I wouldn't normally publicize some things online especially when being honest usually means being discovered for who I really am, or in some cases for who I really am not, but who I've been acting like. My birthday was Sunday though the celebrations began on Friday night. We went to a great little resto-bar with white leather seating and an ambience to set the mood for a sophisticated grown-up birthday. Everyone I had wanted to come was there and really I did have a wonderful time that evening, but at the same time my soul was like the dog barking at the coming storm when the sun is still shining... I felt it brooding and I told Irene, "me voy a querer quedar en casa para mi cumple porque siento que voy a estar un poco triste ese dia." Sure enough, the feeling grew and grew and I ran away on Saturday morning (after being kicked out of my room by the cleaning lady) to my datey-friend's apartment and when I got there I spent the whole afternoon blogging, writing, and talking to Jods on Skype. Later that day I made plans with a lovely fellow from Uruguay whom I met in Montevideo, Gorgonzola, who reminds me so much of Johnny: the kid who has all the patience and talent of being my best friend and who sees right through me like a hobo's hankerchief and isn't afraid -when asked- to point out exactly what he sees... The light drizzle began here. He (Gorgi) started talking about my datey-friend and my past relationships, broken hearts... and not-surprisingly, Johnny came up. I started to feel uncomfortable being analyzed so, but if there is one thing I've learned in life, it's that if I do feel uncomfortable with someone analyzing me, it's probably because there is something within me that causes the discomfort.
I became serious and while Gorgi was talking I heard a phrase that I had heard before from Jod's mouth, but for some reason the words didn't stick the last time I heard them. It was a simple question followed by a stunning-yet-not statement, "Why do you do that? Make those crazy dramatic gestures I mean? It makes you seem so fake, like you're not being you." [he said this just after I swept my whole arm over my face, which I'm sure had some contorted expression on it, and up over head to simply move some crazy out of control frizzy curl out of my eyes.] I stopped, and after thinking Jod's gone an inhabited this poor fellow's body, I couldn't help but glance - for the first time in a long time, and only for a moment - hacia adentro de mi misma.... Then there was the rain and I could hear a little thunder in the background.
Continuing in our conversation I discovered that everytime he would say something with an undertone of the proverbial accusatory finger I would first get defensive and then I was forced to concede his point - reluctantly. Then I began to fear what more he could see in me and I suddenly stopped talking and stopped looking him in the eye. I could tell there were definately things in me that had grown a few cob webs and needed a bit of a scrub down... Then I saw the lightning flash. I sat straight up and thought to myself that these things are not really a part of me. Like Gorgi said, "these things don't fit your personality." I remembered Brother Ward's words of wisdom from forever ago: "That is not who I am, it's just what I've done."
I know you are all wondering what kind of monster I've really become and are wondering what has caused me such conviction, but please don't preoccupy your minds with such nonsense, it would only be food for gossip and I'm the last that would place myself in a position to be disected by the masses.
The clock strikes 12 and so begins my Sunday. My BIRTHDAY. I'm out at another bloke's birthday party and I feel much like Jim Craig in the low country surrounded by strangers and spaniards. I left. It's raining, hardly anyone's called, I'd left my favorite pair of shoes on the bus (don't ask, it's the most emotional trigger right now), along with my umbrella - these things are gone forever - and I was standing at the bus stop 7 blocks away from my house with a young man who, right then I had no desire to be standing in the rain (nor anywhere else) with, and as the raindrops the size of a man's fist fall on me I accidentally remind myself that I'm not home. I crawl in my bed, wet, crying, missing my shoes and my beloved twin brother and sleep, blessed sleep invades my consciousness... It's morning. And I wake up, take of my sleep mask, look at my clock and the birthday waterworks begin and the tormentuous storm would not subside until April 23.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
more BsAs
I've been an irresponsible tourist here in BsAs, but there is still so much to account for from what I see every day. I see after going through some of my old entries that there lacks quite a bit of description of BsAs. I could send a postcard, but a) what a hassle and b) this is free!
I live on the corner of two of some of the busiest streets in the city, which is awesomely chalk-full of people no matter what time of day or night, and the noise... I would normally complain about all the noise, but I've been here so long now I hardly notice it, though I'm sure it will cause problems in my old age. There are articles in the newspaper and commentary on the "tele" about how much noise there is in the streets here. Normal people step outside of restaurants or clubs to hear on their cell phones better, but here it would be similar to stepping from a noisy boliche to right next to a racing freight train.
The shopping is addictive too. There is no way to avoid shopping on my way to school, on my way home, on my way to a movie, to a friend's house, or even on my way to the pharmacy for some toothpaste. There are a total (I counted) of 10 shoe stores within a 4 block radius of my appartment building, 3 pharmacies, at least 15 "tiendas de moda," 2 hardware stores, a furniture store, 3 cafes, and right accross the street is the equivalent of a $1 store.... I could go on! And this is just the few blocks around where I live. Further down the street there is a huge shopping center, a movie theater, ritzy shops (furs and skins) for the sopihsticated ladies of my neighborhood, an organic pasta shop, pastry shops, restaurants of all calibers and sizes, wine and cheese specialty shops, cyber cafes, convenience kiosks... and the people! So many people.
The one thing that has been almost unbearable is the weather and that which comes along with it. It is insufferably hot when the sun is out, and humid. It builds and builds until it doesn't matter how many times you take a cold shower, you still can't avoid the sweat- or the mosquitos. It's become somewhat of a plague here and there are excerpts on the news about spraying down the plazas to rid the city of the unbearable invasion. I'm a little leary of the plazas now though, wondering how much and what kinds of pesticides are floating around there these days. Although walking down the street wet with sweat and being occasionally eaten alive is still better than just about every other day where it is inevitable that the building moisture falls unheaded and mercilessly on top of us and in a city full of taxis and "collectivos" it is still next to impossible to find a comfortable mode of transportation if any at all - either full sweaty buses or 20 minutes of standing in the rain anyway waiting for a freed-up taxi.
I wish I could recount more of the things I should be doing, like going to see the oldest opera house in the city, going to plays and productions, exhibitions and museums. I've taken quickly to doing the things the normal people do: rock concerts, boliches, the annual book fair, movies, taking mate in the park, among others.
I promised myself I would see at least a few famous things in the city, like the Evita Peron museum and that opera house, and that I would save every penny possible to be able to go to Bariloche for a ski trip before I come home in July. I'm also determined to go all by my lonesome this time. Enjoy some of my trip without the distraction of socializing, which is highly diverting and amazing to do in the city, but out on the trail and on a mountain in winter, I want that selfishly all to myself.
I live on the corner of two of some of the busiest streets in the city, which is awesomely chalk-full of people no matter what time of day or night, and the noise... I would normally complain about all the noise, but I've been here so long now I hardly notice it, though I'm sure it will cause problems in my old age. There are articles in the newspaper and commentary on the "tele" about how much noise there is in the streets here. Normal people step outside of restaurants or clubs to hear on their cell phones better, but here it would be similar to stepping from a noisy boliche to right next to a racing freight train.
The shopping is addictive too. There is no way to avoid shopping on my way to school, on my way home, on my way to a movie, to a friend's house, or even on my way to the pharmacy for some toothpaste. There are a total (I counted) of 10 shoe stores within a 4 block radius of my appartment building, 3 pharmacies, at least 15 "tiendas de moda," 2 hardware stores, a furniture store, 3 cafes, and right accross the street is the equivalent of a $1 store.... I could go on! And this is just the few blocks around where I live. Further down the street there is a huge shopping center, a movie theater, ritzy shops (furs and skins) for the sopihsticated ladies of my neighborhood, an organic pasta shop, pastry shops, restaurants of all calibers and sizes, wine and cheese specialty shops, cyber cafes, convenience kiosks... and the people! So many people.
The one thing that has been almost unbearable is the weather and that which comes along with it. It is insufferably hot when the sun is out, and humid. It builds and builds until it doesn't matter how many times you take a cold shower, you still can't avoid the sweat- or the mosquitos. It's become somewhat of a plague here and there are excerpts on the news about spraying down the plazas to rid the city of the unbearable invasion. I'm a little leary of the plazas now though, wondering how much and what kinds of pesticides are floating around there these days. Although walking down the street wet with sweat and being occasionally eaten alive is still better than just about every other day where it is inevitable that the building moisture falls unheaded and mercilessly on top of us and in a city full of taxis and "collectivos" it is still next to impossible to find a comfortable mode of transportation if any at all - either full sweaty buses or 20 minutes of standing in the rain anyway waiting for a freed-up taxi.
I wish I could recount more of the things I should be doing, like going to see the oldest opera house in the city, going to plays and productions, exhibitions and museums. I've taken quickly to doing the things the normal people do: rock concerts, boliches, the annual book fair, movies, taking mate in the park, among others.
I promised myself I would see at least a few famous things in the city, like the Evita Peron museum and that opera house, and that I would save every penny possible to be able to go to Bariloche for a ski trip before I come home in July. I'm also determined to go all by my lonesome this time. Enjoy some of my trip without the distraction of socializing, which is highly diverting and amazing to do in the city, but out on the trail and on a mountain in winter, I want that selfishly all to myself.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Friends... what was I thinking!
I told the girl I would post her letter to home without editing it, but we can't follow through with ALL our promises now can we? Here I've made a few friends but only a couple really merit mention in my sacred blog, one of which is Milner. Since the letter sort of draaaaaags on at some points I decided to include only the high points. Except with Milner everything is a highpoint, so I guess here's the whole pie.
Meet my friend Milner:
"So as promised here is the update from Buenos Aires (from here on known asBsAs). Although let's face it, you all really don't deserve an email considering the piss poor response ya'll [Milner is from Alabama] have shown in my absence. So, I live with Inez e Ivan, who are the biggest hippies. I walked into the kitchen the other day and Ivan was scraping a somewhat amorphous white clumpy thing into a bowl. When asked what he was doing, he responded, "I am making yogurt from the jar of bacteria I cultivate on our counter all the time." Oh, so that is what that was. We do have good food, however, because Ivan is in the forestry equivalent masters program here and he has this enormous garden with fresh-grown veggies and fruits. They are extremely good cooks and we always have fresh bread, which may or may not be good for my figure. I live in a little room upstairs with orange shag carpet that is amazingly 70's--let's face it, it kind of fulfills my dream of living in a shag-covered apartment someday. I guessI'll check that off my list. My window opens up onto the street, whereoften at night I can hear the neighbor talking to her cats (at last countshe has about 40, no lie) as well as the drunks walking home. I can also hear the roars from the nearby stadium on Sundays or other nights depending on whether or not River Plate (my now favorite soccer team, though Boca always kicks ass, sorry Moo [Mil's mom] for the explicative) is playing that day. Other times, it is a huge concert, like the first Sunday I was here and Ricky Martin came. He was quite popular to judge from the roars of the crowd after Shake Your Bon Bon. But all in all, though the house is somewhat old, and I am forbidden to enter the mysterious room downstairs, which I have come to call "The Living Room," which rumour has it contains a rather old TV (next time everyone is out, I think I am going to race in there and take pictures).
So, I am attending classes at the University, all with international people. and I am beginning to feel a little bit like Long Duck Dong from Sixteen Candles. The teachers, especially this one who is a little efeminite and likes to use his hands and somewhat has a lisp, all talk really fast and I usually end up with my mouth open, eyes narrowed during the whole class (which lasts two hours) until they say, "Estamos terminados." I understand that one! And when I finally do get the nerve to ask a question, the teacher inevitably either dismisses it or looks at me with mouth open and eyes narrowed and says, "Otra Vez" about six times.
Oh and I am taking tango dance classes, yes, I can move across the floor like a cat now, which we happen to practice for twenty minutes every class. It is a slide and snap move very similar to that of the bendand snap if I may reference Legally Blond. Very seductive. Although each class it is like re-living a junior high dance mainly because the class is a little disproportionate in terms of the amount of boys versus girls in the class. Thus, all the girls kind of group into a ball and the guys awkwardly walk up and then don't even say ¨May I have this dance¨? or ¨Shall we¨? but¨Hey, uh, yeah.¨ Very sexy, really. And then most of the time they count the steps out loud.
On a positive note, the shopping is unbelievable as is the food. Today I got a little carried away and bought two pairs of shoes, both leather and very flat, which is very good considering I live in the land of Lilliputwhere most of the guys are very short --or does this mean I am Gulliver andam just really enormously tall? No, surely not. Anway, most of the clothing is made for anorexics, no really. The eating disorder rate here issomething like twice as high or more than that in the U.S. So all the shirts are this clingy material and let's face it, beer and clingy clothes do not mix. But, to my credit, I have not given in yet to the raging fashion of leggings that are baggy with cuffs at the bottom that cling to your legs and give you the M.C. Hammer, poopoo in your pants look, though that is all the it girls wear down hear. That and shirts that show your undergarments, so I'll be buying really attractive bras with lots of patterns down here (just teasing, I like to keep my bra under the shirt or don´t wear one at all - hahaha).
The weather, also, is unbelievable. The sky can be so clear and the parks all are really well kept for so it is like living in a really tame jungle, complete with several types of camels, giraffes, birds, monkeys, elephants,and other assortment of wildlife kept in the middle of the city in the oh-so-famous zoo. Sometimes I like to go running (ok, one time I went running and ended up walking and running more like four blocks, but that four blocks was totally by the zoo) and pretend that the animals and I are great pals. I think we would be if it were for the fact that if I stopped to talk to them I would get run over by the constant pedestrian traffic heeded by the peanut carts that roll down the street selling this amazingly divine manna-from-heaven kind of peanut. So really, the peanut vendors are a huge deal in the movement of people and goods in this city.
Last but not least, I have taken to smoking (I mean drinking, silly me) yerba mate in the park during the weekend afternoons. You drink hot water run through a bunch of crunched up green leaves through a silver straw with a little bubble on the end (sound familiar?) Pretty much all the citydoes it and everyone is spread out and couples are making out (which is totally common and doesn´t seem to bother anyone at all*) and I usually go barefoot and sit on this woven blanket and inevitably I totally fulfill my dream of being this huge hippie who never cares what is going to happen next. And then I put on my shoes and race home and read my homework so I can write a paper and edit it. (hahaha, yes, I still have OCD).
*Making out in public is like a status symbol here. Everyone does it because it is the popular trend to live with your parents until you are finished with school, including post graduate, which makes you about 26-30. Sweet! So instead of being able to go to someone's house, chill out, smooch in private, inevitably the five o'clock rush hour ride on the bus and subte is filled with couples, old ones including, grubbing next to the guy in the business suit who politely acts like nothing is going on as they roll onto his lap -- only a slight exaggeration."
I love here talent for description of our city here, and since I've been the worse of all of us in keeping you posted on the goings on and culture of Buenos Aires I saw this as the perfect opportunity to elaborate a bit on the subjet. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!
Meet my friend Milner:
"So as promised here is the update from Buenos Aires (from here on known asBsAs). Although let's face it, you all really don't deserve an email considering the piss poor response ya'll [Milner is from Alabama] have shown in my absence. So, I live with Inez e Ivan, who are the biggest hippies. I walked into the kitchen the other day and Ivan was scraping a somewhat amorphous white clumpy thing into a bowl. When asked what he was doing, he responded, "I am making yogurt from the jar of bacteria I cultivate on our counter all the time." Oh, so that is what that was. We do have good food, however, because Ivan is in the forestry equivalent masters program here and he has this enormous garden with fresh-grown veggies and fruits. They are extremely good cooks and we always have fresh bread, which may or may not be good for my figure. I live in a little room upstairs with orange shag carpet that is amazingly 70's--let's face it, it kind of fulfills my dream of living in a shag-covered apartment someday. I guessI'll check that off my list. My window opens up onto the street, whereoften at night I can hear the neighbor talking to her cats (at last countshe has about 40, no lie) as well as the drunks walking home. I can also hear the roars from the nearby stadium on Sundays or other nights depending on whether or not River Plate (my now favorite soccer team, though Boca always kicks ass, sorry Moo [Mil's mom] for the explicative) is playing that day. Other times, it is a huge concert, like the first Sunday I was here and Ricky Martin came. He was quite popular to judge from the roars of the crowd after Shake Your Bon Bon. But all in all, though the house is somewhat old, and I am forbidden to enter the mysterious room downstairs, which I have come to call "The Living Room," which rumour has it contains a rather old TV (next time everyone is out, I think I am going to race in there and take pictures).
So, I am attending classes at the University, all with international people. and I am beginning to feel a little bit like Long Duck Dong from Sixteen Candles. The teachers, especially this one who is a little efeminite and likes to use his hands and somewhat has a lisp, all talk really fast and I usually end up with my mouth open, eyes narrowed during the whole class (which lasts two hours) until they say, "Estamos terminados." I understand that one! And when I finally do get the nerve to ask a question, the teacher inevitably either dismisses it or looks at me with mouth open and eyes narrowed and says, "Otra Vez" about six times.
Oh and I am taking tango dance classes, yes, I can move across the floor like a cat now, which we happen to practice for twenty minutes every class. It is a slide and snap move very similar to that of the bendand snap if I may reference Legally Blond. Very seductive. Although each class it is like re-living a junior high dance mainly because the class is a little disproportionate in terms of the amount of boys versus girls in the class. Thus, all the girls kind of group into a ball and the guys awkwardly walk up and then don't even say ¨May I have this dance¨? or ¨Shall we¨? but¨Hey, uh, yeah.¨ Very sexy, really. And then most of the time they count the steps out loud.
On a positive note, the shopping is unbelievable as is the food. Today I got a little carried away and bought two pairs of shoes, both leather and very flat, which is very good considering I live in the land of Lilliputwhere most of the guys are very short --or does this mean I am Gulliver andam just really enormously tall? No, surely not. Anway, most of the clothing is made for anorexics, no really. The eating disorder rate here issomething like twice as high or more than that in the U.S. So all the shirts are this clingy material and let's face it, beer and clingy clothes do not mix. But, to my credit, I have not given in yet to the raging fashion of leggings that are baggy with cuffs at the bottom that cling to your legs and give you the M.C. Hammer, poopoo in your pants look, though that is all the it girls wear down hear. That and shirts that show your undergarments, so I'll be buying really attractive bras with lots of patterns down here (just teasing, I like to keep my bra under the shirt or don´t wear one at all - hahaha).
The weather, also, is unbelievable. The sky can be so clear and the parks all are really well kept for so it is like living in a really tame jungle, complete with several types of camels, giraffes, birds, monkeys, elephants,and other assortment of wildlife kept in the middle of the city in the oh-so-famous zoo. Sometimes I like to go running (ok, one time I went running and ended up walking and running more like four blocks, but that four blocks was totally by the zoo) and pretend that the animals and I are great pals. I think we would be if it were for the fact that if I stopped to talk to them I would get run over by the constant pedestrian traffic heeded by the peanut carts that roll down the street selling this amazingly divine manna-from-heaven kind of peanut. So really, the peanut vendors are a huge deal in the movement of people and goods in this city.
Last but not least, I have taken to smoking (I mean drinking, silly me) yerba mate in the park during the weekend afternoons. You drink hot water run through a bunch of crunched up green leaves through a silver straw with a little bubble on the end (sound familiar?) Pretty much all the citydoes it and everyone is spread out and couples are making out (which is totally common and doesn´t seem to bother anyone at all*) and I usually go barefoot and sit on this woven blanket and inevitably I totally fulfill my dream of being this huge hippie who never cares what is going to happen next. And then I put on my shoes and race home and read my homework so I can write a paper and edit it. (hahaha, yes, I still have OCD).
*Making out in public is like a status symbol here. Everyone does it because it is the popular trend to live with your parents until you are finished with school, including post graduate, which makes you about 26-30. Sweet! So instead of being able to go to someone's house, chill out, smooch in private, inevitably the five o'clock rush hour ride on the bus and subte is filled with couples, old ones including, grubbing next to the guy in the business suit who politely acts like nothing is going on as they roll onto his lap -- only a slight exaggeration."
I love here talent for description of our city here, and since I've been the worse of all of us in keeping you posted on the goings on and culture of Buenos Aires I saw this as the perfect opportunity to elaborate a bit on the subjet. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!
Monday, April 9, 2007
Emily is nuts
Spending a week in Uruguay is a lot like going to Duluth in summertime for the average middle class Argentine. It doesn't take much energy or money, but unlike Duluth it makes you forget where you are. Our last night in Punta del Este (the beach) we did not have a hostel to stay in and all were full to the point of people laughing at us trying to find a room on this holiday weekend. We decided the best thing to do at this point is not to try to find a hostel, but to try and find a great place that serves a cold beer until 6am, the very time at which we planned to be on the bus to try and make it to Colonia for the last few hours of our trip.
So we spent as much time on the beach until we just about wanted to spit at the ocean and walked back to the hostel at which we were no longer welcome to stay the night. They had an asado* planned for that evening so we wheeled, dealed and while they cooked the side of beef we watched Pride and Prejudice. We ate ALL the steak and sausage we could, gulped down the pitcher of wine, strapped on our backpacks at around 1am and started down the highway. We were truely unaware of the location of the literal 'middle-of-nowhere' hostel until we had walked about a mile without any luck of a passing bus, bus stop or taxi. Finally, half-joking I started to "hacer el dedo" and eventually, a pickup stopped, two questionable characters in the front followed by their two pals on motorcycles asked where we were headed. "La Terminal de Omnibus"... "dale, sube."
Piled in the back of the little pickup, the hippie-like chicos in the front blasted some good Orishas and I leaned through the open window in the back and asked if they were up to no good tonight. They said "si" and I followed with a request to join them.
We ended up dropping our luggage at a questionable looking hotel and stopping a few blocks away from Moby Dick - our destination for the evening (morning) and we hung out on the docks rolling cigarettes and chatting - me about my grandad who used to roll his own in the tool shed.
We showed up at Moby Dick, I ordered my usual, and we went in to dance to the bad American tunes the cool clubs always put on.... until 5:30.
We then asked the bartender where the terminal was located and began the 10-block journey on foot towards the sketchy hotel to pick up our backpacks... if they were still there. On the way there, the two blokes on the motorcycles pulled up and the three (count 'em, 3) of us hopped on the back to accept the offered lift. After a few wrong turns we made it to the hotel, thankfully the packs were there and we strolled across the street to the terminal and grabbed the first ride out... As I am writing this and all the above occurences are long past, I will lightly justify my lunacy with "I'm still alive, right?"
So we spent as much time on the beach until we just about wanted to spit at the ocean and walked back to the hostel at which we were no longer welcome to stay the night. They had an asado* planned for that evening so we wheeled, dealed and while they cooked the side of beef we watched Pride and Prejudice. We ate ALL the steak and sausage we could, gulped down the pitcher of wine, strapped on our backpacks at around 1am and started down the highway. We were truely unaware of the location of the literal 'middle-of-nowhere' hostel until we had walked about a mile without any luck of a passing bus, bus stop or taxi. Finally, half-joking I started to "hacer el dedo" and eventually, a pickup stopped, two questionable characters in the front followed by their two pals on motorcycles asked where we were headed. "La Terminal de Omnibus"... "dale, sube."
Piled in the back of the little pickup, the hippie-like chicos in the front blasted some good Orishas and I leaned through the open window in the back and asked if they were up to no good tonight. They said "si" and I followed with a request to join them.
We ended up dropping our luggage at a questionable looking hotel and stopping a few blocks away from Moby Dick - our destination for the evening (morning) and we hung out on the docks rolling cigarettes and chatting - me about my grandad who used to roll his own in the tool shed.
We showed up at Moby Dick, I ordered my usual, and we went in to dance to the bad American tunes the cool clubs always put on.... until 5:30.
We then asked the bartender where the terminal was located and began the 10-block journey on foot towards the sketchy hotel to pick up our backpacks... if they were still there. On the way there, the two blokes on the motorcycles pulled up and the three (count 'em, 3) of us hopped on the back to accept the offered lift. After a few wrong turns we made it to the hotel, thankfully the packs were there and we strolled across the street to the terminal and grabbed the first ride out... As I am writing this and all the above occurences are long past, I will lightly justify my lunacy with "I'm still alive, right?"
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