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.