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!