Rhythm Class

Discúlpame if there are typos, I’m battling a head cold and took some Refrianex, which is over the counter but you have to ask the pharmacist for it. Jenny swears by it; told me Martin recommended it. This little fact makes me nervous. But my headache has gone away…

The maid still hasn’t come today (she skipped out last week.) The smoke hasn’t cleared out yet (written at 11:04 am,) so buildings hang in thick white clouds. All of Buenos Aires smells like a bonfire. The “good air” is not so good. It’s a change in the winds, they say. Burning pasture in el campo and the smoke fills the city air. It’s not like city smoke: pollution or smog. There’s no fog. Just smoke. I’m sure it doesn’t help my sore throat; might cloud up my contacts, but it’s actually still a pretty day. Yesterday the smoke blew away around noon. I skipped coffee in favor of chamomile tea and peanut butter toast en casa. Picked up some cough drops from Farmacity. You’re wasting my time, illness. Sat in Plaza Italia, wandered through the zoo (art deco buildings and depressing animals), marveled at the elephants. So sweet. So sad. The coffee today does feel good to my throat, although I suppose the milk doesn’t help. And the Tina Turner music in Café Tolon, I could do without. Seems a bit early.
After Jenny’s class yesterday, we went to Parque las Heras to read. It was around 5 o’clock. Leaning against the fence, to our right we saw a group of four people sitting in a circle drinking maté. I watched, I want to learn the rules: don’t touch the bombilla, drink all of the liquid before you pass it… Jenny and I pondered what the closest American ritual to maté would be. We decided it was passing a joint. (I don’t know the rules for that either.) But mate is not a drug. It’s an herb tea. My eyes flicker from my book to the group. A couple more have joined. They’re young. Late 20s, early 30s. Sitting in the grass. This one guy is the ringleader, and he’s got a game for them to play. He reminds me of the kid on the playground who decides what game everyone is going to play at recess. The maté is put away, and I see him mark time for a waltz with his left hand. Then they all play a clapping-counting game. There is a rhythm, a pattern, but I can’t determine it. It almost sounds like French. Un dos tres cua cinc un dos tres un un dos tres un… The leader catches me staring. “Do you want to join?” He asks me in Spanish. Maybe I should be embarrassed for getting caught staring. I look at Jenny, “Should we try it?” “O, ellas hablan inglés…” I hear him tell the group. “Hablamos castellano” I stammer, “es que no entendemos el ritmo.” They open up the circle, we sit between Cristian and Maximiliano, and I notice a piece of paper with a number code sprawled across it. Now I get it. I don’t understand why they’re doing this, but at least I can participate. (And I’m pretty good at it. Years of dance training, summer camp, and hand games at recess have all proved beneficial for this very moment.) I decide that maybe the guy is a musician, a composer, and wants to test out a few rhythms for his next piece. I’m only half right. His phone rings and I can make out his response, “Estoy en clase.” Oh, so this is a class. A percussion class. They meet every Thursday at 5 pm by the school in Parque Las Heras. Criistian starts them out with warm ups, memorization techniques, the proper way to hit certain types of drums. We clap out our names in a rhythm. The don’t believe mine is just “Meg,” I cave and tell them it’s MAR-y Mar-gar-ET. I learn all the but the girl who left early’s name this way: Cristian, Nadia, Florencia, Gustavo, Maximiliano. While we were doing a coordination exercise a black lab crawls across my lap. I don’t know what to say to him in Spanish. I die laughing. Later he returns with a Chow who looks so much like a bear he frightens me. Eventually the dogs leave us alone, and we wrap up our lesson by 7 o’clock. They invite us back next week. We are each asked to bring a small percussion instrument. I really want to bring a triangle. Or a glockenspiel. I gather music education isn’t emphasized as much here. (A pause is just as important as a sound.) Jenny and I leave them with hugs and cheek-kisses, then head home to regroup for the night.
We decide to meet up with Jenny’s friend Fede at Liquid. We get there at 10 pm because there is always a line. We are the only ones not eating. We sink into a leather couch, order our free daiquiris (admission was free too!) and wait for Fede. The drinks were too sweet. Fede arrives like an hour or so later. Tall skinny with glasses and a nice smile. He works for a bank and is trying to get to New York City. He studied abroad during high school in Colorado. He wants to practice his English, but we tell him we came to Argentina so we are speaking castellano. He tells us Argentina has its own Spanish. (I’ve noticed.) He teaches us some slang: if a boy is hitting on you, you can say “No me chamulles” or even stronger, “No me jotas.” The music at Liquid is so mellow and the crowd looks bored. We get tired and decide not to try to meet up with Nico at the Mozarteum Fiesta para la Juventud. At 12:30, Jenny and I walk home.