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.
