Typical Sunday in Recoleta. People out for a walk or drinking mate in the grass. It was a beautiful day.
lunes, 31 de marzo de 2008
sunday
Typical Sunday in Recoleta. People out for a walk or drinking mate in the grass. It was a beautiful day.
the weekend
I swear I do more than go out here, but last I left you with Wednesday and Thursday nights, and that’s not even the weekend.
So on Friday things were pretty lazy and I volunteered to wait around for Carolina, our maid. I think it is kind of silly that we have a maid, but as Annemarie says, “In this city, you either are a made or you have one.” And since she’s only 20 pesos and works a full two hours, it’s a pretty good deal. So after Carolina left I wandered around and read at the park and grabbed some empanadas and coffee at the place where they know me as “extranjera.” (I asked around, that’s not an insult. It’s simply what I am: a foreigner.)
Around dinner time that night we decide to order a pizza (since the four major food groups in Buenos Aires are steak, empanadas, pizza, and more recently sushi) and invite a few friends over for pre-Boliche or "previa." Ben’s American friend Mark and our neighbor Pedro came over. We had ordered one Pizza Especial and one Fuggazetta (which is basically an onion pizza and one of the most flavorful foods here) along with a handful of empanadas for good measure. I added red pepper flakes to my pizza, since the food here is so bland, and Pedro (the only Argentine I’ve met who likes spicy food) thought that was the best idea ever. I must admit it was pretty ingenious. We opened a bottle of Malbec and had a nice little get-together before hitting up Crobar in Palermo. We talked politics both local and American with Pedro: he explained the protests and strikes in el campo; we discussed the impending US Presidential election and its candidates.
Then we met up with Pedro’s friend Carlos to go to Crobar.
[A note about many of the Argentines I’ve met: many of them are fairly well traveled and studied a bit of English in Londres (London). So when they speak English, oftentimes it is British English. So they introduce themselves as Peter (pronounced Pi-ter) and Charlie instead of Pedro and Carlos.]
Carlos is an odd character; he works in the cinema here. Something about the way he’s dressed. It’s like his shirt is too tucked in. And his hair, as Ben pointed out, is reminiscent of Kramer on Seinfeld. That said, he is very nice.
So we take a cab to Crobar. Our cab driver is singing over a Karaoke version of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” He is loud and definitely not the best singer I’ve heard. So we ask him what else he’s got and sing along to Juanes to drown him out.
We arrive at Crobar, and enter through the patio to the “more exclusive” part. Argentines love their exclusivity. But the music here is fun, and we see a group of girls running around for a fin de soltera (bachelorette) party. The friends wear all black and the bride wears white with a halo and angel wings. “Balloons” are tied to all involved parties and they dance on stage doing can-can lines. (Apparently dancing on stage is allowed at Crobar).
Pedro, Carlos, Ben and I only stay for a few hours. Dancing along to such hits as Mika’s “Relax, Take it Easy” and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” The whole crowd gets super-excited when the first notes of this one techno song play. I still can’t find it on iTunes, but here it is on YouTube:
After that song finishes we decide it’s time to head back home. Carlos asks me if I’ve seen the transvestites here. I haven’t, but I have heard about them. So we walk along the Parque de los Bosques in Palermo to see them. I don’t believe they are men. They are gorgeous. If anything, it is a testament to the quality of plastic surgery here (which is covered by insurance here.) I don’t know how to talk about them, since adjectives in Spanish take the gender of the subject. We joke that “Ellos son bellas.” Seriously, these men look more feminine than I do. When I say that, Pedro thinks I am fishing for compliments and assures me I am “mas fina.” It’s bizarre how beautiful they are and how much they look like real women. Real women with really long legs and strong jaw lines. We hear one of them yell “30 pesos” to a client. Carlos confirms that they are so cheap because they have a smaller market than regular prostitutes.
On Saturday I meet up with Damian and Annemarie in Belgrano, navigating the subte by myself so that we can take a train to El Tigre, a city on the water and the last train-stop in Buenos Aires province. Once we make it to El Tigre, we hop on the lancha colectiva or “boat bus” as Damian calls it. We ride the whole route while locals get off at their homes. It was cheaper than the tourist dinner cruises and much more authentic. It was nice to get out of the big city for a half day.
typical site in El Tigre
a museum in El Tigre
the yacht club in El Tigre
Then Saturday night we decided to go to Asia de Cuba, one of the nicest clubs in town. Annemarie, Damian, Ben and I met up with two others. We ate dinner there so as to avoid paying the cover charge. The place really reminded me of Tao in New York. Dinner was good and split six ways (with wine and one round of drinks) is only $105 pesos, roughly $30 USD. We ate in true Argentine style, sharing bites of everyone’s meals. I ate what I didn’t at first realize was pate, and I liked it. This vegetarian stint might have ended.
But the two others were Martin and Fernando. Martin is Damian’s good friend from Buenos Aires. He is a successful chemical engineer who does something with the preservatives in paint, and he just got back from Dubai for work. Fernando is Martin’s Mexican friend from D.F. He is an architect who attained his masters in Finland and has been working in London for the past five years. He is just in town for the week on holiday. I sat next to Fernando at dinner and he was very interesting. Britain has seemed to rub off on him, as he is a bit less aggressive than any other Latin man I have met thus far. Martin is fun to talk to as well. They both speak English impeccably, so the majority of our table’s dinner conversation is held in English. I finally ask them to speak Spanish and Fernando pulls some cheesy line about my eyes being like some river in England. I don't buy it. But since Martin is a bit of a partier and Fernando is here on holiday, the night was a bit on the crazy side. Fun. But crazy.
So today was low key. I finished my book and started another one before wandering around the park by Recoleta, where there were a few musicians and entertainers, some vendors and an Argentine punk band. As I walked home, I ran into the old man from Monday. He remembered me and wanted to get coffee, but I told him I was headed home and he was very understanding. He’s a sweet man. I’m sure I will see him again later.
So on Friday things were pretty lazy and I volunteered to wait around for Carolina, our maid. I think it is kind of silly that we have a maid, but as Annemarie says, “In this city, you either are a made or you have one.” And since she’s only 20 pesos and works a full two hours, it’s a pretty good deal. So after Carolina left I wandered around and read at the park and grabbed some empanadas and coffee at the place where they know me as “extranjera.” (I asked around, that’s not an insult. It’s simply what I am: a foreigner.)
Around dinner time that night we decide to order a pizza (since the four major food groups in Buenos Aires are steak, empanadas, pizza, and more recently sushi) and invite a few friends over for pre-Boliche or "previa." Ben’s American friend Mark and our neighbor Pedro came over. We had ordered one Pizza Especial and one Fuggazetta (which is basically an onion pizza and one of the most flavorful foods here) along with a handful of empanadas for good measure. I added red pepper flakes to my pizza, since the food here is so bland, and Pedro (the only Argentine I’ve met who likes spicy food) thought that was the best idea ever. I must admit it was pretty ingenious. We opened a bottle of Malbec and had a nice little get-together before hitting up Crobar in Palermo. We talked politics both local and American with Pedro: he explained the protests and strikes in el campo; we discussed the impending US Presidential election and its candidates.
Then we met up with Pedro’s friend Carlos to go to Crobar.
[A note about many of the Argentines I’ve met: many of them are fairly well traveled and studied a bit of English in Londres (London). So when they speak English, oftentimes it is British English. So they introduce themselves as Peter (pronounced Pi-ter) and Charlie instead of Pedro and Carlos.]
Carlos is an odd character; he works in the cinema here. Something about the way he’s dressed. It’s like his shirt is too tucked in. And his hair, as Ben pointed out, is reminiscent of Kramer on Seinfeld. That said, he is very nice.
So we take a cab to Crobar. Our cab driver is singing over a Karaoke version of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” He is loud and definitely not the best singer I’ve heard. So we ask him what else he’s got and sing along to Juanes to drown him out.
We arrive at Crobar, and enter through the patio to the “more exclusive” part. Argentines love their exclusivity. But the music here is fun, and we see a group of girls running around for a fin de soltera (bachelorette) party. The friends wear all black and the bride wears white with a halo and angel wings. “Balloons” are tied to all involved parties and they dance on stage doing can-can lines. (Apparently dancing on stage is allowed at Crobar).
Pedro, Carlos, Ben and I only stay for a few hours. Dancing along to such hits as Mika’s “Relax, Take it Easy” and Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” The whole crowd gets super-excited when the first notes of this one techno song play. I still can’t find it on iTunes, but here it is on YouTube:
After that song finishes we decide it’s time to head back home. Carlos asks me if I’ve seen the transvestites here. I haven’t, but I have heard about them. So we walk along the Parque de los Bosques in Palermo to see them. I don’t believe they are men. They are gorgeous. If anything, it is a testament to the quality of plastic surgery here (which is covered by insurance here.) I don’t know how to talk about them, since adjectives in Spanish take the gender of the subject. We joke that “Ellos son bellas.” Seriously, these men look more feminine than I do. When I say that, Pedro thinks I am fishing for compliments and assures me I am “mas fina.” It’s bizarre how beautiful they are and how much they look like real women. Real women with really long legs and strong jaw lines. We hear one of them yell “30 pesos” to a client. Carlos confirms that they are so cheap because they have a smaller market than regular prostitutes.
On Saturday I meet up with Damian and Annemarie in Belgrano, navigating the subte by myself so that we can take a train to El Tigre, a city on the water and the last train-stop in Buenos Aires province. Once we make it to El Tigre, we hop on the lancha colectiva or “boat bus” as Damian calls it. We ride the whole route while locals get off at their homes. It was cheaper than the tourist dinner cruises and much more authentic. It was nice to get out of the big city for a half day.
typical site in El Tigre
a museum in El Tigre
the yacht club in El Tigre
But the two others were Martin and Fernando. Martin is Damian’s good friend from Buenos Aires. He is a successful chemical engineer who does something with the preservatives in paint, and he just got back from Dubai for work. Fernando is Martin’s Mexican friend from D.F. He is an architect who attained his masters in Finland and has been working in London for the past five years. He is just in town for the week on holiday. I sat next to Fernando at dinner and he was very interesting. Britain has seemed to rub off on him, as he is a bit less aggressive than any other Latin man I have met thus far. Martin is fun to talk to as well. They both speak English impeccably, so the majority of our table’s dinner conversation is held in English. I finally ask them to speak Spanish and Fernando pulls some cheesy line about my eyes being like some river in England. I don't buy it. But since Martin is a bit of a partier and Fernando is here on holiday, the night was a bit on the crazy side. Fun. But crazy.
So today was low key. I finished my book and started another one before wandering around the park by Recoleta, where there were a few musicians and entertainers, some vendors and an Argentine punk band. As I walked home, I ran into the old man from Monday. He remembered me and wanted to get coffee, but I told him I was headed home and he was very understanding. He’s a sweet man. I’m sure I will see him again later.
viernes, 28 de marzo de 2008
the night life ain't the good life, but it's my life.
Cramming two nights into one post. Here goes:
sneak-attack, very candid photo of me and Annemarie on Wednesday
night, courtesy of Damian's work friend, Juan
On Wednesday night, Annemarie, Jenny and I went to dinner in Puerto Madero then to Museum in San Telmo for “after-office.” It starts at 10 pm (ridiculously early by Argentine standards) and since we got there at 10:15, they tried to make us pay. Annemarie’s boyfriend Damian was already in there, so he was able to get us in the club for free without waiting in any line. It really helps to have a porteño “in.”
Damian had been with his guy friends for cho y pan (chorizo sandwiches and pre-partying by the river). We meet his rugby friends and his work friends. They are like night and day. But still all very nice.
So we are inside Museum, and it is incredible. I had heard it was a converted church. But I would guess maybe an old theatre. Old ironwork along the railings, three stories, and a giant chandelier made of disco balls. They play such hits as: Crystal Waters’ “100% Pure Love” and Janet Jackson’s “Together Again.” It is like childhood revisited. But with booze.
Club Museum
Annemarie tells me it’s fun to make eye contact with as many boys as possible; she enjoys seeing me struggle through the hoards of aggressive Latin men for the first time. But I mean, if you ever need an ego booster, come down to a nightclub in Buenos Aires, basically the only words you need to say are:
¿Como te vas?
Bien bien.
¿Y vos?
And then you kiss each other on the check and go on your merry way.
Usually.
So Jenny and I make the rounds while Annemarie hangs out with Damian and his friends. We get tired of Argentine men trying to speak English to us. I guess it is obvious we are American when we go out in packs. But this one guy just asked me ¿Que tomas?” (Finally, someone who doesn’t want to practice his English!) and I tell him “Un vodka con agua.” He heads to the bar. Jenny is ready to move on but I want a free drink. She says I’ll only have to talk to him for like 5 minutes. Fair price for a drink I think.
His name is Matias. He is wearing a navy polo shirt. (Annemarie says all Matt’s are trouble because that was her ex-husband’s name. I tell her my mom and I have a theory that all Matt’s are hot) I walk up to him at the bar. Matias hands me a glass half full. “Su vodka” and then una botella de agua sin gas. I take a sip from the glass. Yep, straight vodka. Half full, very little ice. And these are not highball glasses. These are tall glasses. I quickly mix it myself and we walk off with Jenny and whoever her boy of the moment is. Then Matias leaves me with his friends. One of them is named Gaston. Like in Beauty and the Beast. I gasped “¿Como en La Bella y La Bestia? ¿El mas guapo de todo Francia?” He ate it up and gave me a huge kiss on the cheek. Matias may have abandoned me, but his friends are in love with me. I am slightly insulted when I see Matias chatting it up with some Argentine girls, but I get over it. Kind of.
The night moves on and we run into Matias again. This time he greets me dramatically with a bottle of Smirnoff that he pours into my glass. It was like the crowd parted and a bottle of vodka came down from the sky. Damian, watching after me, takes it to the bar to add water. (Everyone shares everything here. Drinks especially. It’s like you pass it around. I mean obviously only with people you know. But you share. So Damian and I share my vodka. At this point it is probably just vodka. I don't want any more. I let him have it.) Matias’ friends hand me a glass of champagne. Not in a flute, in another tall glass. I see them pour it from the bottle: MUMM.
Note: it is somewhat rare for porteños to spend that much money in the bars. That’s why Damian and his friends do the cho y pan thing and drink beforehand. This Matias character must be loaded.
We all dance in a little group by the stage (no one is allowed to dance on stage. I find this strange; then again, stage fright doesn’t run in the family). Matias’ friends keep coming up to me, telling me, “El es el mejor. El es el mejor,” like I’ve won some kind of prize or something. He asks for my number and can’t believe I don’t have a cell phone. So then he asks for my home number but I don’t know it yet. Annemarie gives it to him and tells me, “Rule #1: they never call.”
Well, she was wrong. He called me after work yesterday and told me:
“Sin vos no puedo vivir jamás” (I cannot live without you.)
A bit dramatic, no?
He wants to go out later. He gave me his cell phone number. Damian says he’s safe.
I might call him later. He doesn’t speak a word of English, so it would be good practice I suppose.
Aside from the phone call, yesterday was just a typical day of café con leche and errands (which take a while because Argentines love their lines). Ben and I met up with his uncle who is in on business. He took us to dinner and was very nice. Just moved to the Houston area from Oklahoma.
After dinner Ben and I went to an ACORN meeting hosted by these two American girls who went to Bates College. There was a big turnout and quite a few Texans there. It was fun to connect with Americans, especially those who are interested in volunteering here. Someday when I tire of the café life I will need to stop by their community center. So many people to talk to there. Ali, one of the organizers, is from Houston, and the other organizer, Sara is dating Lloyd French. I had been told to look for him in November but I didn’t know he was still here. It was very nice to see him. He recognized me right away, and we had plenty to talk about. Also met a guy from Bucknell who knew Fritz, a boy from Indonesia who went to UC Berkeley, a younger girl from UT who is studying abroad for the semester…
But then we had to leave to go out.
Club Araoz/LOST
Our friend Leandro invited us to be his guests on the VIP list at this club in Palermo, LOST. Turns out it’s called Club Araoza every other night, but on Thursdays it is a Hip Hop club with rap and American music and break-dancers take over the floor until 2 am. We get there at 1:30 am, and already I have seen more black people here than I knew existed in Buenos Aires. Leandro told me they are mainly Brasileños. But the break-dancers are awesome, sinewy characters who move like water across the dance floor. It was very cool to watch while we waited for Leandro. He texts Ben that he is in el VIP (pronounced “veep”) but we can’t get in without a wristband. I go up to the male bouncer: “Buscamos Leandro. ¿Sabes si esta acá?” He tells me to ask for “el bebe.” When I go up to the VIP bouncer and tell him I was told to ask for “el bebe,” the rope is pulled back, the heavens open, and we are accepted in the VIP section.
A note on the VIP section: it is obviously less crowded, the people like to see and be seen, the bar is close by and rarely crowded, and they dance with each other and for the most part leave you alone. Except for this gross older guy with a curly ponytail. He kept telling me I was beautiful and that he wanted to kiss me. I got pretty annoyed with him, but eventually he moved on. I did not kiss him.
We are greeted by Leandro, and he is wearing a red hoodie, jeans and a Puma t-shirt. Very Hip Hop. He asks us how we got in, we tell him about “el bebe.” That’s his boss. I’m surprised Leandro isn’t el bebe, he’s so fresh-faced and young looking. Very sweet. I would never expect an American to follow through as well as he has, considering we met him at a protest. He leaves us for a second to greet his ex-novia. It’s only been a week since they broke up: he’s too busy with work; she’s too busy modeling. It looks like there wasn’t complete closure. Or maybe kissing your ex-girlfriend on the neck is normal here. She is very tall and very thin. To the point of being completely flat chested. She looks like a combination of a prepubescent boy and Shannyn Sossamon. Her black hair is cut in a blunt bob that grazes her cheekbones. Her skin is pale, her face plain. But somehow she is pretty. She wears a wife-beater tank top with a plaid pleated skirt and Nike Air Force Ones, giving her the effect of looking like a confused schoolgirl in a nightclub where hoodies and Puma gear are almost mandatory. I feel a bit overdressed in my grey dress and red necklaces, but to be honest in el VIP, everyone else is too important to notice you, which after the night before, is kinda nice. We stay until 4:30 and then head home.
sneak-attack, very candid photo of me and Annemarie on Wednesday
night, courtesy of Damian's work friend, Juan
Damian had been with his guy friends for cho y pan (chorizo sandwiches and pre-partying by the river). We meet his rugby friends and his work friends. They are like night and day. But still all very nice.
So we are inside Museum, and it is incredible. I had heard it was a converted church. But I would guess maybe an old theatre. Old ironwork along the railings, three stories, and a giant chandelier made of disco balls. They play such hits as: Crystal Waters’ “100% Pure Love” and Janet Jackson’s “Together Again.” It is like childhood revisited. But with booze.
Club Museum
¿Como te vas?
Bien bien.
¿Y vos?
And then you kiss each other on the check and go on your merry way.
Usually.
So Jenny and I make the rounds while Annemarie hangs out with Damian and his friends. We get tired of Argentine men trying to speak English to us. I guess it is obvious we are American when we go out in packs. But this one guy just asked me ¿Que tomas?” (Finally, someone who doesn’t want to practice his English!) and I tell him “Un vodka con agua.” He heads to the bar. Jenny is ready to move on but I want a free drink. She says I’ll only have to talk to him for like 5 minutes. Fair price for a drink I think.
His name is Matias. He is wearing a navy polo shirt. (Annemarie says all Matt’s are trouble because that was her ex-husband’s name. I tell her my mom and I have a theory that all Matt’s are hot) I walk up to him at the bar. Matias hands me a glass half full. “Su vodka” and then una botella de agua sin gas. I take a sip from the glass. Yep, straight vodka. Half full, very little ice. And these are not highball glasses. These are tall glasses. I quickly mix it myself and we walk off with Jenny and whoever her boy of the moment is. Then Matias leaves me with his friends. One of them is named Gaston. Like in Beauty and the Beast. I gasped “¿Como en La Bella y La Bestia? ¿El mas guapo de todo Francia?” He ate it up and gave me a huge kiss on the cheek. Matias may have abandoned me, but his friends are in love with me. I am slightly insulted when I see Matias chatting it up with some Argentine girls, but I get over it. Kind of.
The night moves on and we run into Matias again. This time he greets me dramatically with a bottle of Smirnoff that he pours into my glass. It was like the crowd parted and a bottle of vodka came down from the sky. Damian, watching after me, takes it to the bar to add water. (Everyone shares everything here. Drinks especially. It’s like you pass it around. I mean obviously only with people you know. But you share. So Damian and I share my vodka. At this point it is probably just vodka. I don't want any more. I let him have it.) Matias’ friends hand me a glass of champagne. Not in a flute, in another tall glass. I see them pour it from the bottle: MUMM.
Note: it is somewhat rare for porteños to spend that much money in the bars. That’s why Damian and his friends do the cho y pan thing and drink beforehand. This Matias character must be loaded.
We all dance in a little group by the stage (no one is allowed to dance on stage. I find this strange; then again, stage fright doesn’t run in the family). Matias’ friends keep coming up to me, telling me, “El es el mejor. El es el mejor,” like I’ve won some kind of prize or something. He asks for my number and can’t believe I don’t have a cell phone. So then he asks for my home number but I don’t know it yet. Annemarie gives it to him and tells me, “Rule #1: they never call.”
Well, she was wrong. He called me after work yesterday and told me:
“Sin vos no puedo vivir jamás” (I cannot live without you.)
A bit dramatic, no?
He wants to go out later. He gave me his cell phone number. Damian says he’s safe.
I might call him later. He doesn’t speak a word of English, so it would be good practice I suppose.
Aside from the phone call, yesterday was just a typical day of café con leche and errands (which take a while because Argentines love their lines). Ben and I met up with his uncle who is in on business. He took us to dinner and was very nice. Just moved to the Houston area from Oklahoma.
After dinner Ben and I went to an ACORN meeting hosted by these two American girls who went to Bates College. There was a big turnout and quite a few Texans there. It was fun to connect with Americans, especially those who are interested in volunteering here. Someday when I tire of the café life I will need to stop by their community center. So many people to talk to there. Ali, one of the organizers, is from Houston, and the other organizer, Sara is dating Lloyd French. I had been told to look for him in November but I didn’t know he was still here. It was very nice to see him. He recognized me right away, and we had plenty to talk about. Also met a guy from Bucknell who knew Fritz, a boy from Indonesia who went to UC Berkeley, a younger girl from UT who is studying abroad for the semester…
But then we had to leave to go out.
Club Araoz/LOST
Our friend Leandro invited us to be his guests on the VIP list at this club in Palermo, LOST. Turns out it’s called Club Araoza every other night, but on Thursdays it is a Hip Hop club with rap and American music and break-dancers take over the floor until 2 am. We get there at 1:30 am, and already I have seen more black people here than I knew existed in Buenos Aires. Leandro told me they are mainly Brasileños. But the break-dancers are awesome, sinewy characters who move like water across the dance floor. It was very cool to watch while we waited for Leandro. He texts Ben that he is in el VIP (pronounced “veep”) but we can’t get in without a wristband. I go up to the male bouncer: “Buscamos Leandro. ¿Sabes si esta acá?” He tells me to ask for “el bebe.” When I go up to the VIP bouncer and tell him I was told to ask for “el bebe,” the rope is pulled back, the heavens open, and we are accepted in the VIP section.
A note on the VIP section: it is obviously less crowded, the people like to see and be seen, the bar is close by and rarely crowded, and they dance with each other and for the most part leave you alone. Except for this gross older guy with a curly ponytail. He kept telling me I was beautiful and that he wanted to kiss me. I got pretty annoyed with him, but eventually he moved on. I did not kiss him.
We are greeted by Leandro, and he is wearing a red hoodie, jeans and a Puma t-shirt. Very Hip Hop. He asks us how we got in, we tell him about “el bebe.” That’s his boss. I’m surprised Leandro isn’t el bebe, he’s so fresh-faced and young looking. Very sweet. I would never expect an American to follow through as well as he has, considering we met him at a protest. He leaves us for a second to greet his ex-novia. It’s only been a week since they broke up: he’s too busy with work; she’s too busy modeling. It looks like there wasn’t complete closure. Or maybe kissing your ex-girlfriend on the neck is normal here. She is very tall and very thin. To the point of being completely flat chested. She looks like a combination of a prepubescent boy and Shannyn Sossamon. Her black hair is cut in a blunt bob that grazes her cheekbones. Her skin is pale, her face plain. But somehow she is pretty. She wears a wife-beater tank top with a plaid pleated skirt and Nike Air Force Ones, giving her the effect of looking like a confused schoolgirl in a nightclub where hoodies and Puma gear are almost mandatory. I feel a bit overdressed in my grey dress and red necklaces, but to be honest in el VIP, everyone else is too important to notice you, which after the night before, is kinda nice. We stay until 4:30 and then head home.
miércoles, 26 de marzo de 2008
anoche
So last night I get back to Recoleta around 7 pm. Walking by the park, I hear a rhythmic sound. Construction, some banging. I wondered why a few people were clapping along down Arenales. I wanted to yell “¿Que haces chico?” to the man clanging his tin trashcan lid on the rooftop. I look down and see old men clapping broomsticks together, cars honking in unison – beep! Beep! Beep-beep-beep! When I reach the doorman, he asks me what’s going on. I say, “¿Mande?” and give myself away as a non-Argentine. When I ask him he says something about el campo. When we ask a little old lady, she says there’s always something to grumble about: los bancos, el gobierno.
I go upstairs and Ben is on the phone with his boss in Tulsa. The noise is growing louder. I try to look out our window, but the sunroom looks over the courtyard. Pedro (Augustin’s roommate and ex-novio) calls us. He has a better view of the streets. He greets us at the door with metal pot and spoon in hand. He invites us to his terrace where we see elderly people banging pots and the neighbor line-drying his white underwear. We ask him what is going on. He tells us that everyone here has a place in the country, and they are unhappy about the taxes. (Cristina is speaking on the television; although there have been strikes in el campo, she will not remove the taxes). He says even if you don’t have an estancia, you want your neighbors to think you do, so you bang even louder. (Pedro doesn’t have an estancia).
He then tells me we will march to Plaza de Mayo. I figure I’ve already walked through half the city, what’s the other half? (Me duelen los pies. My feet hurt.) So we follow Pedro, walking briskly. Camera stuffed in back pocket. He smokes a cigarette. Marlboro Red. We arrive at Avenida 9 de Julio. The poor people on the streets are ripping up books. I ask Pedro why? What is in the books? He tells me they can’t read them. The just want to recycle the paper. We cross halfway through Avenida 9 de Julio and see people surrounding The Obelisk. A sea of blue-and-white striped futbol jerseys. Yelling singing chanting. Haciendo ruido. They smell of Quilmes and tobacco. This announcement was just made today. Yet everyone gathers with flags and signs and drums.
And then I get abducted by an old man who is missing a lower tooth.
But seriously, this old man asked me a question, and upon realizing I was from the US, he invited me to come to his house to meet his host daughter, Joelle. We spent about 5 hours together: we drank yerba mate with sugar, she showed me pictures of her travels to Patagonia, she told me about her volunteer gig, her grad school plans (Ph.D. in oceanography), her nasty break-up with her boyfriend of the last three years (even though it was 10 months ago)… When it came time to eat, I ate with the family. Lidia, the abuela had baked una torta de verdura with ham. (Of course). But since Joelle is Jewish and I am a vegetarian, we ate cheese sandwiches with fruit and cold red wine. After lunch I walked with Joelle for 10 blocks before heading back to the park. She seemed like she needed someone to talk to.
But last night.
The police escort the rioters to Plaza de Mayo. So much yelling. Singing songs I cannot understand. And the cars are honking out a familiar tune. We arrive at Plaza de Mayo, and it’s not yet too crowded. A metal gate barricades us from La Casa Rosada. The police stand behind it with plastic shields. A few men in civilian clothes wander around behind them: el gobierno. Flashlight bulbs from news photographers brighten the sky. A man hands me a flier: “Estoy con el campo.” Neighbors greet each other with kisses. Apart from yelling obscenities at the president, it is a happy event. The crowd claps and chants “Ar-gen-tina!” Men climb trees and statues to wave flags. The crowd is no longer a sea of soccer hooligans, but men in suits, old ladies with shopping bags, school children still in uniform. Pedro finds his friend Leandro. They tell us that even in 2001 it wasn’t like this. That back then the people of Recoleta were the first to strike back. The people who have power and plata don’t like Cristina.
I see a sign that says “No autoridad sin dialogo,” and it reminds me of “No taxation without representation.” A lady tells me, “Todo el mundo va a Santa Fe y Callao” – she thinks I am Argentine and tells me everyone is headed back to my neighborhood to protest there. We meet a lady who lives above Josephina’s. We start to head back and see an even bigger crowd marching down Av. 9 de Julio. It is insane. Like nothing I have ever seen. Habia un monton de gente. Ben buys an Argentine flag and waves it in the air; I hold my “Estoy con el campo” sign in the air. Cars honk in agreement. An old man gives me a thumbs up. Pedro leaves us with Leandro, and eventually we head back home.
As we watch the news to see if anything new has happened, it starts to rain. I frantically scramble down the narrow staircase to get my clothes off the clothesline. Just in time.
I go upstairs and Ben is on the phone with his boss in Tulsa. The noise is growing louder. I try to look out our window, but the sunroom looks over the courtyard. Pedro (Augustin’s roommate and ex-novio) calls us. He has a better view of the streets. He greets us at the door with metal pot and spoon in hand. He invites us to his terrace where we see elderly people banging pots and the neighbor line-drying his white underwear. We ask him what is going on. He tells us that everyone here has a place in the country, and they are unhappy about the taxes. (Cristina is speaking on the television; although there have been strikes in el campo, she will not remove the taxes). He says even if you don’t have an estancia, you want your neighbors to think you do, so you bang even louder. (Pedro doesn’t have an estancia).
He then tells me we will march to Plaza de Mayo. I figure I’ve already walked through half the city, what’s the other half? (Me duelen los pies. My feet hurt.) So we follow Pedro, walking briskly. Camera stuffed in back pocket. He smokes a cigarette. Marlboro Red. We arrive at Avenida 9 de Julio. The poor people on the streets are ripping up books. I ask Pedro why? What is in the books? He tells me they can’t read them. The just want to recycle the paper. We cross halfway through Avenida 9 de Julio and see people surrounding The Obelisk. A sea of blue-and-white striped futbol jerseys. Yelling singing chanting. Haciendo ruido. They smell of Quilmes and tobacco. This announcement was just made today. Yet everyone gathers with flags and signs and drums.
And then I get abducted by an old man who is missing a lower tooth.
But seriously, this old man asked me a question, and upon realizing I was from the US, he invited me to come to his house to meet his host daughter, Joelle. We spent about 5 hours together: we drank yerba mate with sugar, she showed me pictures of her travels to Patagonia, she told me about her volunteer gig, her grad school plans (Ph.D. in oceanography), her nasty break-up with her boyfriend of the last three years (even though it was 10 months ago)… When it came time to eat, I ate with the family. Lidia, the abuela had baked una torta de verdura with ham. (Of course). But since Joelle is Jewish and I am a vegetarian, we ate cheese sandwiches with fruit and cold red wine. After lunch I walked with Joelle for 10 blocks before heading back to the park. She seemed like she needed someone to talk to.
But last night.
The police escort the rioters to Plaza de Mayo. So much yelling. Singing songs I cannot understand. And the cars are honking out a familiar tune. We arrive at Plaza de Mayo, and it’s not yet too crowded. A metal gate barricades us from La Casa Rosada. The police stand behind it with plastic shields. A few men in civilian clothes wander around behind them: el gobierno. Flashlight bulbs from news photographers brighten the sky. A man hands me a flier: “Estoy con el campo.” Neighbors greet each other with kisses. Apart from yelling obscenities at the president, it is a happy event. The crowd claps and chants “Ar-gen-tina!” Men climb trees and statues to wave flags. The crowd is no longer a sea of soccer hooligans, but men in suits, old ladies with shopping bags, school children still in uniform. Pedro finds his friend Leandro. They tell us that even in 2001 it wasn’t like this. That back then the people of Recoleta were the first to strike back. The people who have power and plata don’t like Cristina.
I see a sign that says “No autoridad sin dialogo,” and it reminds me of “No taxation without representation.” A lady tells me, “Todo el mundo va a Santa Fe y Callao” – she thinks I am Argentine and tells me everyone is headed back to my neighborhood to protest there. We meet a lady who lives above Josephina’s. We start to head back and see an even bigger crowd marching down Av. 9 de Julio. It is insane. Like nothing I have ever seen. Habia un monton de gente. Ben buys an Argentine flag and waves it in the air; I hold my “Estoy con el campo” sign in the air. Cars honk in agreement. An old man gives me a thumbs up. Pedro leaves us with Leandro, and eventually we head back home.
As we watch the news to see if anything new has happened, it starts to rain. I frantically scramble down the narrow staircase to get my clothes off the clothesline. Just in time.
martes, 25 de marzo de 2008
walking tour
There is a protest going on outside. I have no idea what for. At first I just thought it was construction, and I wondered why a handful of people were clapping along. Then I noticed a person banging his trashcan lid from the top of the apartment building. Then people with broomsticks and cowbells and pots and pans. Clapping, honking. The doorman asked me if I knew what was going on. He said no. Mentioned something about government, banks, typical things to protest. A little old lady said there were always things to protest here. It is really unreal to hear this ruckus. I might go back outside to get a better view, our patio looks over the courtyard, so I can’t see the streets.
Went with Annemarie to Chinatown in Belgrano. Took the subte to Belgrano and walked across the train tracks to Chinatown. Went to the place she frequents, but it was closed on Tuesdays, so we decided on Bashi, a slightly more upscale sushi place. We each ordered two rolls. After walking to her apartment and the subte ride there, we were hungry.
(On the subway people are always trying to sell you stuff, and they just place it in your lap. They come back at the next stop and take it from you if you decide not to buy it. Today I decided not to buy a day-planner and some bobby pins.)
At Bashi I ordered un rollo Azteca and a New York. The New York was just your basic salmon with avocado, which is not aquacate here. It’s palta. The Azteca was amazing. Basically a hot Philadelphia roll smothered in cream cheese, fried, and covered in somewhat spicy guacamole (fiery by Argentine standards).
From there we wondered through Belgrano and found our way to Las Canitas. Then went to Palermo… by then we were almost home. We walked forever. And stopped for ice cream at her favorite place. I had crema de coco with dulce de leche casero con brownie. It was increible. Annemarie assures me she does more than wander around and eat.
Perhaps we will explore more tomorrow.
Went with Annemarie to Chinatown in Belgrano. Took the subte to Belgrano and walked across the train tracks to Chinatown. Went to the place she frequents, but it was closed on Tuesdays, so we decided on Bashi, a slightly more upscale sushi place. We each ordered two rolls. After walking to her apartment and the subte ride there, we were hungry.
(On the subway people are always trying to sell you stuff, and they just place it in your lap. They come back at the next stop and take it from you if you decide not to buy it. Today I decided not to buy a day-planner and some bobby pins.)
At Bashi I ordered un rollo Azteca and a New York. The New York was just your basic salmon with avocado, which is not aquacate here. It’s palta. The Azteca was amazing. Basically a hot Philadelphia roll smothered in cream cheese, fried, and covered in somewhat spicy guacamole (fiery by Argentine standards).
From there we wondered through Belgrano and found our way to Las Canitas. Then went to Palermo… by then we were almost home. We walked forever. And stopped for ice cream at her favorite place. I had crema de coco with dulce de leche casero con brownie. It was increible. Annemarie assures me she does more than wander around and eat.
Perhaps we will explore more tomorrow.
esta noche
Tonight at 10:30 pm I decided that dry cereal on the futon was not enough. I hadn’t seen Ben since brunch, so I left him a note (Liz called the Vonage phone at 10:15, and I’m going to dinner on Parana. Nos vemos) and went to dinner by myself. I brought my book for reinforcements. I decided I’d go to Los Maestros, a pizza joint across from Plaza Vicente Lopez, where I went for a quick jog around 8 o’clock. Mom and I had been there in November, and I swear I had the same waitress tonight. She’s beautiful, long black wavy ponytail held in place by a slim headband. Very natural by any standards, especially Argentine, where plastic surgery is de rigueur. So I ordered one slice of pizza Napolitana, and butchered the pronunciation, along with una copa de vino de la casa. The wine was sweet but strong; the pizza normal. I read a chapter of my novel between sips and bites. And upon finishing, heard a voice in English say, “Just a piece of pizza and some water.” Still I find myself fascinated by people who come here and expect to speak only English. Feeling the need to translate, I stare as the Argentines figure out his order. Finally I ask the voice, “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” comes the reply. But not in a Boston accent. He asks if he may sit to join me, I put away my book, and he sits down with his take out order at the table catty-corner from me. He is 30, and a tenured professor of Economics at Harvard. He is originally from Moscow, thus lacking the Hahvahd accent. His name is Omek, or Omec, no se como se escribe. He is on break from school and will spend two weeks here. He summers in Italy, or Chile, or Washington D.C., or New York… I don’t know if I buy it yet, but he is fascinating. He did undergrad in Russia and got his masters and Ph.D. in Minnesota. He spent a year teaching at UCLA. Then came to Harvard. Yale wants him now. I can’t imagine being tenured at age 30.
Once he finishes eating and I pay my bill, he invites me to grab a drink. He promises he is not a serial killer. And since we are so close to my apartment, I believe him, or at least believe that I can escape him if he is. He is staying at the Bel Air, a hotel close to my place. (But not so close as the newest hotel, which Mom should be excited about because it means no more trash left on the street corner of Arenales y Uruguay). He tries to find a bar nearby. I tell him I will go but nowhere fancy because I just got out of the shower – I decided I could pull off the “natural” look, and left the house with damp hair, no make-up and a blue Polo button down with my jeans and Bernardo sandals. We end up at Alamo, which somehow makes me feel safe. And lucky me, girls drink free until 2 am. The waitress hands me a plastic cup full of Quilmes, and Omek buys an 8 peso pilsner glass of the same. We talk for a bit, and he says I have restored his faith in 22 year old American women.
I’ll take that as a compliment.
Now it is 1:00 am and I still haven’t seen my roommate. I’m sure he is okay, but I can’t call him because calling a cell-phone from a landline is like calling long distance. I don’t understand it either.
“Boston,” comes the reply. But not in a Boston accent. He asks if he may sit to join me, I put away my book, and he sits down with his take out order at the table catty-corner from me. He is 30, and a tenured professor of Economics at Harvard. He is originally from Moscow, thus lacking the Hahvahd accent. His name is Omek, or Omec, no se como se escribe. He is on break from school and will spend two weeks here. He summers in Italy, or Chile, or Washington D.C., or New York… I don’t know if I buy it yet, but he is fascinating. He did undergrad in Russia and got his masters and Ph.D. in Minnesota. He spent a year teaching at UCLA. Then came to Harvard. Yale wants him now. I can’t imagine being tenured at age 30.
Once he finishes eating and I pay my bill, he invites me to grab a drink. He promises he is not a serial killer. And since we are so close to my apartment, I believe him, or at least believe that I can escape him if he is. He is staying at the Bel Air, a hotel close to my place. (But not so close as the newest hotel, which Mom should be excited about because it means no more trash left on the street corner of Arenales y Uruguay). He tries to find a bar nearby. I tell him I will go but nowhere fancy because I just got out of the shower – I decided I could pull off the “natural” look, and left the house with damp hair, no make-up and a blue Polo button down with my jeans and Bernardo sandals. We end up at Alamo, which somehow makes me feel safe. And lucky me, girls drink free until 2 am. The waitress hands me a plastic cup full of Quilmes, and Omek buys an 8 peso pilsner glass of the same. We talk for a bit, and he says I have restored his faith in 22 year old American women.
I’ll take that as a compliment.
Now it is 1:00 am and I still haven’t seen my roommate. I’m sure he is okay, but I can’t call him because calling a cell-phone from a landline is like calling long distance. I don’t understand it either.
lunes, 24 de marzo de 2008
recoleta cemetery
Yesterday I watched the Texas game at Shoeless Joe’s Alamo, I was the only girl at the bar, and I think the (small) crowd enjoyed seeing me get worked up when Miami was doing so well. I ordered my first Quilmes to take the edge off. Ben met up with me as the last few minutes remained. We won. The beer was good.
Shortly after the game I took a nap and ended up sleeping for 12 hours. It was glorious. This morning I met up with Ben at Jospehina’s for café con leche and dos medialunas (croissants). It was delicious. And great people watching because today is still a holiday. We sat around for a while, talking. And the Jamaicans called me. (The ones whose house I helped to build five and one years ago.) Six times. So of course I think there’s some emergency in The States so I answer. Nope, just the Jamaicans checking in on me, but it cut out. So they called again. And again. I couldn’t afford to answer it again; I had to put my phone on silent. So Ben and I talked about Dallas and Tulsa and Texas and OU, then we paid our bill and split ways.
I went to Recoleta Cemetery; Ben went to buy groceries. I found Evita’s tomb with the help of a 4 peso map, and wandered around for an hour or so.
While I was meandering, I saw an older lady frantically scrubbing at a portrait on a tomb. At closer glance I see the word “GIL” painted in red near a man’s face. “¡Que lastima!” (What a pity!), I sighed (thanks, Daddy). She’s trying to remove the graffiti with nail polish remover. We chat and we she hears I am from The States she tells me she knows someone who lived in Salt Lake City and Montgomery, AL. I nod politely because I doubt I know them. She says she doesn’t have enough plata (money) to maintain the tomb. I notice the glass on the door is broken. The tomb is her relative’s. He was in the military. His grandfather was Presidente de la Repulica. Apparently “GIL” is a slang word for estupido, most likely written by someone anti-military. I walk by later and the red is faded but the word is still clear. She was a sweet lady.
After I had my fill of looking at tombs and taking pictures, I sat on a park bench outside the cemetery to read Augusten Burrough’s Dry. It took me over an hour to read one chapter, because people kept coming up to me to talk.
First it was the Jehovah’s witnesses, Estel and Pilar. They wanted to give me some reading material about the Armageddon. I accepted it, but only since it was not their last one because “Soy cristiana.” If I decide to read it, I’ll let you know what it says. Then there was the accordion-playing clown named Luis. He reminded me of the mimes in Paris Je T’aime, but he talks. He wore a blue and white striped shirt and a red nose. His cheeks were painted with white circles. He later took the nose off, and he looked semi-normal. After a bit he left to play accordion under the trees and allow tourists to photograph him for tips.
Then came the creepy old man who incessantly wagged his foot and complained that it was lonely to be a solteron in the city. At this point my journal was open and I had been writing. I was mid-sentence when he sat down next to me. Apparently that is an invitation to sit down and talk. He kept asking if I had already eaten lunch. What about coffee? Ice cream? Coca-cola? I refused each time, but he still sat there. Telling me about his family, places to go in Buenos Aires. He was polite enough, but I don’t think I’ll be sitting down to lunch with an octogenarian any time soon. He talked and I would gaze out to the young couples making out in the lawn. PDA is totally appropriate here. Finally I think he got the drift and left me alone on my bench to finish writing and tend to my book.
When the old guy left, I was able to read a few pages before another man approached me. He had been sitting opposite me on another bench, eating bologna sandwiches. He said he heard me talking and thought maybe I was German. I laughed. He is Peruvian. He looks Peruvian. Also named Luis, he is a tattoo artist as well as a body piercer and sells belly-button rings. He did not try to sell me one. We chat for a while about his travels (he studied for two years in Germany, might go to Hungary next) and the clown came back to join us, sitting with two Brazilian girls. So we all sat and talked, an American, a Peruvian, two Brazilians, and one Argentine dresses as a Parisian. Apparently the best way to make friends is to sit on a park bench alone.
Once everyone left, I was able to finish one chapter, bought some candied almendras (almonds) that smelled like New York City, and walked over to the nearby Catholic Church. I wanted to light a prayer candle, it being the day after Easter and all, but I didn’t realize you have to buy them outside the church. So I walked home and bought some bread stuffed with four cheeses on the way back. Walking and eating seems to be a very American thing here, but my legs were tired from all that sitting, and it felt very Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
When I got to my apartment, the doorman asked if he needed to help me with my keys again. I told him I hoped not. And I was able to do it: turn left hard until you hear two clicks.
The sun is setting here and I still haven’t worked out. And today was a weights day… might jog around Plaza Vicente Lopez in a few. It’s a safe neighborhood, no te preocupas.
¡Chau chau! ¡Te extraño un montón!
Shortly after the game I took a nap and ended up sleeping for 12 hours. It was glorious. This morning I met up with Ben at Jospehina’s for café con leche and dos medialunas (croissants). It was delicious. And great people watching because today is still a holiday. We sat around for a while, talking. And the Jamaicans called me. (The ones whose house I helped to build five and one years ago.) Six times. So of course I think there’s some emergency in The States so I answer. Nope, just the Jamaicans checking in on me, but it cut out. So they called again. And again. I couldn’t afford to answer it again; I had to put my phone on silent. So Ben and I talked about Dallas and Tulsa and Texas and OU, then we paid our bill and split ways.
I went to Recoleta Cemetery; Ben went to buy groceries. I found Evita’s tomb with the help of a 4 peso map, and wandered around for an hour or so.
While I was meandering, I saw an older lady frantically scrubbing at a portrait on a tomb. At closer glance I see the word “GIL” painted in red near a man’s face. “¡Que lastima!” (What a pity!), I sighed (thanks, Daddy). She’s trying to remove the graffiti with nail polish remover. We chat and we she hears I am from The States she tells me she knows someone who lived in Salt Lake City and Montgomery, AL. I nod politely because I doubt I know them. She says she doesn’t have enough plata (money) to maintain the tomb. I notice the glass on the door is broken. The tomb is her relative’s. He was in the military. His grandfather was Presidente de la Repulica. Apparently “GIL” is a slang word for estupido, most likely written by someone anti-military. I walk by later and the red is faded but the word is still clear. She was a sweet lady.
After I had my fill of looking at tombs and taking pictures, I sat on a park bench outside the cemetery to read Augusten Burrough’s Dry. It took me over an hour to read one chapter, because people kept coming up to me to talk.
First it was the Jehovah’s witnesses, Estel and Pilar. They wanted to give me some reading material about the Armageddon. I accepted it, but only since it was not their last one because “Soy cristiana.” If I decide to read it, I’ll let you know what it says. Then there was the accordion-playing clown named Luis. He reminded me of the mimes in Paris Je T’aime, but he talks. He wore a blue and white striped shirt and a red nose. His cheeks were painted with white circles. He later took the nose off, and he looked semi-normal. After a bit he left to play accordion under the trees and allow tourists to photograph him for tips.
Then came the creepy old man who incessantly wagged his foot and complained that it was lonely to be a solteron in the city. At this point my journal was open and I had been writing. I was mid-sentence when he sat down next to me. Apparently that is an invitation to sit down and talk. He kept asking if I had already eaten lunch. What about coffee? Ice cream? Coca-cola? I refused each time, but he still sat there. Telling me about his family, places to go in Buenos Aires. He was polite enough, but I don’t think I’ll be sitting down to lunch with an octogenarian any time soon. He talked and I would gaze out to the young couples making out in the lawn. PDA is totally appropriate here. Finally I think he got the drift and left me alone on my bench to finish writing and tend to my book.
When the old guy left, I was able to read a few pages before another man approached me. He had been sitting opposite me on another bench, eating bologna sandwiches. He said he heard me talking and thought maybe I was German. I laughed. He is Peruvian. He looks Peruvian. Also named Luis, he is a tattoo artist as well as a body piercer and sells belly-button rings. He did not try to sell me one. We chat for a while about his travels (he studied for two years in Germany, might go to Hungary next) and the clown came back to join us, sitting with two Brazilian girls. So we all sat and talked, an American, a Peruvian, two Brazilians, and one Argentine dresses as a Parisian. Apparently the best way to make friends is to sit on a park bench alone.
Once everyone left, I was able to finish one chapter, bought some candied almendras (almonds) that smelled like New York City, and walked over to the nearby Catholic Church. I wanted to light a prayer candle, it being the day after Easter and all, but I didn’t realize you have to buy them outside the church. So I walked home and bought some bread stuffed with four cheeses on the way back. Walking and eating seems to be a very American thing here, but my legs were tired from all that sitting, and it felt very Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
When I got to my apartment, the doorman asked if he needed to help me with my keys again. I told him I hoped not. And I was able to do it: turn left hard until you hear two clicks.
The sun is setting here and I still haven’t worked out. And today was a weights day… might jog around Plaza Vicente Lopez in a few. It’s a safe neighborhood, no te preocupas.
¡Chau chau! ¡Te extraño un montón!
domingo, 23 de marzo de 2008
easter
Today I woke up later than planned, crammed two fistfuls of Fiber 1 dry cereal in my mouth, and walked like 30something blocks to the Presbyterian Church in San Telmo. I was forty minutes late, but I made it in time for communion, one hymn, and the Apostles’ Creed in Spanish, so I think that counts for something. There were only 24 people in the church for the service. It was kind of unreal for Easter. After church practically everyone came up to me to talk. A lot of them wanted to practice their English with me. They were very nice in a churchy way. One lady invited me to the youth group retreat in the suburbs next Saturday, but I don’t plan on going because youth group sounds rather young and I can’t plan ahead that far anyway. We discussed Luis Palau and Spanish literature. And one lady wants me to teach her to talk with a Texan accent. I just don’t think that can be learned.
I ducked out of church and went to the market at San Telmo, because I was already there and it’s a pretty day. The streets had been empty on my 40 minute walk to church (note to self: buy better walking shoes) but Calle Defensa was packed. Mainly with vendors and tourists. I didn’t buy anything, but stopped at Materia Urbana and El Buen Orden, both of which were mentioned in Lucky magazine a while back. Materia Urbana is an awesome bright space with art and colorful clothes from new designers. El Bueno Orden reminds me of Uncommon Objects in Austin because it is overwhelming, but a different kind of overwhelming than Calle Defensa on a Sunday.
The only things I bought were two empanada at Continental (a chain) but at 5.20 pesos por los dos, it was a good deal. There was a hard boiled egg in it, but I was hungry so it was good. On my way home I overshot it and ended up passing through Plaza Congreso, which is very nice. A few people were laying out on the grass. And when I got back to the apartment I had to get the doorman to help me with the keys. Hopefully I will remember how he did it.
felices pascuas
(Happy Easter)
I ducked out of church and went to the market at San Telmo, because I was already there and it’s a pretty day. The streets had been empty on my 40 minute walk to church (note to self: buy better walking shoes) but Calle Defensa was packed. Mainly with vendors and tourists. I didn’t buy anything, but stopped at Materia Urbana and El Buen Orden, both of which were mentioned in Lucky magazine a while back. Materia Urbana is an awesome bright space with art and colorful clothes from new designers. El Bueno Orden reminds me of Uncommon Objects in Austin because it is overwhelming, but a different kind of overwhelming than Calle Defensa on a Sunday.
The only things I bought were two empanada at Continental (a chain) but at 5.20 pesos por los dos, it was a good deal. There was a hard boiled egg in it, but I was hungry so it was good. On my way home I overshot it and ended up passing through Plaza Congreso, which is very nice. A few people were laying out on the grass. And when I got back to the apartment I had to get the doorman to help me with the keys. Hopefully I will remember how he did it.
felices pascuas
(Happy Easter)
first night out
At 3:19 am I get home from a night out with Annemarie, her boyfriend Damian, Siliva and her boyfriend Juan Jo (short for Juan Jose). They are all very fun and very sweet. I think I am off to a good start.
Around 9:15 pm Damian and Annemarie pick me up from my apartment, ringing the bell and exchanging a few words with Ben, who decides to stay in. They show me to the colectivo (bus) stop close to Café Josephina, where I had breakfast the morning prior. We take the bus to Juan Jo’s apartment, where I am greeted by Juan Jo, Silvia, and Silvia’a Poodle, Camila. Camila wears a purple bow in a tuft of her hair. She is very soft, and even though she is a small dog, I like her. Silvia has blonde wavy hair and likes to dress her dog in lace collars and sweaters. I don’t think Camila minds. Juan Jo has a serious obsession with Bon Jovi, and pretty much all things 80s rock.
Silvia, Annemarie, Camila & Meg
From Juan Jo’s apartment, we head to dinner; a place in Las Canitas called “Lo de Falucha,” turns out Falucha is a dog that “owns” the place. I do not get to meet Falucho. But I do get to eat una ensalda capresse with more grape tomatoes than I ever thought I would eat in my lifetime, mozzarella cubes, basil, and olives. I avoid the olives. It should be noted that Silivia speaks close to no English. We converse the whole meal in castellano, with the occasional translation from Damian when words fail Annemarie or me. Silvia is understanding and patient, but hates to be left out of the conversation. I also ate provoloneta, which is basically cheese cooked on a grill. Melty and delicious. Muy rico. I also take a bite of Annemarie’s steak, but to be honest, I never cared much for steak; and I don’t miss meat. The appeal is lost on me.
After dinner we head back to Juan Jo’s apartment and the boys watch VH1 while the girls flip through a slew of pictures Silvia has on the computer. They are mostly vacation shots or model-esque poses, as Silvia is both well traveled and beautiful. There are also a few pictures of squirrels she took in Miami. She thinks they are amazing. We talk and laugh and drink tornilleros (screwdrivers) until it is 1:44 am – time to hit the bars. Silvia helps Annemarie and I with our makeup because apparently we are not wearing enough mascara.
Later I learn that Silvia speaks Portuguese and will teach me if I teach her English. Let’s hope this works out. We have also discussed a possible trip to Iguazu. Fingers crossed.
Jaun Jo & Damian
Damian warns me that it is a slow night because of Holy Week; a lot of portenos leave town on holiday through Monday. Silvia drives us to Palermo, where we pay a man to help us park in a tiny parallel spot a few blocks from a bar called Sonoman. Sonoman is “not very crowded tonight,” but reminds me of the crowd at Cheers Shot Bar in Austin on a Thursday night. The back porch sprawls out to another bar which backlights bottles of Malibu Rum and Absolut Razberri, as well as your standard bar fare. Very reminiscent of Cheers. It also plays a lot of 80s music, which can’t help but remind me of a frat party – let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Porno for Pyros’ “We Make Great Pets” or Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself” sung at the top of their lungs by drunk studiers abroad and Castellano-speaking Argentines. After one drink, we make it an early night and Silivia drops us off. Easter is tomorrow.
Also, I am a horrible roommate because I have yet to figure out my keys and the door. I remember I had problems with this last time. I shall spend tomorrow practicing. Ben had to let me in tonight.
Around 9:15 pm Damian and Annemarie pick me up from my apartment, ringing the bell and exchanging a few words with Ben, who decides to stay in. They show me to the colectivo (bus) stop close to Café Josephina, where I had breakfast the morning prior. We take the bus to Juan Jo’s apartment, where I am greeted by Juan Jo, Silvia, and Silvia’a Poodle, Camila. Camila wears a purple bow in a tuft of her hair. She is very soft, and even though she is a small dog, I like her. Silvia has blonde wavy hair and likes to dress her dog in lace collars and sweaters. I don’t think Camila minds. Juan Jo has a serious obsession with Bon Jovi, and pretty much all things 80s rock.
Silvia, Annemarie, Camila & MegFrom Juan Jo’s apartment, we head to dinner; a place in Las Canitas called “Lo de Falucha,” turns out Falucha is a dog that “owns” the place. I do not get to meet Falucho. But I do get to eat una ensalda capresse with more grape tomatoes than I ever thought I would eat in my lifetime, mozzarella cubes, basil, and olives. I avoid the olives. It should be noted that Silivia speaks close to no English. We converse the whole meal in castellano, with the occasional translation from Damian when words fail Annemarie or me. Silvia is understanding and patient, but hates to be left out of the conversation. I also ate provoloneta, which is basically cheese cooked on a grill. Melty and delicious. Muy rico. I also take a bite of Annemarie’s steak, but to be honest, I never cared much for steak; and I don’t miss meat. The appeal is lost on me.
After dinner we head back to Juan Jo’s apartment and the boys watch VH1 while the girls flip through a slew of pictures Silvia has on the computer. They are mostly vacation shots or model-esque poses, as Silvia is both well traveled and beautiful. There are also a few pictures of squirrels she took in Miami. She thinks they are amazing. We talk and laugh and drink tornilleros (screwdrivers) until it is 1:44 am – time to hit the bars. Silvia helps Annemarie and I with our makeup because apparently we are not wearing enough mascara.
Later I learn that Silvia speaks Portuguese and will teach me if I teach her English. Let’s hope this works out. We have also discussed a possible trip to Iguazu. Fingers crossed.
Jaun Jo & Damian
Damian warns me that it is a slow night because of Holy Week; a lot of portenos leave town on holiday through Monday. Silvia drives us to Palermo, where we pay a man to help us park in a tiny parallel spot a few blocks from a bar called Sonoman. Sonoman is “not very crowded tonight,” but reminds me of the crowd at Cheers Shot Bar in Austin on a Thursday night. The back porch sprawls out to another bar which backlights bottles of Malibu Rum and Absolut Razberri, as well as your standard bar fare. Very reminiscent of Cheers. It also plays a lot of 80s music, which can’t help but remind me of a frat party – let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Porno for Pyros’ “We Make Great Pets” or Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself” sung at the top of their lungs by drunk studiers abroad and Castellano-speaking Argentines. After one drink, we make it an early night and Silivia drops us off. Easter is tomorrow.
Also, I am a horrible roommate because I have yet to figure out my keys and the door. I remember I had problems with this last time. I shall spend tomorrow practicing. Ben had to let me in tonight.
sábado, 22 de marzo de 2008
running
So I went for a run to Annemarie’s apartment, Carmex in tow, but she was unavailable. I can’t figure out how to call cell phones yet, so it was a crapshoot anyway. Nice run though, beautiful day. She’s off of Avenida Santa Fe, so I just thought I’d run in the direction I thought more likely to lead to Palermo. I was right, but running along Santa Fe at 5:30 pm on a Saturday is like the equivalent of running along The Drag in Austin at 12:25 pm on Thursday. I was weaving in and out of sluggish shoppers and people manning magazine and flower kioskos.
And just as I arrived back in the neighborhood, fully convinced that my iPod, running shorts, long sleeve Kappa shirt, and running shoes gave me away, a frail looking lady asked me for directions. But not really directions, she says (in Castellano) “I’ve been walking around and around this block, where am I going?”
I wanted to say, “Lady, I don’t even know why I’m going. How am I supposed to know where you’re headed?” But instead I stammered, “Uh, Avenida Santa Fe esta por alla…”
She patted me grandmotherly and said with a knowing smile, “Es extranejera, ¿no?”
Oh well, she instilled in me a hope that some day, I will pass off as a local. It’s only the first day.
And just as I arrived back in the neighborhood, fully convinced that my iPod, running shorts, long sleeve Kappa shirt, and running shoes gave me away, a frail looking lady asked me for directions. But not really directions, she says (in Castellano) “I’ve been walking around and around this block, where am I going?”
I wanted to say, “Lady, I don’t even know why I’m going. How am I supposed to know where you’re headed?” But instead I stammered, “Uh, Avenida Santa Fe esta por alla…”
She patted me grandmotherly and said with a knowing smile, “Es extranejera, ¿no?”
Oh well, she instilled in me a hope that some day, I will pass off as a local. It’s only the first day.
getting here
Okay, so I am here and basically moved into my apartment in Recoleta. But for all practical purposes, I am taking over the room of a guy who is vacationing in Spain – Esteban. So essentially, it would be similar to if someone were to move in to my room at my parents' house right now: clothes in the closet, framed photos on the bookshelves, books in English, Spanish, and Italian (okay, so the guy has one-upped me on that one; I don't speak Italian -- yet.) I've managed to put a few things on the shelf, but I don't feel comfortable moving around Esteban's personal items and/or snooping through his stuff. An example of my decorating is shown at left.So for now I think I might be living out of my suitcase for three weeks; which is okay, I've done it for longer.
a view from the apartment
The weather is beautiful here. Kind of cloudy and definitely cooler than the last time I was here. We have the windows open and the breeze nearly blew the curtain halfway across the room. Upon arrival from EZE to the apartment (via Radio Taxi and a very polite cab driver who said my castellano was pretty good) I joined Ben (my roommate) and his brother Jeff, possibly spelled Geoff, (who is in town for OU's spring break, but leaves tonight) for coffee at Josephina's Café. It's a cute little place down the street with green awnings, slow service, and delicious café con leche. The boys ate some breakfast but I really wasn't hungry yet (even though I slept through breakfast on the plane)
The flight wasn't bad. Everything had been delayed, and in Houston they opened up a free snack bar for all the people waiting for our 11-hour flight to board. I felt like I was thirteen, but the Twix bar did kind of make a difference. So after that and a dinner with a random guy (Greg) from Austin in the Houston Terminal E food court (pick up line: "Is the Starbuck's here any good?" I credit the yellow coat. Nice guy.), I got on the place, watched Enchanted (my other options were Evening and Becoming Jane, both of which I had seen in the theatre), took a sleeping pill and fell asleep. Possibly somewhat comfortably, but definitely for a while.
Things are slow here, I think because of Holy Week. I talked to (my cousin) Annemarie on the phone today (I hadn't realized I had never heard her voice before – it is so sweet and bubbly and Southern) and she mentioned that Damian's mom can no longer have the asado (Argentine barbeque in the countryside) tomorrow but maybe we can have it some other time. This frees me up for church in San Telmo for Easter, assuming I can figure out its schedule.
That pretty much gets you all up to speed. Ben and his brother are off doing... something... somewhere... I didn't really pay attention, but I have his cell phone number. I wanted some time to settle in, but there's not much to settle or room to unpack, so a lot of my clothes will remain folded. Oh well, this is not a fashion shoot vacation.
Might go for a run later, just to explore. Need to buy groceries soon. And meet Annemarie & Damian.
love&miss/un beso y chau,
meg
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