What a bookstore means to me

[Photo from another blog]

Yesterday, I decided to take advantage of the gloriously torrential weather and check out some bookstores that I've had my eyes on.

El Ateneo is supposed to be Latin America's biggest bookstore found on the famously designer street, Santa Fe in the prestigious neighbourhood of Recoleta. It is a converted theatre (the old kind where plays were hosted) that has not lost any of its lustre. Gold-encrusted railings lining three floors of viewing balconies. Ivory adornements throughout and a voluminously red, velvet curtain framing the former stage. As I got closer to the stage, I realized that it was a cafe. Someone can drink a coffee and read her favourite Shakespeare on centre-stage, imagining how the scenes must have been performed so long ago.

Every edition of every novel was pristinely new. The spines never cracked, even by the respectfully toting tourists and out of towners. A spiral column of Dan Brown's newest release guarded (or beaconed in front of, depending on your tastes) the entrance. To me, it appeared to be set up as a warning for lovers of literature to turn heel. Obviously, I persevered a bit, but I read between the lines. This is a bookstore not unlike a Chapters: Organized yet unknowledgable, beautiful yet sterile, busy yet uninviting. I left after 15 minutes.

I decided to walk south on Callao to Av. Corrientes. On this street was another bookstore I looked up called Gandhi. Some hippie-gobbley goop, no doubt. Apparently, they have live bands play in the frontal cafe during nighttime hours. Mish-mash o' mediums.

The bookstore in the back was the complete opposite of El Ateneo. The sections were small and it smelled of used, dirty pages. Too many hands, too many watermarks. It was beautiful.

There were whole tables of books on sale for $10AR, which is about $3CA, each. Three for $25AR. The staff were so helpful, especially with my broken castellano. The eccentric cashier had to explain why the price listed inside the book was not the real price and how the book cost more.

Inflation, you know. The economic crisis means we had to raise our prices.

The book was still only $15CA. Nonetheless, I didn't have that kind of money on me.

Next time, I said, I will be back.

What a bizarre twist of events. Here was this bookstore that had no books that I wanted, but everything I needed. To me, that's what a bookstore, any store, is supposed to be. However, we have grown up in a culture where we get what we want. It's all about options, which is nice, but during the course of obtaining want, we forgot what we need. For example, things we need as social creatures: human interaction and multiple opinions.

Not only have we become so focused on want, but we cannot even decipher the difference between want and need anymore. I want, therefore I need. Thanks to socially- and politically-constructed institutions like Oprah, people feel like they need the most prisitine copy of 50 year-old classics because those books have the Book Club stamp on them. Our only human interaction about what to read is suggested through a television personality at 3pm everyday. Our only opinion we rely on, is that same person's.

Obviously this does not apply to everyone. There are still people who rely on their local bookstores for interaction and opinion. However, I would just like to point out relics like Pages in Toronto. After over a quater-century in the business, it goes under. A block away, Chapters is packed.

Why? Because it's got what we want.

This is a very personal version of what a bookstore means to me. So, I am going for the kidneys: I think bookstores should be havens of knowledge. Places where you can smell aged paper and and ink-sodden hands. Places that don't have what you want, but will get it for you because the people are what you need.

Hopeully, with El Ateneo being only a few blocks away, Gandhi will live on. From what I've seen, the people in Argentina are not willing to go down without a fight, even if they take the route of passive resistance.

Abasto: the Jewish barrio

[Photo from this website.]

After a couple of days of feeling under the weather, the comrades decided to take me to the Jewish barrio in Buenos Aires. It's called Abasto and it's massive.

Argentina holds the highest Jewish population in all of Latin America and fourth in the world. Initially, when coming to the city I would have been surprised. But, as I learned, this city is a hub for immigrants. Immigration is what gives this city it's diverse range of accents and architecture.

Nonetheless, back to Abasto. The comrades and I thought it was going to be a massive flea market indoors: Vendors, traders, buyers, outlets... My dear comrades, very far from.

Upon approaching the Abasto, ominous arches rose towards the sky. It was intimidating. The steel, the concrete, the sheer presence and power of this mountanous skulpture. Did I mention it was intimidating? I didn't want to go shopping anymore. I persevered.

Nonetheless, inside it was sparkling. The marble floors combined with the twinkling, ambient lights gave this 5-storey decadence a cozier feel. Store up on store up on store. It was exhausting just looking at it.

At the top is where we found a haven. The food court. However, right beside it was a children's interactive-park-mueseum. I daren't enter. The clowns, let alone the snot and drool, were terrifying.

Within the foodcourt, the options are endless. Everything kosher of course. Even the MacDonald's. Absolutely the MacD's. It said so right on the sign. Well, my darling comrade Maggy needed to take a picture of that. Oh, and the ebony-steel arches that spidered above us. That's when we were stopped. A security guard approached.

No, ma'am, you can't do that (en castellano).

Por que?

Because we have to limit our potential terrorist threats. (Essentially).

Shocked and dismayed, we obviously obeyed. A shopping centre? A Jewish shopping centre. Once aware of our potential threat, we walked around and observed. There were security guards everywhere. I thought this was just a bit too much. But, never judge a situation by it's sparkling marble.

Apparently, the upped security is not for no reason. (Did that make sense?) In 1992 the Israeli embassy was bombed killing 32 people. In '94 the Jewish community centre, AMIA, was bombed as well, killing 85 and wounding over 200. Whoa. Even though it was 15+ years ago, I can understand the jumpiness.

This city has so much interesting history to offer. Some of the events, albeit, quite unsettling. Nonetheless, a trip worth taking to see. Easy shopping. Kosher meals. Polished eggshells.

Space:

[Photo of shop, cine si, from www.welcomesantelmo.com]

Sometimes it's something you need so you know what you are missing.

The void that shows you how much you have. The darkness to see the light. Space creates a tunnel. It guides us to the end, where wide open we find that in which was lacking.

As I sit here in the hall, with the light above me, I can't help but wonder all that I've left behind and everything that I am moving towards.

The rain falls so gently as a reminder that I don't like to get wet.

The delicate strings of a guitar are plucked behind this wall to remind me to keep dancing.

Dip my toes in the water. Let my feet tap to the beat. And, remember: la hora mas oscura es justo antes el almenecer.

Is it dawn yet?

Walking through the Sunday market, I turn down a side street. It's quiet here. Not as many feet nor boothes. I walked by an entrance where I heard a familiar tune. Don't Love You. I go inside, and what do I behold with mine eyes?

Just as I was beginning to think that I couldn't grasp this Argentine life, one of my favourite bands is playing inside an independent music/movie/literature store. So it does exist. It always does in a city. You can always find it. It might just take a little time learning your own space.

A Canadian Girl in Baires

[An American Girl in Italy, Ruth Orkin, 1951]

Many of you are probably familiar with the photograph, "An American Girl in Italy". It portrays an uncomfortable divide, not only between the sexes, but the culture as well. The Italian men gawk and (undoubtedly) catcall the hurried, assumedly frightened, American girl. In Buenos Aires, it happens too.

In North America, women tend to forget how far they have come. Sure, there are some ladies who have brought us back a few generations like PamAn and Ms. Lewinski. Nonetheless, there is a resilience in North American women. We tend to fight our way back to equality. Or at least know it is our right to try.

In Buenos Aires, it's common practice for the men to whisper sweet-nothings into your ear as you pass. Here, it's all about beauty on the outside and that beauty is just being a woman. Period. If you dig into the countless travel brochures, they assure you that the incessant catcalling is harmless.

Being beautiful also seems to be a personality, for some at least. Beauty equals charming and pleasant. One travel magazine even goes as far to suggest how to be a porteno(a): "if you got it flaunt it. If you don't, get a surgeon". That's the personality here. Apparently.

As a Canadian lady, the catcalling definitely takes you back. I've never been one to blush at crude remarks. I have always been the one to burn red with anger: "You don't know me! Why you talking to me when you don't even know what I'm like!" Rest assured, you do get used to it (although it shouldn't be something you have to get used to). You even start figuring out ways that make the men feel uncomfortable. Stare them in the eyes. Keep your head up and proud. Make fun of the way they talk to women: "hey handsome, you need a friend?"

There is no way to single-handedly stop them. It's an issue of David vs. Goliath. But, you can make sure it doesn't get to you. You can control your reaction (exactly what they are looking for). Or, you can always go out in a paper bag (my personal favourite).

As well, the whole mentality and culture of the women here would have to change. Not all, but some ladies take pride in the attention. It makes them feel beautiful and desirable. Whatever works for them. Hey, I'm Canadian. That is my home.

All I know is that I miss the attention I got at home. A snuggle here, a sandwich there. Someone telling me I look beautiful, even in my pyjamas.

Coffee, Bikes and Burn

[Picture not mine. Just what I saw. Picture is from this website.]

The past couple of days have been exhaustingly fulfilling. As a fan of informal lifestyles, I seem to have found my niche here, in Buenos Aires. As an active anti-state, anti-coporation, and anti-religion population, the people have the will to find many different ways to do things.

For example, here they have no recycling programs. It's not really at the top of their priority list right now. Thus, they have guys riding around throughout all hours of the night rooting through garbage just to find glass and plastic. After, they take their loot to the recycling plants. No corporation or municipality pays them. It pays itself. The will to do something seems to occur everywhere.

Yesterday, Jameson and I met up with Naty, one of the ladies who owns our apartment. She lives in a barrio called Las Canitas, just north of Palermo. Naty wants to learn English. Jameson and I need to learn Spanish, or castellano as they call it here. So, the three of us met for coffee at El Clasico. She told us that she was paying native English speakers to teach her the language. Apparently, when they got the amount of money needed, they just stopped showing up to teach her. What better way to informally learn than to exchange language for language. She has a skill we need and we have a skill she wants. Barter and trade.

Almost 3 hours later, we realize it's going to be dark soon and we still have to meet up with Maggy. Three hours of listening to Spanish, doing internal translating (I was told that's bad), and no food made for a bad headache. So we said our farewells and see-you-soons and walked just south of Las Canitas to Palermo Hollywood. It was dark when we got home and the pastel de papas (essentially, sheperd's pie) was sitting heavy. In a good way. So we all went to bed early so that we could wake up early to rent some bikes to tour the city with.

Thus, being the first to rise at the break of 10am, I went and did some errands. Got back, grabbed the comrades and went around the corner to get the bikes. Ten pesos (around $2.50CA) an hour per bike. Not bad. I guess the inexpensiveness is what you get when you go to a bike shop instead of a tourist centre. At the tourist centre, the people actually organize a tour. You have to do what they recommend for you to do. How about an informally paid business man giving us 3 bikes and saying "I close at 7pm"? Not bad.

To Puerto Madero we rode, at 2 in the afternoon. UV index of 11. Didn't I say I learned my lessons about siestas? Nonetheless, we checked out an ecological reserve located in Puerto Madero and it was beautiful. We rode straight across to reach the water, the massive river-delta where Bs. As. shares its shore. I have never seen anything like it before. Brown as far as the eye can see. Acting much like an ocean with waves and wind and dead-fowl stench. But, not. It looked more like a bigger version of the Mekong: a giant mud puddle. Although it wasn't magical or serene, it was definitely interesting. Especially looking towards the city. Trees, marsh, cranes, grass, condos, skyscrapers, cranes, a dirty haze.

Arriving back home, it is time for my afternoon coffee. I think I need a little pick-me-up after the sun charred my body. Until next time, comrades.

WWYD?

[The island of Diego Garcia. A pleasant and beautiful place that experiences perfect climate. The islanders who have been there for 3 to 4 generations were exiled to Mauritius to make room for an American military base in the Indian Ocean. Photo taken by J. David Rogers. Website for his military service here.]

WWYD? A question that I love posing to myself when I am deep in thought about how messed up the world is.

My dear comrade, Jameson, has given me a book to read called Freedom Next Time. So far, it's a powerful expose of 5 different countries (not necessarily states) that the author, John Pilger, has researched for the past 50 years. Diego Garcia, Palestine, India, South Africa, Afghanistan. All located in different geographical locations. All experiencing a similar battle for freedom from neo-colonial powers.

I have rested on Chapter 2, The Last Taboo, because of the graphic nature of the content. Innocent Israeli civilians killed by suicide bombers. One young Israeli girl who studied hard to become a doctor went to the mall after school. She never went home. Young Palestinian boys of 10, 11, 12 years of age becoming suicide bombers because they watched as their fathers were shot whilst trying to take their grandmothers to the hospital. They feel helpless, hopeless. Die today, freedom tomorrow. Maybe.

That's not my overall point. I don't know who is right or wrong. I don't even think that terminology can exist in this man-made tragedy. Throughout the horrific stories, I tried to remain objective, rational and logical. No, no. Don't use violence to retaliate. Educate the masses. On the other shoulder: kill that asshole soldier! I was conflicted. I'm not even from a war-torn country.

On my book-breather, feeling utterly helpless and tears welling in my eyes, I got into a good discussion with my comrades Jameson and Maggy. Borders, protection, sovereignty. What do all these terms mean and how would you defend them? As a Canadian, who identifies with complacency, it's easy for me to say "educate people" or "fight with pens, not with swords". Most Palestinians in the Occupied Territories don't even have running water. They are just trying to survive. So, how would you protect youself and your family? What Would You Do?

As my comrades pointed out, it's easy to say "be calm". They posed the question: If someone came into our apartment right now, grabbed Maggy and stabbed Jameson, and there was a gun sitting on the counter, what would you do? My automatic response: shoot the bastards.

It's so primal, but in a situation of threat, sometimes someone has to listen to his/her instincts. The only problem is, the family on the other side of things is listening to its instincts too. And so the pendulum swings.

So, how does it stop? Not an easy question.

The hardest question yet: What would you do? Hypothetically?

(You don't have to really answer, it's just something to think about. Hypothetically. Because that's all we have. Unless you are being raided right now. Knock on wood that you aren't.)

All caught up... THE ART OF BEING

Slow nights with nothing but time and beer equals a night of good conversation.

Did you know that Type A personalities are not genetic? Instead, they are nourished and cultivated through one´s childhood. Type A probably breeds Type A because of the demands the parents make of the child. The result is not creativity, but a productive workforce. Now, that is not to say that Type A´s are not creative. We are just not giving ourselves enough time to allow creativity to flow because we are very concerned with working, being productive. We are those who stress for deadlines and to enter the hubub rush of a time-conscious world. We have mastered the art of doing, but doing what?

We are forced away from the things that we love to do in order to become well-rounded. In fact, only well-rounded in keeping one´s job options open. And so the system of doing perpetuates. Waste is the fuel is the waste.

What if we could live in a world of ´being´ instead of ´doing´? Being whatever makes one happiest and finding fulfillment in life instead of a treacherous path.

This is the point that my comrade, Jameson, brought up. Human beings have forgot how to live. We have become obsessed with quantifying one´s success by logging 40-80 hour work weeks instead of looking at the quality of our time spent.

We have truly become alienated from our products because they never even got the chance to exist.

Think about this for a minute:
"How little do we think of ourselves that we believe we need to work a 40+ hour work week just to earn the right to live?" - Croft

Now, I know what a typical, cynical person would say. I am one. "It seems nice to think about, but it´s not possible".

Never give up ourselves to the possibility of change.

Another quote:
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don´t have any." - Alice Walker
(it´s also the easier way out)

If one does everything he/she feels happiest at, things will work out for the best. Even if you have nothing, at least you will have your happiness.