"Are you sure you are American?"

Sat inside Café Tolon today because it’s a bit chilly overcast damp. It’s always humid here. They say it might rain. (It did, barely. It might still be.) Met up with Damian and Annemarie at California Burrito Company on Lavalle over by Microcentro. $20 pesos for an experience similar to Q-doba or Chipotle, but it was $20 well spent. Took the D-line to Catedral and had to follow El Guía “T” to the address. The subte takes longer than planned. The first one is packed so I wait for a second one. Still packed. But I cram in and call Annemarie once I am above ground to let her know I am running late. When I get there, Damian asks me, “Are you sure you are American?” I am always running late when I meet up with him. It takes longer for me to do things here. At least I have a cell phone now to tell them to start eating without me. When I arrive they are sitting side-by-side at a table for four. I greet them and walk through the line: arroz, frijoles negras, cebolla, verduras, guacamol, pico de gallo, salsa fuego, queso, arrugüela. ¡Riquísima! Today’s a dreary day; yesterday was much prettier. Damian apologizes on behalf of his friend Martin who tried to take me to San Isidro after Museum instead of back to my place alone in Palermo. I tell Damian that it is not his fault, and that between the two languages that Martin and I both speak, there should not be such a “misunderstanding” as Martin put it. Annemarie gets up to take her tray (California Burrito Co. was started by a bunch of Americans, thus the spicy food and fast-food style service) and Damian asks me what my plans are for the day. I tell him we are going to see the Madres. I know this is a touchy subject, especially with his father being in the military and all, so I just say I figure it is one of those things I should do while I’m here. I don’t know much about La Guerra Sucia. He says he’s never seen them. That there is a bit of a divide among the Madres. On the one hand, they are mothers looking for their sons and daughters who disappeared (one must assume) at the hands of the government. This idea is understandable. The concept of a mother looking for her missing child seems pretty universal. The women are old now. Grey fragile hunched over. But still they shuffle around the monument, shouting “La Plaza es de madres, no de los cobardes” (The Plaza is for the mothers, not for cowards.) For thirty minutes they circle the Plaza, joined by other activists. This is where they lose some Argentines. According to Damian, they demand justice from the military, the government. Understandable. But there are two sides to every story. Some of the Madres believe it is their duty to carry out the radical ideals of their children. There is a sect that idolizes Che Guevara (born in Buenos Aires as Ernesto Guevera.) No one knows how many desaparecidos there are. The Madres say one number; the government cedes a much smaller amount. Internet research on the subject is sketchy at best. But the Madres are very well organized. It was a neat experience, and I’d like to eventually see their museum and library. Every Thursday their website is updated with the mothers’ speeches and pleas. This week was justice: not just for the rich. Annemarie was surprised I got Damian to talk about it all. He was too young then (the war started in 1976; he was born around 1980.) I have learned that oftentimes when you don’t ask, people will tell you all you need to know. You just need to be patient. Buenos Aires is good for teaching patience. While waiting for the Madres (we arrived 30 minutes early,) Annemarie showed me around La Catedral Metropolitana. It’s beautiful. So many rooms tucked away with altars and paintings and statues. It’s a wonder more art historians don’t come down here to study. We passed a lady giving confession out in the open to a priest sitting in a chair. She knelt at his feet. I asked Jenny about this (she’s Catholic.) Apparently here that’s how they do it. She says she never gives confession here because she doesn’t want to do it in Spanish and wouldn’t want everyone to hear. I’m glad to be Protestant (even if the church services here are cold and boring. Frozen Chosen.) After touring the cathedral, witnessing the Madres, and meeting Jesse Forester’s ex-girlfriend Stephanie, Annemarie asks me if I’d like to help her shop for her new place. We consult El Guía “T” but still get lost because we take the wrong subte stop. Two hours and two purchases later, we make it to the Recoleta Design District, where she decides the coat rack she was going to buy isn’t what she had envisioned and ends up buying the same red soap dispenser that Mom bought me in November. It’s funny how similar our tastes can be. I check my phone for the time, nearing 6 o’clock, and I notice an unopened text message. I assume it’s from Jenny; I haven’t seen her since she left for class that morning. But (le sigh) it is from Nick. I had written him off as a lost cause. Annemarie pays for her soap dispenser and catches a cab; I walk to the Puerrydon subte stop and cram my way into the masses of people. I feel like a cow on a cattle train. ¡Muu!