Tommy, Annemarie, Meg, Damian, Gillea, Conrad, & Jenny at Olsen
jueves, 26 de junio de 2008
Plaza Vicente Lopez
I’m starting to feel sad. It’s like it hit me that all of this will be gone soon. I decided I wanted to go back to Recoleta, so I’m back at Plaza Vicente Lopez where it all began. It’s colder now than it was back in November, with my swollen ant-bite feet and sweat clinging to my green and white Banana Republic blouse. I am glad to not be working that job – I’ve accomplished so much more in my life without it. The girls and I ate a late lunch at this bistro called Florencio in a tiny neighborhood of Recoleta called La Isla.
Mom would’ve loved it for its blue and white plates piled high with cakes and pastries and sandwiches. Only enough room inside to seat ten. And an awesome nose hit of fresh baked breads when you walk inside. We lingered over coffee and dessert, then headed over to Recoleta Cemetery, map in hand. I had missed some of the highlights, and I wanted to see them all before I left. Then Annemarie had to head back home and Jenny had to study.
But rather than sit in my room alone I’m here to reflect. I feel the tears start to well up. But there’s nothing left for me to do here. And it will be nice to have warm weather after nine months of falls and winter. I know it will all be okay, but I don’t want my life to snap into place like Ben’s in Tulsa. Everyone says “Oh it will,” but what if I don’t want it to? I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’ve let this place change me and I don’t want to go back.
Mom would’ve loved it for its blue and white plates piled high with cakes and pastries and sandwiches. Only enough room inside to seat ten. And an awesome nose hit of fresh baked breads when you walk inside. We lingered over coffee and dessert, then headed over to Recoleta Cemetery, map in hand. I had missed some of the highlights, and I wanted to see them all before I left. Then Annemarie had to head back home and Jenny had to study.
But rather than sit in my room alone I’m here to reflect. I feel the tears start to well up. But there’s nothing left for me to do here. And it will be nice to have warm weather after nine months of falls and winter. I know it will all be okay, but I don’t want my life to snap into place like Ben’s in Tulsa. Everyone says “Oh it will,” but what if I don’t want it to? I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’ve let this place change me and I don’t want to go back.
Tierra Santa Cerrada y Rumi
Tierra Santa yesterday was closed. I met Andres at the Palermo stop by Juan B. Justo, and then Kristin and her friend Stephen met up with us at Wherever Bar on Oro. I had often passed by that place and thought it looked cool; turns out Con’s girlfriend works there and Andres is a regular. I just ordered coffee; everyone else had a Caesar salad. Andres insisted on paying and no one argued. It’s fun having work friends from a bar. “See you at the bar tomorrow,” it’s almost like having a clubhouse. I should stop by tomorrow, after Olsen and Kim y Novak. Work my way in from Palermo. Anyway, we stopped by Andres’ apartment yesterday to determine our route, and he decided he’d rather pay for our cab instead of deal with the busses. Again, no one argued. I made awkward eye contact with a man selling stalks of wheat on the highway. He put one in the windshield wipers and when Andres gave the man a peso he gave us another one, because Kristin and I are “hermosas.” She thought he thought we were making fun of him. (“Have you guys ever been to La Boca?” “Only to volunteer.” “Why, because you feel bad coming from a First World Country?”)
When we got there it was closed with a sign saying its new hours, which did not match up with the hours posted on its website. But we paid for the cab - well Andres did – and took some pictures outside and I tried to convince Kristin to sneak through the fence because she’s so skinny but then what would she do? There was a dude who looked like Lito White smoking a cigarette on the park grounds; he confirmed that it was closed. Admission is $20 pesos, and there are no roller coasters, but it still looks kind of cool in a kitschy way. Imagine a Disneyland Jerusalem.
From Kentucky we departed.
Jenny and I went to dinner in Las Canitas. Took the subte there and decided on Jackie O’s. The food was sub-par but cheap – I’m trying not to go to the ATM before I leave. It was freezing inside. By the time I finished my veggie half of the pizza, the zucchini slices were cold to the touch. Maybe we should’ve gone to Soul Café but Jenny doesn’t eat sushi and I didn’t want to split pasta with her. So to warm up we drank lagrimas at this bar called Mute. We had an hour or so to kill before we’d hear from Leandro. Mute is a gorgeous bar: white seats, teal velvet curtains, sleek lines. Jenny and I had a good chat over dinner and coffee and our hour long walk to Rumi. (Apparently it looked shorter on the map.)
We met Leandro outside Rumi around 2 am. I gave him a big hug when I saw him round the corner in his red-and-white Rollinga scarf and hoodie. I had thought perhaps I wouldn’t see him again. His throat was sore but, “Don’t worry. It’s winter,” he told me. And how last year it snowed and Buenos Aires was covered in white as if it were part of Europe. We danced to this female DJ called Celestia. She was good. She normally only plays private parties. We danced until 4 am, when Leandro had to leave. He says he’ll call me today for coffee. It’s easier to pretend I’ll see him again than to say a proper goodbye.
Dancing at Rumi for one last time
Visit Jerusalem in BsAs all year round -- except in winter when we're closed on weekdays
When we got there it was closed with a sign saying its new hours, which did not match up with the hours posted on its website. But we paid for the cab - well Andres did – and took some pictures outside and I tried to convince Kristin to sneak through the fence because she’s so skinny but then what would she do? There was a dude who looked like Lito White smoking a cigarette on the park grounds; he confirmed that it was closed. Admission is $20 pesos, and there are no roller coasters, but it still looks kind of cool in a kitschy way. Imagine a Disneyland Jerusalem.
Meg, Kristin & Mary Magdalene with our wheat stalks and a camel
Stephen took these pictures of Kristin, Andres & me standing at the gates
So after our photoshoot we walked along the river side of Costanera Norte (always wise to walk along the water when it’s freezing) and ate choripan and drank pomelo. Finally we were able to catch a cab, and decided to head to Andres’ studio to drink mate. Take mate. Tomar mate. “He’s got good wave.” Buena onda. But his animation partner was preoccupied and we decided what we really wanted was merienda. So we ordered coffee and submarinos and medialunas at the Kentucky nearby. His studio is cool though: it’s an old house and he showed us some the comics he made. The studio would’ve been cool to photograph with a better camera. Washed out colors and cracking fading walls. Cement cold dripping water, remnants of a summer fiesta in June winter.
From Kentucky we departed.Jenny and I went to dinner in Las Canitas. Took the subte there and decided on Jackie O’s. The food was sub-par but cheap – I’m trying not to go to the ATM before I leave. It was freezing inside. By the time I finished my veggie half of the pizza, the zucchini slices were cold to the touch. Maybe we should’ve gone to Soul Café but Jenny doesn’t eat sushi and I didn’t want to split pasta with her. So to warm up we drank lagrimas at this bar called Mute. We had an hour or so to kill before we’d hear from Leandro. Mute is a gorgeous bar: white seats, teal velvet curtains, sleek lines. Jenny and I had a good chat over dinner and coffee and our hour long walk to Rumi. (Apparently it looked shorter on the map.)
Leandro & Meg
We met Leandro outside Rumi around 2 am. I gave him a big hug when I saw him round the corner in his red-and-white Rollinga scarf and hoodie. I had thought perhaps I wouldn’t see him again. His throat was sore but, “Don’t worry. It’s winter,” he told me. And how last year it snowed and Buenos Aires was covered in white as if it were part of Europe. We danced to this female DJ called Celestia. She was good. She normally only plays private parties. We danced until 4 am, when Leandro had to leave. He says he’ll call me today for coffee. It’s easier to pretend I’ll see him again than to say a proper goodbye.
Dancing at Rumi for one last time
miércoles, 25 de junio de 2008
Things I Will Miss
People seem to always ask me if I am happy or sad to leave. I'm both, I guess. I'm excited to see my family and friends, and I'm looking forward to summer and the conveniences I took for granted; but then I'm sad to leave all I've come to love behind: the people, the lifestyle, even the food. A part of me has changed: I thrive in Big City Living. I dread driving my car. The coffee here at Voulez Bar is very frothy. More milk than coffee I'd say. I've learned that whole milk holds the bubbles longer. Something about the fats. I wonder how soy milk will do with my new whisk. And coffee here is always served hot. Really hot. Maybe you're supposed to sit and linger over it longer than most Americans would allow. And business deals are done over lunch. It's weird that I'm going home; it hasn't hit me. I only had two weeks to plan my arrival; I've had three months to work on my departure. And while I can't stay, I'm not one for making a huge show of leaving. I'd rather sneak out, that's more my style. "But people here like you," Andres told me. I'd like to think people back home like me too, but I'm more likely to see them again.
I will miss the nightlife: staying out until 7 in the morning, the coffee, the cheek kisses, the subte, walking everywhere, sidewalk cafes, kiokos with alfajores and phone cards, speaking Spanish, daily nun sightings, Argentine fashion and creative ensembles, the people who try to sell me a pen when they already see that I have one in my hand, leisure time, opulent buildings juztaposed with modern architecture, passion and cacerolazos, how unguarded the presidential palace is as opposed to the doors of private schools, patios and balconies, green parks, family outings, urban skylines, avoiding dog poop, sunny days when everyone sits around drinking mate, when people confuse me for a portena, gaggles of colegio students chattering in opaque maroon tights, honking cars after a futbol victory, urban noises, the buzz of electric life, a culture that runs on caffeine and sweets, active little old ladies hobbling about, scoring a subte seat, meeting interesting people from all over the world... now this is just making me sad.
I will miss the nightlife: staying out until 7 in the morning, the coffee, the cheek kisses, the subte, walking everywhere, sidewalk cafes, kiokos with alfajores and phone cards, speaking Spanish, daily nun sightings, Argentine fashion and creative ensembles, the people who try to sell me a pen when they already see that I have one in my hand, leisure time, opulent buildings juztaposed with modern architecture, passion and cacerolazos, how unguarded the presidential palace is as opposed to the doors of private schools, patios and balconies, green parks, family outings, urban skylines, avoiding dog poop, sunny days when everyone sits around drinking mate, when people confuse me for a portena, gaggles of colegio students chattering in opaque maroon tights, honking cars after a futbol victory, urban noises, the buzz of electric life, a culture that runs on caffeine and sweets, active little old ladies hobbling about, scoring a subte seat, meeting interesting people from all over the world... now this is just making me sad.
"Lost Tribe" Encounter, Part 2
Apparently that "lost tribe" is not so lost as it sounds. Click here to read more.
martes, 24 de junio de 2008
Buquebus + Sunday
The Buquebus is not exactly what I expected: you walk on and it looks like a cruise ship shopping mall. And the seats for clase turistica are 30-across and red leather facing a snack shop and 4 flat screens. (Actually two of them might be old school set into the wall.) And I’m sitting next to a nun, which is funny considering my last entry was about transvestite prostitutes. Maybe I thought it’d be a smaller boat. Open air, wind in my face… like the ferry from Vancouver to Victoria or across the Mississippi in New Orleans. But I chose the fast boat across Rio de Plata to the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Colonia. So many rivers lately: Rio Iguazu, Rio Parana, Rio de Plata… We’re moving now. But there are so many passengers I’m forced to watch an ad for Colonia Shopping instead of peering out the window. But if I sit up straight I can see the pier than juts out of the Ecological Reserve to my right and endless waves to the left. Good thing I’m sitting next to a nun; I feel perfectly safe abandoning my seat and stuff for a couple of quick photos. Here's one:
Last night I was so exhausted from my week that I was in bed at 9 pm. Three missed calls: no, I don’t want to grab drinks with Ramiro; no, I can’t go to the movies with Andres today because I’ll be in Uruguay; and I don’t know what Leandro said because I still don’t know how to check my Movistar voicemail. But I texted him back and he said obvio we will see each other before we leave. I hope so. Such a great guy; I will miss him a lot. I missed Kristin’s going away party on Saturday. We thought about going there once we realized how packed and miserable Crobar was on Cachengue Night, but after photographs with the transvestites it was near 4 am, and when they mentioned Sonoman I thought it was fitting in a full-circle kind of way. But that place was packed too and we walked across to Bar Unico where we ran into a very drunk Pancho and friends. He wants to get a group together and go to Museum on Wednesday, but I just can’t do that for my last night. It’s not my scene, my crowd. Any club is only as fun as the people you came with and/or meet; but even so, the men at Museum are too old and too aggressive. I’m more of a Rumi girl.
So yesterday I woke up around 9 am (after 4 hours of sleep) to run over to the Plaza Dorrego antiques fair. I skipped Calle Defensa and took the C-Line as close as I could get to Humberto Primo so as to hit up the art and antiques as opposed to the tourist trap that is Calle Defensa on a Sunday morning. I bought an oval address placard at the first place I saw them. $25 pesos. I don’t know if that was a good deal or not and after purchasing it I didn’t want to find out. But then I saw some others that were framed in brass, and I began to realize that a white painted oval would fade into white rental walls. So I looked for a frame. I asked the man “¿Cuánto sale?” “¿cómo se dice ochenta en ingles?” he asked his partner. Before he could bother to get the translation, I told him eighty pesos was too much and walked away hoping he was trying to rip me off. Paying four times as much for the frame seemed ridiculous. There’s a lot of cool stuff: carved wooden saints, old glass soda bottles, silver and crystal. The problem is how to get it all home. But I eventually found a lady who sold brass knockers made of little hands wearing heart shaped rings and doorknobs and drawer pulls; and in her collection was one small address placard frame in a swirly design. I pulled out my number 834 to check the size. They laughed. I told them I didn’t know there’d be so many. I could’ve told them I was looking for a specific number, but really I just picked the one that looked oldest and had the city crest. They had 1985, my birth year, but it looked cheesy and new. The holes on my purchase and discovery didn’t match up, but they told me just to screw them into the wall individually. I suppose it would’ve been difficlt to make them line up, and near impossible to find one in The States. And my mind was set: I needed a frame to complete the look. So for $30 pesos, I bought one. I’ll admit not much thought went into my purchase, but it will do. Hopefully I’ll find a house in Austin where I can put it by the front door (inside of course) above my Belizean wood bowl as a key tray. (Next I want to see the Salt Flats of Jujuy.) But if I hurried my way through San Telmo and made it to Plaza Italia by 1 pm I could go to the country for lunch and meet Damian’s mom, Graciela. I remembered what Diana the Australian lady told me about taking my time: “Remember the Londoner!’ she chided me about racing through life, checklist in hand. She knew it was his mentality; she didn’t know me well enough. But I hurried through the market, blinders on and found what I wanted. I wanted my numbers. And I wanted to see this house and meet this family that I’ve heard so much about.
So we took a bus up the Pan-American high way to the country, where Graciela picked us up in her Volkswagen for the rest of the journey. She has deep red hair and her stereo was playing The Smiths. She lives in a gated community north of Capital Federal called, of all things, Highland Park.
It is comprised of 800 houses: some old, some new. Hers is on the older side: red brick with tile roof, fabulous fireplace in the middle of the living area and a sunken space with a white couch. It felt nice to be in a home, but then it also felt so different from any homes I know. With green backyard ad two barking German Shepherds. Live in servicio named Ramona served us pollo a la mostaza and papas espanoles. Roquefort con pimiento, devilled eggs with salmon, thin sliced beef with cream sauce, and a tuna casserole in the shape of a Bundt pan. I tried it all. Ate half of the chicken. I don’t think I missed much without it for the past five years, but the mustard sauce was good. Graciela seemed preoccupied. There’s a lot going on in her life right now.
Last night I was so exhausted from my week that I was in bed at 9 pm. Three missed calls: no, I don’t want to grab drinks with Ramiro; no, I can’t go to the movies with Andres today because I’ll be in Uruguay; and I don’t know what Leandro said because I still don’t know how to check my Movistar voicemail. But I texted him back and he said obvio we will see each other before we leave. I hope so. Such a great guy; I will miss him a lot. I missed Kristin’s going away party on Saturday. We thought about going there once we realized how packed and miserable Crobar was on Cachengue Night, but after photographs with the transvestites it was near 4 am, and when they mentioned Sonoman I thought it was fitting in a full-circle kind of way. But that place was packed too and we walked across to Bar Unico where we ran into a very drunk Pancho and friends. He wants to get a group together and go to Museum on Wednesday, but I just can’t do that for my last night. It’s not my scene, my crowd. Any club is only as fun as the people you came with and/or meet; but even so, the men at Museum are too old and too aggressive. I’m more of a Rumi girl.So yesterday I woke up around 9 am (after 4 hours of sleep) to run over to the Plaza Dorrego antiques fair. I skipped Calle Defensa and took the C-Line as close as I could get to Humberto Primo so as to hit up the art and antiques as opposed to the tourist trap that is Calle Defensa on a Sunday morning. I bought an oval address placard at the first place I saw them. $25 pesos. I don’t know if that was a good deal or not and after purchasing it I didn’t want to find out. But then I saw some others that were framed in brass, and I began to realize that a white painted oval would fade into white rental walls. So I looked for a frame. I asked the man “¿Cuánto sale?” “¿cómo se dice ochenta en ingles?” he asked his partner. Before he could bother to get the translation, I told him eighty pesos was too much and walked away hoping he was trying to rip me off. Paying four times as much for the frame seemed ridiculous. There’s a lot of cool stuff: carved wooden saints, old glass soda bottles, silver and crystal. The problem is how to get it all home. But I eventually found a lady who sold brass knockers made of little hands wearing heart shaped rings and doorknobs and drawer pulls; and in her collection was one small address placard frame in a swirly design. I pulled out my number 834 to check the size. They laughed. I told them I didn’t know there’d be so many. I could’ve told them I was looking for a specific number, but really I just picked the one that looked oldest and had the city crest. They had 1985, my birth year, but it looked cheesy and new. The holes on my purchase and discovery didn’t match up, but they told me just to screw them into the wall individually. I suppose it would’ve been difficlt to make them line up, and near impossible to find one in The States. And my mind was set: I needed a frame to complete the look. So for $30 pesos, I bought one. I’ll admit not much thought went into my purchase, but it will do. Hopefully I’ll find a house in Austin where I can put it by the front door (inside of course) above my Belizean wood bowl as a key tray. (Next I want to see the Salt Flats of Jujuy.) But if I hurried my way through San Telmo and made it to Plaza Italia by 1 pm I could go to the country for lunch and meet Damian’s mom, Graciela. I remembered what Diana the Australian lady told me about taking my time: “Remember the Londoner!’ she chided me about racing through life, checklist in hand. She knew it was his mentality; she didn’t know me well enough. But I hurried through the market, blinders on and found what I wanted. I wanted my numbers. And I wanted to see this house and meet this family that I’ve heard so much about.
So we took a bus up the Pan-American high way to the country, where Graciela picked us up in her Volkswagen for the rest of the journey. She has deep red hair and her stereo was playing The Smiths. She lives in a gated community north of Capital Federal called, of all things, Highland Park.
It is comprised of 800 houses: some old, some new. Hers is on the older side: red brick with tile roof, fabulous fireplace in the middle of the living area and a sunken space with a white couch. It felt nice to be in a home, but then it also felt so different from any homes I know. With green backyard ad two barking German Shepherds. Live in servicio named Ramona served us pollo a la mostaza and papas espanoles. Roquefort con pimiento, devilled eggs with salmon, thin sliced beef with cream sauce, and a tuna casserole in the shape of a Bundt pan. I tried it all. Ate half of the chicken. I don’t think I missed much without it for the past five years, but the mustard sauce was good. Graciela seemed preoccupied. There’s a lot going on in her life right now.
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