there and back again: an adventure to the edge of the world

Finally, the long wait has ended. I got to go back to my tower, my very own space with my very own bed.

For the past week and a half, the trynamic trio has been held hostage in ¨The Loft¨. As the name suggests, it was one space where we ate, watched t.v., slept, siestaed, drank, etc. Just one. I have had roommates before, but living in this kind of atmosphere was intimidation to my very core. And look at us now, we are still breathing.

Even though the space was a bit too small for 3 and a half people (don´t forget Benito, the cat), we persevered. The delicate balance of life was simultaneously in and out of our hands. We lived in the moment, but always waiting for the next. While boistrous by day, a sneeze at the wrong hour of night could have been catastrophe. And, so it goes.

So it went for 12 days. Always on the ground, then looking down and realizing you are on the edge. Don´t get dizzy, a fall would mean instant death. Space was in short supply, as was the Scotch. Why didn´t we plan for this? We knew it was coming, the least we could have done was stockpile some downers.

Needless to say, it wasn´t that bad. I got to experience living with two of the most patient and understanding human beings I have ever met. They have gained a new place in my heart reserved for family, saints and ponies. They even let me go on a tirade one night about a whole lot of nothing. I think I just wanted to talk because for the first 8 days of our unified experience, I had been feeling ill. I started feeling better. I needed to celebrate. I felt a bit ill the next day. The countdown continued.

Like Tobin had said, living without one´s space feels like you are constantly holding your breath. How true? Crawling into my tower last night, I let out the biggest sigh a Hobbit-sized pipsqueak like me could muster. The result was a glorified hiccup, but I instantly expanded into the folds of my double bed. I rolled around a bit, read until my heart´s desire (which ended up being a whole of 2o minutes), and slumbered so deeply I forgot to dream.

So, yes, it wasn´t that bad. Let´s never do it again.

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.

Part 3

November 13th, 2009 - THE POWER OF SIESTA

When North Americans think of Latin culture 3 important things come to mind: food, dance and siestas.

Yesterday, we have never been so sure about the power of a siesta. A sizzling 26ºC plus humidity to top it around 32ºC is really nothing. Ontarians in Canada are probably laughing at such a pitifully temperate attempt at summer heat. What if I told you that the UV index was 10?

It felt like the sun had puked hot oil all over our bodies. Walking around La Boca and Puerto Madero felt like all the energy we got from our morning coffees was being evaporated. Most shops and restaurants were closed for their siestas.

Lesson learned.

The flop and crash that we experienced when we got home was only followed by a barely conscious dinner. Lids closing all over the place. Heat-exhaustion slumber ensued.

Lesson learned.


November 14th, 2009 - FRIDAY THE 13TH

Yesterday was Jameson´s birthday so we decided to do the night right by eaeting laste and staying out even later. We really are trying to integrate into the culture. And, of course, it was Friday the 13th. A day that superstitious older people fear and the young revere.

We kept it pretty low key throughout the day. A little t.v. here, a little siesta there (lesson learned). It was muy nice. We built up our energy for the night.

Come 11.30pm, we headed out for dinner and beer. We decided on a place in La Plaza Dorrego. It was still bustling. The plaza was filled with patios and lined with people drinking on the small wall that encloses it. We decided to go the spendier route and get a patio table. We sat, we ordered, we sipped the first sip of beer then looked upward. An interesting observation was the light pollution. For a city of 16 million, one owuld think that the sky would be an electric orange. Three times bigger than Toronto, which has a healthy glow. No. The light pollution was white. A city raised among the clouds.

After dinner and a drink, we (Maggy and I) decided that we needed to go dancing. We were directed to a couple of places where, at 2am, had line-ups around the corner. I know, right? So, the next best bet was this place up the street where beats were pumping.

Inside, it was smokey and old. I killed the dance floor, as in it completely died as soon as I busted out my flaily, no-flow moves. The only one that seemed half interested was this 50-something year old man with bad breath and who, apparently, had a soft spot for 20-somethings who don´t know any better. Well, I did.

As soon as he went to the bar to order us a round, we torpedoed outta there. Phewm!

To finish off the evening, we night-capped at a bar beside the plaza. A jug of Quilmes con tres vasos, por favor.

Head buzzing and room swaying we conversed until 3am. Then home. Then pillow. Then passout.


November 16th, 2009 - BUSY DOESN´T REALLY MEAN YOU´RE BUSY

What a past couple of days it has been. Post-birthday partying madness has finally opened a window. Again, the days have become longer only because I am experiencing more sun, not less sleep.

Saturday was a slow day in a good way. Hangovers are easy to recover from but still not pleasant. Saturday night, Angela and her boyfriend John invited the trio out for la noche de museos, a night at the mueseums, which is an event where the mueseums of Bs. As. keep their doors open until 2am-ish and it´s free.

We started off in Puerto Madero, an easy 2 blocks from where we live and the hub of Buenos Aires´universities. We were on the way to the Frigata when we stopped in at the Christian college´s gallery. Tobin would have been in Heaven looking at all those etches and drawing of Satan and Hell. Every image seemed to be from the 17th-18th Century. All dark, all sinister, all really detailed. So cool.

We moved onto (quite literally) the Frigata, a comande ship based out of Bs.As. that sailed up until the 1920s. When I say an assault vessel, I don´t mean a steel tanker. This was nothing like that. It looked like a well-kept pirate ship. A white bird that would glide on the sea of blue.

Inside the hold, it was hot, stuffy and cramped. I couldn´t imagine being a crew member aboard one of the 40,000 mile (yes, miles) expeditions. But, oh the wonders you would have seen! Planes are easy (unless you are flying them). Picture being a part of a crew, having the sea swing you to sleep. Experiencing land-sickness because your heart and feet belong on water. Walking on water.

I think I was a pirate in a past life. One that couldn´t swim.

Sunday was a differect pace. We went to the street market where the thousands met. Street vendors, samba, a man on stilts, shoppers, viewers, eaters. All meeting on Defensa just because of the festival. That and all other barrios are probably closed on Sundays. Oh, but the samba. I wanted to bust loose. The heavy drums. Tha-thud-thud-thud. Pitter-patting of the feet. The hips begin to move of their own accord.

I think I was a dancer in a past life. One that never got lessons.

Movie night. Spanish subtitles for those learning. Cheesey potatoes and a snuggle with Kongito.

Part 2

November 10th - CHURCH OF SAN TELMO

Every morning I wake up and look across the roof-top terrace to the arches in the sky. Sky blue meets sky blue. Reaching, hoping Dad will put him on His shoulders.

The Church of San Telmo is on Umberto 1º, right around the corner. However, it functions as a mueseum. I think this is because there has been little to no religiosity, at least that I have observed. God does not strike fear as much as the sidewalks scattered with dog shit do.

Architecture of the rich everywhere. The bones of a not so long ago past. Culture, too, thrives everywhere. Proof is just before the mueseum. You can barely see it past the trees and cement wall: the abandoned orphanage, huérfano.

It is massive with 10-ft rod-iron fences that stand guard on the 10-ft high concrete barricade. Keeping purity in and reality out. Or, the other way around?

Angela, our superintendent, told me that a branch of the government bought the building and is investing $9 million in converting it into an Hispanic cultural centre. Art. Mueseums. Film. This is San Telmo.

Nonetheless, I wonder as to how quickly the project will get underway. I saw a bulldozer yesterday taking down some of the external growth, but when is the deadline? Are there deadlines in Bs. As.? It seems that the hush rush of N.A. has not jumped these scaling walls. (I have just recently found out that construction starts this week. Pretty neat.)

Same same but different.


November 11th, 2009 - A DAY IN PALERMO

Yesterday, we decided to check out another neighbourhood that´s supposed to be the hot spot for day-shopping and nightlife. The area is called Palermo, about 45 blocks (ok, exaggeration) from San Telmo. Nonetheless, the subway, or subte, should have been a pretty direct line. It shouldn´t take long.

We got to the subte station Independencia where there was a small gathering of people sitting under the shade next to the entrance. We didn´t even notice the banners as we quizzically stared at the bolted doors.

"Chicos, lo tenes."

Apparently, the subte workers were on strike. Ah, just our luck. Palermo, the unwalkable, needed to be reached by bus. So we walked to find the nearest bus stop to take us there. And we walked. We bought a Guia-T, the map of bus routes, and planned our route. Well, none of the 59, 64, nor 111s were going to Palermo. We walked for blocks trying to find somewhere/one that could tell us something. While we were walking along Avenida 9 de Julio, we were captivated by these massive arboles that centred the median. The trunks were comparable to some of the largest trunks I´ve seen, and I´ve been out West. The roots raised in a sharp, articulated gesture. As if the tree were sitting down and bending its knees. It looked like a tree from The Lion King, or something.

There were fences around the trees but by no means deterring. We could quite clearly see the whole structure of the trees. Shockingly, within the depths of these raised roots, the crevasses of these glacial trunks, were homeless people taking their siestas. You could barely make out the figures within, just the shoes that stuck out the ends. There were so many of these nests. No, more morbid than that. There were so many of these tombs.

Shaking off the eerie thought we finally found an info station. We asked a tourist information kiosko at the obelisk what bus we should take. The 67 on Libertad to Plaza Italia. Gracias.

Palermo was beautiful. Tree-lined streets, parks, shops, restaurants, patios, pet stores, BOOK STORES, cafeterías. Everything.

It was all so overwhelming that we had to stop for a beer rest. While sipping on a litre of Iguana beer, a magician appeared.

He did a this and a that with little applauses here and there from his audience of 3. But, something about it made me uneasy. Another "rival" magician appeared and sat with us. He made gestures for the original magician to show us some more tricks. They both mumbled. Never speaking.

The first magician left, making curious faces. The second left and walked a little ways down the street. He kept looking back at us.

The orginal magician came back and mumbled, "that guy, don´t trust him. Me, you can trust me. Don´t worry about your purse with me."

Ok, Maggy said, I´m paying and we are outta here.

I couldn´t help but wonder if the two were in it together. If one was meant as a distractor and the other the ´trusting, charismatic, quick-handed´front man.

Nonetheless, Palermo, you´re not bad.

Sitting at Lezama for dinner, we found out that we could stay at the ´pad´in San Telmo until Christmas Eve. Relief sunk in.


November 12th, 2009 - LAS ESTRELLAS

Last night and all of yesterday we took it pretty easy. Long days of hot sun and not enough siesta-ing.

Whilst the homies took advantage of a pillow and high noon, I sat on the terrace to enjoy a book, a glass of wine and the sun. It was in that moment that I realized this is what makes me happiest. It became the perfect day all because I didn´t do anything.

Later, after an appetizer we went up to the star-lit terrace with some wine. I looked up and to my right saw Venus, in all her brilliance. Or, so I think. My right-hand lady. She had fallen since I last saw her, but her brilliance was still powerful.

catching up: from paper to screen

Procrastination is getting boring. Nonetheless, I have no need to alarm myself. Although I have been absent from a/the computer, I have still been logging notes to share with you about my experiences in the beautiul city of Buenos Aires. It's quite remarkable how time speeds up without access to the technology that we are so privileged of using. Life goes on. I guess.

So to allow the virtual self to catchup with my experiential/practical self, I will be posting 3 notes per day. They will be dated so that all can keep track, or at least until my selves have congeled.

Enjoy, comrades!

November 7th, 2009 - CAFE @ Bar YRIGOYEN

By night it is a place of meeting. Cervezas, comidas y abrazos. Kisses on the right cheek. Complete amistad, friendship.

Just up the corner, there is a building with its outer wall lined with mattresses and slumbering human bodies. The overhang you pass under, in which they sleep under, insulated the smell of rotting urine and despair.

Around the corner, there is one family that sleeps. A mother, her pre-teen boy and a young girl about 9 years old. This is the divide.

"KIRCHNER ES TRABAJO"
everywhere

By day, the streets are cleaner and the pigeons have replaced the pavement dwellers. Here to feed on the excess.

As everywhere blossoms in Argentina, there seems to be so much beauty by day and anguish by night. This is the divide.


November 8th, 2009 - LAST NIGHT... AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW

Last night was Buenos Aires' Pride Parade. HOMOSEXUAL CON ORGULLO. There were fake breasts on men and women in baggy clothes with faux hawks everywhere. It was awesome.

Outside el Congreso and Senado the people gathered. "Si. ¿Y, qué?" Rainbows and wig. Chanting and kissing. Groping and drinking. What a party.

Maggy, Jameson and I decided that we should join the celebration, not in every way, but at least we could drink. We went to the closest supermercado in search of an ice-cold Quilmes, a cheap lager that all the working class, and thus the trendy kids, drink. It's only good cold. When we got to the beer fridge, the bottles inside were warmer than our hands touching them. It was enough of a deterrent. We were told by a very kind 20-something: "Git wine! Iz de BEST!"

So, we moved towards the back and saw the walls of cheap Argentinian wine, all reasonably priced, all made just a few hundred kilometres away. But none of the them were twist-offs. Not one. I guess that's not how they do. No wine openers either. Nothing. Lost, without a ship, in a sea of booze.

Suddenly, the very kind 20-something emerged from an aisle and said: "Come, come! Cold!"

We followed her to the front of the store and she pointed to the deli section that was tucked away behind the produce.

"There. A la derecha."

Gracias. Muchas gracias.

A la derecha, the beer was so cold it frosted. We picked-up 2 bottles of Quilmes, 970cc, and paid $9.60AR. Approximately $2.25CA. For both.

We left, sat on a kerb with 10,000 people and drank. We talked about what this celebration really meant, especially to us Canadians.

There were no cops. No barricades to close the roads. The crowd informally closed them just by being there. Even the 16-wheeler trucks did not deter them. They had a right to be there. So this is was political freedom can feel like?

After a little buzz started, we decided to get some eats at our local cafe/bar (Bar Yrigoyen). It was packed. People drinking, sleeping and feasting on the sidewalk patio. Nonetheless, we needed their free WiFi (pronounced wee-fee) so that we could try to find a place to live. However, there were no empty tables and no prospects for any. Like I said, some people were sleeping, quite comfortably, at the tables. The owner/manager came out and asked us if we needed a table.

"¿Nesecitan una mesa? Un momento."

Literally, seconds later he had one of his staff grab a folding table and 2 chairs (Jameson grabbed the third) and added us onto the patio. The AGCO from back home would have shit its pants. Extending the patio, not enclosed, drunk people sleeping everywhere. The ERU would have been called in.

It got me thinking, even without the rules, people were still respecting the establishment. No one puked and no one fought. Incredible.

So we ate, we drank and we chatted. Then, we peacefully went back to our hotel where we slumbered.

Viva libertad.


November 9th, 2009 - SAN TELMO PAD @ PASEO COLON

We finally found a week-long stay in Bs.As. We are now located in the barrio San Telmo where tango and the arts live still.

It doesn't feel like back home, where artists are cynical and amazing. Witty and retaliating against some machine. Here, they seem to be optimisic and Bohemian. Free love and "forward-thinking" relationships. Lovers. Apparently. Lots of loving happening on the corners.

But, this is just San Telmo, I guess. There are other barrios that hold a different flavour. We will get to know them in time.

This 'pad' holds a unique but commonly found feel. Most buildings in this barrio are from the vieux riche (rico viejo?). Old money from the European 18th-19th centuries. So large and intricate. In 1871, Bs.As. was hit with the Yellow Fever and the rich moved from San Telmo into Palermo and Recoleta, leaving their servants and the working class behind. Nonetheless, as most people know, some of the biggest art communities are divined in the poorer regions. That is how San Telmo developed its artistic and cultural community. It's a little rough around the edges, but truly interesting.

Cobblestone streets lined with cafés and antique shops. Fruit markets, panaderías, carnecerías, cervecerías. I think I could get used to this.

staying connected

I am of the privileged few who has access to the internet, although the service that the Rogers Corporation provides is questionable. Therefore, my dear comrades, I ask you to follow my adventures as I dive deep into Latin America.

That's right. This Marx-sympathizer is fulfilling my dreams by visiting Che's native land. Although I have been absent from the keyboard, I hope to keep everybody up-to-date with my revolutionary road in Buenos Aires. I got my clothes, books, pen, paper and thoughts packed up and ready to go for Thursday. Oh yeah! And, of course, my camera. I hope to be doing weekly posts on life in B.A. I also hope that you will keep reading.

The writer may very well serve a movement of history as its mouthpiece, but he cannot of course create it. - KM