It's really pretty incredible and I encourage those of you who haven't peeped, to check it out immediately. After a short couple of months at the helm, Paul has bribed, brow-beaten, cajoled, begged, borrowed, scammed, sweet-talked, and otherwise miraculously herded a team of super talented writers into creating a sort of online magazine that is ACTUALLY worth reading. Along with the New York Times Daily Headlines and Lost, it's about all that drives me to tune in these days with my rapidly increasing work and kitchen duties.

Paul has amazing rounded up an incredible cast of non-writers that are incredible writers (note to self: remove title of 'writer' from my resume) and experts one and all in their given fields. One Sorry Blog is a maze of cool, funny, insightful, silly, and interesting contributions about all your favorite subjects: movies, television, gambling, etc. Paul Carnivale has joined the cast as a music writer (and so far, a darn good one) and ideas are being developed in Paul's evil genius mind as we speak. 17 minutes ago, Paul officially finished his duties as a full time translator for Trusted Translations. While I'm excited that he will now be my full time house-husband instead, I am a little concerned that his duties will be neglected in lieu of pimping his blog day in and day out. The point is, the site is pretty great and getting greater by the minute...

tune in...and stay tuned.

smarty pants

2007-05-23T12:09:00.000-07:00

I need to give a major shout out to my friend Jenny Yusin (pictured here - picture ripped from her photo album) who just received her PhD from Emory University. Jenny graduated under particularly difficult circumstances, likely making her day even more bittersweet than it should have been. I just sit here, toiling away at my menial daily activities and work that seems menial now too in total awe of individuals who can commit themselves so gracefully to their studies - and moreover to the point that we all have to call them "doctor" afterwards. I am proud to know people like Jenny who fight uphill battles, are fiercely loyal friends, and still manage to quietly achieve greatness while it seems no one is looking. Congratulations, Jenny. I mean, Doctor Jenny. I cannot tell you how glad I am that she still watches Grey's Anatomy so that we can still interface on my lowly, earthly level. Never underestimate the power of the primetime love triangle to bring people together.

¡Que coman!

2007-05-21T12:44:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's the chilly winter weather, maybe it's the fact that I am working out regularly again, maybe it's the fact that my panza has grown to a panzota over the last year, maybe it's the blurbs I am writing about food over at One Sorry Blog, who knows what it is exactly? But I have food on the brain. Good, fresh, wholesome, nourishing, home cooked food on the brain. I sit here now with Mexican rice and Chipotle chicken (thanks, Bubba Ray) and love life, love winter, love delicious plates of hot food. So without further ado, here are some of my favorite people doing some of my favorite things. I wish you all good soups and stews this winter or good salads and smoothies if the sun is shining where you are. I have to remind myself to be thankful for one of life's most essential luxuries.

strange encounters of the buenos aires kind

2007-05-19T06:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening, after a very long day, Paul and I were strolling in front of the Abasto Mall (a giant shopping and cinema Mecca housed in the old Mercado Central). An Asian woman, well-dressed, heels blazing, slightly frenzied ran up to us shouting in broken English. Paul and I stop dead in our tracks. I think we were startled by the appearance of such fashion choices outside of Palermo Viejo and also someone of such elegance deigning to speak to us, schlepping around the city like two idling backpackers. The encounter unfolds, in English, making the whole the even stranger:

Woman: (shouting) Excuse me, excuse me! Where can I find more shopping. (Holds up shopping bags to emphasize meaning of the word shopping)

Paul: (Looks at Clare as if to say, 'Is she kidding?' then points at giant, unmissable landmark of Abasto Shopping Mall) Um, that's the biggest mall in town.

Woman: (frantically checking watch) It open until 10? 10?!

Clare: It's open late for the movies.

Woman: (Sound muffled by frantic heel clicking in direction of Abasto) Thank you!!

We walked away towards Carlitos totally baffled and still in search of Peruvian hot sauce. Very, very strange. Was the woman on an urban scavenger hunt? Did she have a 12 hour layover in Buenos Aires to max out her credit card? Had the throwers at Ezeiza carefully misplaced her baggage? What was the big consumerist emergency? We may never know. But I suppose when you need to shop, you really need to shop.

ya estuvo

2007-05-16T09:39:00.000-07:00

Time for a new post, and not just to save my little sister (our very own Network TV Slut) from further bouts of acid reflux from my Mother's Day post but because my finals are over at the UBA and I feel like blogging, chilling, eating oranges, and resting for a couple of days before classes start again (on Monday - shoot me now). This is the first time in a Spanish Exam that I felt I really kicked the ass of the oral exam and choked on the written test. Usually, it's the other way around and now I wonder what it all means.

In the meantime it's election hour here in Buenos Aires and the subte is filled with interesting, funny, and sometimes scary propaganda giving me a little more to look at during my daily commute to and from the UBA. Voting is obligatory here in BA and it always gives you pause as an American to wonder why shouldn't the most basic right of a citizen be a patriotic obligation? How different would the world be if the underrepresented minorities in the US including retirees and minorities were required to make their voice heard? How many lives could have been saved if our popular vote was inarguable? I hope more of us visit the polls next year - with the same passion and vigor that we use while frantically dialing to vote for our next American Idol.

Plus it's wintertime so I busted out my warm coat and have taken to making soup and drinking Emergen-C to stave off la gripa. Although these photos were taken in color, everything feels these days to be in black and white.

feliz día, mamá

2007-05-13T06:38:00.000-07:00

Today is Mother's Day in the USA so I wanted to give a shout out to the greatest mom in the world, Mary Nisbet. I know most people think their mom is pretty great but mine really, really is. For real. Today my mom, dad, and sister are going to climb a hill in Ojai, California and have dinner together to celebrate my mom's birthday and mother's day in one and it's only on rare days like these that I wish I was home. Without the support of both my parents, their voices at the end of the telephone, their kind and encouraging words, and their sense of adventure, I would not be able to continue running around whatever corners of the world tickle my fancy. On June 18th, my parents are coming to visit me for the second time in Buenos Aires and I just can't wait. Their last visit was busted up by a burst eardrum, canceled trip to Iguazu Falls, and domestic issues between Paul and I. So this year's trip will be different, filled with fun and healthy people, and the domestic bliss that Paul and I are enjoying.

In the meantime my blog has been lacking due to finals coming up this week. If anyone has insight into the uses of the presente subjuntivo, pretérito perfecto subjuntivo, imperfecto subjuntivo, pretérito pluscuamperfecto subjuntivo, and the like, I have until Tuesday to get it down. Today I am making cookies, empanadas, and things to make my mother proud to entertain asado guests - a beautiful Sunday tradition.

If you talk to your mom today - tell her you love her and Happy Mother's Day. If you're anything like me, her job ain't that easy.

dando vueltas

2007-05-05T18:37:00.000-07:00

After two cups of tea and an embarrassing attempt at Scrabble on my part, my boss called me yesterday morning. A serious no-no for a Saturday. The pobrecito recently rolled back into town (literally - wheeled off the plane) with a seriously messed up knee from an egregious kareoke incident in San Francisco. This crazy guy agreed to complete a whirlwind assignment for Rough Guides with a bum leg, 3 days to do it, and rainstorms on the forecast. Naturally, I obliged, using the excuse to catch up with the boss, get a load of his mojo with the ladies in Recoleta, spend a day as a professional photographer's assistant, and get serious advice on what to do with my new digital camera.

It was a seriously fun day schlepping from Las Violetas, one of my favorite hundred year old cafes in Almagro (with not a tourist in sight), to the El Ateneo Gran Splendid bookstore (which we agreed may be the most beautiful bookstore in the world), down to La Boca to check out kids playing soccor and check prices on galpón rentals. The nice thing about traveling around with a boss with a bum leg is that you travel in style, taxiing everywhere and cruising around at a pleasant pace. Even the heavy cloud cover didn't manage to stop Greg from getting some beautiful shots. I am pretty impressed at what a pro can come up with with just a camera, a few days, and a shoestring budget. Hopefully the rest of the world can check out the results in the new Rough Guide to Argentina. I love my new baby digital camera that fits in my pocket and rocks like a pro. This will keep me in photos until I wake up one morning with money for my digital SLR under my pillow. Happy Sunday, one and all.

todo mocoso

2007-05-01T12:36:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like fresh air and a gorgeous baby to lift up your spirits. Paul and I jumped on the overnight bus to Córdoba on Friday evening after work. We took the Tuesday holiday as an excuse for Paul to get Monday off and spend the weekend with our friends Conrado and Analía in the suburbs of the city. Conrado and Analía, two tried and true cordobeses, lived in Buenos Aires and were Paul's English students until the end of Analia's pregnancy last year when they decided that they could not raise a baby in the city of bronca and packed up and went back to Córdoba where they own a home, the weather is fine, and there is not a snooty porteño in sight. Fair enough. They now seem to be thriving in the domestic lifestyle by enjoying time with the gorgeous and happy Marco, playing with the cutest puppy in the world, Lola, and ridding the house of invading tarantulas. Though everything else was practically perfect in every way, the quick jaunt to the country provided me with a close encounter of the spider kind that I never, ever want to repeat and provided Conrado with the rare opportunity to comment, "¡Qué lindo bicho, che!" a phrase you just don't hear every day.

What a gorgeous weekend. Conrado and Analía were smashing hosts, whipping us through the towns in the Sierras, cooking us riverside asado to die for, allowing us to enjoy their amazing company, and sharing the cutest baby in the world. When Conrado finally broke down and asked Paul if his weekend with the baby had changed his (forcefully negative) mind about having kids of his own one day, Paul stopped, paused, considered the incredible feats of Conrado and Analía (themselves just a few years older than Paul and I, and finally explained his new, softened opinion on children and plan to adopt babies from around the world, raise them as bilingual, and sell them on the child slave market for generous profit. It's nice to know that the sun in Córdoba and the radiant smile of Marco didn't entirely melt Paul's stone-cold heart...

We are celebrating a lovely labor day in Buenos Aires. We have already been swept with rain, ate some tasty grilled cheese sandwiches, caught up on all the goings-on in our email and One Sorry Blog, and planning for the rest of what promises to be a busy week. I think part of our restless souls is really ready to leave Buenos Aires behind. I already can't wait until my parents come and we can get out of town together. Lucky for me I have fun work, classes, lunch dates, students, correspondence, and a house with a dismantled revolving door to look forward to for the first time in months. In the meantime, those of you with a serious penchant for cute babies can click here for more photos of the mocoso hermoso.

fun with film

2007-04-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

Jenny "la rata" Fickert and I seriously tried our best to have no photographic proof of our trip to Mendoza. I handily had my camera stolen two weeks ago (and am still feeling the burn) and Jenny neglected to pack her camera in the flurry to escape from the house in time to make the overnight bus trip. Our plans were foiled when we found a little store and decided to party like it was 1989 with two disposable crapbags. The results were some interestingly bad shots and some cute shots (see above) and everything in between.

My first trip to Mendoza, despite my lack of evidence, was pretty incredible. We soared over the city paragliding, visited some wineries by bicycle, ate some delicious delicacies in the city, I found two (count 'em TWO!) pairs of bargain shoes, ended up out of gas and half way to the Chilean border in our ludicrously cheap rental car while visiting every Argentine pueblito on a desperate search for Cachueta, and finally soaking it up in style at the hot springs when we finally made it. Jenny proved to be a kick-ass traveling buddy, did not let my plague get her down nor get her down when she caught it, and got her first US passport stamp.

I am trying to catch up on my blog, prepare my presentation for Spanish class tomorrow on why the US Health Care System is the worst in the world (how hard can it be?), test websites for Boulevards, bake cake for my 80 year old neighbors birthday, and pack to visit friends in Córdoba this weekend who have a new baby that I am told is un gordito hermoso. I am staying busy, trying to stay warm as the temperature has dropped about 20 degrees in the last two weeks, and trying to just enjoy everything as much as possible.

Sorry for the lag in blog. El jefe is allegedly blasting back onto the Buenos Aires scene on Tuesday morning with my brand new (not quite so fancy but equally functional) digital camera in tow. Hurrah! I am hoping that when I am able to capture the images again, the words will come with it. I will be back in the blogging spirit very soon.

best week ever

2007-04-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

I have officially neglected my blog for far too long. I will now, try to pitifully explain why. So to rip off my sister the network TV slut, in no particular order, and in true Nick Hornby style, here are the highlights of my week in Buenos Aires:

- Jenny "la rata" Fickert, of Santa Barbara Independent fame, arrives at Ezeiza International sans luggage. Read more about the power and prowess of the baggage handlers at Ezeiza here.

- Jenny proceeds to exit the customs area without filling out a claim for her baggage causing an unhelpful conversation with an angry porteña and having to coerce our way back inside by any means necessary.

- I take Jenny on the obligatory schlep through the Recoleta Cemetery and the feria at the Plaza Francia where a kindly pickpocket relieves me of my digital camera and some great photos. Can't even lose focus for ten seconds in this town when you have to pee...

- We take in a touristy but fun tango show to celebrate Heather Christensen's birthday at boogie down at Fugees 99.

- After a long night at the boliche, the phone rings at 9am on Saturday morning. A friend of a friend (who we hadn't even had the pleasure of meeting yet) has the expected South American dysentery. I spend Saturday morning in the hospital and buying soup and crackers for a poor, unwell soul.

- Heather and Taylor depart on Saturday evening. This time, Taylor leaves with two passports having obtained a second to replace the first (which he lost in the taxi from Ezeiza) just two hours after the first was returned. Sheesh. The Heather and Taylor whirlwind trip goes out with a bang.

- We barbeque most of Sunday afternoon and spend it with Leta, the friend of a friend, who is recovering well from her dysentery and I feel pretty crappy by the end of the meal and have to skip the cake (balls!).

- I wake up Monday morning with the plague (which I am sure is a free gift courtesy of the sick and needy at the German Hospital on Saturday morning). I haven't slept at all Sunday night because I can't breathe and my throat is almost closed up.

- I spend Monday morning in the hospital (again), the rest of Monday afternoon schlepping my corpse around town playing reluctant tour guide while trying to procure my medication from various pharmacies.

- Having procured half of my medication, I throw my prescription in the garbage and put it out in the street for collection (chalk this one up to the no-sleep factor).

- I find out that someone I care about very much has a broken heart. And I worry.

- Today I faced a very hard 2 hour Spanish class being that I have the plague and all. I still haven't done my homework.

- I bought bus tickets for Mendoza leaving Thursday night on a coche super cama, nothing but the best for the plague-ridden.

- I figure I'll be alright if I can get through 8 more days of visiting friends.

- I am broke, broke, broke. So broke it's a joke (just thought I'd throw that one in for good measure!)

- Digital camera donations accepted (see the above highlight).

Back soon...

leaving las vegas

2007-04-04T12:02:00.000-07:00

There is, as always, good news and bad news. The bad news for Las Vegas is that Justin Mabardi is heading out of town. After a serious stint whipping the Dragone show La Rêve into the greatest show on the strip, practically taking residence at my personal Mecca, Wynn Las Vegas, Justin is cashing in his chips and is going (going) back (back) to Cali (Cali). Serious bummer for you Las Vegas. At least Las Vegas is full of hookers, money, and big hair so the city will likely survive.

The good news? For all my faithful readers in California, Justin is continuing his relationship with the world of Dragone and going to work on the new show, Carmen, at the La Jolla playhouse. Click here to read the press release and learn more about the production. All theater lovers, Justin fans, surfers hitting San Diego, or those who should just do what I say (I think I have pretty much encapsulated everyone I know now) should all head down to San Diego and check out the show which will run June and July. Hurry, because Justin (and the show) are likely to be swept of to Broadway. Glimpses of this man are rare and precious in California. If Justin's past stage ventures are any indication, this show will be spectacular.

when good gringos go bad

2007-04-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

Heather and Taylor joined us in the middle of Friday morning's thunderstorm. I promptly spent a day tromping around the city in wet socks and shoes (which I am convinced is responsible for my fever chills and scratchy throat this morning) and feeling like I was in high school all over again. They have spent most of the weekend on the Sarah Howell tour of Buenos Aires and celebrating Sarah's birthday in proper worldly style - with food and friends.

Paul and I did our very best to entertain by whisking the group to Carlitos, a Peruvian restaurant in the heart of Almagro. We ordered up a Peruvian favorite, Papa a la Huancaina, and giant plates of rotisserie chicken, french fries, and fresh salads. We ate ourselves sick until our final dish arrived an hour after we ordered it, and an hour after we were assured that the waiter forgot about it.

I had to include the photo of what was left of the table after Taylor, Sarah, and Paul were finished with the beef noodle dish. This, my friends, is what happens when typically good, well-mannered gringos are confronted with piles and piles of delicious Peruvian delicacies.

vecinos, ruido y oscuridad

2007-03-28T12:57:00.000-07:00

This week already seems a bit nuts. It started out with a tormenta gigante that swept through the city on Sunday leaving us without electricity for a day and a half and living our Monday in the 19th century. For us, it was a relatively non-event. I spent the morning cleaning and re-cleaning all the floors of the water that had flooded in from the outside, then washing and re-washing the towels that I had used to clean the floors, then throwing out rotting food from the decorative refrigerator, using the outage as the perfect excuse to defrost our freezer that needs defrosted approximately every two weeks anyway. By early afternoon I was losing to myself at Solitaire, 75 pages into my novel En El Tiempo de Las Mariposas (the most I think I've ever read in Spanish), and wistfully imagining myself a modern day Emily Dickinson, writing by candlelight and composing future masterpieces.

Around 10pm the serious levels of bronca started to set in and the porteños became ornery as porteños are like to do. We thought it would be a perfect opportunity to visit our favorite Almagro restaurant, Carlitos, but we stepped into the street to quite a scene. The moment we stepped outside, we experienced a protest tactic that I had previously only read about in Bad Times in Buenos Aires by Miranda France. It started as a giant banging from a single balcony. It sounded like someone pounding a wooden spoon against a giant metal pot. It grew... to a fever pitch. We scurried away from the noise and on to the bus. 10 minutes later we were safe in the folds of our restaurants watching the bronca unfold on the televisions. All of our neighbors lined up in our usually quiet corner of South Almagro, banging pots, yelling, holding up traffic, and making mischief... all in the name of the government turning their lights back on. Fair enough the day without lights left most of the businesses in our neighborhood paralyzed for a day. In Buenos Aires, a day's earnings are no small potatoes. Ultimately, the neighbors did well taking their protest to the streets as deep into the night, the lights flared back up with a vengeance and now our fridge is running like a champ again.

Despite the ruckus, I dearly cherish our neighborhood and neighbors. The top photo is of our two next door neighbors Estella and her mother Margarita. They sleep Burt and Ernie style in beds 6 inches apart, are constantly force-feeding me empanadas, pickled eggplant, cakes, tartas, and mate (I blame them entirely for my weight-gain), and they call me linda and tell me I speak good Spanish. On this particular evening the stayed out watching tango until 5am (as all good porteños do) and I had to take a picture as Margarita is clearing wearing a wig (this hair came out of nowhere). The first photo is our precious Felipe, el vago, who jumps through our roof every morning like clockwork. He's quite spry for an old kitty.

I am deep into the dark forest of learning the past and conditional usage of the subjunctive. Level 5 Spanish at UBA generally just gives me a headache these days despite wonderful teachers and endlessly entertaining classmates. My favorite is the Brazilian girl who speaks Portuguese the entire time. I expect she is just hoping our professor was dropped on her head as a small child and won't notice. Bright and early on Friday, Heather and Taylor arrive for their whirlwind spin through the city. I am honing up my empanada and panqueque skills for their visit.

The news of the week is that Mary and Roger, my parents who drove me to write great literature (take that how you will), are braving Buenos Aires for a SECOND TIME and coming to visit in July. I feel very loved to have parents that will fly all the way to Latin America to see me. Maybe they are coming to see the glaciers, the penguins, or the falls, but I feel loved anyway. It makes me wonder, how far on the globe I would have to go for no one to follow me there? Is actually possible, in this day and age, to fall off the map? How lucky am I to have a family that will come and see me, no matter how far into the heart of darkness I go? I am, in so many ways, a lucky, lucky girl.

poker, picadas y los pinche porteños

2007-03-24T07:41:00.000-07:00

I was wondering if it would actually be possible to get all of my favorite things into a single post when my favorite night of the week returned to haunt me - poker night. Last night we were joined by the incomparable Gena Mavuli, her friend M.E., M.E.'s Bolivian boyfriend whose name (but not personality) escapes me, and their Brazilian friend Rodrigo.

Poker night is always good for fun. The evening moved beautifully from tasty picaditas and empanadas, to brownies and cookies, to far too much beer and wine. Conversation drifted from why Hold 'Em is the most jodido game of poker in the world (and naturally so since everything from Texas is jodido), to how great it is (this mostly came from those with giant stacks of chips), and around to a subject that we were all violently agreed on - that porteños are the most jodido people in the world. Lots of laughs were shared on this one. God bless porteños for being a constant source of amusement and entertainment in mixed company.

It was all going swimmingly until Gena stepped up and won all the chips like a rockstar. Even low stakes poker comes with a pinch and pocket jacks sting like a bee. For me, it was nice to see another female take the big prize after the men consumed too many beers but Gena will have to come back soon so that I might have my vengeance. When you don't have the cards, you don't have the cards...

Saturday morning beckons me back with thoughts of crosswords, Scrabble games, and bike rides. I will try not to shoot myself in the meantime while my two elderly neighbors are rocking out like teenagers to the dulcet sounds of Phil Collins. Mal estilo porteño knocks from all sides.

cómo te quiero, changuito

2007-03-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

So having suffered a week bout of general malaise and writer's block, I decided I would craft a meaningful post about my changito and being engaged and in love and all that bollocks - all in honor of our "fakaversary" which was yesterday. I crafted it thoroughly in my mind. It was a heartfelt post, funny but tender, touching all all the delicacies of finding someone to share your life with, however lame and Scrabble-filled your life may be.

Naturally, that little bastard beat me to it... again. His ode to our "healthy" relationship is posted today at One Sorry Blog. You gotta check it out. It's hilarious and better than anything I could say. It says it all, really.

I will say this. I do love the kid. I love that he doesn't let me win at Scrabble - ever (though I pretend to hate him for it). I love that he buys me the crossword on Sunday. I love that he makes fun of my "shows" then BEGS me to watch them. I love that he helps me make the bed sometimes. I love that he is almost entirely socially unacceptable. I love that he doesn't mind my panza gigante. I love that he lets me love him and he loves me back. I love having someone to scratch my back in the middle of this mosquito infestation.

The photo above is one of my favorites of us after a mosquito day in Colonia, Uruguay. Playing scrabble COVERED in lotion and trying, trying not to scratch.

stencilandia

2007-03-11T05:43:00.000-07:00

Another bike ride found us in the alley near the Plaza Lavalle where stencil artists go to town. Here is some more cool Buenos Aires stencil art for you and I have chosen the distinctly Argentinean stencils. I just worry about poor David and his hot mate kettle so close to his junk...

have a nice fall

2007-03-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

It's a perfect day. Perfect, perfect, perfect. I have spent a radical week. The summer is slowing blowing away. Sure, there will be a couple of days of pounding thunderstorms and blistering heat between now and winter in the predictable unpredictability of Buenos Aires but in general, these days are lovely.

Fall has fallen hard upon me. I have new ambitions, ideas, and projects. My first action was to going totally radical and join the local gym while trying to avoid the scores of tight, tanned-bodied porteñas staring at my pasty cottage cheese thighs and redeveloping my swim stroke to something akin to one-small-step-above-doggy-paddle. On Monday I am signing up for my next Spanish class at UBA and enrolling in DJ school. DJ Chuli on the 1's and 2's. Boo ya!

This morning the sun was shining and the breeze was a-blowin so I decided it was a fine time to take la banana out of retirement. Sure, on my long road from Almagro to San Telmo I was nearly killed by an ambulance (oh, the irony¡) and saw a man get stabbed (he's gonna pull through), but aside from a few typical city obstacles, I emerged unscathed. My poor bike is teetering on the brink of failure but if the city's delivery men are any proof, a janky bike is better than no bike at all. I hope the weather keeps up so I can keep on cruising.

They say that Buenos Aires is not a bike friendly city but I have to disagree. It's not a even a pedestrian friendly city and really, if you are brave enough to leave the house at all, you are throwing the dice. This may be the only place in the world where a Hummer would be justified. But the skies are blue so it's time to sack up and hit the streets. Grab your mate, head to the plaza, and enjoy it while you can.

the one and only

2007-03-07T17:00:00.000-08:00

This photo was ripped and I hope they don't mind that I use it. Heather (on the left) playing city girl with her sister Alice (who needs no introduction). Gorgeous beings are all around.

Heather Christensen really is the one and only. I met Heather in high school, took one look at her, and decided that I was in love. She radiates buena onda, is trustworthy, creative, exciting, fun, endlessly inspiring, and just divine. Thanks to the unbreakable bond between her sister and mine, Heather and I are linked forever, whether she likes it or not.

A few weeks ago, Heather dropped the joy bomb that she and her partner in crime, Taylor, are coming to visit Buenos Aires. I could never prepare for Heather. She generally sweeps in, makes everything better, stays for too short a time, and jets of to the next adventure in life. I can't wait to see her again after (gasp. really?) years.

Before Heather arrives, she will be DEEP in the throws of her new project. I understand that she is curating her first exhibition at The Guggenheim in New York City. It's called Neither Here Nor Now and you can visit www.neitherherenornow.cow for more information.

I ask all readers to please check out the magic that is Heather, and that if you are in NYC that you stop by between March 16th and April 28th to see what she has creative. It's beautiful, full of light and energy and worth all of our time.

An excerpt from the press release:
Neither Here Nor Now: Transformations in Time, Space and Perspective features 16 prominent works by seven emerging New York artists. In this diverse show of painting, drawing, video and site-specific installation each artist explores transition, movement or an alternate reality. Presented by the Ise Cultural Foundation and curated by Heather Christensen, Neither Here Nor Now reflects issues of identity and transformation that are especially relevant to New York lifestyle: Who am I? What will I become?

We could all use a little more art in our lives. Well-curated art? Even better. Like Welsh Rarebit or toasted marshmallows. So yummy! I am so sorry to miss it, Heather. I am counting on more when I shuffle back to the USA. So... if you are in New York, are from New York, once met a guy from New York, have a second cousin in New York, keep a vacation home in New York, etc., then check it out and email all appropriate parties to check it out...and brush shoulders with greatness.

Empanaditas

2007-03-05T10:09:00.000-08:00

My one and only, Paul Rivas, has started a blog just to bite me! After a year of various blog jokes, he has thrown in the towel and decided to see for himself what all the fuss is about. Like I told him, he'll be on MySpace in no time. Check him out at One Sorry Blog - great domain, and not just a clever name. It is indeed, pretty sorry.

The thing that will make his blog work better than mine ever has or ever will is his total dedication to sloth. Within 24 hours of setting up his own blog, he realized he could never maintain it on his own and has since recruited all sorts of weirdos to contribute on a regular basis. The result will be a sort of e-zine on a variety of topics. I decided to help him out and write a gringa's guide to cooking for him. You can check out my first rant about the wonder that is the empanada by clicking this link.

I hope you continue to check out One Sorry Blog, as well as mine which doesn't have as much going for it, or a cool name but is written with love. And I hope people reading sack up and leave more comments! Tell me how much I suck - I need to hear it once in a while.

On the 'A'

2007-03-01T14:36:00.000-08:00

And after four months of nearly relentless heat hell... a rainy day. Our groovy new Almagro digs have shifty roofs giving the feeling of torrential downpour right in our little living room. I passed a lovely afternoon splashing through puddles, wearing a long sleeved shirt for the first time since California at Christmas time and riding the bus.

I wonder now, is there anything cooler than public transportation in a big city? I like nothing more in Buenos Aires than riding the bus. I often look forward to the 30 minute trip between Almagro and my boss's house in San Telmo. It's so sweet to cruise in, turn up 'Born Slippery' on my iPod, and half space out, half people watch. My mind drifts and I start mentally reciting John Hodge's diatribe for Mark "Rent Boy" Renton in Trainspotting:

"So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change, I'm going to change. This is the last of this sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you: the job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die."

It makes me feel alive, younger, and oh-so-Scottish again. Maybe because my first experience with public transportation was as a young girl in Glasgow where our grandma used to take my sisters and I on the bus, any bus, to anywhere just to shut us up for a while. She rarely had any idea where we were going (since she was from Dundee) and we often ended up lost, an hour out of the city, and needing a lift from one of my poor parents. But the bus, the underground (in Glasgow known as 'The Clockwork Orange'), those were distractions, endless distractions. Riding the tube in London, reading the graffiti, trying not to get mugged or followed home or my ass grabbed - those are moments of total aliveness that you just don't get unless you really enjoy the ride. Commuting is suddenly fun again, precious even.

Inarguably the coolest ride in Buenos Aires is the Subte Line A which runs from downtown at the Plaza de Mayo to Primera Junta in Chacarita to the west. This is the oldest line in town and has these antique wooden cars that feel as though they could splinter to pieces and doors that precariously open and close both manually and spontaneously. The front and back cars also have giant windows allowing you to see out ahead (not just to the tunnel walls to the side) or back or make like Dumb and Dumber and feel like you are running at lightening speed.

Shane Amaya wins the 'Fly Friend of the Day' award today. When he was in Buenos Aires he had the wits about him to record a video of his ride down the Linea A. Through the miracle of modern technology, YouTube.com, and Shane Amaya's work-arounds as well as my new and constant desire to upload videos to my blog - it is here for you today.

Turn up the electronica and take a ride...

no importa

2007-02-26T07:47:00.000-08:00

Sundays are often occupied in this house with crosswords, Sudoku, and the weekend supplement of the Página 12. This weekend the Radar featured this T-shirt. Gotta get me one of these bad boys (donations accepted!).

my god, the heat

2007-02-26T07:16:00.000-08:00

The silence in our household is deafening. This morning I woke, not to the dulcet tones of Bubba's snoring, but to the hum of the fans keeping the hot air circulating through our bedroom. There were no dirty dishes to be found in the sink. No one was in the bathroom for an hour forcing a near-pants-wetting incident. Everything was tranquilo. Again.

Last week Bubba left for an epic month-long adventure in Bolivia via the Argentina northwest. We haven't heard from him since he left. Maybe he has been kidnapped by gaucho bandits. Maybe he fell asleep on a bus cama and ended up in Chile. Maybe he is having a great time and is too busy to keep us abreast of his plans.

The artist formerly known as Shane Amaya is also gone. We tried to give him a proper send off with 9 de Oro Agridulce cookies and a hell ride on the 1.5 hour bus ride through the ghetto to the airport but apparently he made it through unscathed.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of heat-stroke at the mercury continued to rise hellishly until it broke into thunder and lightning last night. Scottish girls are not made for this, to be sure. I spent the weekend sweating into my chair, waking from delirious naps with my hair stuck to my head, and unable to eat due to the heat. Me? Not eating? Yes, folks, something is seriously, SERIOUSLY amiss here.

I am trying to enjoy the empty house by rearranging furniture like a champ, keeping the bathroom neat and tidy. Visitors will flock in again in the delightful form of my friend Heather and her partner in crime, Taylor (who I am yet to meet), at the end of March followed immediately by Jenny 'Hyphen' Fickert who clearly needs a serious vacation from The Independent. Maybe by then, Paul and I will be sick enough of each other again to welcome more visitors.

The unrelenting Buenos Aires heat always brings weird moments. Last week I went to lunch with my friend Hilary from UBA and her daughter Antonia - both champions of great company. We ate some killer empanadas at local favorite El Sanjuanino and took a little stroll through Recoleta near the famous cemetery - the top tourist draw in town. Towards the end of last year, the city randomly scattered some giant recycling bins throughout the city and as we wandered through the most upscale neighborhood in town, we passed one so full of glass it was spewing out the bottom, smelly meat sizzling around the outside, and decorated with graffiti. She told me to take a photo, so I did. "That is the kind of photo I like," she said. "What Buenos Aires is really about." Recycling bins throughout the city a good intention with no execution left to rot on the summer sidewalk along side the dogshit and garbage. Hilary - here is your photo.

el pingüino

2007-02-20T07:28:00.000-08:00

So I guess it just takes one visit to Punto Tombo to become totally obsessed with penguins. This comes courtesy of Sarah Howell who just returned from Antarctica and is on her way back to Santa Barbara for a short visit. ¡Vaya con Dios, Sarita! Hope you have a great trip and thanks for leaving this behind for my giggling pleasure.

carnaval

2007-02-19T07:25:00.000-08:00

An escape from the heat and the chaos in the city came in the form of Carnaval in Gualeguachú, a small Argentinean town in the province of Entre Rios that comes alive once a year for the celebration. Shane and I had previously made all sorts of hypothetical plans for going to Brazil for Carnival but one by one, they all fell apart, as did our bank accounts, as all great plans do. One of Paul's former workmates was dancing in the Argentine, bastard stepchild version of the celebration so we figured it would be a pretty good substitute. In Gualeguachú we met up with several of Paul's colleagues who were kind enough to secure us camping space.

Leaving bright and early on Saturday morning, we arrived at the campground which was a hellava scene. Tents everywhere, young, drunk, half-naked porteños covering every square inch of space, trash as far as the eye could see, and music pumping all around from personal stereos to pimped out car stereo systems requiring earplug action. I suddenly felt like I was at a Latin version of Coachella or that I was in Acapulco for spring break 5 years too late. I felt very old and very tired. We passed Saturday afternoon drinking mate on the beach, beer on the patio of the Costa Azul restaurant, and watching the madness unfold.

The main event was from 10pm-2am and was larger than expected. A giant arena filled with visitors from all over the world as giant floats, elaborated costumed dancers, and a bad carnaval song playing on a loop cruised down to entertain the masses. I have spent the last 3 months just generally being in a state of way too hot. I sweat on the subte, hide in the house during unnaturally warm hours, and wake up drenched with trouble breathing from the stickiness. I spent most of the day Friday carefully choosing my smallest, most heat-friendly clothes for hanging out by the river.

When a storm rolled in on Friday and the wind picked up on Saturday, I found myself standing on the bleachers at a giant Carnaval event chilled to the bone, teeth chattering, and without a sweater. My body was in serious shock from the sudden drop in temperature and try as I might to make a Paul-Shane sandwich, drink hot coffee, and warm my numb hands on the fire of the crackling parilla, I didn't warm up. No one else had as much trouble as me but to be fair everyone else was assisted by quickened, drunken heartbeats. Instead I became the sober party pooper and left the celebration early to seek refuge in my tent. Turns out it didn't really help as I was up until 5am shivering and chattering without a sleeping bag and cold as fuck. I am not sure what happened to the rest of the group that night. I know that after the Carnaval, they went to a nightclub until about 6am and that there were strobe lights and transvestites involved. The rest is a mystery and should probably stay that way.

Sunday the weather was back to its normal hellish ways and now I sit, back in Buenos Aires, slightly sunburned from a Sunday outdoors by the river, and just a bit miffed that the weather went feo only long enough to ruin my Carnaval and then back to its old self. My own fault really. Next time I will pack more appropriately and drink WAY more Fernet and Cokes.

el mundo se ha vuelto loco

2007-02-15T07:38:00.000-08:00

p

Tonight we will have an asado with the esteemed Naza, his lovely girlfriend, and their adorable pitbull, Dayak to mark the near-end of Shane’s epic tattooing ordeal. I have to buy a bunch of produce so I am examining my supermarket options and as I do, I always wonder what awaits me as I step out of my front door on to the city streets.

I have begun collected big city anecdotes. Every day in Buenos Aires, I discover a moment of such immense weirdness that I have to put it in my mental savings account. The other day as I was walking home from my boss’s house, I saw a disabled midget banging on the hood of a car in pleno Avenida Independencia and cursing holy hell because an unsuspecting driver nearly killed him as he sped his motorized wheelchair about 20 miles an hour against traffic in the bike lane. Just not the kind of scene you witness every day in Santa Barbara. Then there was the time that Shane and I walked past a man in a lab coat with a folding card table strewn with medical instruments leaned up against a magazine stand and sitting…just sitting. I guess the doctor is in. Of course there is always my favorite, Calle Lavalle and the old man who plays high-pitched, barely-audible, out of tune recorder jams in a dirty grey suit and inexplicable white-powdered face.

Strangeness unravels all around me and continues to every day. Though in this kind of heat and no respite from the humidity… we all go a little crazy sometimes.

me da bronca

2007-02-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

Maria France writes in Bad Times in Buenos Aires, “That morning I had nipped out to buy a pair [of tights], not yet having learned that in Argentina nothing could be nipped our for; even fast food was slow. I had ended up in a special hosiery boutique looking on as a beautiful and disdainful woman produced individual pairs of tights in different shades and deniers from tiny drawers. The tights were expensive and they were already leg-shaped, which I found a fascinating novelty, but when I got my pair out of the packet at home, the exuded a forceful scent of Parma violets. There was nothing to be done about it now; I resigned myself to an evening spent apologizing for my legs.”

How true it is. I spent the good part of a year feeling like an American consumerist slut longing for my bygone days whipping through the SuperTarget in Oxnard buying everything I needed under one roof and throwing countless more items in my cart for good measure. What’s an extra $50 in crap you don’t need when you get everything you do need simultaneously?

It’s true that nothing in Buenos Aires can be nipped out for. Invariably, if you live in Buenos Aires there is a chino, or Chinese owned grocery store, down the block for emergencies, but you can’t shop there for everything you need and they give you candy instead of change because of the ever-mythical moneda crisis. The big supermarket is usually 10 blocks away. The big supermarket is where you can find all your groceries and they have groovy names like Disco, Eki, Coto, and Norte which give a false sense of shopping time fun. Going to the supermarket in Buenos Aires generally takes no less than 2 hours and you can get everything there provided they still have bread, milk, and other items that are constantly missing from the shelves for a plethora of vague reasons. Invariably there is one person in line in front of you with a cart full of meat. I have never figured out who these people are feeding. Are they buying a thousand pesos worth of meat for a restaurant? Are they raising lions and tigers in their backyard? It’s still a mystery but the one person in line in front of me adds one hour to my supermarket experience every week. Then I have to wait while the only-one-step-from-comatose-sleep checker wipes the conveyer belt with a bloody rag where the meat juice has been running everywhere. Tasty. Yup, really get my apples right in the blood. Nice.

BA does have its version of the SuperTarget in the form of the Jumbo and French-owned Carrefour – two stores where you can get everything from peanut butter to canned jalapeños. These are generally miles away and require a half day-long investment in you precious city time. Chinatown has everything exotic too but most people don’t live anywhere near there.

There are other options. The best bread comes from the bakery and the tastiest fruit comes from the bolivianos faithfully littered around the city every couple of blocks. The best meat comes from the butcher shop and… so on. Combine this with the chino and you almost have everything you need for good eating in Argentina. Now, however, you have at least 4 stores on your list and another several hours invested. Make no mistake, the meat is the best in the world.

I just try to use this as explanation for why my blog goes neglected for long periods of time, why I generally haven’t spoken to my family for weeks at a time, why I am always behind in my workload, and why the women of Wysteria Lane have no idea what desperate really means. Call me on my cell phone. I have hours free everyday in the line at the super.

my boys

2007-02-04T08:57:00.000-08:00

If I don't break the seal now with the old blog it will just die quietly. So here it is. Life changes so fast. I find myself back in Buenos Aires after a divine 3 weeks in Santa Barbara and suddenly living with 3 boys for the first time since my "Real World: London" experience in 2001. Paul, Bubba, and I moved up to our new hood - Almagro - the same day we left for California. The new pad boasts an outdoor parilla, 2 bedrooms with doors (huzzah!) to shut out snoring housemates, and a kitchen that is not conducive to banging your head against the microwave 3 times a day. We do miss the Casa Rivadavia and our neighbors but are very happy with the new digs. Visitors welcome.

The 3 of us are now joined by the one and only Shane Amaya who came under the pretense of visiting us but who is really here to get a giant tribal tattoo on his back from the inimitable, world class tattoo artist Naza. Naza turns out not only to be a great artist but a pretty kick ass guy to boot. Check out his website but being fly like Naza don't come cheap as you can see from the photos of Shane there is some "fucking uncommon pain" involved.

Shane's visit has provided all kinds of insight into the world of tattoo that I have never experienced. He is a kickass addition to our household and the Fours-Company crew have been dodging the hundred-and-something heat by sleeping until the afternoon, making hella barbeques, and playing dominoes and poker. Yes, as the resident female I get a little picked on but not to worry ladies - I have taken them for the poker pot 2 nights in a row. No one bluffs quite like a girl. More updates to come. The seal is broken.

return of the mack

2006-12-04T08:32:00.001-08:00

GO GAUCHOS!

i blog therefore i am...

2006-11-20T11:43:00.000-08:00

So I am new to a lot of things: empanadas, speaking spanish, blogging to name a few. Apparently blogging is this powerful new media outlet. This weekend, through word of mouth alone, hundereds gathered in front of the planetarium in Buenos Aires for a giant pillow fight which was the result of an idea in San Francisco and some serious blogging by some serious bloggers with some serious blog clout. This level of blogging is unknown to me and, though I didn't attend the pillow war, because I have the spring sickness, the photo in the Buenos Aires Herald the next day made it look like fun. It was an impressive display of the power of the blog.

The next day I am catching up on the Independent and reading their interview with John Stewart who says...

Listen, everything is judged on its own merits. Some blogs earn credibility, some blogs become known for being a resting shop for Photoshop and paranoid theories. It’s like anything else: if you put it out in the public, it gets vetted and that’s the vetting process. Also, there are definitely places where people go to find their own points of view reinforced. Blogs makes that easier. But in the larger perspective, that comes to the fore ultimately as well.

And that night I watch an episode of CSI about blogging and flash mobs. I am learning all the time.

Needless to say I suddenly feel very old, out of touch, and drawn to run out and buy a Blackberry. I barely know how to turn on my iPod. I take comfort in having reformatted my MySpace page without blowing up my computer.

tipping the scales

2006-11-08T11:24:00.000-08:00

Oh, California. I hear your call. Here I am, buckling down in Buenos Aires, preparing all my resistence for the 6 months of sweltering heat that I will have to endure as punishment for not being a big fan of my adopted country and government. Then suddenly, like peeling bells of joy, comes the news that Donald Rumsfeld was either given, or snatched his own walking papers. ¿Qué importa? Está caminando. And the dems are coming out strong like nothing ever happened. Was it all a bad dream? Have I been taking crazy pills for the last five years?

Had I known the American public had been eating their Wheaties for breakfast, maybe I wouldn't have committed to move to a killer new apartment and hunker down here for much longer. This news is thrilling, though not quite enough to send me running back to the US. Yet.

Why? It seems that the part of the US that still interests me most, Santa Barbara, despite knowing where it's political bread is buttered, is still as NUTSO as ever. And speaking of crazy pills, you'd think someone with Wendy McCaw's money would have someone on hand to stop her from making stupid, illegal decisions. No such luck. Apparently the NewsPress isn't happy with just taking a giant shit. They gotta get right in there and play with it too.

(Insert giant sigh here) This really is just getting silly.

I attach below the link to Melinda Burns' petition. Read, sign, CANCEL YOUR SUBSCRIPTIONS, and watch more BBC. In that order.

Petition to Reinstate Melinda Burns

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

To: All Media
From: The organized at SBNP

Today, the GCC-IBT filed an unfair labor practice charge with the National
Labor Relations Board in Los Angeles against the News- Press, challenging
the paper's retaliatory and unlawful discharge of Ms. Melinda Burns. Her
firing is perhaps the most extreme example to date of the continuing
campaign by the News-Press management to discourage and frustrate the
collective voice of its newsroom staff, so eloquently and clearly expressed
a month ago.

In a perverse if futile move intended to strike fear into its own newsroom,
the Santa Barbara News-Press late Friday fired Senior Writer Melinda Burns,
one of its most experienced, skilled and dedicated reporters in retaliation
for her prominence in the union campaign leading to an election victory on
September 27.

This latest example of vindictive and lawless labor relations at the
News-Press shows shocking disrespect for Burns's following and her sparkling
reputation in the Santa Barbara community, and for the sweat equity she has
earned over more than two decades of reporting.

It is transparently obvious that Ms. Burns was fired because of her
prominent public role - well-known to News-Press upper management - in
introducing the newsrooom staff to the Graphics Communications Conference of
the International Brotherhood of Teamsters (GCC-IBT) and then helping to
lead the campaign for union representation to an overwhelming victory, 33-6,
on September 27.

Ms. Burns, a graduate of Harvard University and USC, has been with the
News-Press for 21 years. During that time, she has won numerous prestigious
awards for her in-depth coverage of farmworkers, immigration, science and
the environment. Most recently, Ms. Burns took first place in the Best of
the West contest for immigration and minority affairs reporting, in
competition against newspapers of all sizes in 13 states.

In a May, 2005, article in the News-Press proudly reporting on her
achievement, her editor said, "Melinda's work demonstrates our commitment to
provide excellent local coverage that mirrors all of our county's
communities." In 2004, Ms. Burns was awarded a "Pinnacle of Excellence "
National Science Journalism Award by the American Association for the
Advancement of Science. In 2002, she received a Special Journalism Award
from the Santa Barbara League of Women Voters, honoring her for in-depth
reporting and high journalistic standards.

Over the years, Ms. Burns has obtained more than $30,000 in private and
state grants to carry out various investigative projects for the News-Press.
Most recently, she directed the "New Okies" photography exhibit that was on
view for eight months this year in Santa Barbara County, documenting the
plight of the Mixtec strawberry pickers in Santa Maria.

In filing an unfair labor practice charge today on behalf of Ms. Burns, the
GCC-IBT requests that the NLRB seek her reinstatement with full back pay and
promptly investigate and prosecute the News-Press for this latest violation
and the string of others that preceded it. In addition, the union asks the
Board to seek injunctive relief in the federal district court to compel the
News-Press to do what it disingenuously says in its press releases it will
do (but in reality does the opposite): that is, cooperate with the NLRB,
honor that agency's and this nation's labor laws and heed the
emphatically-declared mandate of its employees who wish to collectively
bargain with their employer for a fair employment contract.

even gauchitos get the blues

2006-11-06T08:11:00.000-08:00

Since Paul is working on a story about gauchos for a certain, beloved small town rag we took off this weekend for the Día de la tradicción just 90 minutes north of Buenos Aires in sleepy San Antonio de Areco. We had a great day on Saturday sucking rare meat off the bones of freshly killed cow, watching the rodeo style events, and getting a better idea of modern gaucho culture and how it differs from the days of Martín Fierro.

Here are some timeless gaucho images to hold you over until there is more to read but I am sure Paul is working hard on all the sumptuous details as I type. We all need to get a little gaucho sometimes.

santa teresa

2006-10-30T12:14:00.000-08:00

After one month of not seeing her, we finally found out that our friend Tere, the woman who cleans our house, is very, very ill. While we are unsure of some of the details, we do know that Tere is now at home recovering after some time in the hospital and several blood transfusions. We also understand that she will be in need of a bone marrow transplant in the near future.

To this end I am writing an appeal to my friends in Buenos Aires to give blood on Teresa’s behalf to help her with the transfusions, and other people in need. It’s free, it’s easy, and giving blood saves lives. Teresa is a lovely, hard-working Peruvian woman that we care about and we hope that you can help and forward the link to this blog to anyone and everyone that you know in the city.

Here are the details on giving blood:

The clinic is located in Belgrano at Ciudad de la Paz 810 (2 blocks from Subte Olleros). The clinic is open from 8am-noon on weekdays for donations. Should you choose to donate blood, you should take photo identification. If you would like to donate blood on Teresa’s behalf you should give them her name (Maria Teresa Rojas) and tell them that she was treated at Virrreyes Clinic.

Before giving blood you should be well hydrated and feel in good heath. Do not smoke or drink alcohol one hour before donating. Do not eat before going (in the morning) or ingest any liquids with fat (i.e. milk). It is super easy – get up, drink coffee without milk, cruise to the clinic, donate blood, and chow down some mediaslunas afterwards! The clinic is clean and professional, and the staff is nice and patient.

Things to know are that you can’t give blood if you have had piercings, acupuncture, or tattoos with one year. You can’t give blood if you use or have used any illegal drugs. You can’t give blood if you have had unprotected sex or sex with prostitutes. You can’t give blood if you have HIV or Hepatitis or sex with infected parties. After donation, your blood is tested for syphilis, hepatitis, HIV, etc and you will be notified of any positive test results so if you get an annual blood test you can do it while donating. Having traveled does not seem to affect giving blood. Yes, you get asked a lot of questions but service is fast and it should not take more than 1-2 hours of your life to save someone else’s.

If you have any questions – you can call the clinic 4666-9898.

Please help Teresa and others who need blood transfusions if you can. Your blood saves lives. Forward this link like wildfire and let’s start the revolution, people!

why you should jump ship

2006-10-27T14:54:00.000-07:00

Most of you reading this blog from Santa Barbara already know that the NewsPress meltdown in our sleepy, little, beachside pueblito is like an intense episode of Dallas if JR Ewing was played by an inexplicably-masculine billionaire female. This stuff is seriously SOooOOOOOooOO juicy it has me salivating all over the newsprint from way down here.

Just when things seemed to be lowering to a distant simmer (can anyone say 'Lost' Season 2?!), the small town media meltdown is getting nasty again. YOU GO, Sue Ellen (played divinely by the Indy's one and only Nick Welsh)! Tell that bitch who's boss!

If you aren't paying attention... you really gotta start! Just a little tidbit from another Network TV Slut. I think fondly, during these times, of my former employer. Kareoke party at SoHo and we'll all sing, "I Will Survive"??

It's too damn hot

2006-10-24T10:25:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. Less blogging more photos. I was prepared for the summertime Buenos Aires heat but I was prepared for it to hit in December. Little didn't I know it would hit in mid-October leaving life sweaty and opressive. In the meantime here are some photos of one of the cooler art forms of Buenos Aires - stencil art. Stencils are everywhere and range from political, to artsy, to just plain weird. They remain one of the most enjoyable reasons to trawl the streets of the BA even when it is 90 degrees and humid as hell itself.

booty call

2006-10-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

It is no secret that the famous Latin machismo is alive and well in Buenos Aires. In a lot of ways, men, both young and old, rule this city. They dine alone and in large groups, spend hours over beers, and love, but oh how they love women. It seems that men are trained from birth to admire women and admire them out loud.

It took some serious adjusting and constantly referring to my lunfardo dictionary to get used to being subject to a barrage of remarks in the city and to understand what was being said to me. Indeed the divorce rate is high in Argentina, and the infidelity rate even higher. Just the other day I was sitting in a locutorio as a middle-aged man was typing on an instant messenger to a scantily clad girl on a web cam while simultaneously assuring his wife at the other end of his cell phone that he would be home soon. How can you blame him? There’s just something about women that makes men do crazy things. Combine that with the springtime sun that will soon become oppressive, summertime swelter, and you have one hell of a horny city. Sex is big business here. Telos, or by-the-hour hotels are everywhere and range from seedy, back alley, dirt huts to Vegas-style masterpieces replete with vibrating beds and room service menus offering a variety of sex toys. Where else to take your lover when the wife is waiting for you at home?

I think booking my plane tickets home got me thinking about men and machismo in Buenos Aires. It is just luck that the Casa Rivadavia is beside the pancho stand where all the motorcyclists in Buenos Aires post up to drink beer and peep ass. I can barely get a foot out the door without an ay, mamita or mirá que cola or sos una bomba. It is so common to hear such things that I actually get offended these days if I don’t. Men indiscriminately holler, whistle, whisper, and whoop at women – young and old, fat and thin, gorgeous and missing teeth. The surprising thing is that it feels good and a great gauge these days for me to know when I absolutely, inarguably look like hell.

So I keep thinking about going back to Santa Barbara to visit in December, escaping the worst of miniskirt months in BA. I think about the men at the stores around the house and my neighbors who call me preciosa, linda, corazón, and querida. Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, I think maybe my self-esteem jumped a point or two. It will be strange to go back to a more reserved plane and people; a place where really I am just another brown-haired fat girl. I miss my family and friends so much but when I finally pack it in here, it’s the little things that I will miss. I guess I am starting to come around on the machismo… that’s all I am saying.

banda ancha blues

2006-10-17T13:02:00.000-07:00

I am sharing the following in the name of timeless comedy. Anyone who has spent time in Argentina knows the woes of the banda ancha or high speed internet service. While Buenos Aires is modern and speedy, finding good, reliable internet in your home can be tougher than you think... just ask my boss.

Since moving to Argentina and working on a website, my life has been a complicated mix of WiFi cafes, shuffling my laptop to the hostel across the street, and locutorios - little stores with by the hour internet. Locutorios are absolutely everywhere, incredibly cheap at $1-2 pesos per hour, and generally pretty speedy. However, a couple of days ago, I learned the dark side of shared computers in Latin America.

In a huge rush, sending a quick IM, I ran from the locutorio leaving my MSN Messenger open. What ensued was apparently a bevvy of IMs to friends and former colleagues from a bored Argentine teenager. PRETTY HILARIOUS and not a bit sad. I have, countless times, used a shared computer at a locutorio when someone has left their IM open and, like a good citizen have closed it. NO MORE. I can't wait to find someone's open Messenger so that I can 'Pay it forward' next time. MWAHAHAHA.

In the meantime, here is a transcript between my friend Tanya and "me". If you received a similar IM, I ensure you that I haven't taken up speaking Spanglish nor have I started youching mi clitoris in public... yet. Could my life BE more rediculous?

As they say in the BA... disculpe las molestas. I will be more careful in future.

Start of Clare.. heart of darkness buffer: Fri Oct 13
10:53:45 2006
[10:44] Clare.. heart of darkness: hello biatc
[10:44] Clare.. heart of darkness: h
[10:44] Tanya: lol
[10:44] Clare.. heart of darkness: bitch
[10:44] Tanya: hi stinky
[10:44] Clare.. heart of darkness: jajaja
[10:45] Tanya: it's okay, i got the gist of it
[10:45] Tanya: how are you, my love?!
[10:45] Clare.. heart of darkness: I'M OK
[10:45] Clare.. heart of darkness: i'm horny rightnow....
[10:45] Tanya: oh my god
[10:45] Tanya: too much information
[10:45] Tanya: where is your man?
[10:47] Tanya: oh, you're just going to say "i'm horny right now" and then leave?
[10:47] Tanya: pervert
[10:47] Clare.. heart of darkness: no
[10:47] Clare.. heart of darkness: i'm youching mi clitoris..
[10:48] Clare.. heart of darkness: i'm sooo horny i don't now why!
[10:48] Tanya: i will reiterate
[10:48] Tanya: tmi
[10:48] Tanya: can't you have your boyfriend take care of that?
[10:48] Clare.. heart of darkness: i'm sooo horny i don't now why!
[10:49] Clare.. heart of darkness: n o i take care myself...
[10:49] Tanya: uh, did you leave your im on and now somebody else is writing?
[10:49] Tanya: i hope?
[10:50] Clare.. heart of darkness: mm nop
[10:51] Tanya: so this is what you are writing to tell me?
[10:51] Tanya: don't you have some deep thoughts on international travel that you can share?
[10:51] *** "Clare.. heart of darkness" signed off at Fri Oct 13 10:51:23 2006.
End of Clare.. heart of darkness buffer: Fri Oct 13 10:53:45 2006

going postal

2006-10-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

Prior to meeting in the asswipe border town of La Quiaca and heading to Bolivia, Paul left weeks before me for the Argentine northwest. He informed me from the road that he had bought himself a woven piece of art and had it mailed to himself. I was spending a lot of time at home trying to organize laundry, packing, and logistics for leaving the house for a couple of weeks. I could be there in the mornings for the mail no problem. When it was bought, there was a $20 peso down payment and the rest of the $200 pesos would be due upon collection at my doorstep. Little did I know that my last few days in the city would be spent inside the post office.

The occasion of Paul’s gift to himself was no exception. Naturally, when the package arrived, our doorbell was on the fritz and, naturally, the postman didn’t leave the package with the doorman. Instead I got a note that I had missed the delivery and would have to collect the package in a different area of town. No problem. I take myself to nearby Montserrat’s post office where they tell me that I cannot collect the package until the next day.

When I return the next day I take a number and pull up a wall in the standing-room only waiting room. The middle aged gentleman to my left is testing the Kleenex capacity of his sleeve and I worry momentarily that the woman on my right has passed away until I see her chest rise and fall gently. They call number 62, so I check out how I am doing. My number says 03. Not looking good for me. Not to worry, I have my Soduku. 19 minutes later I finish my Soduku.

2 hours and 16 minutes later with my claim slip in hand, it is explained to me that I cannot pick up the package as it is addressed to one Pablo Rivas and not to me. I timidly explain that Pablo Rivas is partying in the Argentine North and may not plan to return. Not to worry, they tell me, I can pick up the package with my passport, faxed authorization from the aforementioned Paul Rivas, and a his passport – provided that he was my husband. When I countered with some dainty tidbits about how trying to get my “husband” to send a fax would be the equivalent of trying to force-feed broken glass to a regular person, they told me it wouldn’t be a problem as I had five days to get my shit together before they would ship the package back to its origin. With less than 48 hours until my 26-hour bus ride to La Quiaca, I started to get the stress sweats.

Within the hour I was on Gmail chat with Paul explaining the situation and trying not to chuck a virtual punch at him for not addressing the package to me and not himself. He told me where to find a copy of his passport and sent an email, in lieu of a fax saying that I was his wife and had his express permission to collect his mail for him. I printed the letter and returned to the house where I found a copy of every important document that Paul has – minus a copy of his passport. At this point I realize that it was pure luck that I found Paul online before and he was unlikely to go back to a computer for days. I switched to Defcom 5 and trudged back to the Internet. I had a fuzzy memory that Paul and I had emailed each other copies of our documents in cases of emergency. Thanks to the miracle that is Gmail, my email produced a copy of his passport.

The next day I was supposed to return to the post office with a fax, a copy of Paul’s passport and some money for the painting. I figured two out of three wasn’t bad. This fortuitous day I only had to wait 90 minutes to be attended. I had my coima on hand, you know, just in case. The man helping me says no way. You have a passport for Paul Rivas. The package is addressed to Pablo Rivas. Eso no sirve. Fucker. I explain that the names are the same and that Paul was just doing that to uncomplicated things for the esteemed Correo Argentino. He looks baffled but a kindly colleague steps in for me at this point telling him that what I am saying is not, in fact, a bold faced lie. Clearly, I am trying to bribe the wrong dude. The man helping me is pissed now; real pissed. This is my third visit in three days and he is trying to make it three for three with sending me away empty-handed.

He shrugs, resigned. Where is MY passport then? Fuck. I look at him blankly. That came from left field. He called my bluff and I am left baffled and pants-down. He can smell my fear. He grins. Oh yes, he explains, it is absolutely imperative that we have your identification on record also. I am rooting around in my Mary Poppins style purse. Wallet that weighs at least 20 pounds, gum, planner, fuzz, pens, hand sanitizer… hold on… Kleenex, half a candy bar, driver’s license?!?!?! No?! Shit. Ticket stub from movie, lighter, gloves, headphones, band aid… PASSPORT! PAASSSSSSSSSSPOOOOOOOORRRRRRT! I hold it triumphantly above my head and wave it around. I let out a giant Whew. People are staring. The attendant flounces off into the back room to look for the package and I stand at the counter with a shit-eating grin on my face. The other customers are split. Some elderly women smile warmly. I have won a battle for all of us. This story will become urban myth – the gringa who got her mail. The others scowl jealously, knowing all too well that they will be sent away when their turn comes. I breathe heavily and wait.

As I wait I sort out the $200 pesos that I will need to complete the transaction and get the fucker home. The man returns about a century later with the package and hands it over. I have it in my hands and he turns his back to me, walks back to his station, and calls the next customer in line. I look at him, utterly confused. Doesn’t he need the money? He notices me staring and gives me a snarky ¿Sí? What the hell am I still doing there? I turn tail and run. I feel only mildly guilty for ripping off the museum that Paul bought the painting from but in my heart I FEEL that I am really ripping off the Argentinean post office. And that feels good. And I don’t want to be around when they realize what has happened. So I just… run.

I unwrap the package when I get home. It’s a pretty woven painting though not my taste. The mailing has totally bent it. Either that or an angry postal worker had his way with it in a dark corner of the mailing office. This, however, doesn’t matter to me. Every time I see the painting it rings out like a shining beacon of victory.

Hopefully previous blog posts, or a quick reading of Bad Times In Buenos Aires have made it clear that things move slowly here. Just two days ago, ironically, on another trip to the post office, an elderly gentleman greeted my sister Julie and I. I asked if he was in line. He replied, in Spanish, “Yes. I have been waiting here for ages. Make no mistake, girls, this is a great country but it is full of lazy fuckers that don’t want to do anything for you.” I smiled and nodded and he gave me a hearty suerte as he left. Wiser words I have not heard lately.

Poor, three-legged blog!

2006-09-27T14:38:00.000-07:00

My blog really should just be taken out and shot just to put it out of its misery. There is just so much to say. The past couple of months have been filled with thrills and adventures, tears and laughter. Peeing in semi-public places, burst eardrums, hellacious bus rides full of cockroaches, having my heart broken, then put back together, flying like a bird with a paragliding champ, sleeping for a month in hostels, eating steak sandwiches like every day is my last on earth, becoming re-addicted to cigs and diet coke, whipping through books one a day, travelling from the tropical north to the farthest south you can go before jumping the boat to Antarctica, laughing to tears with Julie, and feeling very, very restless.

This link should take you to a small selection of photos from my trip with little Julie... around Argentina in 30 days.

bolivia me mata

2006-08-03T09:31:00.000-07:00

When I recover from my "vacation" with Paul I will post the thoughts swimming around in my mind. For now, please feel free to check out our photos from our Tragicomedy in Bolivia, a rich and beautiful country and an unforgettable experience. The following link should take you.

click here

back in the sick of it

2006-07-05T06:23:00.000-07:00

I totally hemorrhaged again when I got back from my trip with Lynn. It was total culture shock leaving Buenos Aires for the Northwestern Patagonia Countryside and it was worse culture shock coming home for two weeks. Shortly after Lynn arrived we decided that flying to Bariloche (Argentina’s skiing and chocolate capital) instead of taking the 25-hour bus ride. Lynn made a good point that since she was taking her entire vacation allotment for the year, she might as well not spend more than 2 complete days of it on a bus. It only took us a few hours to sweep in through the clouds to this weird no world where there is no dogshit or $10 peso sex acts and where the mountains and crystal clear lakes unfold all around you like some sort of sick heavenly joke. I spent the first 48 hours or so just in complete shock and awe at the idea of staying in a hostel, trying to speak English again, trying to make friends. I realized pretty fast that I had spent the last four months of my life in a full-body cringe, totally wound-up and scared all the time, constantly on edge, constantly exhausted and suspicious, and totally not myself. The idea of a relaxing vacation was just hard to adjust to I suppose.

Lynn and I shared an amazing experience in the short time that we spent in and around Bariloche. It occurred to me that I probably hadn’t spent that much time with Lynn since she began Medical School, or even before. It also became clear how different we have become and how much of her life I have missed. It was nice to get to know my sister again.

As far as where we were, there are no words. We teamed up with 2 other Americans for the Siete Lagos or Seven Lakes Route so that we could afford to rent a car and do the trip in a couple over a couple of days instead of the panicked 3 hour bus tour the brochures offer. After a few short hours in the car Sean, one of the other Americans, suggested that we were all experiencing serious “adjective deficiency” because after a while of your jaw dropping, gasped breathes, screaming wow, cooing, commenting on how, beautiful, charming, lovely, gorgeous, breathtaking, wonderful, magnificent, spectacular, incredible everything is, you just sort of run out of things to say. Combine that with the fact that at every bend in the road, things just get better, and you realize quickly that you might as well just keep your mouth shut and enjoy it.

It felt good to be out in the country, to have offensive smelling clothes. It felt good to hike for hours and be on a real bike. After the initial shock to the system, it did feel nice to meet people and speak in English and, for the first time in my life, be the better half of a barely-Spanish-speaking duo.

When I returned to the city I really had a hard time readjusting. Once again I was back in this world of honking horns and “kill or be killed” pedestrian walkways, of guys testing out their English on you by asking “Would you show me your pussy?” and just feeling really sorry for myself. Every time I want to throw up my hands and say that I hate it here I try to bite my tongue and remind myself that it is me and not this place. But it is hard.

I am about to finish my Spanish class at UBA – my test is next week, and still I often feel my Spanish is no better than the day I arrived. I have a hard time understanding the accent people and (naturally and understandably) people speak very quickly and impatiently. The other day I was in a giant, expensive, and touristy store buying something. The store clerk rang up my items then said something that I didn’t understand. I asked as politely as possible if she could repeat what she said more slowly. She rolled her eyes and told me, “No importa,” with a giant sigh. But it does matter to me. I wanted to cuss her out and run out of the store screaming that I would never shop in that shithole of a place anyway but I couldn’t think how to say that in Spanish. Naturally, I meekly bought my overpriced things and limped out into the street like a wounded puppy. I curse myself for not having thicker skin. Maybe on some level I am tougher than when I got here and when I return to Santa Barbara I will realize that I am practically a New Yorker by comparison. For now, the porteños continue to be able to crush me like a bug every day.

The winter is very erratic. For a while life in the city was extremely cold and I was wearing all my clothes at once and still coming home cold. The only way the Argentines survived the worst of the weather was the world cup fever that felt like an inferno striking a polar ice cap. It’s been 15 years since I lived in a country where the world cup mattered. And while it mattered in Scotland, it was mostly because everyone in Scotland was glued to their televisions to root against the English because the Scottish side never qualified for the cup. El Mundial, as it is called here, is inexplicable. There are televisions everywhere. There are televisions in kioskos and newsstands. Cafés and restaurants are standing room only. You can’t pass a conversation without someone talking about football or the Brazilians being putos. Children and grandparents are decked out in team colors. Oh, and the entire country is drunk.

After one of Argentina’s wins we walked to El Obelisco which is a few short blocks from our house and one of Buenos Aires’ most recognizable landmarks. It was reported the next day that hundreds of thousands of people were there. People were climbing on top of garbage trucks and thousands of cars honked their horns. Fireworks exploded all around and people drummed and danced and chanted cheers for the home team. It felt like being in the eye of a hurricane. While your own world is relatively calm, life explodes all around you.

Argentina is a crazy and lonely place. Anyone who wants to get a great sense of it should invest in Pico Iyer’s Falling Off the Map, which is a serious of essays on “Lonely Places”. He really gets to the heart of this strange place.

Paul headed up north yesterday. He will spend the next month stomping across the Northwest border towns that cuddle the Bolivian border. News from him will follow. Time permitting I will go and meet him in a couple of weeks before Mary and Roger descend into Argentina.

I can’t wait to see the folks. They could not be coming at a better time. Since leaving town I have missed 2 funerals, just found out I am missing a wedding, and no less than 3 nervous breakdowns. At these times I feel homesick. And I miss my friends. I do, however, know that what I am doing here is important; that I won’t see how much I have changed until I go home. I won’t see how much stronger and smarter I am until I confront my past life - which I'm sure will be unrecognizable. I can't imagine what I ever did with a Venti Latte from Starbucks anymore. This is something I have to remind myself of every day when I feel weak.

I am attaching a photo of Paul and I… in the eye of the Mundial hurricane.

por fin!

2006-05-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

Por fin! My photos should be available by copy/pasting this link into your browser: http://www.kodakgallery.com/ShareLandingSignin.jsp?Uc=13pwlo8l.6k68vj1t&Uy=y0ix29&Upost_signin=Slideshow.jsp%3Fmode%3Dfromshare&Ux=0

Now that the painstaking uploading process is over, I am working on the writing.

Patagonia blues for Dave

2006-05-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

I just arrived back in Buenos Aires, back to my Paul, after a couple of beautiful weeks in Patagonia. I now sit in a local WiFi cafe trying to upload these photos because they speak volumes more about the country than I could write. About 48 hours after arriving we were all used up and became completely adjective deficient to describe what we were seeing. When the photos upload, I will post them and write properly about our experiences.

Until then, anyone looking for a shot of inspiration should follow this link: http://www.independent.com/opinion/2006/05/david_odom_19522006.html

I learned while away that my dear friend, a love, a savior, a saint had died suddenly, peacefully, surrounded by friends and fans. It is hard to reconcile sadness with peaceful death, with a life so filled with love. I will never, ever forget Dave. I will never forgive myself for not being there to stand in line outside of his hospital door to tell him that I loved him and how much his friendship meant to me. We should all hope to have children so pure of heart and to grow to adults so loving. Dave's voice was one of the last I heard on my phone before our plane left. I will never delete that message. The above link is to an absolutely beautiful tribute to a great human being. Whether you knew Dave or not, check it out...

More from Patagonia soon.

inside out

2006-03-20T15:34:00.000-08:00

March 20, 2006

She IS alive. Breathe easy. So maybe mopeds, foam, chariot races, and dogshit are not the ONLY things that can slow me down. The silence of my blog has been mainly due to the fact that a couple of weeks ago I was struck down with my first bout of proper South American jungle fever. In retrospect, I actually think it might have been a little impressive that it only took me a month to get properly flogged with dysentery but it ravaged me completely for three or four days and hence there was very little to report from here at the time. Now it feels that I have neglected the blog for so long that I will never have the time or energy to report everything so I am making a silent promise to get back into my in-depth coverage.

One fateful Thursday night I had a slice of pizza and a nice cold beer while Paul was teaching and went to bed happy as a little chappy. When I woke up in the middle of the night it felt like my intestines were going through a spin cycle and my body could not evacuate its contents fast enough (charming, I know). I had scheduled an interview on Friday for a teaching job and had to miss it. Paul, bless him, called them and told them I was ferociously ill and I rescheduled the appointment for Monday. When Monday rolled around I was still doubled over with stomach pain and hadn’t eaten since Thursday night so I promptly missed the second scheduled interview. Job prospect number one seemed to be down the tubes. I spent most of that weekend in bed watching BAD television and checking out the Oscars for the first time in a few years. Dolly Parton: Why, oh why?

There is something so horrible about being sick away from home. I think I’ve just spent so much of my life sick or in pain that at this point I am actually getting more and more intolerant. You’d think after no less than seven surgeries and thirteen spinal taps that a girl would be a tough little nugget and ready to tackle anything, but actually the opposite is true. When I stub my toe, I cry. When I get the flu I roll around in bed praying for death. When I have a cold I drug myself senseless with every crumby over-the-counter remedy that the FDA will allow. Pain and sickness are two things that I just absolutely cannot stand. I will not tolerate them, I can’t put up with them. I am sure I can be a little bit of a testy patient. Paul was patient with me for as long as possible and then I think kind of gave up feeling sorry for me and substituted that for the “suck it up, meat!” healing method. It was some tough times. Now I am feeling better and eating again and really I think I just had the best diet South America has to offer because I must have lost six pounds in a mere few days.

I do recommend keeping a doctor in your family because my lowest moment came in floods of tears on the phone with Doctor Lynnabelle talking me down from the ledge and assuring me that everything would be ok. She told me some things to pick up at the Pharmacy so I left the house on Sunday evening and staggered (quite literally) to the closest drug store. I was in a sickness haze, totally weakened from not eating, barely able to stand up and sweating feverishly when I realized I had two boxes in my hand one of which contained a laxative and the other containing a non-laxative and I had absolutely no idea which was which. I nearly cried. I was too exhausted to even try to ask the pharmacist for help. These are the moments when I want to be at home on my couch with my Mum’s lentil soup and a stack of DVD’s from Blockbuster. No such luck. One of the cool things about living in Microcentro is the buzz. I mean the streets are full of neon signs and absolutely teeming with people at all hours. But when you are sick as a dog, and stagger out of your house with people knocking into you and hustling you out of the way and the lights and sounds are just a sensory nightmare… things get a little more difficult. Anyway I have broken the sickness seal and will surely do better handling the pharmacy next time.

During my brush with death Paul went out to watch some of the Buenos Aires Tango Festival (which I managed to miss in its entirety) with Emil and Dayna, which he said was pretty fun. Carnival was raging on last week complete with drumming and (yes!) enough foam to blanket Texas. My Spanish class was coming up at UBA and Paul was gently harassing me to study for the placement test. I have been spending most of my time in the computer store working on a website translation. Three siblings own our apartment and one of the sisters has a boyfriend who works for a fancy stable and horse-breeding company. They have a Spanish website which they would like to be available in English as well. Paul was thinking how much to charge them for this service and I offered to do it for free. I figured we kind of owe them for helping us get shot of the agency fees for the apartment and all of that. Now I kind of think, “Good lord, what have I gotten myself into?!” So I have been hours and hours slogging through this translation, which is going more or less well but very, very slowly. I also run into difficulties with translations of horse-related words that I don’t even know in English and wouldn’t know unless I was a horse trainer, breeder, stable boy, etc. It’s tough but Paul is proofreading what I have done which will help. We even braved working on a section of it together and we both walked out relatively unscathed. Miracle! We got an email from Alexia yesterday thanking us for working on it. Her boyfriend apparently told her that he could not accept the work for free and instead we would be invited to an asado with them, which to me sounds a lot better than money right now.

Things are slowly starting to work. After a month of promises, the cleaning lady has finally arrived which is so groovy. Once a week the house is going to be cleaned and our laundry will be taken and changed for us. Such things are an amazing luxury for me who still struggles with not having a panic attack when buying stamps. We also finally got cable TV which I am struggling to avoid but it’s so difficult when the man comes to install it and the first thing you see when you switch it on is ‘The Office’ on BBC World. Yessssssssssssss. It was a blessing to have when I was feeling too sick and pathetic to better myself with reading. We are also allegedly getting Internet service in the apartment very soon and that will be the biggest luxury of all. Just think, I can wile away the hours downloading episodes of ‘Lost’ without dragging my computer around town. SWEET!

This entry is a little fractured. I spent a week in bed trying to recover and then a week that I really didn’t stop trying to make up for it. We went to a free concert by a famous Tango singer who won a Latin Grammy. Her name was Maria Volente and the intimate concert was so beautiful. We finally took a guided tour of the Teatro Colon which was so amazing that it was only mildly dampened for me by having to take the English tour with a bunch of American lobsters asking asinine questions almost endlessly.

The greatest event recently was a brief jaunt to Mar Del Plata which is a beach town 5 and a half hours South of Buenos Aires by bus. It is mainly a beach resort town and reminded me of my visit to Mazatlan in Mexico. The guidebook warned that from January to March the place is stowed with “sun frazzled porteños” and they really were not kidding. The beaches are beautiful and cascading and the reefs keep the waves pounding but the crowds are shoulder to shoulder. It didn’t bother me much at all. I spent a few hours of absolute bliss on the beach and tumbling around in the waves. I miss the beach. I miss swimming more than anything. I was so excited to bask and play in the water that I forgot to put sunscreen on my legs and after an hour of laying in the hot sand, emerged with a perfect Scottish, whitey, tomato-red sunburn that still hasn’t really stopped hurting. As well as some quality time in the sand, we walked a kilometer or so out of downtown Mar Del Plata to the port. We got there right at 5pm which was perfect time to watch the fishermen unloading their catch. The place reeked and the men were loud and colorful. I love fishing ports. As well as a giant statue of “Santa Domingo” (which is so big it must be visible from the moon), the port boasts a colony of sea lions, entirely male, which you can approach within a meter. Some even get so frisky that they cruise onto the sidewalk where the fisherman toss them a few pieces of the catch, if they are so lucky. Just past the boys are a collection of shipwrecks. Literally, half-submerged, rotten, half-boats many of which are half submerged as if being pulled slowly over the coarse of some years straight down to the depths of hell. This is clearly where the boats around here come to die. Anyway, they provided some great photo opportunities for this gringa.

This morning my class started and it seems like it will be very slow moving but extremely useful. I already felt pushed to speak more than I would usually dare and this, above all things, will be very, very good for me. I learned some cool words too which I have to get to writing down. I have been tentatively poking my resume out there for the Buenos Aires world to see but nothing interesting happening yet. I am still trudging through the website translation (hoping to finish as soon as possible) and may start tutoring a girl in English and helping her prepare her college application essays. Life is so sweet sometimes. I feel so great today. I have a class, I feel like I am learning a lot. I have a wonderful partner. Things feel good. There are moments of overwhelming, paralyizing fear, self-doubt, even self-hatred. I often feel lazy, fat, insignificant, stupid, and completely worthless but I’m not used to things happening so slowly when they happen so fast for others. I suppose a lot of those moments are because I want to learn Spanish NOW and I want to make friends NOW and I want to see all the art NOW and I want to read ten more books NOW. I need to relax and let things move slowly but, like I said, I’m not used to it and while I can be very patient with others, I am never, ever patient or understand with myself. So I have a good list of things to work on.

My friend Sarah arrived on Thursday. Sarah is a friend from High School that (by total coincidence) is also planning on living and working here for a time. I finally got to see her when we arrived home from Mar Del Plata. It was such a joy to see her and talk to her and feel that I have a friend close by. It’s also funny how in one moment I am assuring her that she will find her way around easily and the next moment I am feeling pangs of jealousy that she has already cast a web of new friends and experiences around herself. Maybe I have too and I just don’t feel it but I think these things have come much harder to me this time than they did in London or on other adventures. I want to be better at this so badly. I want to move in the world with a brave face and fearless spirit. I want to visit Thailand, Patagonia, Spain, Africa… and I want my feet to be more wandering. At any rate, I am so glad that Sarah is here and so settled in after a few short days.

I miss home sometimes. I miss tampons with applicators. I miss PG Tips. I miss Mexican Fresh burritos. I miss all burritos. Shit, at this point I miss Taco Bell. I miss my family and my cat. I miss the farmer’s market. I miss TiVo (oh GOD how I miss TiVo). I miss having friends around when I need them. I miss my friends who would drop by my apartment if they were in the neighborhood. I miss my apartment. I miss the smell of the granite in my parents’ new kitchen. I miss tripping over my dad’s shoes, which are never anywhere but right in front of the couch where someone is bound to trip on them. I miss calling my sister on speed dial whenever I laugh out loud at something. I miss laughing out loud. I miss having something to work very hard at. I miss feeling like I had a direction even though in Santa Barbara I equally had none. I miss Cadbury Eggs. I miss feeling confident. I miss feeling that I have purpose. I miss feeling that I’m not, but that I could be, working toward something wonderful. I miss the importance of people telling you that you are something when you feel like nothing. I miss the sunsets.

That being said, there are so many things that I already feel that I will miss about Buenos Aires when, and if, I leave. I am trying so hard to capture them and savor them while I am here. I am trying to convey here is this verbal outpour of nonsense that despite all the things I miss that there are real, true joys that are keeping me here.

More than anything I am sorry for the long silence for any who bother to look at this page.The photos are Paul wandering around the only photographable part of the Teatro Colon and all the wonders of Mar Del Plata that I described in haste. I hope you enjoy the photos and at least a little of the babble. You might even miss it when it’s gone.

straight neglecting my duties

2006-02-28T10:04:00.000-08:00

February 27, 2006

I feel I’ve been neglecting my blog. I can’t figure out if it’s just a waning desire to sit and write or if, shock horror, I might actually be settling into things here. We are now a month into our journey, more or less. One down, eleven to go I suppose. But looking back on the last few days, there are certainly things that continue to shock me every day.

Our apartment is half a block from the 18-lane Avenida 9 de Julio, as I mentioned before. It takes at least two rounds of green lights to cross, a hustle in your step, and an element of danger. Late last week as Paul and I were crossing we heard a giant screech, followed by a crash, followed by a body thrown forward between two cars. Giant screeches, crashed, honking horns, and the sound of twisted metal are really not so uncommon around here and only when the body appeared was it clear that this was not regulation. Turns out a moped driver lost control or something and rear-ended a car and was thrown forward from the moped onto the pavement with a slap. Within moments 9 de Julio is a mess of cars. A moment’s interruption of such an intricate traffic operation can cause hours of gridlock. The cars are honking, a policeman is on a cell phone, and cars are already backed up for blocks. I’m not sure if anyone has really, properly checked to see if the guy is ok but people keep walking, we wander slowly forward, and, within minutes, everyone is going back about their day. I have a hard time seeing people in pain and feeling helpless about it and I have trouble taking my eyes off the scene and I hope the young man is being taken care of. In the early days of my time in London, I finished a mean in fancy, upper-crust Knightsbridge and walk out of the restaurant just in time to witness a female body getting slammed by a car. Turns out an American tourist had forgot how easy it can be to look the wrong way while crossing the street in London and had practically jumped under the wheels of a car. It was her first night in the city. She had just checked into her hotel and was running out to go clubbing with her friends. I read the next day in the free newspaper on the Tube that she had died. I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to the pace of the city and I fear that if I ever did, then I might stop paying attention.

I haven’t cured cancer yet. Paul and I used to watch ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ and get endless hilarity from Larry David’s style. I guess he made enough money from Seinfeld that he never really had to work another day in his life and he spends his time on the show practically clowning himself for being such a lazy bum. In every show he’ll have an agenda like, “Today I have to go to the dry cleaners and then get the car wash” or he’ll say something like, “I can’t go to the movies on Thursday because I have to play golf.” Ummm… whaaaaaaaat? What kind of life is that? It’s like when I used to go spend my lunch hour wandering around downtown State Street and there were constantly people in all of these ludicrously expensive stores; people that seemed to me to be very little more than professional shoppers. What on earth could anyone have to do at Blue Bee on a Tuesday at 3pm? Get a job! These days I wake up thinking, “I have to go to the café, buy a newspaper, exchange money, and buy stamps.” It’s becoming almost unforgivable to live like this and make an occupation out of slowly draining my savings account.

I’ve been shamelessly watching every terrible American film I can get my hands on combined with a smattering of good ones. I came home after ‘Walk the Line’ and put all of Paul’s Johnny Cash on my iPod and he’s been my city soundtrack ever since. God bless ‘im. But when you can find a place where the tickets cost US$1.50 I’m hoping I’ll be doing more and feeling a little less guilty when my Spanish class starts. I found what seems like a great class at Universitad Buenos Aires and it’s far less expensive than any private Spanish instruction school. Emil’s girlfriend Dayna has also expressed interest in taking the same class so it would be nice to have an ally. I am thinking more and more of teaching English and I am going to start sending out resumes and seeing what happens. I really believe that I could do it. I don’t think Paul has spoken any Spanish with his students so apparently that shouldn’t be as much of a hinderance as I thought. Some of the people running school here seem to be seriously overpaid hacks. I think I’m going to try to find one of them to work for.

My friend Sarah is also flying into Buenos Aires mid-March for an adventure of her own. The prospect of having a friend in the city that I’ve known for years and years is very comforting and I’m excited about it. I’m also excited to relive all the fascination of arriving here through her eyes. I found out late last year that Sarah had made almost identical plans as I had and we spent the last few months accusing each other of total-idea-thievery. She’s a brave soul doing this on her own. I feel more confident every day here that I could do this on my own but I never would have believed that if it wasn’t for Paul. My sister (Dr. Lynnabelle) also has tickets for May. I’m so excited. Bring on the visitors. Lynn’s visit should also provide a good excuse for some serious Patagonia travel. I am chomping at the bit now. Every time I walk down a street in Buenos Aires that I’ve walked down before I just think of the continent unfolding before me that I’ve never seen and I’m dying to explore. I can’t wait until Lynn gets here. I am confident her wandering feet will take me cool places.

Friday finally brought some much-needed respite from the blistering summer heat in the form of gigantic, powerful, rain, thunder, and lightening storms. The extremity of the weather can be totally unreal. It reminded me a little of Hawaii where one minute everything is chill and the next minute you are drenched to the bone and it’s too late to even think about looking for shelter. It’s like Hawaii’s warm, tropical, rain too. But the weather has been far less painful for me (yes, the Scottish girl likes the rain) as a result of the scattered showers.

This weekend brought one of the greater moments in Buenos Aires. On Sunday Emil and Dayna came with us when we took the train out to the little “British” suburb of Hurlingham an hour out of the city. The train itself is a groovy experience as one of the kids in front of us spends the entire hour shooting crazy Carnival body foam out the window and there are no doors so if you decided to pack it in, doing so would be really convenient. We get to Hurlingham hungry and hot. We inquire more than once as to where the “Barrio Inglés” might be but either no one knows or no one wants to tell us – tough call. The English neighborhood is more of an afterthought though as what we are really looking for is the track where they have – no I am not kidding – CHARIOT RACES. The track is a walk and a half from the station and it’s becoming clear that there is absolutely nothing to see in Hurlingham. We are all getting shifty and trying to admit that this may have been a giant mistake. As soon as we get there, though, it’s clear we’re in the right place. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. I have what my family calls a little bit of a “gambling problem” and have therefore never been allowed near a racetrack or the like, let alone one complete with CHARIOTS (yesss!!). Really, not enough can be said about the scene. It’s cool, perfect even. We get there about a half hour before the races begin and it only takes us 5 or 6 attempts at ordering and some serious waiting to get some amazingly tasty sausage sandwiches and some cold beer in the shade of the trees. Ahhhh… Sunday afternoon. We place our meager one or two peso bets and the races begin. We’re excited and cheering but when we are placing out bets hundred peso bills are being passed across the counter so for some it can be a serious business but with no minimum, it’s a small price to pay for some serious entertainment. Dayna is the first winner and gets one peso and forty centavos on a one peso bet. Emil is with me on how much better it would all be with the fever of serious money on the line but neither of us have any so we keep it calm. There are seven races and in the fifth race I put two pesos on El Piojo (The Louse) in honor of Paul’s friend in Mexico who’s nickname is El Piojo which is a word I love and a phenomenon that he’s been writing about in his book a matter of hours before. El Piojo comes up big and I collect 3 pesos and 20 centavos. SCORE! The sixth race is amazing. Around the last bend there is a giant cloud of dust and horses and limbs go flying. Only two drivers make it out (one of whom is mine so I feel a little guilty trying to see if he wins in the midst of all the chaos – but OBVY he doesn’t) and a couple of horses make it out without their chariots or riders and a giant mess of injuries and horse wrangling ensues. Everyone is glued to the mess and we decide we’ve had enough. As we are ambling towards the door we see one of the racers telling the paramedics that no one is seriously hurt at all so we are sure we’ve seen the best that chariot racing has to offer and take off back to the station. Really, if you hear of any chariot races near you – I recommend it. I’ve attached some photos so that you absolutely have to believe me.
Carnival has been raging on in the city. Every night there is a plethora of foamed up kids and music and drumming in the street around the corner. The Tango festival is in full swing at the moment so I’m sure we’ll be checking out some of that. Paul is working tirelessly on his book while I scour the papers for the latest lame American film to watch. Life is wonderful, juicy, and bizarre. I miss home and miss my cat but wonder often if my life in Santa Barbara was not just a fragment of my imagination. Am I actually getting used to things here? Whenever I think I might be, there is foam, moped accidents, chariot races, and, of course, dogshit to slow me down a little and remind me that I´m not in The Goodland anymore.

trudging on

2006-02-21T13:29:00.000-08:00

February 21, 2006

Life trudges on. I feel a little paralyzed these days. I’m on three solid weeks of permanent vacation status and I can’t help but wonder if I might not have cured cancer or ended world hunger at this point. I think the hardest adjustment for me is just to not be working, to be wandering aimlessly, and to have absolutely no idea of a permanent agenda whatsoever.
My sister (Doctor Lynnabelle) assured me that there are lots of people in the world (including her) for whom a day without a schedule sounds like a small miracle. I know how lucky I am, I do. I just can’t help but feel a little anxious, not by being unemployed, but without the prospect of being employed in the near future. Life here continues to be weird and scary and wonderful and fresh and sometimes all of these things at the same time.
Last week I saw a taxi accident near our house. A younger taxi driver rear-ended an older gentleman who stopped his car in the middle of a tiny and gridlocked street rendering it totally unusable and unleashed all hell on the guy that hit him. What a scene. I couldn’t understand much but my limited Spanish allows no room for guesswork on words like puta and pandejo, which were about every second or third word. It was hilarious and suddenly clear to me that while drivers here have absolutely no concern over the sanctity of human life, they clearly understand the value of their cars. Weird? Crossing the street continues to be a daily adventure and always somewhat of a question mark whether or not I’ll make it out.

On Friday evening we went to our first real, actual, in the flesh, professional, Argentinean tango show. It only took us three weeks to figure it out but we did. We went to the tourist-ey but ever-chic Café Tortoni. Café Tortoni was established in 1858 and the place reeks of it. There are clipping of newspaper reports of Carlos Gardel singing there and the service is atrocious in the great style of all great places. I am no tango expect and maybe a year in this place will sophisticate me a little but as far as I could tell, the show was world class. There were two couples that danced (and a clear winner) but I think the highlight was a gentleman singing traditional tango songs – none of which I understood and all of which were really moving. The music was just lovely and the live band was great. It struck me for the first time how all tango music has a hint of sadness. Or maybe I have a hint of sadness. I read a blurb about the history of the dance in El Pinche Lonely Planet that says: “Though the exact origins can’t be pinpointed, the dance is thought to have started in Buenos Aires in the 1880’s. Legions of European immigrants, mostly lower-class men, arrived in the great village of Buenos Aires to seek their fortune in the new country. The settled on the capital’s arrables (fringes), but missing their motherlands and the women they left behind, they sought out cafes and bordellos to ease the loneliness. Here, the men mingled and danced with waitresses and prostitutes.” Suddenly it makes sense that the music as well as the dancing are raw, passionate, sexual, exotic, and never without a hint of sadness. The tango is everywhere here. The stereotypes are true, at least in the city. Every other music store is a tango-specific music store and tango music blares out of our neighbors’ windows, street kiosks, and marketplaces. Last night I stepped out of the darkness of the cinema and my path was blocked by a couple in khakis tangoing under the neon light of a Pizza house.

After Tortoni we walk down Corrientes again. I haven’t been there when the street hasn’t been abuzz. It seems to never stop. It also boast a restaurant called El Palacio de las Papas Fritas (The Palace of French Fries) – my own personal Mecca. I haven’t eaten there yet as I’m saving that experience for a rainy day. We cruise around checking out the sights and sounds (there’s a naked guy, a model Romeo and Juliet hanging from a second floor balcony, people selling mate cups. We stop in at a Heladería (ice cream store) and I order some lemon ice cream and the weirdest thing happens.

When I was a kid we took 2 family vacations to Yugoslavia (the former). We stayed in a little Alpine town called Bovec (spelling?) on the Italian border. As I was young (maybe 7 and then 9) I don’t remember much. I remember a restaurant that served the most humungous pizzas I’d ever seen in my life that we referred to as ‘wagon wheel’ pizzas. I remember my poor father literally pushing reluctant children up the sides of the most gorgeous mountains and being met with nothing but grumbles. I remember white water rafting and nearly drowning. I remember getting swept down the river and being saved by a naked man. The clearest thing I remember though is a little ice cream store in Bovec that had lemon ice cream – a delicacy I’d never encountered in Glasgow. I loved the stuff so much that I think I gorged myself on it every day on both of our trips to Yugoslavia. I’ve never tasted anything so divine either before or since – until Friday night on Corrientes in Buenos Aires. I feel like I’m nine years old. I feel like I’m back in a country that doesn’t exist anymore and that the airport we flew into was never bombed to bits. I feel like the heaven a nine year old feels when they taste the best ice cream of their little lives. So I’ve had 3 more helpings of lemon ice cream since Friday and I don’t think I’m going to quit any time soon. Amazing how the mind tricks.

On Saturday we take a bus an hour out of town to the ‘Feria de los Matadores’, which I believe is a weekly celebration during the summer. The streets of Matadores are filled with artisans selling maté cups, leather belts, bags, handmade clothes, cheeses, liquors, cakes, and every single kind of knick-knack you could stretch your mind around. On every corner there is a giant asado and the whole place smells like the best barbeque in the world. In the middle of it all is a giant stage with Argentinean folk music and dancing. Colorful dresses and songs fill the warm evening. Paul and I eat delicious tamales. They may be the best tamales in the world and I’m a heck of a tamale snob. Paul buys his first maté cup, a beautiful leather belt, three bottles of homemade Argentinean liquor, and declares himself ready to spend a year here having got all of his provisions.

When we get back to the house, Buenos Aires’ wimpy (but lively and loud) version of Brazilian Carnivál has set up shop (literally) in our back yard. It’s a risk you take when your closest cross street is one of the biggest avenues in the world. It’s also kind of fun to never, ever know what you’re coming to. We watch the chaos for a while which mainly consists of drumming and people shooting each other with aerosol foam cans. Good times.

We spent Sunday evening at a restaurant with Paul’s friend Emil and his girlfriend Dana. Emil is a character and it’s almost as fun hearing him talk about getting the meat sweats in Tuscany as it is listening to Paul talk about eating sheep burgers in Syria. Not quite, but almost. It’s still amazing to me that four people can sit around a table for hours and hours drinking wine and sherry, eating bread, pasta, rabbit, goat, and chicken until they have to roll themselves out and the bill for all four of us barely lumbers its way to 23 bucks. Take THAT SoHo, Ca Dario, Bouchon, Lucky’s, and anywhere else I can’t afford to eat in the SBar. Every day is Lilly’s Tacos day in Buenos Aires.

I have been trying to combat loneliness and feeling like a fish without a bicycle by indulging in simple pleasures. This morning I posted up at a café with WiFi and patiently nursed one café con leche until 2 episodes of ‘Lost’ were finished downloading. Yesterday I indulged in paying the most I’ve paid for absolutely anything here to a British bookseller for a book on Argentinean history, literature, and politics and Borges’ final work The Book of Sand, which I immediately took to the café where they claim he wrote it. I’ve seen more horrific American films than I care to recall in the last three weeks just for the sheer stupid pleasure of hearing people speak English for a couple of hours. There is a vet down the street where there are puppies in the window that I visit almost every day just to get my heart warmed a little. Then there are the times that I lose my ATM card, drop my computer, get horrible, hateful emails from Paul’s friend because I put a photo of George Bush on my blog that is a rendering by an Argentinean street artist. Things are up and down. It’s a weird and wonderful city. And, like I said, often all of these feelings come to me simultaneously.

Lost in Translation

2006-02-17T12:43:00.000-08:00

February 17, 2006

So after I finished with Mark Salzman (three cheers for the lad!) I went back to Pico. Though it’s my second time through, I am struggling with his chapter on Multiculturalism. I was moving along at a snail’s pace and then suddenly something jumped off the page. He says, “Writers, of course, by their nature, draw upon the past – it is, almost literally, the inner savings account from which they draw their emotional capital.” I realized immediately my paralyzing problem in writing; the same problem I’d always faced. I have no savings account.

I had a therapist that used to ask me about traumatizing events from my past in order to open a dialogue about them. By traumatizing I mean both events that had a literal and lasting damaging effect on me and events that were milestones in my life both positively and negatively. By delving into such topics, I often found I remembered very little, if anything from my past. I remember almost nothing about moving from Scotland except waking up in the rental car on the way from LAX around Mussel Shoals and gazing at the lights and the ocean of my new home. This could just as easily have been a dream as a memory. Talking about Scotland, I remembered disturbingly little from my childhood. My therapist explained this away in typical but brilliant Jungian terms. If our early adolescence is shaping by a specific traumatizing event, we train our young psyches to fracture as a result of trauma, block out what’s happening almost at the moment it happens and we are left with mere fragments of events that may or may not be accurate. In these terms, I have no savings account to write from. Anything I’ve experienced that has been worth recording seems long gone from my mind. I remember only very bizarre and minor anecdotes and have forgotten largely the events themselves. I wish for them back.

I write now with urgency; a desperate immediacy to try to record what is happening to my psyche here before it slips away with other things that have been systematically eliminated from my memory. I try to remember for moments at a time the smell of peaches at the fruit stand down the street, the heaviness of my lungs when the bus rolls by pumping exhaust in my face, what the cobblestones look like when day fades to dusk. And I paradoxically feel just as afraid of remembering as forgetting. I can’t remember a thing about stepping off the plane in Buenos Aires. I cannot remember any of my first impressions of the city. Were we in a taxi? As far as my mind can tell, the transition never took place. I don’t want to lose everything else.

I have been thinking of the movie Lost In Translation and a friend mentioned it in an email the other day. There is a scene where Scarlett Johansson takes a train out of the city to a Buddhist temple and wanders around in silence just observing the world around her. In the background Air’s ‘Alone in Kyoto’ plays. I used to find it very touching to watch. Her experience is so transitory and lonely. And beautiful. Bill Murray asks her what she does and she replies, "I´m not sure yet, actually." Good call. Each morning when Paul goes away and I´m left contemplating my schedule, I wonder what I do. In honor of this film and in honor of Ryan Hernandez, I am including photos of my feet though they are not nearly as attractive as dear Scarlett’s.

Things continue to be a little easier. On Valentine’s Day: miracle after miracle. I found a little specialty food shop on Avenida Corrientes (the Buenos Aires equivalent of Broadway – complete with enough neon lights to light up the Western seaboard) that sold Tabasco sauce and thought it the perfect Valentine’s gift for Paul. A little piece of home and something spicy… like me! I walked all the way up Corrientes to the big mall (there is a RUSTY store inside – go figure) to watch El Secreto en la Montaña (Brokeback Mountain), which Paul refused to see with me. I walk out feeling very sad. Nothing will put me in a mood like people in love that can’t be together. I’m very touched by the film and very moved by the landscape. I feel very lucky to have love in my life.

A couple of days have passed and things violently go up and down. One minute I am depressed as hell. I have no friends. Waaa. I miss home. Waaa. I can’t talk to anyone except my boyfriend. Waaa. Who is too impatient to talk about it because it’s hard enough for him to see me miserable. Waaa. I’m not entirely sure that he wouldn’t rather I just checked out and went home so he could get busy living, chatting, chilling, and properly checking out Argentinean women and spend less time worried about me. Waaa.

The next minute things are good. I kick ASS at the FedEx place sending a package home. Yeah. I order coffee without getting laughed at. Yeah. I make a reservation at a restaurant. Yeah. I give a woman in the street directions. Yeah. I talk to the women at the Tabasco shop who wish me, ‘Buena suerte gringa’ and laugh with me instead of at me for once. Yeah. Sometimes I think this gig isn’t so bad.

But the HEAT, my GOD the heat. Paul comes home from his teacher’s training one day and announces that everyone in class agrees that this is the mildest summer for thirty years and he narrowly avoids a swift kick to the head. What do those assholes know? They’ve never survived winter in Scotland. I’m on a new program of trying to walk around in the morning, hiding in the apartment in the afternoon, venturing out again after dusk, and praying for it to be March when (allegedly) the weather is better. I’m melting, my god, I’m melting. Oh the humanity. I’ll tell you what people… it ain’t gonna be language barrier or petty domestic disagreements that run my ass out of town to Ushuaia. Dig?

So after a particularly depressing afternoon of lying on my bed sweating and hoping for death, Paul goes out to training. He comes home and announces victoriously that he has MADE FRIENDS FOR US! Turns out that another guy who speaks Spanish and teaches English for the same organization is a Brit with an American girlfriend who speaks no Spanish. Paul explains that he is an American with a British girlfriend who speaks no Spanish. They decide to be friends. Paul is smiling and so chuffed with himself that I feel guilty. He must be so relieved at the prospect of me having someone to speak to. He is worried so much less for himself than he is for me, bless him.

There are still incredible things about this city that blow my mind every day. I got a flat tire on my bike fixed with professional, speedy precision for 2 pesos (50 cents). I can get a big delicious cup of coffee with croissants for 3 pesos ($1). Generally, people seem more patient and friendly. Or is my Spanish improving? Or am I getting used to things?

It´s so funny how email has enabled the speediest of profundities. My friend Shane wrote me the most charming and profound email (which I hope he doesn´t mind me sharing in part). He writes with the perspective of spending a great deal of time in Brasil: it's funny how you begin to remember fondly americana you didn't give a shit about ever before in your life. like any - any - classic rock song that you happen to hear on the radio. *Sniff* you say to yourself, "Oh, Jack and Diane, you two crazy american kids doing the best you can." I laughed and laughed at that just because my GOD he´s so write that it shook my soul. The same morning that I read this Paul took off for class with a tumbler that was given to me by a coworker from UCSB. The tumbler is very cool and you can design the exterior with your own photos or art. My tumbler is covered with photos of friends and family and would fit a Starbucks Venti Latte inside. He comes home having been told how “American” it is to carry a giant mug. I was very much looking forward to coming to Buenos Aires to, if for no other reason, gain some perspective on Americanism, Americana, American culture and everything that defines anything about these things. So far my only insights seem to be that Jack and Diane sure were a couple of crazy kids and we sure do like big old cups. America continues to be a bigger concept that I can grasp at the moment.

Tonight I think we are going to see our first Tango show at the world-famous Café Tortoni on the Avenida de Mayo. I’m thinking of trying to find some cheap tango lessons. I’m getting pudgy as heck over here. Patrick Symmes writes, “It’s easy to grow fat in Buenos Aires,” and the guy’s not kidding. The meat and bread are out of this world. I am eating meat, bread, cheese almost exclusively mixed in with some desserts every once in a while. There is nothing better to do when you are trying to beat the heat than drug yourself senseless with food.

I have been busying myself this morning with taking pictures of the shapes of the apartment which I’ve been seeing a lot more of during the blazing sunshine hours. I hope they are enjoyable for those who like to see the world from a different angle.

a day for love

2006-02-14T08:44:00.000-08:00

February 14, 2006

Happy Valentines Day to one and all. In Argentina this is el dia de los enamorados and for such a decidedly Catholic country there is decidedly less emphasis on Saint Valentine and decidedly more emphasis on the frenzied purchasing of chocolates and flowers. Buenos Aires is more like America every day.

On Friday Paul and I took an sweaty, half-hour bus ride from behind the Casa Rosada along the coast to Tierra Santa (the Holy Land), which proclaims itself “The World’s ONLY Religious Theme Park.” There are big wooden gates and a sign outside that states: VISITE JERUSALEN EN BUENOS AIRES TODO EL AÑO or Visit Jerusalem in Buenos Aires all year! Unbelievable. And not a little bit terrifying. It costs us US$3 and we’re in the park which is paved with sand, spattered with faux palm trees, and dotted with life-size statuettes of biblical times. Under the blazing summer sun in the city, I feel like I might as well be out in the desert of the Middle East.

So close your eyes. Picture Disneyland. Now subtract all the obvious fun like rollercoasters and rides. Now replace Mickey Mouse with Jesus. At this point you have got to be coming pretty close to the Tierra Santa Vibe. Walking around you can choose from the variety of shows. Don’t linger to long in “The Creation” or you’ll miss “The Resurrection” which involves and 18 meter Jesus emerging from a hilltop. Don’t worry too much about the view. The Resurrection of Jesus is visible no matter where you are in the park! Paul says that in some ways he’s always been curious to visit the real Holy Land but wasn’t excited about the prospect of never seeing Syria again after going to Israel. He’s pumped. Now he doesn’t have to bother. He’s seen it all for himself. He’s also excited about learning about the bible which I had to do both in public school and in church in Scotland. Chris Rock famously says of the GED: “You mean I can make up four years in 6 hours? Where to I sign up?!” I think Paul more than made up for 27 years of Religious Education in our few hours at Tierra Santa. In the spirit of Christianity, Tierra Santa lets you borrow cameras to use in the park – for free! When you leave you just get charged for the photos.

Highlights include: eating French fries next to a replica of the wailing wall, strolling the streets of Jerusalem where a life-size figure in flogging Jesus who is shackled to a Roman-style column (my lunch is not sitting well), hotdogs for sale next door to the mosque. I have included some photos but really you have to see the place to believe it. One of the last things we do is clamber to the top of the mountain where Jesus is resurrected. From here you can see that Tierra Santa is surrounded by an airport, a driving range, and a waterpark. Good times. I have added some photos to prove I was really in this place. Paul immediately went home and wrote an (brilliant) article about it and sent it off. Neither of us could properly digest the magnitude of what we had seen.
Outside waiting for the bus back into the city, my dad calls our cell phone just to say hello. The evening before I managed to trip on the phone cord and rip phone and cord out of the wall of the apartment rendering all totally useless. He says something about saying hello, “from the Good Land to the Holy Land” and I laugh for some time about it.

On Saturday we take the bikes for a spin down in Puerto Madero. Sandwiched between warehouses that have been converted into multi-million dollar apartment projects is a giant ecological reserve. We cruise around on the bikes. It’s a nice green departure from the city. There are people running, walking, biking, napping on benches, wading in the cocoa colored water on the coast, crisping up in the sun, and generally enjoying the summertime. In parts, the greenery and garden smell remind me of the tropical plants in Hawaii. The ecological reserve is a cool spot which will be made even cooler I’m sure when summer burns off and there are fewer people around. Outside the reserve we eat hamburgers (best hamburgers in the world) and watch a game of pick-up tennis. Paul says he’s never seen such a thing. All around there are markets, volleyball, tennis, bicycles, food stands, dancing, and music. Every door in the city unfolds into a marketplace. You could spend years here missing all the nooks and crannies of the place. It’s like at every turn there is a city within a city within a city like those Russian dolls.

We stroll Avenida Corrientes later with its Broadway lights and sounds. We eat dinner and a completely delicious and entirely deserted Korean restaurant. The place is very sad. We are the only customers. The food is not cheap but it’s pretty damn good. Is it a bad time? A bad day? The restaurant Bi Won will certainly not live long like this. The restaurant business seems a fickle one in Buenos Aires.

Sunday we strolled down to San Telmo just in time to see the markets closing down for the evening. It was a bummer to miss the bustling Sunday markets but San Telmo is a bevy of cool old building facades and streets folding over buildings that fold over hallways into a maze of back door things to see and do. We find a café with WiFi and I put it on my checklist to come and download ‘Lost’ episodes here. We find a British Pub that serves fish and chips. We have a seat in a park to take a look at a church with a rooftop like the Taj Majal and on one side and a group of Capoiera (sp?) dancers with drums and voices and on the other side of us we are listening to a man sing Bo Diddley in Spanish. The sounds of the city are pretty amazing. San Telmo is cool and begs to be explored further.

Yesterday we took the subway up to Chinatown. Chinatown in Buenos Aires is a couple of blocks of restaurants and Chinese shops. We had read in the Lonely Planet Buenos Aires that if you blink you could miss it, and they are not kidding. We head up there because the book says that it livens up for Chinese New Year and is worth checking out and goes on to state that Chinese New Year, 2006 will be observed on February 13th. When we get there, the place is dead. There are maybe 2 out of the 6 or 8 restaurants open and a few tables on the street selling Buddhas and those waving cat toys. Paul inquires about the festivities for Chinese New Years. They were two weeks ago. The book is now affectionately and exclusively referred to as, “el pinche Lonely Planet”.

It’s one of those days where I’m so hot and exhausted and drained that walking just feels like dragging a corpse around. I think that just every few days or so things build up to the point that I’m paralyzed by the weather. It seems equally difficult for Paul to be around me when I feel like that as it is for me to feel like that. A Scottish girl in South America is a completely unnatural thing. He tells me kindly that it is painful for him to move so slowly. Paul started training at one of the teaching academies this morning which will continue for the next week or so. He has a class to teach tonight directly after his training so I can spend the day at my own pace, without holding anyone back or being a burden and that feels good. As the summer melts away things will get easier I think.

When I was at my limit of fatigue and hunger and thirst, it was 7:30pm in Palermo Viejo (a ritzy, rhetro, cobblestoned neighborhood). 7:30 in the evening is just too early for dinner for a porteño with all the eateries around opening at 8 or 8:30. We stumble into Bar 6, the only place we find open and eat the best meal that the city has offered so far (empanadas are always excluded since they now fit their own category). We sit and talk for hours upstairs in a building that looks like an old airplane hanger that’s been remodeled into this chic, fancy bar. I get some of my life back just in time to go to bed and wake up at the crack of dawn to see Paul off to his teacher’s training.

So as I sit here writing this I am waiting for the cleaners who need to be let into the ultra-secure building. I was feeling nervous last night about more forced interaction but I stumbled my way through a conversation with Martín this morning (the son of the owner of our apartment) and successfully answered the doorbell to the delivery man when he arrived with a package for Paul. In seems insane to write this that these things would chill me with fear to my very core but it’s the truth. I am terrified to do things. Paul is constantly pushing me to do more but if we are together and I try to say something, he unconsciously talks over me so that whoever we’re talking to knows at least one of us speaks Spanish… properly. The intimidation level of tiny interactions has not melted yet. I am casually looking for informal Spanish classes and promising to study my Spanish book at least one hour per day. Paul says I am getting better at the 2 Spanish tenses that I know. Then he tells me there are 16 to learn. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. There’s still a long road ahead. When I feel homesick though there are movies in English, instant messenger at the internet store, iced coffee in Palermo, and parents at the end of a phone. I know I’ll be fine so those of you with money on less than a month are going to be sorely disappointed.

Paul stepped in a giant, steaming pile of dogshit yesterday. I tried not to laugh but it sort of slipped out. I don’t feel quite so alone anymore.

transitions

2006-02-10T05:55:00.000-08:00

February 8, 2006

Days are starting to pass here now rather than hours. I’m in a strange transition where I wake up at home – or at least some concept of home – rather than each day in some strange place. It seems likely that we will stay in the apartment that we have for some time having struck some sort of deal with the owners so that we don’t have to pay the gringo agency fees. The Casa Rivadavia is a pretty little building. It’s quiet and safe and right in the heart of the city. It lies a just a short walk from the Plaza de Mayo and the Casa Rosada that Madonna made famous to Americans with her lecherous portrayal of Evita – an episode in cinema that most porteños would just as soon forget. From the outside it looks like nothing (an apartment building on a dirty street) and then the big, brown wooden doors swing open to tiled floors, beautiful facades and cozy little apartments. Each day I come home to a building that I’d imagined only, I suppose, in Venice or, if pushed, in the backstreets of Barcelona.

Paul is more and more at his writing now. I think that what makes a writer is nothing more than time and, in a way, money. Writing takes the self-discipline of an Olympian; a quality in Paul that I wish was transplantable. But, if you have that dedication, any schmuck can do it, really. How lucky we are to have been privileged with education and enough money to transplant ourselves to the opposite side of the equator for a while so that lines of latitude and time zones slip away. Shame on all who have been given these gifts and don’t come away with good stories to tell or, worse, the ability to tell them well.

Yesterday was a pequña hazaña (my new favorite castallano term). Our week-long search for bicycles ended in triumph. It’s much harder to find used bicycles in a big city than you’d think. Maybe it’s because the drivers of the colectivós are actually trying to collect diez puntos each time they railroad a bicyclist. My new city cruiser is called la banana (and you only get one guess why) and Paul’s has got to be the closest thing that Buenos Aires has to the Brown-Pride-Root-Beer-Rocket. We had to ride across town during rush hour to get them home from Palermo Viejo (muchos tiendas de ‘retro’) to Microcentro. Always half a block ahead is Paul sneaking around the front wheels of a bus and running red lights like an empanada delivery boy while I putter behind, my heart racing and feeling completely brilliant and lucky as all hell that I make it out alive. Life’s a little slower in Goleta. I hope soon to take la banana for a spin around the ecological reserve near preppy Puerto Madero.

A few nights ago we went to a free concert in one of the great parks in Palermo. The Buenos Aires Art Society (or some such governmental art body) sponsors this free event. Every porteño and his mother was there (take my word for it). Appartently they are all ga-ga for this guy… VINCENTITO! I’ve never heard of him but he must be quite famous because he has lots of adoring fans who will travel miles and sing loud and smoke the mota and listen to his concert for free. It was fun. He sang some American metal ballad in English and as soon as he’d stopped singing it I forgot what song it was. Paul couldn’t remember either. It was nice. The evening is the best time to go out and I’m going to have to work on the program of staying up later and getting up later. I’m still on the in-bed-by-nine-or-really-cranky-in-the-morning program. This is exactly the opposite of the B.A. lifestyle and just another glaring example of why the gringa doesn’t fit in.

Another great experience (can you smell the sarcasm) was the evening that Paul got a hankering for meat. I, being the romantic idealist that I am, got so excited that Paul…PAUL… would want to go out and eat and PAY for dinner that I let him order what he was telling me would be good. Ten minutes later I’m sitting next to a fat-spitting barbeque grill that is sitting on the table. Unidentifiable cuts of meat steaming and spattering away. No salad. No potatoes. No side dish. No beer. MEAT. I eat meat. I’d go so far as to say I love the stuff. But I spent the rest of the meal trying not to vomit on the table. As Paul said: File it under – failed experiences. Paradilla para 2. Needless to say we haven’t been to dinner since and next time I get the idea that my boyfriend is taking me to a nice, quiet, romantic meal I’m going to order the grain of salt that comes with it. When we left the restaurant Paul took heaps and heaps of leftover meat to a family sleeping on the street nearby. The woman starting devouring the food and throwing unidentifiable pieces of cow at her children before it had even properly exchanged hands. I got a nice reminder of what a disgusting snob I can be. As my mother says, “Things are never as good as they seem and they are never as bad as they seem.” I thought my boyfriend acting like a jerk was bad. I have a lot to learn… like I said.

Today Paul got what sounds like a great job teaching English. He will be teaching adult people who already speak English to pronounce and communicate better. His new supervisor told him that these people have a particular concern with phone etiquette and while the idea of Paul Rivas teaching anyone phone etiquette is so unthinkably ironic to me, maybe his students won’t know the difference. I feel a little jealous of the ease with which he is sinking into life here. I feel a little more every day like a housewife that neither cleans, nor cooks, nor gossips about her neighbors. I envy in Paul the ease with which he has found a job and a niche here and will try only to not become the dead weight here for that will surely get me cut loose. Not today, though. I will, at some point, I feel sure, struggle to find some sort of identity here that Paul has already found. When I feel those pangs of fear, stupidity, shame, I need to remember that I am here to learn. I need to ease up on resenting Paul because his Spanish education outweighs mine by over twelve years. We often need to ease up on each other.

Today was spent mostly walking alone while Paul was writing. I walked again out to Palermo and went so far as to order myself a café con leche which was going extremely well until the guy asked me something and one of the words wouldn’t come to me. I had no idea what he was saying. He says it over and over and over. Looking at me, expectantly. I’m raking my brain. It’s blank. He has my coffee. I don’t understand. We are at an impass. Finally, he thrusts the coffee and a plastic spoon in my hand and walks away. CUCHARA! SPOON. THAT was the word. SPOON! I wanted him to come back. I knew it now. I just bend my head, embarrassed and walked outside and threw the spoon into the street. FUCKING SPOON ruined my coffee and my bravery for a good few hours.

To add insult to injury, the next turn brought me directly into my first steaming pile of dogshit. I think I mentioned before that dogshit is absolutely everywhere in the city. There is a law against letting your dogs just go to town on the streets but is not enforced at all and dogshit is absolutely everywhere. I guess you could consider it lucky that it took me a full tell days to be ankle deep in the stuff. I spend the next few blocks scraping and scratching my shoes on the curb and trying not to cry while systematically checking to see if winking, blinking, snapping fingers, or clicking my heels together would take me straight home. WHY am I here again? Paul asked me this morning if I wanted to go home, probably because I’ve been acting like a cranky, PMSing asshole for the last few days. I considered it for a moment. How would it be any easier for me to be home pining for Argentina and Paul than to be here pining for home? I know I have to suck it up and things will get easier but…when?

I needed some culture and practically ran off the Subte to the Plaza de Mayo. Each Thursday the Madres de La Plaza de Mayo hold their protest at 3:30pm in the afternoon. Decades after the Dirty War, these dedicated mothers appear before the government, demanding answers and accountability for their sons that disappeared during that time. It’s really quite moving to see these women (and men), most of whom are now very old, clutching photos of long lost loved ones wanting nothing more than a little truth and justice. How hard it is to realize that they are years into this campaign, that they will probably never get any answers from anyone, that they have become a tourist attraction.

From the Plaza I walked along insane Calle Florida. Life has somehow brought me to Calle Florida each day. It’s a pedestrian only street so you get the feeling of being in gridlock without getting in a car. People walk a million miles an hour in and out of every store you could think of. There is the usual city street traffic of all kinds: musicians, performing artists, and tango dancers. Every third step someone is trying to thrust a flyer into your hand for an all-you-can-eat-buffet or a hooker or a discount phone card.

I stopped to chat with a young argentino who was passing out flyers covered with g-stringed women. He got my attention with, “Miss… miss… how do you say in English?” and pointing to the trash can. I tell him. He squints his eyes. Someone had told him it was a rubbish bin. I said don’t listen to the goddamned English gringos. You listen to this nice American girl. I’m telling you it’s a trash can. He starts rattling off to me. He works for a, “How do you say… whore house?”, he is nineteen, he wants improve his English. You are doing well, I tell him. He tells me the words that people have taught him in the street. “Getting jiggy with it. G’day mate. Let’s kick it. Whassap my nigga?” I’m laughing now. The kid’s charming. If I was a man looking for a good time, I’d go to his whorehouse for sure. He asks if we can get together and I can teach him some English. I say sure. I’m looking forward to the whorehouse castallano slang I can learn from him. You never know when that stuff will come in handy. His name is Italo. We’ll see…

I vacillate widely between total contentment in a new place and aching for home. Today is one of those days that I passed mostly pining for my mother and my cat. Two evenings ago we strolled along the sanitary, newly paved streets of Puerto Madero looking for restaurants and cafes that boasted WIFI (broadband internet) services and I chided myself a little for the small pang of excitement I felt over maybe having the ability to use my laptop to download missed episodes of ‘Lost’. What do I have to be homesick for when I can get epanadas 24 hours a day and a pack of cigarettes for US$1.00? I haven’t seen a Starbucks yet but there is a McDonald’s on every corner. Inside each McDonald’s is a McCafe that sells espresso and breakfast cakes and suddenly the reason for the Starbucks-free zone is clear. McCafe got here first. There is Chinese, German, British, Spanish, French and, least of all, Argentinean cuisine. With a cell phone, computer, a blog, email, and people that love me tracking where I go, am I every really gone? With all of these things attaching me lovingly to home, why do I feel so far away? Am I not really only present from wherever I log on?

I have attached some photos of the concert, the mothers, bicycles. Enjoy.

Pico and Paris

2006-02-05T07:43:00.000-08:00

February 3, 2006

Paul is downstairs singing Esperando, a song by Café Tacuba, which he tried tirelessly to teach me as we hiked down the mule trail to visit the leper colony in Moloka’i. The 40-second song is full of important words like portón and colectivo that I’m trying to keep from shaking around in my mind so much. I feel like I forget five Spanish words for every one that I remember but my little sister, Julie, reminded me this morning that, “you are learning way more than you think.” I am trying to keep her words in my mind when I become frustrated.

The humidity was 72 percent today and I think I lost a third of my body weight in sweating. I felt all day like liquid was just pouring out of my pores faster than I could ever replace it. Yes, I’m a hot-weather wimp because I’m Scottish but California lifestyle has made my senses snooty about the cold too and I am becoming every day a little more convinced that if it’s not a balmy 72 degrees and dry, then I’ll likely have trouble adapting. Such are the toils of immigration and naturalization.

I’ve been feeling a bit weary and worn. Pico Iyer also writes in The Global Soul (talking of pubs and whorehouses and wee hour activities in Hong Kong), “I didn’t have the heart for much more of this, and as the night wore on, I knew the smiles would grow more plaintive, the ones that said, Be kind to me, please, and I’ll take good care of you bouncing against the one that said, How ever did my need bring me here?” I felt all of that today. Paul and I breakfasted in a café that appeared transplanted from the Champs Elyseé in Paris. There are times when I feel I could blink my eyes and be as easily in London or Paris. The Bar de Julio Café was wallpapered with records and old photos of canciones, none of whom I recognized. It’s pretty humbling to feel like you could be in Europe by the sight and smell of a place and realize you know absolutely nothing about its history. I drank a café con leche and ate a sandwich on a croissant while I learned that one of the singers on the wall, Carlos Gardel, was the most famous tango singer in all of Argentina. I tried to memorize his face. I added to my checklist: learn more about Argentine history. It’s right under: Climb Mount Everest. Each day I learn a little more about all that I have yet to learn.

Ten minutes later we are in the barrio Recoleta. The streets are quiet and I’m struggling to find a piece of trash where I’m usually stepping around dog shit and McDonald’s wrappers. The people are white and speak English. We walk past the Fendi store and through the shopping mall. The prices are amazing low even for Dolce and Gabana due to the weak Peso, but the store clerks still look at my Converse like I don’t belong there and I’m thinking maybe things would be different if these women got a chance to check out a town overrun by Blue Bee.

The purpose of the stroll through Recoleta is to visit the famous Cementerio where Eva Péron lies. It’s the smallest, most exclusive cemetery in the city. Even Juan Péron didn’t make the cut. In the small amount of traveling I have done, I have found cemeteries to be one of the coolest, most inexpensive ways to see the art and history of a city. The cemetery in Recoleta is no different and while it is no small potatoes to see the grave of Evita, the great thing about the day is getting to see gold and marble strewn amongst tumble-down crypts and moss-covered stones; tiny, creepy pathways and photographs of loved ones long gone.

I just started reading Chasing Ché, a book about a motorcycle trip in search of the Guevara legend by an inimitable gringo named Patrick Symmes. I bought it for Paul on his last birthday and only had to wait 8 months for him to finish it. I recommend it as an introduction both to Ché and an introduction to all the reasons motorcycles are silly and too much trouble. He visits not the cemetary in Recoleta but another, smaller, poorer cemetary in Buenos Aires. He says of the experience, “Inside the wall was the Avellaneda Municipal Cemetary, and we walked through. It was huge, but without the glamour of Recoleta where the upper classes buried their dead in elaborate, fantastical crypts that imitated Egyptian pyramide and Roman temples and Greek oracles, as if the dead were now simply confined to smaller versions of the lives they had just left.”

In a day I’ve roamed from a sidewalk café in Paris back to the snooty streets of Santa Barbara through the dusty remains of Buenos Aires and I’ve barely walked three miles. ¡Qué incredible ciudad!

first impressions

2006-02-03T06:10:00.000-08:00

February 2, 2006

It’s Thursday and I have been sweating in Buenos Aires since Monday morning. We arrived in the early afternoon and the weather is as temperamental as I have been feeling. Each day it’s every variety of warm, summer weather. We awake to humid downpours that feel like hot sky showers, the kind of rain that I have only ever experienced in the sticky morning on the North Coast of Maui. In the afternoon the heat is dry and the sun can be blistering. It took less that 24 hours for my gringa skin to redden. When it’s not too hot here it is just beautiful. My first sight from the taxi was a giant wall with graffiti that read: FUERRA BUSH! Something about reading that made me feel more at home than I’d felt for a long time in Santa Barbara.

I think it just feels beautiful to be back in the city where there is always something or someone new to look at. Our apartment is one block for the famous Avenida 9 de Julio (a 16 lane cluster-fuck spectacle of gridlock madness). Most of those interested have seen our apartment at and the inside is exactly as expected. I am writing this from the tiny upstairs desk area that will be home to our excrement of thoughts from Argentina. The photos of the exterior, however, do not do justice to the building. The intricately tiled floors are scrubbed daily; there is an elevator that looks a century old. There are friendly, elderly neighbors and snooty young porteñas who will only grudgingly greet you in the afternoon.

Over the past few years my opinion of the work of Pico Iyer has gravitated from adoration to fanatical. In honor of what will likely be the longest and certainly the most challenging trip of my life, I decided to revisit The Global Soul which was a pretty good decision on my part if I do say so myself. One of the first things I read off the plane was a reminiscence of his childhood that, “I think I intuited, even then, that the airport was the spiritual center of the double life: you get on as one person and get off as another.” Pico always writes in such beautifully accessible terms. In so many ways in only a few days I feel simultaneously like a completely different person and so much more remarkably sure of my own self that I have ever been.

For the most part we have just been walking around the city, trying to familiarize ourselves with our own neighborhood and, as quickly as possible, shake the taboo of being touristas. We have ventured on the Collectivo and Subte, neither of which caused robbery, harm, or death which I consider a small victory. For the most part, Paul has been the eyes and ears of the operation as I struggle both with the language (let’s see how far we can stretch that City College semester, shall we?) and the accent of the porteños which is quite different from the pride you feel ordering carne asada tacos on Chapala Street.

Things are fantastically difficult at times. We have been turned away from, what seems like, every bank in Buenos Aires, as we do not have residency. Not a problem as modern technology makes it easy to access our American accounts from here (¡Viva Internet!). We have our current apartment for one month and are sure now that we are being charged tourist prices and that we can find something better or at least get a better deal on our current place. I think the uncertainty is what makes things difficult. Paul has had patron saintly patience with what feels like constant fretting on my part. I know everything will work out well. Please remember, dear friends, I am writing this following three days at the Argentinean Embassy, American Embassy, on the phone with pinche Cingular, being turned away from banks and half-heartedly looking for a place to spend the next year of my life. It’s just different. When faced with nothing familiar, different can be scary.

And wonderful. My legs ache and ache from walking so far and so fast (Paul walks at least twice my speed). We have done some classics. Highlights include the best meat and coffee in the world. They really are not kidding about those things. Prices are so low that I find myself counting, and re-counting my money in total disbelief at how much I still have. Paul and I are constantly reminding each other that we need to make it last as long as possible but every time we spend $2 each on a meal that consists of more food than either of us can eat we walk away shaking our heads. Life is walks down tiny cobbled streets, past the Casa Rosada, and people just swarming so much my head spins. I hope to spend more time writing (clearly, I need the practice) and dive into the full time tourist business while carrying a camera small enough to look like a little less like a gringa.

From here my Spanish will improve, my English will get worse, my knowledge of the city will become immense…and the world a little smaller. This is an endless spectacle for any thinking of visiting.