Somewhere under the gray sky, as the rain continued to fall for another day after so many, I woke up in the dark and figured it out. His face was exposed, and I saw him. Once I realized who he was, I laughed.
In that same day, for better or worse, I was left to face him alone.
I know now that I can defeat him. Perhaps this is the only way. I only hope that my victory is not marked by a terrible, terrible loss.
It's too easy to be angry at that which we cannot understand.
*
There is nothing so strange and yet oddly delightful as singing random Disney songs off key with your roommate. Who knew that I could so easily remember the words to "Be Like Me" from The Jungle Book?
*
His name was Roberto. He didn't live very far from the park at all. His house was a beautiful place - twenty beds, lots of trees, fresh air, open to the sun on warm days. When it rained he had to leave, of course, and find someplace with a roof, but he always came back. Visitors always came to his house and he, out of curiosity and some loneliness, always talked to them. In his dirty jacket he held several folded pieces of paper, worn smooth so many readings, letters from the many strangers-become-friends that he had gotten to know over the years. The letters were addressed from different places - far-off provinces of Argentina, Israel, Germany, the United States, Brasil. In his head, beneath the combed-back gray hair and the smiling, stubbly cheeks, he held the many stories of his life - his beautiful wife, his son murdered in the streets. The stories came from many different years - before he knew the police, before he moved to his house, before his wife left this earth. When I first met him he was in the middle of composing a poem for Kiki. Who knows how many he had dreamed over the years in his gray head and lost to time and memory, never once leaving them upon paper?
12.10.07
5.10.07
Altercados domésticos
Rain in Buenos Aires is never a simple conversation between the sky and the ground. Instead, like a marital dispute gone wrong the sky unleashes every bit of frustration on the city, throwing down chips of hail, sheets of slanted rain in torrential bursts, bellowing thunder, snaps of lightning, and winds that whip around the buildings to accost unaware pedestrians. The fallout is enormous and the streets are empty of dogs, trash, pidgons, and street vendors selling bead necklaces and other handicrafts off of blankets. As if by magic other street vendors sprout like mushrooms to take their place, hawking paraguas for ten pesos.
The porteño has learned, like children do, that it is better to hide in your room while the two parents settle their differences rather than try to walk through the kitchen where they are arguing. Days like today are best left to long naps, retreats to a coffeehouse with a good book and some café con leche, or movies of dubious legality rented from the movie store one block down.
Unfortunately, I have a parcial this morning.
The porteño has learned, like children do, that it is better to hide in your room while the two parents settle their differences rather than try to walk through the kitchen where they are arguing. Days like today are best left to long naps, retreats to a coffeehouse with a good book and some café con leche, or movies of dubious legality rented from the movie store one block down.
Unfortunately, I have a parcial this morning.
3.10.07
Extractos de un 'mail'
Excerpts from an email:
It is a place of light and air, earth and water, trees and stone. A foreign land within a foreign land, it draws its serenity from a distant world and a lost time, before the glass and steel cities sprouted up. Red and gold bridges arc elegantly over deep ponds teeming with long fish whose gaping mouths break through the clear surface. Pink blossoms shift gently in the breeze and glow in the afternoon sun that has broken through the gray clouds. Wooden lantern posts and intimate pagodas dot the swells in the carefully crafted green landscape, inviting ancient energy to flow. Strange symbols adorn many surfaces, sweeping brush-stroke characters that our pens and pencils, so accustomed to angular Latin letters, cannot reproduce. It is Japan within Argentina, and it is a pocket of peaceful timelessness in the eye of the whirling storm that men know as Buenos Aires.
I spent nearly two hours there, taking photos, sitting and watching the sunlight shimmer crazily on the water, and ignoring the work that I had in my backpack. I made a friend; a scrawny but oh-so-adorable gray and brown cat seemed to enjoy be petted for a change. Eventually I looked at my watch (that curious device of gears and clockwork in which I imprison time and bend it to my will) and began walking south to the office, many blocks away. A detour for lunch in the form of spinach tartas with cheese and ham and a subte ride later I arrived at my mystery destination...
... After the appointment I continued walking down Avenida Santa Fe, with the intention of eventually winding up near the building that holds my afternoon class. With an hour to spare I finished my lunch in a plaza and read about the fractured history of Argentina in the early 1800s. Class came and went, and I returned to Casa Grande on the subte. An hour or so after that I took off to a cafe to read and study. The mozo was friendly, the coffee cheap for Buenos Aires, the sandwich a godsend, and the atmosphere tranquil...
It is a place of light and air, earth and water, trees and stone. A foreign land within a foreign land, it draws its serenity from a distant world and a lost time, before the glass and steel cities sprouted up. Red and gold bridges arc elegantly over deep ponds teeming with long fish whose gaping mouths break through the clear surface. Pink blossoms shift gently in the breeze and glow in the afternoon sun that has broken through the gray clouds. Wooden lantern posts and intimate pagodas dot the swells in the carefully crafted green landscape, inviting ancient energy to flow. Strange symbols adorn many surfaces, sweeping brush-stroke characters that our pens and pencils, so accustomed to angular Latin letters, cannot reproduce. It is Japan within Argentina, and it is a pocket of peaceful timelessness in the eye of the whirling storm that men know as Buenos Aires.
I spent nearly two hours there, taking photos, sitting and watching the sunlight shimmer crazily on the water, and ignoring the work that I had in my backpack. I made a friend; a scrawny but oh-so-adorable gray and brown cat seemed to enjoy be petted for a change. Eventually I looked at my watch (that curious device of gears and clockwork in which I imprison time and bend it to my will) and began walking south to the office, many blocks away. A detour for lunch in the form of spinach tartas with cheese and ham and a subte ride later I arrived at my mystery destination...
... After the appointment I continued walking down Avenida Santa Fe, with the intention of eventually winding up near the building that holds my afternoon class. With an hour to spare I finished my lunch in a plaza and read about the fractured history of Argentina in the early 1800s. Class came and went, and I returned to Casa Grande on the subte. An hour or so after that I took off to a cafe to read and study. The mozo was friendly, the coffee cheap for Buenos Aires, the sandwich a godsend, and the atmosphere tranquil...
2.10.07
De la oscuridad y la bondad
Where did you come from?
Did you crawl out from some suffocating space in the subway tunnels? Did you escape from the broken streets when the lights went out in the storm? Did the thunder shatter your serenity and rouse you to seek out a new victim? Did the rain drip down and drive you out of the dark?
This place, this city, this concrete-glass-and-sky labyrinth was destined to be our battleground. Here we are equals, your wits and mine. I am stripped of my weapons and my allies. My armor is my skin; my will, the only cutting edge I bear. Now we are matched.
If I should fall you shall consume me and leave me ruined with tears in my blind eyes. Yet should I will, should my hands drain you of breath and life, so much sweeter the victory won by my own strength.
I am my own sharp steel.
*
A cooked mandioca on a small white plate, or two sumptuous pieces of homemade dessert at an early hour of the morning - they both come with a warning, "¡No dice nada!" (she could get into trouble!). A lent glass jar to hold up freshly-ground pepper. A bowl of cereal with café con leche and juice, instead of one or the other. A phone call to distant family members, asking if a total stranger can spend the night in their house so he does not have to spend money on a hostel. Countless hot meals, a bed, and full reign of a house in which I have no right to be in - all without accepting any form of recompense.
Kindness comes in many forms, most of which are not deserved and cannot be adequately repaid with "gracias," handwritten notes, or a set of drink coasters with flower prints.
Perhaps the only way to repay such kindness is to show it to others.
Did you crawl out from some suffocating space in the subway tunnels? Did you escape from the broken streets when the lights went out in the storm? Did the thunder shatter your serenity and rouse you to seek out a new victim? Did the rain drip down and drive you out of the dark?
This place, this city, this concrete-glass-and-sky labyrinth was destined to be our battleground. Here we are equals, your wits and mine. I am stripped of my weapons and my allies. My armor is my skin; my will, the only cutting edge I bear. Now we are matched.
If I should fall you shall consume me and leave me ruined with tears in my blind eyes. Yet should I will, should my hands drain you of breath and life, so much sweeter the victory won by my own strength.
I am my own sharp steel.
*
A cooked mandioca on a small white plate, or two sumptuous pieces of homemade dessert at an early hour of the morning - they both come with a warning, "¡No dice nada!" (she could get into trouble!). A lent glass jar to hold up freshly-ground pepper. A bowl of cereal with café con leche and juice, instead of one or the other. A phone call to distant family members, asking if a total stranger can spend the night in their house so he does not have to spend money on a hostel. Countless hot meals, a bed, and full reign of a house in which I have no right to be in - all without accepting any form of recompense.
Kindness comes in many forms, most of which are not deserved and cannot be adequately repaid with "gracias," handwritten notes, or a set of drink coasters with flower prints.
Perhaps the only way to repay such kindness is to show it to others.
27.9.07
Safer waters
"This city's saving grace
But whoever knows, nobody knows..."
Phones ringing. Shouts and laughter. The ever-present television sapping brain cells. The residence is a nightmare for anyone who wants a moment of serenity, a place to read through the piles of fotocopias, or simply to dive under the covers and sleep. Frustration and irritation threaten to become overwhelming. You grab everything and stuff it into your bag and head upstairs, when you look up and realize that the sun is shining through the glass in the roof. Ascending the stairs in the back you rise above the killing chaos until you step out into the patio, and the wind greets you and welcomes you to the panorama of rooftops, the lone palm tree swaying in the bathtub, and a few plastic chairs in various states.
Go downstairs and out the door. The brightly colored street murals show historic figures, images associated with the barrio like the two tango dancers looking deep into each others' eyes, or surrealistic scenes like cat eyes, plants and a portrait of an old sacerdote - hot pinks, strong orange, bright greens, sharp black, subtle gold and deep blue cover the crumbling walls.
Let your eyes see past the grime and wander along the designs in various spots the Subte station - Independencia, linea C, is renowned for its glass pieces crafted to resemble Islamic art from la Alhambra in Spain. Look up as the escalator brings you out of the Tribunales station and see the round green SUBTE sign crowned with blooming trees and a bright blue sky.
Nature is driven back but never far. Wander around the botanical garden in Palermo, not far from Plaza Italia, and you will find many strange and wonderful species of plants from all across the Americas, a sense of tranquility, and many stray but suspiciously well-fed cats lounging in the short, sunny grass. Leave San Telmo on foot and head to the park in Puerto Madero for an afternoon of frisbee or soccer with friends. Bring two bottles of beer or take your Nalgene; a choripan, hot and bursting with flavor on the cheap toasted bread, is yours for two pesos if you get hungry. If solitude is what you seek, take an hour alone under the mixed clouds and sun, teaching yourself to juggle the pelota while bright green pajaros screech in the tall trees overhead.
Dog shit, trash, broken or crumbling cement, the brown fumes from buses, the obnoxious horns of taxistas venting their anger on traffic, old reminders of what the city might have been once: in a place like this beauty can sometimes be forgotten among the harsh ugliness that face you as you step out onto the sidewalk. I've found the secret, though.
Make your own.
But whoever knows, nobody knows..."
Phones ringing. Shouts and laughter. The ever-present television sapping brain cells. The residence is a nightmare for anyone who wants a moment of serenity, a place to read through the piles of fotocopias, or simply to dive under the covers and sleep. Frustration and irritation threaten to become overwhelming. You grab everything and stuff it into your bag and head upstairs, when you look up and realize that the sun is shining through the glass in the roof. Ascending the stairs in the back you rise above the killing chaos until you step out into the patio, and the wind greets you and welcomes you to the panorama of rooftops, the lone palm tree swaying in the bathtub, and a few plastic chairs in various states.
Go downstairs and out the door. The brightly colored street murals show historic figures, images associated with the barrio like the two tango dancers looking deep into each others' eyes, or surrealistic scenes like cat eyes, plants and a portrait of an old sacerdote - hot pinks, strong orange, bright greens, sharp black, subtle gold and deep blue cover the crumbling walls.
Let your eyes see past the grime and wander along the designs in various spots the Subte station - Independencia, linea C, is renowned for its glass pieces crafted to resemble Islamic art from la Alhambra in Spain. Look up as the escalator brings you out of the Tribunales station and see the round green SUBTE sign crowned with blooming trees and a bright blue sky.
Nature is driven back but never far. Wander around the botanical garden in Palermo, not far from Plaza Italia, and you will find many strange and wonderful species of plants from all across the Americas, a sense of tranquility, and many stray but suspiciously well-fed cats lounging in the short, sunny grass. Leave San Telmo on foot and head to the park in Puerto Madero for an afternoon of frisbee or soccer with friends. Bring two bottles of beer or take your Nalgene; a choripan, hot and bursting with flavor on the cheap toasted bread, is yours for two pesos if you get hungry. If solitude is what you seek, take an hour alone under the mixed clouds and sun, teaching yourself to juggle the pelota while bright green pajaros screech in the tall trees overhead.
Dog shit, trash, broken or crumbling cement, the brown fumes from buses, the obnoxious horns of taxistas venting their anger on traffic, old reminders of what the city might have been once: in a place like this beauty can sometimes be forgotten among the harsh ugliness that face you as you step out onto the sidewalk. I've found the secret, though.
Make your own.
29.8.07
Fantasmas, facultades y fiestas
Welcome to Recoleta, traveler. I saw you outside reading on the bench beside a stray dog; I am glad your curiosity finally got the best of you. What you are about to enter is what some would call a necropolis, the final resting place of many of Argentina's wealthy and elite from over the centuries. As you wander through the narrow paths between the white and gray mausoleums, however, please keep a few things in mind. First, you will see some tombs that have sadly fallen into disrepair, with broken glass or crumbling stonework; do not take anything, not even the smallest pebble, from its place. Keep your voices quiet and reverent, for the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de Pilar is close by. Do not dawdle too long; there is a reason that they cemetery is closed at sundown when the bell tolls. Finally, beware the feral cats: though their fur is dirty and their ribs pronounced, their amber eyes see things that ours cannot, and to live here unmolested they surely have made some pact with the dead. You do not believe in ghosts? We shall see, traveler, we shall see!
We begin our tour here, a meter or three beyond the entrance, with a simple tale here at the footsteps of the memorial to Facundo Quiroga. The story goes that this military mastermind was buried inside this statue standing up. It is a silly legend, of course, and we have since disproved it. Do not be dismayed traveler, for we have many, more interesting stories for you yet.
The cenotaph to the three friends, Adolpho Mitre, Bengino Lugones and Alberto Navarro Viola, is just this way, and their faces still look out from the stone, imploring you not to follow their ways. One night in Paris, spurred on by too much wine, they thought it would be fun to stab a dirk into a grave in a nearby cemetery. Yet when the first friend went in and did so, he did not realize in the dark that he had plunged the blade through his own cape, pinning it to the earth. When he turned to leave he felt something tugging at him and, thinking the dead had reached out to him, died of terror on the very spot. His two friends, seeing him from outside the graveyard, hurriedly retrieved his body and fled. The next day the second friend died from a heart attack and nearly a year later the third died under mysterious circumstances in Paris. The vengeance of the dead? Some still think so, but you are not convinced. Let us move on then!
Speaking of the Mitre family, this impressive tomb is the resting place of the Mitre family, including the famous president Bartolome Mitre. Here a tale must be told of Bartolome's son, Jorge. Jorge was a gentle soul, unaccustomed to the harder ways of the world, and his father disapproved of him immensely, seeing him as a shame to the Mitre name. Jorge, in his despair, fled to Brazil where he ended his own life in a hotel. Some time later, it is said, Bartolome received a letter from the hotel, imploring him to reclaim the remains of his son interred nearby. According to the letter Jorge's weeping ghost still wandered the hotel in the night. When Bartolome finally relented and brought Jorge's body back to Buenos Aires, the ghost in the hotel disappeared and has not been heard from since. Remember this tale, traveler, for the weight of a father's words can crush a young man and torture his soul.
Down this way, where you see the people all huddled together, is the mausoleum of the Duarte family. Behind those onyx doors lies the famous Evita in perhaps what is the greatest irony of her death: to be buried among the rich and the military families, when she was best known as a lady of the working classes. There are always flowers there.
You see this mausoleum here, with the statue of the beautiful woman appearing to step out from the door of the tomb? The strange and tragic tale of Rufina Cambaceres ends, or begins if you choose to believe, at this very place. The daughter of an illegitimate pairing, in spite of her beauty and grace she was plagued by whispers and frowns from the upper class of society. One evening, as she descended the stairs to go out with her boyfriend and her mother one evening, she suddenly collapsed and could not be revived. The doctors declared her dead and she was interred in Recoleta as a way to bring her the respect in death that had eluded her in life. Yet the story does not end here, traveler! A night after she was buried, the groundskeeper heard screams in the dark coming from this very tomb. When they examined the body in the morning, the clothes had been rent asunder and her hair was pulled from her head. Grave robbers? No, for the jewels were still around her neck. Buried alive - can you imagine the terror she must have felt as she drew her last breath alone in a coffin? It was discovered soon after that Rufina had been regularly drugged by her mother so that the older woman could carry on an affair - with Rufina's boyfriend.
Our tour ends here, friend, at the unassuming grave of Pedro Benoit. Some say that he was only a young orphan adopted into an Argentine family, but others claim that he was in fact Louis XVII, the last king of France smuggled to safety as the French monarchy was consumed in the fires of revolution. He lived and died as a porteño and did not disclose his secret until he lay on his deathbed. History cannot prove it, and so we shall never know for certain... although who can say if his spirit still lingers here, looking across the ocean to the kingdom that was never his?
I have many more stories for you, traveler, but those must be kept for another day; my memory fades and I would not want to misguide you. Follow this tree-lined path down until you come to the statue in the center, and from there you can see the gates. As for me? I shall wander for a while until the sun sets and then return to my place among the other spirits. Why would I stray far from my home?
*
In retrospect, I think that some of my frustration should not have been directed at the Argentine way of life but at the university instead. Example: Tuesday the 21st we were all supposed to get to this one place in the city to complete our 3-to-6 month student residency papers. The university officials sent several emails marked IMPORTANTE and made a great song and dance about how the students had to arrive exactly at 9:00 or else… a vague and terrifying threat was left for us to imagine.
9:00 AM. All of the students are present and ready to get their residency papers done. Some, like myself, are skipping class to be present. We are directed to a waiting area and sit in several uncomfortable chairs and wait… and wait… and wait. Thankfully I am only there for two hours before my name is called and I go up. Others have to wait at least 5 hours before they are called. My question (which may be a silly one) is: why were we all there at once instead of staggered throughout the day? Is the “hurry-up-and-wait” really worth the stress and frustration it causes the students?
Perhaps we can write this off with some sort of explanation, but let me present Micky’s case. Micky arrived on time, waited for an hour, and then left to go to class. When he returned he was told by the university people, “No, you can’t get it done today since you left.” Rather than leave and call the morning a waste, however, he went and got a number like any other outside person would have done. Within minutes his number was called and his paperwork was done, much to the surprise of the university people.
I would add to this that the current paper we have is only valid for three months. To get the six month paper, we will have to return on our own and go through more hoops. The university refuses to remind us even by an email. Perhaps it will be better that way.
Thank you USAL. Your lack of response to emails, your misguidance, and your crystal-clear directions have truly enhanced my Argentine experience.
And to Argentina: I’m sorry.
*
Lost in translation:
- thermos instructions: “Tips for a cute performance.”
- sign in the Residency offices: “Precarious residence renewing.”
- offering box in the Catedral: “Donations for the benefit of the cult.”
- lettering on a t-shirt: “To who are you looking?”
*
There is a student from Iceland in one of my classes. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him on Thursday because I had to leave immediately, but as soon as I am able I intend to walk up to him and proudly say, “Sæl! Hvað segirðu?” And they said that I would never use Icelandic in the real world…!
*
On classes, continued:
So far my classes seem to be reasonable, with one exception that I shall later elaborate upon. Normativa del Español is a mixed grammar/literature class, where we read and discuss short stories and then learn about accentuation, punctuation, etc. The professor is young, probably not much older than I am; the age gap is wider with his students, however, since most of them are the equivalent of freshmen. Literatura Argentina has proven easy so far, but intense on the reading. I do not have to do any presentations like the normal students, but I will have to conjure up a paper at the end of the semester and give an oral defense of said thesis – nothing too difficult, I’ve done similar before for my Spanish classes at home. Historia Argentina is not too terrible either, except when I lose the professor to the noise of the cars and trucks. However, I respect a man who tells his students to show up a half hour late to class, because he certainly doesn’t want to be there at 8:30 AM. Mitos y Leyendas Argentinos is quickly turning into my favorite; it was the source for the ghost stories recounted earlier during a ‘field trip’ to Recoleta, and last night I explained to the group of internationals the legend of the Amityville Horror.
Introducción a la Problemática Latinoamericana, however, is a different tale. Styled as a “history class not taught by historians,” this course is taught by not one, not two, but four different professors of varying educational degrees. One of the assistant professors looks almost exactly like Mephistopheles; he only lacks the horns and the cloven goat-feet. The main professor, Arias, is easier to understand, due in part to the fact that he repeats himself at least six times – this is good, because his handwriting is terrible. I suppose once a month we will have each professor, unless some decide to present themselves more often than others.
Teaching aside, the intimidation factor is overwhelming: each week we have to have read all of the material for the assigned unit, since we will be randomly selected and given an assignment of variable length to complete within the following 24, 48, or 72 hours. At the end of the semester, we must present a ‘modest’ 15-20 page paper on a political or social trend throughout Argentine history.
Thankfully, the class is designed for internationals, and as such a fair number of the students in the class also live in Casa Grande. Last week a few of us decided to use the evening as an excuse to go out to dinner afterwards as a sort of reward for our suffering, which we may turn into a tradition as long as we can afford it. Tasty food, great people, what more could I ask for?
*
Of course, for those who have had a sufficiently terrible time in class, work, or life in general, there is always the bar across the street from Casa Grande: Gibraltar, ready to cure your ills with your magic potion of choice. As out of character as it is for me to go to such a noisy, cramped, smoke-filled place, last Thursday night, laden with preoccupations that I could not chase away, Gibraltar was exactly what the doctor ordered: good friends, a good place, and some pretty good beer.
*
We had attempted to go rock climbing early Friday evening but left after we found the place unsatisfactory and none of us were confident enough with what we knew. The subte that had taken us there was surprisingly new and modern, and the station was the nicest I had seen yet: clean, open two-story plazas, clean brushed-steel surfaces, and obviously recent construction with grays and whites becoming the dominant colors. Palermo itself was the same: trees on the streets, cleaner sidewalks, more modern (or at the very least better-cared-for) buildings.
While they stood on the corner of the street trying to figure out which bus to take back from Palermo, I looked up at the night sky and saw, for the first time since my departure, the stars. Faint against the city lights and the pale incomplete moon, they were arranged in a constellation that I did not recognize. Suddenly I realized again with no small sense of thrill and wonder just how far I truly was from everything I have known.
*
The party is supposed to begin at midnight - early by Argentine standards, since the porteños do not usually begin their Friday or Saturday nights until 2 AM - but midnight has long since passed and we are still waiting. We, the guys, stand outside of the main office by the twisting metal stairwell, talking and laughing in a mix of English and Spanish while John, the bald and goateed sereno, looks on with a scowl. One of the Argentines comes up and tries to bum shampoo off from everyone, whining and finally leaving when no one gives him any. Finally all of the girls put on the last touches of makeup and fix their hair just so, and a dozen strong we descend into the early morning of San Telmo.
Shady characters whistle at the girls as we pass by the cracked sidewalks and trash strewn on the street. Out destination, the apartment, thankfully is not far, for the cold is cutting and many are not dressed for a late night excursion. Pairs slip away empty handed to the autoservicios and return with plastic bags whose contents clink merrily. Hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, my frosted breath making vaporous trails about my face, I only half-listen to Olivier and Catalina as we walk. I cannot help it; my attention roams wildly, vigilant, a hound searching for signs of trouble that does not appear. We stop at an unremarkable building, and someone pages the apartment. After a minute the tall doors swing inward, we give the girl the customary kiss on the cheek and head up the narrow cement stairs, wide enough for only one person at a time.
The apartment on the third floor is small, or perhaps it seems that way with the absurd amount of people within it. The kitchen, living room and dining area are all one nebulous, salmon-colored space, and the beds are in a loft upstairs. Outside a small patio looks out onto the lights of Buenos Aires.
Corks twist out of bottles with a pop, bent bottlecaps clatter onto the counter and kitchen table, and the flow begins into white plastic cups - beer, cheap wine, vodka mixed with Tang to create a nightmarish Argentine screwdriver. I watch astonished as Catalina deftly opens a beer bottle with nothing more than a cigarette lighter; her laughing, accented reply is, “What did you expect? I'm German,” and, both laughing now, we toast to that.
The lights are dark except for a single, harsh bulb above the kitchen sink cutting through the room. Faces appear briefly among the shadows: eyes and cheekbones are illuminated by the explosive orange flares of cigarette lighters before vanishing into the dark, leaving only the glowing tips of their cigarettes (or marijuana) to mark their presence. The air is warm and quickly becomes thick with acrid smoke and a mosaic of languages: Spanish, English, Portuguese, Dutch, German.
Time. Booze. Music. Voices. Laughter. Meetings.
As I sit on the couch to retreat from the crowd, the mix and clash of cultures manifest itself on the dance floor. Unfamiliar yet friendly music begins to play, and the towering, bearded Brazilian and several girls begin to samba, kicking their feet back and forth as they dance rapidly in time to the flutes and the beating drums: captivating! Then it ends and a familiar yet unfriendly hip-hop song thunders through the speakers, attracting the Americans and the British who begin gyrating and bouncing in time to the synthetic pulse.
4 AM. My throat rasps. My head hurts. My stomach growls. The guy on the couch next to me
is making out with a girl and rapidly encroaching upon my personal space. It is time for me to leave. I find my jacket and silently curse whoever spilled this mysterious substance upon the collar. Then, descending the hazardous stairs once again with Catalina not far behind, I step out and deeply breathe the cold and comparatively fresh night air. She calls her friend to inform her that she won't be at the party. Her German is fast and surprisingly smooth, making me wish in that moment I knew the language.
“Hamburgesa” is the only place open at this hour of the morning, and is conveniently on the corner of Bolivar and Independencia not far from the party. It is a small place, not quite qualified to be called a restaurant but cheap and quick. Inside we meet Olivier and Ramiro; the latter urges me to buy a burger and pours me some of his beer, all the while grinning and pointing out various pretty girls in the joint. The fries are tasty and the burger, aside from the lack of cheese, is a godsend at that moment. Then, exhausted all, the four of us wander back to Casa Grande and go our separate individual ways to let the night fall over us.
The effects of this night are long-lasting. Saturday begins at noon and is sapped of all energy; lethargy and headaches (for a few) linger for the entire day. That night hardly anyone goes out, opting instead to sample homemade lasagna, play Tetris, drink mate and talk until one by one we succumb to our weary bodies.
*
I can't focus.
Sunday afternoon in San Telmo, bottom floor of Casa Grande, sitting outside my room with my laptop. Distant music drifts down from the floor above. I know it's raining outside because a small puddle is slowly forming on the table, fed by the steady drips from a steel rafter above. Cars and buses still roar by outside, spraying up waves of water off of the cobblestones. Everyone's plans to go out are sufficiently negated and my attempts to recapture this last week are equally stymied.
Upon thinking about it I realize that this lack of focus is not limited to my personal writing, but to my classes in general. Apathy and lack of desire are marking two of my five classes; unfortunately, these are two classes that I should be caring about if I want to gain transfer credit back to Roanoke. Yet the apathy speaks up here and says, “So what?”
This is nothing new. Every year, every semester there are some classes that stir no interest, no desire to perform well or impress anyone. However, when combined with the onset of ‘senioritis’ and the fact that I do not fully understand all that I am being taught, I fear that unless I force myself hard I will truly undo myself this semester.
*
I’m so glad she is no longer sick.
If she hadn’t gotten better, though, my course of action would have been clear.
No matter what.
*
I think I now understand the immigrant mentality of maintaining close ethnic communities - Chinatown, Little Italy. Here among the Argentines we have carved out our own little sphere of home, where we maintain our food, our language, our ways of life, a “little America” in Casa Grande. That is not to say that we are afraid to integrate into our (temporarily) adopted society, nor are we too ignorant to be able to use the native tongue or eat the native foods. Yet at the end of the day, when we are tired, perhaps frustrated, perhaps homesick or sad, it is nice to have a familiar place among the strange new world.
*
Monday saw me head out to the laundromat on Estados Unidos, burdened with a massive duffel bag stuffed with weeks’ worth of dirty laundry. While my wet clothes tumbled behind the round glass doors, I sat in the sun next to some scrawny green plants sketching out rough drafts of a 15th century Spanish newspaper article and a letter from one ghost to another. Gradually a forgotten image formed from some smoky wisps of memory: before we had a washer and dryer in Copiague, a little happy me crawling around the burnt-orange tiles and sending my little matchbox cars racing up and down the sloping floor of the Lindenhurst laundromat.
Funny the things that we forget from when we were little.
*
Last night I with Kiki to the airport to pick up her friend so she would not go alone. After talking to Brit for a while, my stomach demanded nourishment and so I did what all hungry people do: go to Zapi. While I waited by the window for the empanadas to turn a nice golden brown in the huge oven, a familiar emo-rock sound coupled with a high-pitched voice met my ears. To my delight and dismay they pizza guys were not only listening to AFI – they were whistling and attempting to sing along as well.
*
Little things:
“Sometimes I’m not sure if you should be my roommate, or my patient that I should be diagnosing.” – Micky Mack
Cheddar cheese is impossible to find – we spent at least two hours scouring every store in rainy San Telmo looking for it.
I’m learning to make a pretty decent mate.
Telling the story of the Amityville Horror to a group of international students in my Mitos y Leyendas class was perhaps the most complicated and yet fun thing I have done with my Spanish yet.
Above all else, always listen to music. It will always bring you back to your center, no matter how off-kilter you may feel.
We begin our tour here, a meter or three beyond the entrance, with a simple tale here at the footsteps of the memorial to Facundo Quiroga. The story goes that this military mastermind was buried inside this statue standing up. It is a silly legend, of course, and we have since disproved it. Do not be dismayed traveler, for we have many, more interesting stories for you yet.
The cenotaph to the three friends, Adolpho Mitre, Bengino Lugones and Alberto Navarro Viola, is just this way, and their faces still look out from the stone, imploring you not to follow their ways. One night in Paris, spurred on by too much wine, they thought it would be fun to stab a dirk into a grave in a nearby cemetery. Yet when the first friend went in and did so, he did not realize in the dark that he had plunged the blade through his own cape, pinning it to the earth. When he turned to leave he felt something tugging at him and, thinking the dead had reached out to him, died of terror on the very spot. His two friends, seeing him from outside the graveyard, hurriedly retrieved his body and fled. The next day the second friend died from a heart attack and nearly a year later the third died under mysterious circumstances in Paris. The vengeance of the dead? Some still think so, but you are not convinced. Let us move on then!
Speaking of the Mitre family, this impressive tomb is the resting place of the Mitre family, including the famous president Bartolome Mitre. Here a tale must be told of Bartolome's son, Jorge. Jorge was a gentle soul, unaccustomed to the harder ways of the world, and his father disapproved of him immensely, seeing him as a shame to the Mitre name. Jorge, in his despair, fled to Brazil where he ended his own life in a hotel. Some time later, it is said, Bartolome received a letter from the hotel, imploring him to reclaim the remains of his son interred nearby. According to the letter Jorge's weeping ghost still wandered the hotel in the night. When Bartolome finally relented and brought Jorge's body back to Buenos Aires, the ghost in the hotel disappeared and has not been heard from since. Remember this tale, traveler, for the weight of a father's words can crush a young man and torture his soul.
Down this way, where you see the people all huddled together, is the mausoleum of the Duarte family. Behind those onyx doors lies the famous Evita in perhaps what is the greatest irony of her death: to be buried among the rich and the military families, when she was best known as a lady of the working classes. There are always flowers there.
You see this mausoleum here, with the statue of the beautiful woman appearing to step out from the door of the tomb? The strange and tragic tale of Rufina Cambaceres ends, or begins if you choose to believe, at this very place. The daughter of an illegitimate pairing, in spite of her beauty and grace she was plagued by whispers and frowns from the upper class of society. One evening, as she descended the stairs to go out with her boyfriend and her mother one evening, she suddenly collapsed and could not be revived. The doctors declared her dead and she was interred in Recoleta as a way to bring her the respect in death that had eluded her in life. Yet the story does not end here, traveler! A night after she was buried, the groundskeeper heard screams in the dark coming from this very tomb. When they examined the body in the morning, the clothes had been rent asunder and her hair was pulled from her head. Grave robbers? No, for the jewels were still around her neck. Buried alive - can you imagine the terror she must have felt as she drew her last breath alone in a coffin? It was discovered soon after that Rufina had been regularly drugged by her mother so that the older woman could carry on an affair - with Rufina's boyfriend.
Our tour ends here, friend, at the unassuming grave of Pedro Benoit. Some say that he was only a young orphan adopted into an Argentine family, but others claim that he was in fact Louis XVII, the last king of France smuggled to safety as the French monarchy was consumed in the fires of revolution. He lived and died as a porteño and did not disclose his secret until he lay on his deathbed. History cannot prove it, and so we shall never know for certain... although who can say if his spirit still lingers here, looking across the ocean to the kingdom that was never his?
I have many more stories for you, traveler, but those must be kept for another day; my memory fades and I would not want to misguide you. Follow this tree-lined path down until you come to the statue in the center, and from there you can see the gates. As for me? I shall wander for a while until the sun sets and then return to my place among the other spirits. Why would I stray far from my home?
*
In retrospect, I think that some of my frustration should not have been directed at the Argentine way of life but at the university instead. Example: Tuesday the 21st we were all supposed to get to this one place in the city to complete our 3-to-6 month student residency papers. The university officials sent several emails marked IMPORTANTE and made a great song and dance about how the students had to arrive exactly at 9:00 or else… a vague and terrifying threat was left for us to imagine.
9:00 AM. All of the students are present and ready to get their residency papers done. Some, like myself, are skipping class to be present. We are directed to a waiting area and sit in several uncomfortable chairs and wait… and wait… and wait. Thankfully I am only there for two hours before my name is called and I go up. Others have to wait at least 5 hours before they are called. My question (which may be a silly one) is: why were we all there at once instead of staggered throughout the day? Is the “hurry-up-and-wait” really worth the stress and frustration it causes the students?
Perhaps we can write this off with some sort of explanation, but let me present Micky’s case. Micky arrived on time, waited for an hour, and then left to go to class. When he returned he was told by the university people, “No, you can’t get it done today since you left.” Rather than leave and call the morning a waste, however, he went and got a number like any other outside person would have done. Within minutes his number was called and his paperwork was done, much to the surprise of the university people.
I would add to this that the current paper we have is only valid for three months. To get the six month paper, we will have to return on our own and go through more hoops. The university refuses to remind us even by an email. Perhaps it will be better that way.
Thank you USAL. Your lack of response to emails, your misguidance, and your crystal-clear directions have truly enhanced my Argentine experience.
And to Argentina: I’m sorry.
*
Lost in translation:
- thermos instructions: “Tips for a cute performance.”
- sign in the Residency offices: “Precarious residence renewing.”
- offering box in the Catedral: “Donations for the benefit of the cult.”
- lettering on a t-shirt: “To who are you looking?”
*
There is a student from Iceland in one of my classes. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him on Thursday because I had to leave immediately, but as soon as I am able I intend to walk up to him and proudly say, “Sæl! Hvað segirðu?” And they said that I would never use Icelandic in the real world…!
*
On classes, continued:
So far my classes seem to be reasonable, with one exception that I shall later elaborate upon. Normativa del Español is a mixed grammar/literature class, where we read and discuss short stories and then learn about accentuation, punctuation, etc. The professor is young, probably not much older than I am; the age gap is wider with his students, however, since most of them are the equivalent of freshmen. Literatura Argentina has proven easy so far, but intense on the reading. I do not have to do any presentations like the normal students, but I will have to conjure up a paper at the end of the semester and give an oral defense of said thesis – nothing too difficult, I’ve done similar before for my Spanish classes at home. Historia Argentina is not too terrible either, except when I lose the professor to the noise of the cars and trucks. However, I respect a man who tells his students to show up a half hour late to class, because he certainly doesn’t want to be there at 8:30 AM. Mitos y Leyendas Argentinos is quickly turning into my favorite; it was the source for the ghost stories recounted earlier during a ‘field trip’ to Recoleta, and last night I explained to the group of internationals the legend of the Amityville Horror.
Introducción a la Problemática Latinoamericana, however, is a different tale. Styled as a “history class not taught by historians,” this course is taught by not one, not two, but four different professors of varying educational degrees. One of the assistant professors looks almost exactly like Mephistopheles; he only lacks the horns and the cloven goat-feet. The main professor, Arias, is easier to understand, due in part to the fact that he repeats himself at least six times – this is good, because his handwriting is terrible. I suppose once a month we will have each professor, unless some decide to present themselves more often than others.
Teaching aside, the intimidation factor is overwhelming: each week we have to have read all of the material for the assigned unit, since we will be randomly selected and given an assignment of variable length to complete within the following 24, 48, or 72 hours. At the end of the semester, we must present a ‘modest’ 15-20 page paper on a political or social trend throughout Argentine history.
Thankfully, the class is designed for internationals, and as such a fair number of the students in the class also live in Casa Grande. Last week a few of us decided to use the evening as an excuse to go out to dinner afterwards as a sort of reward for our suffering, which we may turn into a tradition as long as we can afford it. Tasty food, great people, what more could I ask for?
*
Of course, for those who have had a sufficiently terrible time in class, work, or life in general, there is always the bar across the street from Casa Grande: Gibraltar, ready to cure your ills with your magic potion of choice. As out of character as it is for me to go to such a noisy, cramped, smoke-filled place, last Thursday night, laden with preoccupations that I could not chase away, Gibraltar was exactly what the doctor ordered: good friends, a good place, and some pretty good beer.
*
We had attempted to go rock climbing early Friday evening but left after we found the place unsatisfactory and none of us were confident enough with what we knew. The subte that had taken us there was surprisingly new and modern, and the station was the nicest I had seen yet: clean, open two-story plazas, clean brushed-steel surfaces, and obviously recent construction with grays and whites becoming the dominant colors. Palermo itself was the same: trees on the streets, cleaner sidewalks, more modern (or at the very least better-cared-for) buildings.
While they stood on the corner of the street trying to figure out which bus to take back from Palermo, I looked up at the night sky and saw, for the first time since my departure, the stars. Faint against the city lights and the pale incomplete moon, they were arranged in a constellation that I did not recognize. Suddenly I realized again with no small sense of thrill and wonder just how far I truly was from everything I have known.
*
The party is supposed to begin at midnight - early by Argentine standards, since the porteños do not usually begin their Friday or Saturday nights until 2 AM - but midnight has long since passed and we are still waiting. We, the guys, stand outside of the main office by the twisting metal stairwell, talking and laughing in a mix of English and Spanish while John, the bald and goateed sereno, looks on with a scowl. One of the Argentines comes up and tries to bum shampoo off from everyone, whining and finally leaving when no one gives him any. Finally all of the girls put on the last touches of makeup and fix their hair just so, and a dozen strong we descend into the early morning of San Telmo.
Shady characters whistle at the girls as we pass by the cracked sidewalks and trash strewn on the street. Out destination, the apartment, thankfully is not far, for the cold is cutting and many are not dressed for a late night excursion. Pairs slip away empty handed to the autoservicios and return with plastic bags whose contents clink merrily. Hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, my frosted breath making vaporous trails about my face, I only half-listen to Olivier and Catalina as we walk. I cannot help it; my attention roams wildly, vigilant, a hound searching for signs of trouble that does not appear. We stop at an unremarkable building, and someone pages the apartment. After a minute the tall doors swing inward, we give the girl the customary kiss on the cheek and head up the narrow cement stairs, wide enough for only one person at a time.
The apartment on the third floor is small, or perhaps it seems that way with the absurd amount of people within it. The kitchen, living room and dining area are all one nebulous, salmon-colored space, and the beds are in a loft upstairs. Outside a small patio looks out onto the lights of Buenos Aires.
Corks twist out of bottles with a pop, bent bottlecaps clatter onto the counter and kitchen table, and the flow begins into white plastic cups - beer, cheap wine, vodka mixed with Tang to create a nightmarish Argentine screwdriver. I watch astonished as Catalina deftly opens a beer bottle with nothing more than a cigarette lighter; her laughing, accented reply is, “What did you expect? I'm German,” and, both laughing now, we toast to that.
The lights are dark except for a single, harsh bulb above the kitchen sink cutting through the room. Faces appear briefly among the shadows: eyes and cheekbones are illuminated by the explosive orange flares of cigarette lighters before vanishing into the dark, leaving only the glowing tips of their cigarettes (or marijuana) to mark their presence. The air is warm and quickly becomes thick with acrid smoke and a mosaic of languages: Spanish, English, Portuguese, Dutch, German.
Time. Booze. Music. Voices. Laughter. Meetings.
As I sit on the couch to retreat from the crowd, the mix and clash of cultures manifest itself on the dance floor. Unfamiliar yet friendly music begins to play, and the towering, bearded Brazilian and several girls begin to samba, kicking their feet back and forth as they dance rapidly in time to the flutes and the beating drums: captivating! Then it ends and a familiar yet unfriendly hip-hop song thunders through the speakers, attracting the Americans and the British who begin gyrating and bouncing in time to the synthetic pulse.
4 AM. My throat rasps. My head hurts. My stomach growls. The guy on the couch next to me
is making out with a girl and rapidly encroaching upon my personal space. It is time for me to leave. I find my jacket and silently curse whoever spilled this mysterious substance upon the collar. Then, descending the hazardous stairs once again with Catalina not far behind, I step out and deeply breathe the cold and comparatively fresh night air. She calls her friend to inform her that she won't be at the party. Her German is fast and surprisingly smooth, making me wish in that moment I knew the language.
“Hamburgesa” is the only place open at this hour of the morning, and is conveniently on the corner of Bolivar and Independencia not far from the party. It is a small place, not quite qualified to be called a restaurant but cheap and quick. Inside we meet Olivier and Ramiro; the latter urges me to buy a burger and pours me some of his beer, all the while grinning and pointing out various pretty girls in the joint. The fries are tasty and the burger, aside from the lack of cheese, is a godsend at that moment. Then, exhausted all, the four of us wander back to Casa Grande and go our separate individual ways to let the night fall over us.
The effects of this night are long-lasting. Saturday begins at noon and is sapped of all energy; lethargy and headaches (for a few) linger for the entire day. That night hardly anyone goes out, opting instead to sample homemade lasagna, play Tetris, drink mate and talk until one by one we succumb to our weary bodies.
*
I can't focus.
Sunday afternoon in San Telmo, bottom floor of Casa Grande, sitting outside my room with my laptop. Distant music drifts down from the floor above. I know it's raining outside because a small puddle is slowly forming on the table, fed by the steady drips from a steel rafter above. Cars and buses still roar by outside, spraying up waves of water off of the cobblestones. Everyone's plans to go out are sufficiently negated and my attempts to recapture this last week are equally stymied.
Upon thinking about it I realize that this lack of focus is not limited to my personal writing, but to my classes in general. Apathy and lack of desire are marking two of my five classes; unfortunately, these are two classes that I should be caring about if I want to gain transfer credit back to Roanoke. Yet the apathy speaks up here and says, “So what?”
This is nothing new. Every year, every semester there are some classes that stir no interest, no desire to perform well or impress anyone. However, when combined with the onset of ‘senioritis’ and the fact that I do not fully understand all that I am being taught, I fear that unless I force myself hard I will truly undo myself this semester.
*
I’m so glad she is no longer sick.
If she hadn’t gotten better, though, my course of action would have been clear.
No matter what.
*
I think I now understand the immigrant mentality of maintaining close ethnic communities - Chinatown, Little Italy. Here among the Argentines we have carved out our own little sphere of home, where we maintain our food, our language, our ways of life, a “little America” in Casa Grande. That is not to say that we are afraid to integrate into our (temporarily) adopted society, nor are we too ignorant to be able to use the native tongue or eat the native foods. Yet at the end of the day, when we are tired, perhaps frustrated, perhaps homesick or sad, it is nice to have a familiar place among the strange new world.
*
Monday saw me head out to the laundromat on Estados Unidos, burdened with a massive duffel bag stuffed with weeks’ worth of dirty laundry. While my wet clothes tumbled behind the round glass doors, I sat in the sun next to some scrawny green plants sketching out rough drafts of a 15th century Spanish newspaper article and a letter from one ghost to another. Gradually a forgotten image formed from some smoky wisps of memory: before we had a washer and dryer in Copiague, a little happy me crawling around the burnt-orange tiles and sending my little matchbox cars racing up and down the sloping floor of the Lindenhurst laundromat.
Funny the things that we forget from when we were little.
*
Last night I with Kiki to the airport to pick up her friend so she would not go alone. After talking to Brit for a while, my stomach demanded nourishment and so I did what all hungry people do: go to Zapi. While I waited by the window for the empanadas to turn a nice golden brown in the huge oven, a familiar emo-rock sound coupled with a high-pitched voice met my ears. To my delight and dismay they pizza guys were not only listening to AFI – they were whistling and attempting to sing along as well.
*
Little things:
“Sometimes I’m not sure if you should be my roommate, or my patient that I should be diagnosing.” – Micky Mack
Cheddar cheese is impossible to find – we spent at least two hours scouring every store in rainy San Telmo looking for it.
I’m learning to make a pretty decent mate.
Telling the story of the Amityville Horror to a group of international students in my Mitos y Leyendas class was perhaps the most complicated and yet fun thing I have done with my Spanish yet.
Above all else, always listen to music. It will always bring you back to your center, no matter how off-kilter you may feel.
20.8.07
Jaca negra, luna grande
Perú 896. 2:17 AM. We are four.
The bottom floor of Casa Grande is dark, very dark: after 23:00 the lights are turned off, and there are no windows so far down to catch the glow from the streets. The only light we have now spills through my open door across the way; it casts long, gray shadows upon everything. The other students have disappeared: some have gone to sleep, others have gone out for the night and will not return until just before dawn. Micky, my roommate, has gone upstairs with his laptop to seek out a stray wireless signal, and Wes has probably gone to the bar across the street. Tonight we are almost alone.
I sit with my notebook, leaning with one arm on the table, my bathrobe pulled around my street clothes as I idly twirl the pencil in my other hand. Eileen slumps against the tiled wall, tired but not uninterested in the conversation, seemingly hiding in the layers of her yellow hoodie. Ben, the environmental scientist, sits with his elbows on end of the table, looking in the shadows like a strange breed of wild hippie: unkempt black hair, dark beard, glasses, bright tie-dye t-shirt. Across from me, Jenal leans back casually in her chair, still dressed from her evening out with Ramiro: wide, flat hoop earrings catch the light and glimmer as she turns her head. Sangria and mate, that herbal tea brewed in small gourds that nearly all Argentines drink, have flowed freely tonight, and their combined effects have led to our state now.
Our conversation wanders across many lands: Narnia, Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, languages, philosophy, religion, and comes full circle as it arrives at C.S. Lewis. The sound of the rain pounding on the distant roof, two floors above, trickles down through the flimsy plastic panels and metal floor-grates above our heads. Earlier in the evening hail had streaked down from the sky and Ben had rushed to the roof to save his bonsai tree from a frozen death. Now it is cold again, as it almost always is in Casa Grande – a persistent cold, tainted by the lingering smoke from the extinguished cigarettes in the flimsy metal ashtray.
Before us the table has collected a series of artifacts from our day: the remote control for the TV that hangs dark and silent beside the stairwell. An empty plastic bottle, the label in Spanish. An old Nutella jar that, cleaned and stripped of its label, has become a poor man’s drinking glass. Wadded-up plastic bag. The bonsai tree no bigger than my hand. In between discussing the relationship between Old English and Rohirric, a thought flickers in my tired mind: if the walls were to collapse around us and hundreds of years later strange men speaking a descendant of Argentine Spanish were to examine the remains of our gathering, what would they conclude?
*
Even though I am closer, the distance still kills me every night.
Yet I believe that everything will be all right.
*
To the tune of “Spiderman”:
Tucumán, Tucumán
En la calle Tucumán
¿De dónde sos? Soy alemán
En la calle Tucumán
¡Mira! Estás vos en Tucumán.
by Dave DeRicco and Micky Mack
*
De comidas:
Breakfast in Argentina is a very light affair, consisting generally of bread, facturas – delicious pastries of various types filled with cream, dulce de leche, or frutilla - or medialunas - half-moons, similar to croissants - accompanied by a small glass of juice and café con leche or té. Lunch and dinner are taken much later than in the United States; while there seems to be no particular hour for lunch, dinner is usually had no earlier than 8:30 or 9:00, and many restaurants do not begin serving dinner until such time. Of course, for those who are desperate and do not desire to cook, there are always other options: Zapi, the local pizza-y-empanada chain; Hamburgesa, the 24-hour burger place; and the pan-Asian restaurant less than a block away that serves excellent (and inexpensive) chow mein.
Like many other countries, it is uncommon to go to the store and buy groceries en masse to last for a few weeks; instead the Argentines make smaller, more frequent trips, usually buying no more than what they need for a few days or so. Part of this may be due to the fact that unlike the United States, which stocks its shelves full of easily-prepared food in jars, boxes, and cans designed for a rapid society, the Argentines take pride in preparing their food from the more basic ingredients. I was painfully aware of this as I watched Luciano conjure up a tomato sauce almost from scratch – my thoughts uncomfortably went back to the ready-made sauce I had in the refrigerator. However, as he explained to me how it was done and offered to help me in the future, I felt a small thrill in my blood. I thought about my grandmother, who knew how to cook so many wonderful things while she was alive. My dad still claims that her tomato sauce was a barometer of her mood – when she felt good, the sauce was great, and when she was not feeling good the sauce was not as great. When she died so many of those things were lost, because she never wrote down her recipes and we did not always have the time to watch how she made them. Yet I am excited that this place, with its ever-present Italian influence, may help me rediscover a few things for myself.
Fresh fruit and vegetables are abundantly available from almost every small shop. Even the small autoservicios on the corner usually have a fairly sizable display of tomatoes, apples, bananas, and mandarins among other items. Autoservicios are the rough equivalent of a 7-11 in Argentina, with the notable difference that your stereotypical autoservicio is run by Asians instead of Indians (I am not making this up). In spite of the fact that their Spanish may be worse than mine, they are always very friendly and after one or two trips will remember your face and ask you how you are doing.
Of course, just because we are immersed in the Argentine culture does not mean our cooking has adapted as well. Recent memorable meals (most prepared by Micky) have included barbecue ribs with mashed potatoes and peas, pork chops with mashed potatoes and creamed corn, cheeseburgers, and spaghetti with tomato sauce. Our stomachs, at least, are always ready for a taste of home, especially at the end of a particularly stressful day.
Finally, one cannot discuss anything in Argentina without eventually coming to the topic of mate. Many students here, including some Americans who have adopted the custom, carry large thermoses of hot water everywhere they go for the sole purpose of brewing this bitter tea. The loose leaves, yerba, are placed inside the mate vessel - traditionally a gourd, but many are found that are made of metal or ceramic with a wooden interior, or are covered with leather on the outside. Sugar can be added if a sweeter taste is desired, or some may choose to add orange rinds for flavor. The metal straw, or bombilla, is inserted among the mixture. Water or warm milk is then poured over half of the leaves until it is absorbed, then the entire vessel is filled to the top. While mate can be consumed alone, it is a general social practice to share it among several people – you drink the tea in the mate, refill it, and pass it along to the next person. This is done while watching TV, talking, doing homework, or any other occasion that brings people together.
The powers and myths associated with this drink are many: fills the stomach when you are hungry, keeps you warm, the perfect companion for an all-nighter, healthier than coffee, releases tension, prevents sickness, will make your stomach explode if mixed with a certain type of food. My mind snaps immediately to several legendary substances in fictional writing, such as lembas or the Spice.
I have my own mate, a gift from Brit after she discovered she did not care for the taste. I have acquired the taste for it… now all I need is a thermos. If my eyes have turned an unnatural blue-in-blue when I return, you will understand why.
*
I am tired.
So very tired…
… of worrying about money.
… of dealing with this uncaring, disorganized, useless university.
… of worrying about my next meal.
… of missing people, especially her.
… of being cut off.
… of being tired.
*
Sometime before 7 AM, Córdoba. The bus lurches and suddenly I am oddly wide awake. In spite of the thick, disgusting snoring that had surrounded me the night before, eventually I had fallen asleep, grateful for the relative comfort of the coche-cama autobus. I look past my sleeping seatmate through a gap in the curtains. The sky is still dark, and the amber lights roll slowly past in the early morning. I’m getting closer. Somewhere in the corner of my memory the dust stirs around a fragment of a Spanish poem I once memorized:
“Córdoba, lejana y sola...”
Are you so distant and lonely now? I wonder. Slowly I put my shoes back on and move the flat, movable footrest back into its upright position. The row of fluorescent lights flickers on and I gather my things – jacket, backpack – then descend to the first level of the bus and step out into the cold morning air. A few minutes later, having exchanged a few monedas for my duffel bag, I walk through the broad glass doors into the bus station. The crowd is tired, like me, many unaccustomed to being awake at such an hour – they sit in the cheap cafes, baggage at their side, sipping burnt coffee and eating a medialuna while they wait for their bus to depart. But this is not their story.
My cell phone emerges from my pocket and I press one button, the button that has become almost second instinct to dial. A few quick words are exchanged on the phone – she’s on her way, this is my gate, etc. – and we hang up. I wait by the stairs, my backpack tucked under my right arm and my duffel securely situated at my feet. Minutes pass. I call again, but this time there is no answer. Suddenly through the trickling flow of people a familiar face stands out; I wave, and her smile breaks over me like the dawn that has not yet come as she rushes into my arms. In that moment, as I hold her in my embrace again, the stress and cares of the last two weeks fall away and I feel like I have returned home.
*
Buenos Aires is a ticking pocketwatch: a series of tight, compact gears and springs whose complex, delicate mechanism is barely contained in a dull brass casing. Should one open up the back of the watch and be careless, it will explode outward upon you with cogs, pins and toothed wheels scattering in such disarray that not even a clocksmith could repair it.
Córdoba is a grandfather clock: a tranquil, slowly moving mechanism of larger gears, rising and falling pendulums and a slow, sonorous chime. Should one open the back of the polished wood casing and be careless, the clock will stumble, falter and cease its motion, but in the hands of a master will quickly be set right.
OR
Buenos Aires is a great river that rushes headlong into the sea, torn by currents and manipulated by many sources into a mass of ripples, whitewaters, and churning eddies.
Córdoba is a lazy river in the summer, upon whose waters you set an inner tube and float carelessly for hours at a time.
*
Like any large city Córdoba is not without its questionable areas. Brit lives further out from the center in a neighborhood with many broad, one-story ranch houses; a good place, but not far from an area that might be unsafe. Yet even while we walked along the gray cement canal with its stunted trees, puddles of stagnant water and broken lightposts, the heightened sense of alertness which has become a sort of grim companion was diminished.
Why such a difference? Why does Córdoba seem so stable, so tranquil, so much friendlier than her sister to the south? Ramiro explained that in Buenos Aires, the attitude of the average porteño is very self-concerned - they live day to day mired in their own preoccupations, caring little for the surroundings that do not immediately affect them. I wonder if this can be attributed to the constant flux of people through Buenos Aires: foreigners, campesinos and porteños alike, as opposed to the more stable populations of other cities. It could be a factor of the sheer size – New Yorkers are known for being less hospitable than the citizens of many other cities. Yet for whatever reason, the cordobeses seem friendlier, more at ease with their daily life, and their city perfectly manifests that attitude.
*
While in Córdoba I had the chance to get to know and be taken in by Brit’s host mother, a woman by the name of Olga Quero. In many ways she reminded me of my aforementioned grandmother – kind, warm, always ready to offer food or whatever else she could to guests. She provided me with several meals, including a packed lunch on Monday while Brit went to class. The house too, seemed familiar even as it was foreign: the decorations in Brit’s room, the bathroom, the kitchen… before long I identified them as things that would not have been out of place in my grandparents’ house.
I would be lying if I said that I did not feel a little homesick and a little jealous at that point. Nevertheless, I am grateful for Olga, and I am overwhelmingly grateful that Brit has the chance to live with someone so wonderful and so devoted to caring for her charges.
*
Sunday night in Olga’s house. Brit and I are sitting at the table talking to Olga and telling her how we met, what we study in Roanoke, and so forth. I mention that I worked at the college’s IT department fixing computers. Suddenly Olga’s face brightens and she says, “Oh! Have you looked at Megan’s?” Megan, another American student living in the house, could not access the internet despite getting a strong connection to the house’s wireless network. The laptop (a Dell, no less) was placed in my hands and my attention was consumed. My mind ran through every possibility it could conjure up as I went through the familiar steps, narrowing down the culprit with every moment. I talked to myself, I swore at the computer when my attempts failed. Suddenly the problem was worse – it would not connect at all. Desperately I tried to retrace my steps, to undo the damage, but the problem remained, taunting me. Then, dimly, a random observation led to a brilliant realization. With a few clicks and a keystroke the wireless was restored and the multicolored Google logo appeared at my command, delivering information about baboons. Megan was overjoyed to have the internet, Brit smiled at me proudly, and I felt the sense of satisfaction that comes with getting something done. It felt good… really good.
It was then I realized just how much I miss my job.
*
Perhaps it was her presence alone. Perhaps it was the city, so different from Buenos Aires. Perhaps it was escaping from the place that I have alternately loathed and loved since I arrived. Whatever it may be, while I was with Brit in Córdoba I felt alive, more like myself. With her hand and mine together in the cold, with her eyes meeting mine over a table in a café, with her voice whispering in my ear the concerns and the stress of the last three weeks melted and washed away. Even when we were seemingly stuck at the movie theatre at midnight with no hope of getting a taxi back to the hotel, I still felt confident, strong, not unwary but not afraid.
Somewhere in my fitful sleep on the return bus I transformed back into the creature I am now: lean, hungry, solitary, wary, like a dog that has learned to become a wolf in the wild. Uncertainty, sadness, and fear are traits that I must suppress when I am among others, lest these things be perceived as weaknesses. A layer of weariness always hangs about me like a tattered shroud that I cannot rend; even my sleep does not satisfy. Most nights I slip into my dreams easily, but soon waken in the forgotten hours of the morning, plagued by devils that do not show their faces. I have become something different, as I knew I would have to be after the first weekend… but I do not know if I like what I have become.
*
That dark night, while walking beneath the towering palm trees in the empty Plaza de Mayo with shadows and cool white light caught in the misty raindrops on my glasses, in between my wonder and my missing I could not help but remember the eternal words of that great Argentine writer, Borges: “I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as out memory does.”
This was his city, and for a time it shall be mine.
*
Surrealizations:
I am speaking a foreign language while I live in a foreign country. I will be here for four months. My girlfriend is in the same country – we both decided to come here before we were even dating. After we finish our classes we will travel together through this foreign country. I am living on my own. This is my last year of college. In May I will approach the stage in a cap and gown and walk away with a degree. Some of the incoming freshmen at Roanoke were born in 1990. By this time next year... I do not know what I will be doing.
Oh. My. God.
*
The closest shopping, which is the Argentine way of saying “mall,” is located on Calle Florida, that pedestrian thoroughfare that by day spawns its own form of culture with street musicians playing flutes and guitars, intrusive salespeople, vendors selling various goods on old blankets, and beggars asking for a few monedas with outstretched palms. Galerías Pacifico is a magnificent old building that was converted from an old rail station, and the architecture still reflects that: high ceilings with abundant skylights, Corinthian columns of gray stone, fountains, and polished wood-framed windows that look out onto the inner promenades. Like most malls it has all of the requisites: a food court, many stores, small kiosks in the middle of the promenades. Galerías Pacifico also is home to the Borges Cultural Center, named for the aforementioned writer but not dedicated to him; instead the Center contains a theatre and several art galleries on the very top floor of the building. Some of the art on display was beautiful, some unusual, and some purely questionable on several levels; art, like the war in Iraq, maintains its controversial status no matter where I go.
Most of the stores are unfamiliar, but a few names stick out: Adidas, Wrangler, Christian Dior. Of note also is the Global Refund Kiosk, an important place for any traveler who buys clothing (in my case, a pair of jeans) and intends to return to their country of origin. The Argentines pay a tax on clothing that is automatically integrated into the price of an item, but foreigners can receive a refund check upon leaving the country. The sum admittedly is not much: a few Argentine pesos at best (and even fewer American dollars), but I never mind having someone return money to me, whatever form it may take.
*
Little things:
It is a very satisfying feeling to look in a tourist’s guidebook to Buenos Aires and realize that you have seen the majority of the mentioned highlights.
The Mormons have apparently established quite a presence in Córdoba, or so Luciano told me while lamenting the Catholic Church’s apparent loss of respect in his home province. Religious implications notwithstanding, this means that the Latter-Day Saints can now join McDonald’s, Coca-Cola, and the Hard Rock Café under that most prestigious heading: “Wherever you go, there they are.”
San Telmo once had a either a train or a trolley service – the rails, where they are not covered by worn asphalt, can still be seen embedded in the blue-gray cobblestone streets.
Olivier from Switzerland; Marishka from Holland; the French students whose names I forget; they all speak their respective mother tongue, excellent English, varying degrees of Spanish, and in some cases yet another language. How is it that the average American can barely handle two college semesters’ worth of a foreign language?
On national holidays such as August 20th (the anniversary of Gral. San Martín’s death) it is possible to walk down the middle of a 6-lane road without once moving aside for cars, taxis, or buses. The empty streets are so strange yet oddly comfortable.
*
Ladies and Gentlemen:
I apologize for missing last Tuesday’s post. As you can tell, a lot has been going on and I still have not managed to record it all. Still it is worth the time and effort to continue writing like this – at the very least it gives me reason to practice, and will help me to remember.
Overall my situation is improving. The residence claims that within the next week or two it will be installing wireless throughout the building, so I may find myself able to update with some more regularity (assuming, of course, the wireless installation does not become condemned to mañana) and regain normal communication. Micky has been feeding me well and putting up with my general lack of knowledge in the kitchen. The professors are still tardy to class, but they seem friendly enough and the establishment of a routine has made things smoother.
As I type these words the residence is almost empty, since many people are taking advantage of the three-day weekend to travel. Many of the Americans left Thursday or Friday to go to Córdoba and a few others went out to the countryside with the ostensible objective of going camping. My reasons for staying behind are many: I traveled last weekend, the camping trip did not have many fixed plans, the cold weather has returned, and I am only now getting over a persistent headache and old-man cough. However, the relative quiet has given me time to catch up with my writing, heal, read some articles for class, take an easy afternoon with a cup of coffee, and wander around Buenos Aires taking pictures. I feel a lot better.
On that note: those of you with a Facebook account should be able to access my photos. For those who do not have Facebook, do not desire to have Facebook, should not have Facebook, or do not know what Facebook is, you should be able to use the following links. Please let me know if they work.
Link : Part I
Link : Part II
¡Saludos!
The bottom floor of Casa Grande is dark, very dark: after 23:00 the lights are turned off, and there are no windows so far down to catch the glow from the streets. The only light we have now spills through my open door across the way; it casts long, gray shadows upon everything. The other students have disappeared: some have gone to sleep, others have gone out for the night and will not return until just before dawn. Micky, my roommate, has gone upstairs with his laptop to seek out a stray wireless signal, and Wes has probably gone to the bar across the street. Tonight we are almost alone.
I sit with my notebook, leaning with one arm on the table, my bathrobe pulled around my street clothes as I idly twirl the pencil in my other hand. Eileen slumps against the tiled wall, tired but not uninterested in the conversation, seemingly hiding in the layers of her yellow hoodie. Ben, the environmental scientist, sits with his elbows on end of the table, looking in the shadows like a strange breed of wild hippie: unkempt black hair, dark beard, glasses, bright tie-dye t-shirt. Across from me, Jenal leans back casually in her chair, still dressed from her evening out with Ramiro: wide, flat hoop earrings catch the light and glimmer as she turns her head. Sangria and mate, that herbal tea brewed in small gourds that nearly all Argentines drink, have flowed freely tonight, and their combined effects have led to our state now.
Our conversation wanders across many lands: Narnia, Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, languages, philosophy, religion, and comes full circle as it arrives at C.S. Lewis. The sound of the rain pounding on the distant roof, two floors above, trickles down through the flimsy plastic panels and metal floor-grates above our heads. Earlier in the evening hail had streaked down from the sky and Ben had rushed to the roof to save his bonsai tree from a frozen death. Now it is cold again, as it almost always is in Casa Grande – a persistent cold, tainted by the lingering smoke from the extinguished cigarettes in the flimsy metal ashtray.
Before us the table has collected a series of artifacts from our day: the remote control for the TV that hangs dark and silent beside the stairwell. An empty plastic bottle, the label in Spanish. An old Nutella jar that, cleaned and stripped of its label, has become a poor man’s drinking glass. Wadded-up plastic bag. The bonsai tree no bigger than my hand. In between discussing the relationship between Old English and Rohirric, a thought flickers in my tired mind: if the walls were to collapse around us and hundreds of years later strange men speaking a descendant of Argentine Spanish were to examine the remains of our gathering, what would they conclude?
*
Even though I am closer, the distance still kills me every night.
Yet I believe that everything will be all right.
*
To the tune of “Spiderman”:
Tucumán, Tucumán
En la calle Tucumán
¿De dónde sos? Soy alemán
En la calle Tucumán
¡Mira! Estás vos en Tucumán.
by Dave DeRicco and Micky Mack
*
De comidas:
Breakfast in Argentina is a very light affair, consisting generally of bread, facturas – delicious pastries of various types filled with cream, dulce de leche, or frutilla - or medialunas - half-moons, similar to croissants - accompanied by a small glass of juice and café con leche or té. Lunch and dinner are taken much later than in the United States; while there seems to be no particular hour for lunch, dinner is usually had no earlier than 8:30 or 9:00, and many restaurants do not begin serving dinner until such time. Of course, for those who are desperate and do not desire to cook, there are always other options: Zapi, the local pizza-y-empanada chain; Hamburgesa, the 24-hour burger place; and the pan-Asian restaurant less than a block away that serves excellent (and inexpensive) chow mein.
Like many other countries, it is uncommon to go to the store and buy groceries en masse to last for a few weeks; instead the Argentines make smaller, more frequent trips, usually buying no more than what they need for a few days or so. Part of this may be due to the fact that unlike the United States, which stocks its shelves full of easily-prepared food in jars, boxes, and cans designed for a rapid society, the Argentines take pride in preparing their food from the more basic ingredients. I was painfully aware of this as I watched Luciano conjure up a tomato sauce almost from scratch – my thoughts uncomfortably went back to the ready-made sauce I had in the refrigerator. However, as he explained to me how it was done and offered to help me in the future, I felt a small thrill in my blood. I thought about my grandmother, who knew how to cook so many wonderful things while she was alive. My dad still claims that her tomato sauce was a barometer of her mood – when she felt good, the sauce was great, and when she was not feeling good the sauce was not as great. When she died so many of those things were lost, because she never wrote down her recipes and we did not always have the time to watch how she made them. Yet I am excited that this place, with its ever-present Italian influence, may help me rediscover a few things for myself.
Fresh fruit and vegetables are abundantly available from almost every small shop. Even the small autoservicios on the corner usually have a fairly sizable display of tomatoes, apples, bananas, and mandarins among other items. Autoservicios are the rough equivalent of a 7-11 in Argentina, with the notable difference that your stereotypical autoservicio is run by Asians instead of Indians (I am not making this up). In spite of the fact that their Spanish may be worse than mine, they are always very friendly and after one or two trips will remember your face and ask you how you are doing.
Of course, just because we are immersed in the Argentine culture does not mean our cooking has adapted as well. Recent memorable meals (most prepared by Micky) have included barbecue ribs with mashed potatoes and peas, pork chops with mashed potatoes and creamed corn, cheeseburgers, and spaghetti with tomato sauce. Our stomachs, at least, are always ready for a taste of home, especially at the end of a particularly stressful day.
Finally, one cannot discuss anything in Argentina without eventually coming to the topic of mate. Many students here, including some Americans who have adopted the custom, carry large thermoses of hot water everywhere they go for the sole purpose of brewing this bitter tea. The loose leaves, yerba, are placed inside the mate vessel - traditionally a gourd, but many are found that are made of metal or ceramic with a wooden interior, or are covered with leather on the outside. Sugar can be added if a sweeter taste is desired, or some may choose to add orange rinds for flavor. The metal straw, or bombilla, is inserted among the mixture. Water or warm milk is then poured over half of the leaves until it is absorbed, then the entire vessel is filled to the top. While mate can be consumed alone, it is a general social practice to share it among several people – you drink the tea in the mate, refill it, and pass it along to the next person. This is done while watching TV, talking, doing homework, or any other occasion that brings people together.
The powers and myths associated with this drink are many: fills the stomach when you are hungry, keeps you warm, the perfect companion for an all-nighter, healthier than coffee, releases tension, prevents sickness, will make your stomach explode if mixed with a certain type of food. My mind snaps immediately to several legendary substances in fictional writing, such as lembas or the Spice.
I have my own mate, a gift from Brit after she discovered she did not care for the taste. I have acquired the taste for it… now all I need is a thermos. If my eyes have turned an unnatural blue-in-blue when I return, you will understand why.
*
I am tired.
So very tired…
… of worrying about money.
… of dealing with this uncaring, disorganized, useless university.
… of worrying about my next meal.
… of missing people, especially her.
… of being cut off.
… of being tired.
*
Sometime before 7 AM, Córdoba. The bus lurches and suddenly I am oddly wide awake. In spite of the thick, disgusting snoring that had surrounded me the night before, eventually I had fallen asleep, grateful for the relative comfort of the coche-cama autobus. I look past my sleeping seatmate through a gap in the curtains. The sky is still dark, and the amber lights roll slowly past in the early morning. I’m getting closer. Somewhere in the corner of my memory the dust stirs around a fragment of a Spanish poem I once memorized:
“Córdoba, lejana y sola...”
Are you so distant and lonely now? I wonder. Slowly I put my shoes back on and move the flat, movable footrest back into its upright position. The row of fluorescent lights flickers on and I gather my things – jacket, backpack – then descend to the first level of the bus and step out into the cold morning air. A few minutes later, having exchanged a few monedas for my duffel bag, I walk through the broad glass doors into the bus station. The crowd is tired, like me, many unaccustomed to being awake at such an hour – they sit in the cheap cafes, baggage at their side, sipping burnt coffee and eating a medialuna while they wait for their bus to depart. But this is not their story.
My cell phone emerges from my pocket and I press one button, the button that has become almost second instinct to dial. A few quick words are exchanged on the phone – she’s on her way, this is my gate, etc. – and we hang up. I wait by the stairs, my backpack tucked under my right arm and my duffel securely situated at my feet. Minutes pass. I call again, but this time there is no answer. Suddenly through the trickling flow of people a familiar face stands out; I wave, and her smile breaks over me like the dawn that has not yet come as she rushes into my arms. In that moment, as I hold her in my embrace again, the stress and cares of the last two weeks fall away and I feel like I have returned home.
*
Buenos Aires is a ticking pocketwatch: a series of tight, compact gears and springs whose complex, delicate mechanism is barely contained in a dull brass casing. Should one open up the back of the watch and be careless, it will explode outward upon you with cogs, pins and toothed wheels scattering in such disarray that not even a clocksmith could repair it.
Córdoba is a grandfather clock: a tranquil, slowly moving mechanism of larger gears, rising and falling pendulums and a slow, sonorous chime. Should one open the back of the polished wood casing and be careless, the clock will stumble, falter and cease its motion, but in the hands of a master will quickly be set right.
OR
Buenos Aires is a great river that rushes headlong into the sea, torn by currents and manipulated by many sources into a mass of ripples, whitewaters, and churning eddies.
Córdoba is a lazy river in the summer, upon whose waters you set an inner tube and float carelessly for hours at a time.
*
Like any large city Córdoba is not without its questionable areas. Brit lives further out from the center in a neighborhood with many broad, one-story ranch houses; a good place, but not far from an area that might be unsafe. Yet even while we walked along the gray cement canal with its stunted trees, puddles of stagnant water and broken lightposts, the heightened sense of alertness which has become a sort of grim companion was diminished.
Why such a difference? Why does Córdoba seem so stable, so tranquil, so much friendlier than her sister to the south? Ramiro explained that in Buenos Aires, the attitude of the average porteño is very self-concerned - they live day to day mired in their own preoccupations, caring little for the surroundings that do not immediately affect them. I wonder if this can be attributed to the constant flux of people through Buenos Aires: foreigners, campesinos and porteños alike, as opposed to the more stable populations of other cities. It could be a factor of the sheer size – New Yorkers are known for being less hospitable than the citizens of many other cities. Yet for whatever reason, the cordobeses seem friendlier, more at ease with their daily life, and their city perfectly manifests that attitude.
*
While in Córdoba I had the chance to get to know and be taken in by Brit’s host mother, a woman by the name of Olga Quero. In many ways she reminded me of my aforementioned grandmother – kind, warm, always ready to offer food or whatever else she could to guests. She provided me with several meals, including a packed lunch on Monday while Brit went to class. The house too, seemed familiar even as it was foreign: the decorations in Brit’s room, the bathroom, the kitchen… before long I identified them as things that would not have been out of place in my grandparents’ house.
I would be lying if I said that I did not feel a little homesick and a little jealous at that point. Nevertheless, I am grateful for Olga, and I am overwhelmingly grateful that Brit has the chance to live with someone so wonderful and so devoted to caring for her charges.
*
Sunday night in Olga’s house. Brit and I are sitting at the table talking to Olga and telling her how we met, what we study in Roanoke, and so forth. I mention that I worked at the college’s IT department fixing computers. Suddenly Olga’s face brightens and she says, “Oh! Have you looked at Megan’s?” Megan, another American student living in the house, could not access the internet despite getting a strong connection to the house’s wireless network. The laptop (a Dell, no less) was placed in my hands and my attention was consumed. My mind ran through every possibility it could conjure up as I went through the familiar steps, narrowing down the culprit with every moment. I talked to myself, I swore at the computer when my attempts failed. Suddenly the problem was worse – it would not connect at all. Desperately I tried to retrace my steps, to undo the damage, but the problem remained, taunting me. Then, dimly, a random observation led to a brilliant realization. With a few clicks and a keystroke the wireless was restored and the multicolored Google logo appeared at my command, delivering information about baboons. Megan was overjoyed to have the internet, Brit smiled at me proudly, and I felt the sense of satisfaction that comes with getting something done. It felt good… really good.
It was then I realized just how much I miss my job.
*
Perhaps it was her presence alone. Perhaps it was the city, so different from Buenos Aires. Perhaps it was escaping from the place that I have alternately loathed and loved since I arrived. Whatever it may be, while I was with Brit in Córdoba I felt alive, more like myself. With her hand and mine together in the cold, with her eyes meeting mine over a table in a café, with her voice whispering in my ear the concerns and the stress of the last three weeks melted and washed away. Even when we were seemingly stuck at the movie theatre at midnight with no hope of getting a taxi back to the hotel, I still felt confident, strong, not unwary but not afraid.
Somewhere in my fitful sleep on the return bus I transformed back into the creature I am now: lean, hungry, solitary, wary, like a dog that has learned to become a wolf in the wild. Uncertainty, sadness, and fear are traits that I must suppress when I am among others, lest these things be perceived as weaknesses. A layer of weariness always hangs about me like a tattered shroud that I cannot rend; even my sleep does not satisfy. Most nights I slip into my dreams easily, but soon waken in the forgotten hours of the morning, plagued by devils that do not show their faces. I have become something different, as I knew I would have to be after the first weekend… but I do not know if I like what I have become.
*
That dark night, while walking beneath the towering palm trees in the empty Plaza de Mayo with shadows and cool white light caught in the misty raindrops on my glasses, in between my wonder and my missing I could not help but remember the eternal words of that great Argentine writer, Borges: “I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as out memory does.”
This was his city, and for a time it shall be mine.
*
Surrealizations:
I am speaking a foreign language while I live in a foreign country. I will be here for four months. My girlfriend is in the same country – we both decided to come here before we were even dating. After we finish our classes we will travel together through this foreign country. I am living on my own. This is my last year of college. In May I will approach the stage in a cap and gown and walk away with a degree. Some of the incoming freshmen at Roanoke were born in 1990. By this time next year... I do not know what I will be doing.
Oh. My. God.
*
The closest shopping, which is the Argentine way of saying “mall,” is located on Calle Florida, that pedestrian thoroughfare that by day spawns its own form of culture with street musicians playing flutes and guitars, intrusive salespeople, vendors selling various goods on old blankets, and beggars asking for a few monedas with outstretched palms. Galerías Pacifico is a magnificent old building that was converted from an old rail station, and the architecture still reflects that: high ceilings with abundant skylights, Corinthian columns of gray stone, fountains, and polished wood-framed windows that look out onto the inner promenades. Like most malls it has all of the requisites: a food court, many stores, small kiosks in the middle of the promenades. Galerías Pacifico also is home to the Borges Cultural Center, named for the aforementioned writer but not dedicated to him; instead the Center contains a theatre and several art galleries on the very top floor of the building. Some of the art on display was beautiful, some unusual, and some purely questionable on several levels; art, like the war in Iraq, maintains its controversial status no matter where I go.
Most of the stores are unfamiliar, but a few names stick out: Adidas, Wrangler, Christian Dior. Of note also is the Global Refund Kiosk, an important place for any traveler who buys clothing (in my case, a pair of jeans) and intends to return to their country of origin. The Argentines pay a tax on clothing that is automatically integrated into the price of an item, but foreigners can receive a refund check upon leaving the country. The sum admittedly is not much: a few Argentine pesos at best (and even fewer American dollars), but I never mind having someone return money to me, whatever form it may take.
*
Little things:
It is a very satisfying feeling to look in a tourist’s guidebook to Buenos Aires and realize that you have seen the majority of the mentioned highlights.
The Mormons have apparently established quite a presence in Córdoba, or so Luciano told me while lamenting the Catholic Church’s apparent loss of respect in his home province. Religious implications notwithstanding, this means that the Latter-Day Saints can now join McDonald’s, Coca-Cola, and the Hard Rock Café under that most prestigious heading: “Wherever you go, there they are.”
San Telmo once had a either a train or a trolley service – the rails, where they are not covered by worn asphalt, can still be seen embedded in the blue-gray cobblestone streets.
Olivier from Switzerland; Marishka from Holland; the French students whose names I forget; they all speak their respective mother tongue, excellent English, varying degrees of Spanish, and in some cases yet another language. How is it that the average American can barely handle two college semesters’ worth of a foreign language?
On national holidays such as August 20th (the anniversary of Gral. San Martín’s death) it is possible to walk down the middle of a 6-lane road without once moving aside for cars, taxis, or buses. The empty streets are so strange yet oddly comfortable.
*
Ladies and Gentlemen:
I apologize for missing last Tuesday’s post. As you can tell, a lot has been going on and I still have not managed to record it all. Still it is worth the time and effort to continue writing like this – at the very least it gives me reason to practice, and will help me to remember.
Overall my situation is improving. The residence claims that within the next week or two it will be installing wireless throughout the building, so I may find myself able to update with some more regularity (assuming, of course, the wireless installation does not become condemned to mañana) and regain normal communication. Micky has been feeding me well and putting up with my general lack of knowledge in the kitchen. The professors are still tardy to class, but they seem friendly enough and the establishment of a routine has made things smoother.
As I type these words the residence is almost empty, since many people are taking advantage of the three-day weekend to travel. Many of the Americans left Thursday or Friday to go to Córdoba and a few others went out to the countryside with the ostensible objective of going camping. My reasons for staying behind are many: I traveled last weekend, the camping trip did not have many fixed plans, the cold weather has returned, and I am only now getting over a persistent headache and old-man cough. However, the relative quiet has given me time to catch up with my writing, heal, read some articles for class, take an easy afternoon with a cup of coffee, and wander around Buenos Aires taking pictures. I feel a lot better.
On that note: those of you with a Facebook account should be able to access my photos. For those who do not have Facebook, do not desire to have Facebook, should not have Facebook, or do not know what Facebook is, you should be able to use the following links. Please let me know if they work.
Link : Part I
Link : Part II
¡Saludos!
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