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.