In the last 24 hours I've experienced enchantment on the most pedestrian of public transports: the bus.
The first occured in the late evening after a tango class. Across from the bus stop was a filigreed doors and windows, multi-storied, creamy stucco confection topped by statues that was A SCHOOL. An ordinary public school, though the facade was anything but. Buenos Aires is full of surprises like that.
But the night was not over. My bus pulled up and it was like a scene from a surrealistic film ... the doors opened and I was greeted by heavy metal music in super stereo, blue neon lights, quilted doors and interior, pimped out dashboard, dice and ribbon streamers hanging from the rear-view mirror, and to top it all off, a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. I almost expected mist to come curling out the door. To say it was atmospheric is an understatement.
This bus was the driver's universe and he was making damn well sure it was a good one. He may be stuck driving us peons around but he was THE KING of his domain.
"Nice bus," I commented as I boarded this street fantasy.
"No entendo," he replied.
My next bus happening occured on a rush hour bus--a insane time to have to take public transort. I asked the driver to alert me to my stop after showing him the address, but in the meantime I got pushed back to the middle of the bus by the boarding hoard.
In a bit of a panic, I wondered how I'd ever know when to exit the bus.
Then I heard a relay of Spanish voices, starting from the front of the bus and ending with the woman next to me.
"Your stop is the next one," she said in English.
How cool was that?
I had became a collective bus project ... get the clueless gringa off at her stop. And the relay of info during a rush hour crush was ... genius!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Vamoose
As my weeks wind down in Buenos Aires I've been evaluating my accomplishments. I can't say I've gotten a handle on the language, but I can see the handle off in the distance. For instance, one day I said to the elderly woman around the corner, "You are a pidgeon?" but I at least realized my mistake (the next day). Progress.
My Minnesota Nice has been chipped away ... a good thing. I now wag my finger at homicidal taxi drivers who have me in their sights and shout "Don't you dare fucking run over me," in English of course, but the message gets across.
Last week an old man in a uniform showed up at my door. Normally, I don't open my door for anyone I don't know ... it's dangerous in this city. But looking through my door's peek hole, I figured I could take him if I had to and my curiosity was piqued.
"Shhhhestashowwwquantashaaa," he greeted me. This is how Castellano sounds to me when I don't understand it.
"No entiendo," I replied.
"Shhheeeeboletoshoshesta," he answered, and thrust two pieces of cardboard towards me.
"No Espanol," I countered.
He started pleading in the Italian tone people use here to wear you down. To get rid of him, I took the cards, said goodbye and shut the door, chucking them in the garbage.
Bzzzzzzz, Bzzzzz. My doorbell.
"Dinero, dinero, viente pesos," he whined.
Now, I understood this. He had given me something that required money in return. I was a little pissed off.
"Un momento," I replied, shutting the door.
Fishing out the two papers amongst coffee grounds, I examined them closer. Ah, two tickets to the policemen's ball. Now, I've got a thing for a man in a uniform and this ball would be many men in POLICIA uniforms (might I be so shameless as to say, "and might be just my ticket"), but I was feeling tricked.
Opening the door I thrust the two pieces of cardboard back into his hands.
"Vamoose, senior, vamoose!" I said in my sternest tone with a cartoonish expression of irritation. Now, I've only heard "vamoose" said in old John Wayne movies and I must admit, it's very satisying to say.
I shut the door in his face. We NEVER do this in Minnesota.
And don't even get me started on the knife sharpener guy.
My Minnesota Nice has been chipped away ... a good thing. I now wag my finger at homicidal taxi drivers who have me in their sights and shout "Don't you dare fucking run over me," in English of course, but the message gets across.
Last week an old man in a uniform showed up at my door. Normally, I don't open my door for anyone I don't know ... it's dangerous in this city. But looking through my door's peek hole, I figured I could take him if I had to and my curiosity was piqued.
"Shhhhestashowwwquantashaaa," he greeted me. This is how Castellano sounds to me when I don't understand it.
"No entiendo," I replied.
"Shhheeeeboletoshoshesta," he answered, and thrust two pieces of cardboard towards me.
"No Espanol," I countered.
He started pleading in the Italian tone people use here to wear you down. To get rid of him, I took the cards, said goodbye and shut the door, chucking them in the garbage.
Bzzzzzzz, Bzzzzz. My doorbell.
"Dinero, dinero, viente pesos," he whined.
Now, I understood this. He had given me something that required money in return. I was a little pissed off.
"Un momento," I replied, shutting the door.
Fishing out the two papers amongst coffee grounds, I examined them closer. Ah, two tickets to the policemen's ball. Now, I've got a thing for a man in a uniform and this ball would be many men in POLICIA uniforms (might I be so shameless as to say, "and might be just my ticket"), but I was feeling tricked.
Opening the door I thrust the two pieces of cardboard back into his hands.
"Vamoose, senior, vamoose!" I said in my sternest tone with a cartoonish expression of irritation. Now, I've only heard "vamoose" said in old John Wayne movies and I must admit, it's very satisying to say.
I shut the door in his face. We NEVER do this in Minnesota.
And don't even get me started on the knife sharpener guy.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Best Bean, the Right Bus Stop, the Perfect Cookie
My occasional obsessiveness serves me well in a city that requires pitbull tenacity to get anything accomplished.
For instance, there was the Starbucks Death March. I needed beans ... so at high noon on a hot Buenos Aires day with a vague recollection of where it was, I set off to find it. Unfortunately, I dragged my son's friend along with me. We walked and walked as the day grew hotter, frying the dog piss on the sidewalk.
Matt was too polite to ask if we could call it quits. No, now I was on a mission, and it would not be a mission impossible.
Dear Reader, we did eventually find it and it was well worth it (for me). I compensated poor Matt with a mocha coffee frappe.
Matt and my son, visiting at Christmas, were also subjected to the I'M GOING TO FIND THE TOUR BUS STOP IF IT KILLS ME incident. The tour bus company's brochure gave only vague directions for finding the stop. We asked directions from an English speaking Porteno, walked to the stop, only to see the double decker bus whizz by in another direction. This happened three times. At three different stops.
"Can't we just do the carriage ride in Palermo Park?" whined my son as we walked by the horses. You'd think by know he'd know who he was dealing with.
I stalked that bus like a bird dog. "Run boys!" I yelled as I saw it coming down the avenue in our direction. We arrived breathless and sweating as the bus opened its doors. Victory was mine.
Now I'm into the Tollhouse cookie quest. I'm determined to replicate them here in Argentina even though things keep getting screwed up. Jumbo supermarket was suppose to have chocolate chips according to an alert on the expat's website. I hiked a mile and a half to discover the rumour was wrong. Ah well, a Cadbury dark chocolate bar chopped up would have to do.
At my local market I sought out baking soda, forgetting my translation book at home.
"El horno ... torta," I said, not knowing the word for cookies, and using the word "cake" instead. I pantomined a cake rising in the oven. I was quite proud to use the baking word since I'd just learned it the day before.
There was a hurried consultation among the Chinese clerks. One pulled out nuts. No. Another pulled out coconut. Wrong again. An English speaking gentleman intervened, saying something in Spanish. A package of "polvo para hornear" was produced.
My cookies turned out super puffy and dry as English toast. Clearly something went wrong. I must track the culprit.
Was it the temperature, since my oven is centigrade and I only speak farenheit? My landlord said no.
Did I handle the dough too roughly and upset it? A baker on the Internet said this could happen. Could the baking soda be something else? Ah, yes. Baking powder.
So the quest continues today with baking soda.
For instance, there was the Starbucks Death March. I needed beans ... so at high noon on a hot Buenos Aires day with a vague recollection of where it was, I set off to find it. Unfortunately, I dragged my son's friend along with me. We walked and walked as the day grew hotter, frying the dog piss on the sidewalk.
Matt was too polite to ask if we could call it quits. No, now I was on a mission, and it would not be a mission impossible.
Dear Reader, we did eventually find it and it was well worth it (for me). I compensated poor Matt with a mocha coffee frappe.
Matt and my son, visiting at Christmas, were also subjected to the I'M GOING TO FIND THE TOUR BUS STOP IF IT KILLS ME incident. The tour bus company's brochure gave only vague directions for finding the stop. We asked directions from an English speaking Porteno, walked to the stop, only to see the double decker bus whizz by in another direction. This happened three times. At three different stops.
"Can't we just do the carriage ride in Palermo Park?" whined my son as we walked by the horses. You'd think by know he'd know who he was dealing with.
I stalked that bus like a bird dog. "Run boys!" I yelled as I saw it coming down the avenue in our direction. We arrived breathless and sweating as the bus opened its doors. Victory was mine.
Now I'm into the Tollhouse cookie quest. I'm determined to replicate them here in Argentina even though things keep getting screwed up. Jumbo supermarket was suppose to have chocolate chips according to an alert on the expat's website. I hiked a mile and a half to discover the rumour was wrong. Ah well, a Cadbury dark chocolate bar chopped up would have to do.
At my local market I sought out baking soda, forgetting my translation book at home.
"El horno ... torta," I said, not knowing the word for cookies, and using the word "cake" instead. I pantomined a cake rising in the oven. I was quite proud to use the baking word since I'd just learned it the day before.
There was a hurried consultation among the Chinese clerks. One pulled out nuts. No. Another pulled out coconut. Wrong again. An English speaking gentleman intervened, saying something in Spanish. A package of "polvo para hornear" was produced.
My cookies turned out super puffy and dry as English toast. Clearly something went wrong. I must track the culprit.
Was it the temperature, since my oven is centigrade and I only speak farenheit? My landlord said no.
Did I handle the dough too roughly and upset it? A baker on the Internet said this could happen. Could the baking soda be something else? Ah, yes. Baking powder.
So the quest continues today with baking soda.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Through the Looking Glass Sunday
It was a very interesting Sunday filled with flightless pidgeons, samurai worshipping, a junk parade and galloping horses.
Around the corner from my house is a pidgeon roost where I recycle all my leftover edibles. Pidgeons will eat ANYTHING. As I was scattering unpoped popcorn seeds (don't ever try to use olive oil in a popcorn pot), an older lady exited a ground floor apartment with a pidgeon cupped in her hands. She set it down gently among the other pidgeons where upon it promptly relieved itself. Then she picked it up.
"Vos gusto los palomas?" she asked.
I answered in caveman Spanish, that yes, I did like pidgeons.
"Mi paloma no avion." Then she pointed to her head.
The pidgeon not only did not fly but it wasn't right in the head.
Hmmmm.
Continuing on my Sunday walk, I arrived at the Japanese Gardens. It was the usual koi, red bridges, pruned trees, etc. punctuated by stone statues. In front of an immense Samurai statue stood an American woman bowing unselfconsciously to the samurai, then raising her hands in that taking-in-energy pose one sees in Unity churches in the States. Perhaps she was told that one of her past lives was that of a samurai? Or did the stone give off a certain aura she hoped to cash in on? I would never know.
Later in the evening as I walked to a dinner party, I encountered a parade of what appeared to be people pushing junk made into mini floats. Ahh, an art parade. I've seen those in Minneapolis. The junk art pushers had blocked off a street and were shouting chants of which I could understand nada.
I arrived at my destination--a vegetarian potluck--held on a rooftop terrace with a wonderful view of the streets below and the full moon above. I uncorked the Champagne I brought and we toasted the moon.
The night air was suddenly punctuated by the sound of galloping hooves on pavement. Looking down, five mounted police raced by, obviously on a call. "Oh, they're going after the cartenero protesters," commented a guest (carteneros are poor people who collect cardboard from the garbage for recycling).
Well, so much for the avant garde art-junk parade theory.
A truly mystifying Sunday.
Around the corner from my house is a pidgeon roost where I recycle all my leftover edibles. Pidgeons will eat ANYTHING. As I was scattering unpoped popcorn seeds (don't ever try to use olive oil in a popcorn pot), an older lady exited a ground floor apartment with a pidgeon cupped in her hands. She set it down gently among the other pidgeons where upon it promptly relieved itself. Then she picked it up.
"Vos gusto los palomas?" she asked.
I answered in caveman Spanish, that yes, I did like pidgeons.
"Mi paloma no avion." Then she pointed to her head.
The pidgeon not only did not fly but it wasn't right in the head.
Hmmmm.
Continuing on my Sunday walk, I arrived at the Japanese Gardens. It was the usual koi, red bridges, pruned trees, etc. punctuated by stone statues. In front of an immense Samurai statue stood an American woman bowing unselfconsciously to the samurai, then raising her hands in that taking-in-energy pose one sees in Unity churches in the States. Perhaps she was told that one of her past lives was that of a samurai? Or did the stone give off a certain aura she hoped to cash in on? I would never know.
Later in the evening as I walked to a dinner party, I encountered a parade of what appeared to be people pushing junk made into mini floats. Ahh, an art parade. I've seen those in Minneapolis. The junk art pushers had blocked off a street and were shouting chants of which I could understand nada.
I arrived at my destination--a vegetarian potluck--held on a rooftop terrace with a wonderful view of the streets below and the full moon above. I uncorked the Champagne I brought and we toasted the moon.
The night air was suddenly punctuated by the sound of galloping hooves on pavement. Looking down, five mounted police raced by, obviously on a call. "Oh, they're going after the cartenero protesters," commented a guest (carteneros are poor people who collect cardboard from the garbage for recycling).
Well, so much for the avant garde art-junk parade theory.
A truly mystifying Sunday.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
A Dark and Stormy Notche
My little street turned into a Venetian canal last night, complete with a current in which swirled sampans of plastic trash bags. The bags floated past my door when I opened it to check on the storm which was brief but bountiful.
In the midst of the drama (Would the water come up my last step and into the house? Will it continue to pour?) the electricity went out. I rousted up candles, stuck them in a decorative minora and read a book on my computer. It was really quite cozy.
At intervels I stuck my head out the door to see who would rescue us if necessary. Several fire trucks drove through the flood, one pulling a rubber dinghy. I knew the policia were just dying to get a chance to use them.
Parked cars looked dangerously close to floating away. I worried about the wild cats who lived underneath them --surely they would have the street cat sense to move to higher ground.
People waded around in the sewage, attempting to unclog street drains. Buenos Aire's garbage problem comes back to bite it in the butt after every good downpour.
Candles and flashlights flickered and flashed from every window as people peered out to watch the show. Would the city bus actually attempt to go through the flood? Yes. Would the electric company send a truck? Yes. Would they fix the problem? No.
My neighbor across the street shouted to me, "Like Venice, only cheaper!"
In the morning the streets of my barrio were strewn with every kind of debris imaginable. It stuck to shrubs, it lay awash on door stoops. The good people of Buenos Aires were busy mucking out their flooded homes and businesses with brooms and floor squegees. I joined in and washed the sewage muck off the sidewalk in front of my house.
The electricity came on later in the day and we all waited to see if the same thing will be repeated tonight as the skys cloud up again.
In the midst of the drama (Would the water come up my last step and into the house? Will it continue to pour?) the electricity went out. I rousted up candles, stuck them in a decorative minora and read a book on my computer. It was really quite cozy.
At intervels I stuck my head out the door to see who would rescue us if necessary. Several fire trucks drove through the flood, one pulling a rubber dinghy. I knew the policia were just dying to get a chance to use them.
Parked cars looked dangerously close to floating away. I worried about the wild cats who lived underneath them --surely they would have the street cat sense to move to higher ground.
People waded around in the sewage, attempting to unclog street drains. Buenos Aire's garbage problem comes back to bite it in the butt after every good downpour.
Candles and flashlights flickered and flashed from every window as people peered out to watch the show. Would the city bus actually attempt to go through the flood? Yes. Would the electric company send a truck? Yes. Would they fix the problem? No.
My neighbor across the street shouted to me, "Like Venice, only cheaper!"
In the morning the streets of my barrio were strewn with every kind of debris imaginable. It stuck to shrubs, it lay awash on door stoops. The good people of Buenos Aires were busy mucking out their flooded homes and businesses with brooms and floor squegees. I joined in and washed the sewage muck off the sidewalk in front of my house.
The electricity came on later in the day and we all waited to see if the same thing will be repeated tonight as the skys cloud up again.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
So I've spent the last 48 hours as an illegal immigrant and I'm sitting in the waiting room of the U.S. Embassy in Ascuncion, Paraguay, watching a Mexican telenovela involving pirates.
I'm the only person paying any attention to the television ... the rest of the waiters are South American and chat among themselves.
"Wow," I thought, as I watched a hunky pirate on the screen make love to a woman in petticoats on a Mexican beach, "This kind of show could be wildly popular in the states ... I can't even understand what they're saying and I'm hooked."
I'm waiting to find out my fate since I inadvertantly entered Paraguay without a visa (and we're not talking Visa CARD). I've spent 48 hours as an "illegal" ... me, "Miz Goes-By-the-Rules".
All those "Locked Abroad" shows I used to watch? Not going to happen to me. I've carried in no drugs, no briefcase of cash or gold strapped to my body ... plus there's a U.S. Marine right outside the door. I'm on U.S. soil (I think).
After a half hour of watching pirates I'm told by an official, "We can't help you here." I'm to report to Paraguayan Immigration tomorrow.
In the morning I bring my Paraguayan friend, Marlene, her auntie, and her auntie's grandchild. Marlene is to translate for me. I warn her, "You may see a side of me you've never seen before."
We're shuffled from office to office, official to official. My final meeting is with a woman who tells me I must re-enter Argentina, go to the nearest Paraguayan Embassy, get my tourist visa, and then re-enter Paraguay. We're talking days. We talking incredible amounts of hoop jumping for a gringa whose Spanish is limited to saying "hello" and "It's very hot today."
I turn to my friend, Marlene, and say quietly, "I'm sorry ... you're going to see a side of my you've never seen or will ever seen again." It was time to play the pissed off American card, so politically incorrecto. So necessary right now.
Pulling myself up to my full five foot three, I assert that, "No, If you do not do help me I am going to walk out of here and hire a Paraguayian lawyer to help me. Also, I intend to complain to the U.S. Embassy."
Marlene translates.
I continue on in the same vein, trying to work the words, "U.S. Embassy" in at every opportunity. Marlene's tag-along-aunt get her two cents in as well, though I don't know what she says.
The head bureaucrat excuses herself to go consult with someone in another office. Did I push it too far.? Will they arrest me for being an illegal and throw me in a cell, thus making me eligible to appear on "Locked Up Abroad"?
She returns to usher me into another office. She produces a stamp. She can, indeed, stamp my passport. All for $40. No crossing borders and bribing border guards and riding buses into the pampas.
I am legal.
I'm the only person paying any attention to the television ... the rest of the waiters are South American and chat among themselves.
"Wow," I thought, as I watched a hunky pirate on the screen make love to a woman in petticoats on a Mexican beach, "This kind of show could be wildly popular in the states ... I can't even understand what they're saying and I'm hooked."
I'm waiting to find out my fate since I inadvertantly entered Paraguay without a visa (and we're not talking Visa CARD). I've spent 48 hours as an "illegal" ... me, "Miz Goes-By-the-Rules".
All those "Locked Abroad" shows I used to watch? Not going to happen to me. I've carried in no drugs, no briefcase of cash or gold strapped to my body ... plus there's a U.S. Marine right outside the door. I'm on U.S. soil (I think).
After a half hour of watching pirates I'm told by an official, "We can't help you here." I'm to report to Paraguayan Immigration tomorrow.
In the morning I bring my Paraguayan friend, Marlene, her auntie, and her auntie's grandchild. Marlene is to translate for me. I warn her, "You may see a side of me you've never seen before."
We're shuffled from office to office, official to official. My final meeting is with a woman who tells me I must re-enter Argentina, go to the nearest Paraguayan Embassy, get my tourist visa, and then re-enter Paraguay. We're talking days. We talking incredible amounts of hoop jumping for a gringa whose Spanish is limited to saying "hello" and "It's very hot today."
I turn to my friend, Marlene, and say quietly, "I'm sorry ... you're going to see a side of my you've never seen or will ever seen again." It was time to play the pissed off American card, so politically incorrecto. So necessary right now.
Pulling myself up to my full five foot three, I assert that, "No, If you do not do help me I am going to walk out of here and hire a Paraguayian lawyer to help me. Also, I intend to complain to the U.S. Embassy."
Marlene translates.
I continue on in the same vein, trying to work the words, "U.S. Embassy" in at every opportunity. Marlene's tag-along-aunt get her two cents in as well, though I don't know what she says.
The head bureaucrat excuses herself to go consult with someone in another office. Did I push it too far.? Will they arrest me for being an illegal and throw me in a cell, thus making me eligible to appear on "Locked Up Abroad"?
She returns to usher me into another office. She produces a stamp. She can, indeed, stamp my passport. All for $40. No crossing borders and bribing border guards and riding buses into the pampas.
I am legal.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
An Argentine Man's Corazon
So today my elderly pharmacist gave me a kiss smack on the lips. A beso on the boca. I wasn't expecting it, just the usually kiss on one cheek. Dirty old pharmacist! After I bought my face cream he said he and his heart would be waiting for my next visit. I bet I could work that man for every good drug in his pharmacy, if I was that kind of girl.
Why couldn't it have been Dr. Handsome, my dentist?
These Argentine men and their "corazons." I have a nuevo tango CD where a man continually bleats about his "corazon" over the music. Bleats pathetically.
The men here are suppose to be very romantic, but every man who ever sweet talked me spoke not a word of English. I got the gist, however, and I don't buy a word (even though I didn't understand a word).
An expat last night told me this: Here's what to expect on a date with an Argentine. The first time he will buy your drink, and try for hours to talk you into bed. If he doesn't succeed, you will never see him again. If he succeeds, you won't hear from him for weeks, he'll show up, go to bed with you, and you get to pay for your own drink.
He said an Argentine man will borrow money from one woman and use it to take out another woman.
Married men chase as much as the single men. There are little "love hotels" all over the city where you can rent rooms by the hour for trysting.
Frankly, I don't know where they find the time. Between working, siestas, going to the gym, going out to dinner at 11 with the wife and kids (plus all the extended family get togethers) they must take their romance breaks during the day.
For me, I intend to keep this mystery, well, a mystery.
Why couldn't it have been Dr. Handsome, my dentist?
These Argentine men and their "corazons." I have a nuevo tango CD where a man continually bleats about his "corazon" over the music. Bleats pathetically.
The men here are suppose to be very romantic, but every man who ever sweet talked me spoke not a word of English. I got the gist, however, and I don't buy a word (even though I didn't understand a word).
An expat last night told me this: Here's what to expect on a date with an Argentine. The first time he will buy your drink, and try for hours to talk you into bed. If he doesn't succeed, you will never see him again. If he succeeds, you won't hear from him for weeks, he'll show up, go to bed with you, and you get to pay for your own drink.
He said an Argentine man will borrow money from one woman and use it to take out another woman.
Married men chase as much as the single men. There are little "love hotels" all over the city where you can rent rooms by the hour for trysting.
Frankly, I don't know where they find the time. Between working, siestas, going to the gym, going out to dinner at 11 with the wife and kids (plus all the extended family get togethers) they must take their romance breaks during the day.
For me, I intend to keep this mystery, well, a mystery.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A Very Palatial New Years
New Years Eve .... A Continuation
I walked through the spacious grounds to enter a grand mansion, former home of the Russian Embassy. The original structure, built in 1776, is the same year the United States became an independent nation. Amazing to think of it that way.
The estate had three levels, with terraces upon terraces, and a pool. Inside, the tiles were handpainted yellow and blue, very Spanish, with Morrish chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
Varieties of eye candy wandered around as did many expats and Argies who spoke English.
At midnight, a Champagne toast, of course, to the New Year. I felt a little teary thinking of the coming year .... the hope of it being better than the last four making me feel whistful and sad. The last four years of my life have included a divorce, a job layoff, the loss of a home, death of beloved pets and my son leaving home for college.
"Up to the roof!" said someone as the fireworks began in earnest. We climbed up a narrow ladder to see the whole of Buenos Aires lit up with fireworks in dozens of locations. "There will be a lot of people in the emergency rooms tonight," remarked someone, the fireworks being of the do-it-yourself variety.
A full moon, a blue moon, to be exact, complemented the magical night sky. A Brazilian thing went whirring by .... it wasn't exactly a firework, but an orange paper lantern lit up inside with a candle, a rather errie site. A palm tree caught on fire below us.
Behind the mansion, a man stood on his roof and waved to me. I waved back. He blew kisses. I blew kisses back.
"You've still got it," commented the home's owner.
"Yeh, right," I replied. "It was so dark I could have been a man in drag."
Dear Reader, after the fireworks stopped booming and popping, we guests danced the night away in an elegant great room--all ages and every type of music--until early morning.
When I arrived home at 4:30 the house across the street was still rocking!
At home, in Minnesota, New Years would have been quiet and cold ... people staying off the roads in fear of drunk drivers, and ensconced in front of the television with some California Champagne and a bag of chips. I would probably have been alone.
This New Years will be one to remember into my dotage.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
To Hades in a Taxi
Miz Boom Boom got invited to an expats party, one that involved traveling to a new neighborhood with which she was unfamiliar. Here is her night of adventure:
Dear Reader,
It seemed simple enough ... dress up in my best party clothes (including heels) and hail a taxi to take me straight to the door. Nothing is simple in Buenos Aires. Nothing. Have I not learned that by now?
I carefully walked to the corner and began in earnest to hail a taxi with its "Libre" light on. Taxis zoomed by with their lights off, indicating passengers. Suddenly, in the next lane, a beaconing "on" light! Can I catch his attention? If I step into the street .....
I stepped into a puddle of mud, sinking my new tango shoe into the filth and upsetting my balance causing me to flail and pinwheel my arms for balance and yell, "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" to the horror of two teenagers who stepped away so I wouldn't glob onto them for support. No, I didn't fall, but it was close.
This was just the beginning of a stellar night. My next taxi driver was a cheerful "No Englaise" Columbian with cumbia music blaring from his radio. But when I showed him the address, he kept repeating in a disbelieving voice, "Capital Federal? Capital Federal?" like I'd asked him to drive me to Hades.
Don't worry, I assured him. I'll pay. So what if it's a 20 minute trip? Ah, wrong.
The driver pulled over to a street and pointed to it. This was probably my street and he couldn't drive down it because it was a one way. No problem ... I can walk a short distance in my heels. Then the bastard took off.
I was in the middle of no where and this was NOT my street. I called the party giver to ask him where I was. "Goddamn these taxi drivers," he answered, "He dropped you at the city limit. They don't get paid if they go outside the Capital Federal." Can I walk 10 blocks to his house? Not in heels, not even on a good day.
The next driver didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, as they say in Detroit. He drove round and round, talking on my cell phone to the party giver who was trying to pull him in like a vector guiding in a jet at JFK.
We arrived 15 minutes later at a palatial mansion on a quiet street.
But THAT story is for my next post.
Dear Reader,
It seemed simple enough ... dress up in my best party clothes (including heels) and hail a taxi to take me straight to the door. Nothing is simple in Buenos Aires. Nothing. Have I not learned that by now?
I carefully walked to the corner and began in earnest to hail a taxi with its "Libre" light on. Taxis zoomed by with their lights off, indicating passengers. Suddenly, in the next lane, a beaconing "on" light! Can I catch his attention? If I step into the street .....
I stepped into a puddle of mud, sinking my new tango shoe into the filth and upsetting my balance causing me to flail and pinwheel my arms for balance and yell, "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" to the horror of two teenagers who stepped away so I wouldn't glob onto them for support. No, I didn't fall, but it was close.
This was just the beginning of a stellar night. My next taxi driver was a cheerful "No Englaise" Columbian with cumbia music blaring from his radio. But when I showed him the address, he kept repeating in a disbelieving voice, "Capital Federal? Capital Federal?" like I'd asked him to drive me to Hades.
Don't worry, I assured him. I'll pay. So what if it's a 20 minute trip? Ah, wrong.
The driver pulled over to a street and pointed to it. This was probably my street and he couldn't drive down it because it was a one way. No problem ... I can walk a short distance in my heels. Then the bastard took off.
I was in the middle of no where and this was NOT my street. I called the party giver to ask him where I was. "Goddamn these taxi drivers," he answered, "He dropped you at the city limit. They don't get paid if they go outside the Capital Federal." Can I walk 10 blocks to his house? Not in heels, not even on a good day.
The next driver didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, as they say in Detroit. He drove round and round, talking on my cell phone to the party giver who was trying to pull him in like a vector guiding in a jet at JFK.
We arrived 15 minutes later at a palatial mansion on a quiet street.
But THAT story is for my next post.
Miz Boom Boom Finds Her Argie Son
So I hired a taxi dancer named Louis on the recommendation of a fellow tango dancer. Louis turned out to be very young, handsome and enthusiastic. However, our age difference warranted some kind of story, so I made one up.
I told Louis, if anyone asked, tell them this: Many years ago on a visit to Argentina, I was seduced by a gaucho. It was dark. I was young. The result was him. Reluctantly, I gave him up for adoption and returned home. Now, I've returned to Argentina to find my long lost son. And tonight, my son is sharing his love of tango with his long lost mother.
Louis and I went to Salon Canning on a Monday night. I figured it would be a slow night and we could dance on a fairly empty floor. It was like walking into the Minnesota State Fair on a sunny Saturday.We couldn't move without getting elbowed or stepped on. Such a shame! And not a cheap night either.
But a mother will do anything for her son.
I told Louis, if anyone asked, tell them this: Many years ago on a visit to Argentina, I was seduced by a gaucho. It was dark. I was young. The result was him. Reluctantly, I gave him up for adoption and returned home. Now, I've returned to Argentina to find my long lost son. And tonight, my son is sharing his love of tango with his long lost mother.
Louis and I went to Salon Canning on a Monday night. I figured it would be a slow night and we could dance on a fairly empty floor. It was like walking into the Minnesota State Fair on a sunny Saturday.We couldn't move without getting elbowed or stepped on. Such a shame! And not a cheap night either.
But a mother will do anything for her son.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Turn Right at the Cow
Paraguay ... I just spent a week there in the poorer parts of the city visiting a friend.
Some impressions:
A beggar kneeling on the center line of a busy highway
Horses pulling fruit and vegetable carts
A dirty child sleeping on the steps of a major department store
So many mango trees the fruit lies rotting in people's yards
Finding a residence at night by the black and white cow in the yard ("turn right at the cow.")
An insect called the cigara that makes a loud noise like the sound of an alien with it's appendage caught in a spaceship door
Heat so thick you can swim in it
City roads so rutted and uneven, an all terraine vehicle would be the ideal mode of transportation
Open and friendly people: being invited to an asado (cook out) by a couple on a bus ... sharing a bean lunch with a poor widow.
Green, lush vegetation ... like Hawaii without the ocean
Beautiful cotton dresses made of organic cotton with intricate embroidery and crochet
Dogs, dogs and more dogs
Families on motorcycles ... one family of parents and two kids with no helmets and NO LIGHTS driving on a major highway at night
My friend having to take her porch chair in everytime she leaves so it won't get stolen
Some impressions:
A beggar kneeling on the center line of a busy highway
Horses pulling fruit and vegetable carts
A dirty child sleeping on the steps of a major department store
So many mango trees the fruit lies rotting in people's yards
Finding a residence at night by the black and white cow in the yard ("turn right at the cow.")
An insect called the cigara that makes a loud noise like the sound of an alien with it's appendage caught in a spaceship door
Heat so thick you can swim in it
City roads so rutted and uneven, an all terraine vehicle would be the ideal mode of transportation
Open and friendly people: being invited to an asado (cook out) by a couple on a bus ... sharing a bean lunch with a poor widow.
Green, lush vegetation ... like Hawaii without the ocean
Beautiful cotton dresses made of organic cotton with intricate embroidery and crochet
Dogs, dogs and more dogs
Families on motorcycles ... one family of parents and two kids with no helmets and NO LIGHTS driving on a major highway at night
My friend having to take her porch chair in everytime she leaves so it won't get stolen
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Bach on a Bandoneon
Today, the day of New Years Eve, was a day of transportation adventures. I needed to take a long subway ride to a major bus terminal to purchase a ticket to Paraguay (more about that later).
When I arrived, there were, like, almost 200 bus ticket offices! It was the friggin' O'Hara of bus terminals ... I've never seen anything like it. It made me aware of how buses are how most people in South America travel.
I booked something called a "cama suite" and supposedly the seat reclines into a bed. With enough sedatives (luckily have some left over from my dental work), I should be able to get some sleep. It's an 18 hour trip but my friend in Asuncion assures me I will be comfortable.
Wanted to fly, but I waited too long to book and reasonably priced tickets were all sold out ... my usual modus operandi.
On the way home I had a mostly charming experience. A dread-locked man in the subway tunnel was playing the most exquisite Bach on a bandoneon, an instrument I've only heard played in tango music. I was utterly delighted.
While waiting for the train a man dressed as a santa came ambling through ... wrong holiday, tattered suit, and a truly repulsive rubber mask. And then, of course, he had to sit next to me. I called him "Creepy Claus," in my mind.
But when the train arrived, I stepped into another era. I was on the famous "A Line."
Built in 1913, the wooden cars rattled and the lights cast a vintage glow from their old fashioned fixtures. It reminded me of the little antique steamship the plys Lake Minnetonka back home.
Ah, home. A new year, a new country, a new life.
When I arrived, there were, like, almost 200 bus ticket offices! It was the friggin' O'Hara of bus terminals ... I've never seen anything like it. It made me aware of how buses are how most people in South America travel.
I booked something called a "cama suite" and supposedly the seat reclines into a bed. With enough sedatives (luckily have some left over from my dental work), I should be able to get some sleep. It's an 18 hour trip but my friend in Asuncion assures me I will be comfortable.
Wanted to fly, but I waited too long to book and reasonably priced tickets were all sold out ... my usual modus operandi.
On the way home I had a mostly charming experience. A dread-locked man in the subway tunnel was playing the most exquisite Bach on a bandoneon, an instrument I've only heard played in tango music. I was utterly delighted.
While waiting for the train a man dressed as a santa came ambling through ... wrong holiday, tattered suit, and a truly repulsive rubber mask. And then, of course, he had to sit next to me. I called him "Creepy Claus," in my mind.
But when the train arrived, I stepped into another era. I was on the famous "A Line."
Built in 1913, the wooden cars rattled and the lights cast a vintage glow from their old fashioned fixtures. It reminded me of the little antique steamship the plys Lake Minnetonka back home.
Ah, home. A new year, a new country, a new life.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The New Detroit?
Dear Readers,
I will write again when I recover my equilibrium. I feel like the proverbial Mack truck has run over me as multiple events conspired to make Christmas a most challenging and emotional one.
The worst was when two nights before Christmas my 19-year-old son and his friend were robbed at gunpoint in my neighborhood. He only lost his inexpensive watch but he could have lost his life.
It seems as if guns have now entered Buenos Aires .... it did not seem so the last time I was here three years ago. The worst then? A pickpocket or purse taken from a chair.
Locals have told me there is corruption in the police force ... that there are those who not only turn the other way but actively participate in some of the crime. It's hard to believe. I used to be an editor on an American police enforcement magazine and I've always thought of cops as the good guys.
But despite a strong police presence on the street, thugs are using stronger methods to rob. Good people are angry.
How is Buenos Aires going to respond?
I will write again when I recover my equilibrium. I feel like the proverbial Mack truck has run over me as multiple events conspired to make Christmas a most challenging and emotional one.
The worst was when two nights before Christmas my 19-year-old son and his friend were robbed at gunpoint in my neighborhood. He only lost his inexpensive watch but he could have lost his life.
It seems as if guns have now entered Buenos Aires .... it did not seem so the last time I was here three years ago. The worst then? A pickpocket or purse taken from a chair.
Locals have told me there is corruption in the police force ... that there are those who not only turn the other way but actively participate in some of the crime. It's hard to believe. I used to be an editor on an American police enforcement magazine and I've always thought of cops as the good guys.
But despite a strong police presence on the street, thugs are using stronger methods to rob. Good people are angry.
How is Buenos Aires going to respond?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Porteno Street Life
As I walk around this city I'm assailed by sights and sounds that both repel and seduce ....
Yesterday I walked by the street lady who sits at her usually stoop on busy Santa Fe. I've walked by her three times now, and am always affected by her wrinkly old doll face topped by curls and her little dog who never takes his eyes off her. I didn't realize she was a beggar until now. There's a bowl beside her but I can't figure out if it's for money or do I see water in there for the dog? Instead, I press a five peso note into her hand and she smiles and the dog lets me give him a pet.
Dogs are everywhere ... yesterday there was even a dog down in the subway, seemingly waiting for a train. Everytime one whooshed up and stopped, he started barking madly ... running up and down to each door, looking for someone. It was concerning. Did he follow his master to the trains without the owner knowing. Or did this occur everyday ... the dog sneaking through the turnstile to greet his master's return at a certain hour?
The other night a derelict man hovered on a step in a dark door way. He had a sandwich and was gnawing on it like an animal. He couldn't sit upright. It touched me deeply ... I'm not a religious person but in his humanity I saw God.
The people who collect cardboard from the garbage--and there are thousands combing every neighborhood--are hardworking souls. They sell the cardboard to recyclers and I'm sure they earn just enough to eat. They hand-pull huge carts piled high with the stuff and sometimes the families have their babies with them. How awful to have to go through garbage while people walk by ignoring you.
I suppose I should end with something pleasant ... maybe the fun of petting the cats in the Botanical Gardens? All sizes, all shapes, all colors, family tableaus of cat families with mom and dad grooming their kittens. Cats on benches, cats on statues, cats sleeping under exotic fauna. Which one would I choose to take home if I could?
Yesterday I walked by the street lady who sits at her usually stoop on busy Santa Fe. I've walked by her three times now, and am always affected by her wrinkly old doll face topped by curls and her little dog who never takes his eyes off her. I didn't realize she was a beggar until now. There's a bowl beside her but I can't figure out if it's for money or do I see water in there for the dog? Instead, I press a five peso note into her hand and she smiles and the dog lets me give him a pet.
Dogs are everywhere ... yesterday there was even a dog down in the subway, seemingly waiting for a train. Everytime one whooshed up and stopped, he started barking madly ... running up and down to each door, looking for someone. It was concerning. Did he follow his master to the trains without the owner knowing. Or did this occur everyday ... the dog sneaking through the turnstile to greet his master's return at a certain hour?
The other night a derelict man hovered on a step in a dark door way. He had a sandwich and was gnawing on it like an animal. He couldn't sit upright. It touched me deeply ... I'm not a religious person but in his humanity I saw God.
The people who collect cardboard from the garbage--and there are thousands combing every neighborhood--are hardworking souls. They sell the cardboard to recyclers and I'm sure they earn just enough to eat. They hand-pull huge carts piled high with the stuff and sometimes the families have their babies with them. How awful to have to go through garbage while people walk by ignoring you.
I suppose I should end with something pleasant ... maybe the fun of petting the cats in the Botanical Gardens? All sizes, all shapes, all colors, family tableaus of cat families with mom and dad grooming their kittens. Cats on benches, cats on statues, cats sleeping under exotic fauna. Which one would I choose to take home if I could?
Monday, December 7, 2009
Random Musings
So, today was the day I steeled myself to get a root canal. Ah, nothing instills confidence like a dentist who says, "Root canal? I do na no theese word." My health insurance rep ASSURED me there would be English speaking dentists at the clinic.
I had written out some phases in English to the effect that I needed an English speaking doctor and also a sedative. No way was I going to open my mouth until I got both. Dentists make me cry even before I get into the chair. As a child I had a sadistic dentist who didn't use Novacain, had a slow drill and hated children.
The matter got squared away when another dentist came into the room and said I would need a specialist and he would help me arrange an appointment. As for the sedative? Most dentists are not able to write prescriptions, that being a matter for a medical doctor. So another appointment must be made.
I must say I was relieved to forgo the root canal and instead took a taxi to Recoletta. I've never been there and I wanted to see the neighborhood that the guidebooks said " ... is just like Paris!"
My taxi driver didn't have change for 100 pesos I should have known this could happen ... I've been kicked out of cabs for not having smaller bills and a few weeks ago I had to break a $100 peso bill at a magazine stand while the driver waited. To get change, I bought a "futbol" magazine and gave it to the driver, so today is the second futbol magazine I've given to a cabbie. I imagine in the cabbie underground I'm known as a great pick up.
I wandered around Recoletta Cemetery, looking for Eva Peron's grave. Two South African airline pilots, here on a layover, led me to it, where fresh flowers and a small crowd marked the location.
Afterwards I shopped a bit, buying real polo shirts in a shop owned by a real polo player. I bought two--one for my son and one for his friend. Both arrive next Sunday to spend two weeks with me.
For myself I splurged and bought a little Italian style espresso maker--a good one. I live for my morning espresso and the cheap one I bought spews coffee all over the stove every morning because it doesn't screw together properly, plus I melted the handle.
The language still alludes me ... but I'm learning what not to say. For example a few weeks ago a taxi driver said to me, "Calor," which, because it sounds like "cooler," I assumed meant did I want the air conditioner on? "Si," I replied. "Caliente." Apparently, my Spanish teacher told me, in Latin America this means I'm feeling sexually hot.
Ah, well. Perhaps I am.
I had written out some phases in English to the effect that I needed an English speaking doctor and also a sedative. No way was I going to open my mouth until I got both. Dentists make me cry even before I get into the chair. As a child I had a sadistic dentist who didn't use Novacain, had a slow drill and hated children.
The matter got squared away when another dentist came into the room and said I would need a specialist and he would help me arrange an appointment. As for the sedative? Most dentists are not able to write prescriptions, that being a matter for a medical doctor. So another appointment must be made.
I must say I was relieved to forgo the root canal and instead took a taxi to Recoletta. I've never been there and I wanted to see the neighborhood that the guidebooks said " ... is just like Paris!"
My taxi driver didn't have change for 100 pesos I should have known this could happen ... I've been kicked out of cabs for not having smaller bills and a few weeks ago I had to break a $100 peso bill at a magazine stand while the driver waited. To get change, I bought a "futbol" magazine and gave it to the driver, so today is the second futbol magazine I've given to a cabbie. I imagine in the cabbie underground I'm known as a great pick up.
I wandered around Recoletta Cemetery, looking for Eva Peron's grave. Two South African airline pilots, here on a layover, led me to it, where fresh flowers and a small crowd marked the location.
Afterwards I shopped a bit, buying real polo shirts in a shop owned by a real polo player. I bought two--one for my son and one for his friend. Both arrive next Sunday to spend two weeks with me.
For myself I splurged and bought a little Italian style espresso maker--a good one. I live for my morning espresso and the cheap one I bought spews coffee all over the stove every morning because it doesn't screw together properly, plus I melted the handle.
The language still alludes me ... but I'm learning what not to say. For example a few weeks ago a taxi driver said to me, "Calor," which, because it sounds like "cooler," I assumed meant did I want the air conditioner on? "Si," I replied. "Caliente." Apparently, my Spanish teacher told me, in Latin America this means I'm feeling sexually hot.
Ah, well. Perhaps I am.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Letter to My Tango Teacher
Hi Lois and David,
Hope you had a safe and semi-bearable trip home.
David, thanks for the homemade Baileys ... it was well worth the lugging, though I did grab a taxi eventually and I finally got an honest driver! But before I did I starting walking home and with the champagne buzz I went in the wrong direction and ended up in Palaremo Hollywood. At a park with dogs (and you know about me and dogs).
I sat down to pet a Great Dane, whose name was Luna. Luna expressed great interest in the steaks you gave me, which were in my bag. Luna's owner--a middle-aged man with a kind face--and I started talking in pidgeon English. I told my new acquaintance about David's homemade Bailey's and his eyes lit up. So I showed him my bottle and he had a taste.
"Ahhh, muy, muy bien!"
My new friend and I sat and watched the little green parrots flying about. It was early evening and Palermo Hollywood has a little bit of a suburban (in a good way)feel, the air fresher and with more trees and grass.
My new friend started philosophizing out loud in Spanglish ... something about there being one woman for each man (I think). And the universe being all one, and we are a part of the universe ... He did a lot of sighing and petting of Luna.
My cell phone rang and broke the reverie ... who could be calling me now that you're gone?
It was someone I had contacted about working on my computer notebook. I needed to go. Walking to a parked cab, I woke up the driver who was sleeping behind the wheel. As the taxi pulled away I waved out the back window to Luna and her owner. A little moment in time, neither one to be seen again.
Besos,
Vicki
Hope you had a safe and semi-bearable trip home.
David, thanks for the homemade Baileys ... it was well worth the lugging, though I did grab a taxi eventually and I finally got an honest driver! But before I did I starting walking home and with the champagne buzz I went in the wrong direction and ended up in Palaremo Hollywood. At a park with dogs (and you know about me and dogs).
I sat down to pet a Great Dane, whose name was Luna. Luna expressed great interest in the steaks you gave me, which were in my bag. Luna's owner--a middle-aged man with a kind face--and I started talking in pidgeon English. I told my new acquaintance about David's homemade Bailey's and his eyes lit up. So I showed him my bottle and he had a taste.
"Ahhh, muy, muy bien!"
My new friend and I sat and watched the little green parrots flying about. It was early evening and Palermo Hollywood has a little bit of a suburban (in a good way)feel, the air fresher and with more trees and grass.
My new friend started philosophizing out loud in Spanglish ... something about there being one woman for each man (I think). And the universe being all one, and we are a part of the universe ... He did a lot of sighing and petting of Luna.
My cell phone rang and broke the reverie ... who could be calling me now that you're gone?
It was someone I had contacted about working on my computer notebook. I needed to go. Walking to a parked cab, I woke up the driver who was sleeping behind the wheel. As the taxi pulled away I waved out the back window to Luna and her owner. A little moment in time, neither one to be seen again.
Besos,
Vicki
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Crime and Policia
There was a scene outside my house today--a neighbor four doors down came up to me waving her arms, obviously upset, and showered me with a torrent of Spanish. What could be wrong? Was she upset that I, too, had started feeding the feral cats? And perhaps I'm feeding them better because I put tuna fish oil on my catfood and the cats have started to prefer me?
I apologized with, "No Espanol," and continued down the block.
When I returned the policia were there and now it became apparent that the car parked in front of my house had been broken into, the glove compartment open and glass lying on the sidewalk and inside the car's interior.
The police didn't ask me any questions which quite disappointed me. Not that I would have heard anything. I have a bullet-proof thick front door and I was playing some music on the CD player in another room. And it's not like we would have understood each other ... though I've had my 5th Spanish lesson I still rely heavily on shameless pantomine and play acting listening to music would have looked just plain stupid.
The policia didn't fill out any report forms like American cops would. Instead, they jumped into their squad and sped around the corner, as if in hot pursuit, which is pretty funny because they were about 30 minutes behind the thief. I think they did it just to get out of the paperwork.
I apologized with, "No Espanol," and continued down the block.
When I returned the policia were there and now it became apparent that the car parked in front of my house had been broken into, the glove compartment open and glass lying on the sidewalk and inside the car's interior.
The police didn't ask me any questions which quite disappointed me. Not that I would have heard anything. I have a bullet-proof thick front door and I was playing some music on the CD player in another room. And it's not like we would have understood each other ... though I've had my 5th Spanish lesson I still rely heavily on shameless pantomine and play acting listening to music would have looked just plain stupid.
The policia didn't fill out any report forms like American cops would. Instead, they jumped into their squad and sped around the corner, as if in hot pursuit, which is pretty funny because they were about 30 minutes behind the thief. I think they did it just to get out of the paperwork.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I Wig Out
Before I left the States I bought a fetching blond wig .... human hair, good quality, nice bob cut. Why, dear reader? I have nada hair--hair that's not only fine but not much of it and curly, like a baby's first head of hair.
I was going to reinvent myself in Argentina, a place where no one knew me in my sparse hair condition. I would see if my hair fantasies were true--that nice hair would turn heads, get me more tango dances, make me feel sexy.
So last night I wore it to a milonga (tango dance), with a blood red silk rose attached. I felt much bolder than my normal self. I did the "eye thing" where, for those of you uninitiated into tango lexicon, is where you look around the room, catch a man's eyes, and if he nods, he's your next partner.
Well .... a man with the body of a cat and dark curly hair claimed me. He was a very sensual dancer, with dramatic pauses and Spanish words whispered into my ear. And then he did it. He tenderly cupped the back of my neck and grasped my hair gently, (or rather the hair of someone from India).
I froze. Well, in my mind I froze. Please God, make him take his hand off my neck.
I began to plan what I would do if my wig fell off in the middle of the dance floor. There was only one sensible course of action: If the wig lands on the floor, I'm out the door. But do I stop and pick it up before I run out? After all, I did pay $800 for it.
If I reach up and remove his hand, will he walk away and leave me alone on the floor, in tango pergatory? Will this song never end?
Luckily, dear reader, the clasp, combs and elastic kept the bob in place. I didn't have to deal with a shameful unveiling of my follicularly challenged real hair. It would have looked really super bad too, wig hair being the equivelant of hat hair, only worse.
But to prevent a repeat performance, I never locked eyes with Mr. Hands-on-My-Neck the rest of the night.
I was going to reinvent myself in Argentina, a place where no one knew me in my sparse hair condition. I would see if my hair fantasies were true--that nice hair would turn heads, get me more tango dances, make me feel sexy.
So last night I wore it to a milonga (tango dance), with a blood red silk rose attached. I felt much bolder than my normal self. I did the "eye thing" where, for those of you uninitiated into tango lexicon, is where you look around the room, catch a man's eyes, and if he nods, he's your next partner.
Well .... a man with the body of a cat and dark curly hair claimed me. He was a very sensual dancer, with dramatic pauses and Spanish words whispered into my ear. And then he did it. He tenderly cupped the back of my neck and grasped my hair gently, (or rather the hair of someone from India).
I froze. Well, in my mind I froze. Please God, make him take his hand off my neck.
I began to plan what I would do if my wig fell off in the middle of the dance floor. There was only one sensible course of action: If the wig lands on the floor, I'm out the door. But do I stop and pick it up before I run out? After all, I did pay $800 for it.
If I reach up and remove his hand, will he walk away and leave me alone on the floor, in tango pergatory? Will this song never end?
Luckily, dear reader, the clasp, combs and elastic kept the bob in place. I didn't have to deal with a shameful unveiling of my follicularly challenged real hair. It would have looked really super bad too, wig hair being the equivelant of hat hair, only worse.
But to prevent a repeat performance, I never locked eyes with Mr. Hands-on-My-Neck the rest of the night.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Dentistry Fun South American Style
There's nothing quite like have an abscessed tooth in a foreign country on Thanksgiving.
I had guests, both American and Argentine, coming for dinner, so I put off seeing a dentist that day and as the pain and pressure increased I gobbled Tylenol Extra Strength and gulped, not sipped, Champagne in an effort to stave off the throbbing.
In spite of the tooth, it was a fine feast. My tango teacher and her boyfriend were there to help me prepare food ... she had thought to throw in cans of cranberry sauce and pumpkin into her suitcase. The turkey was replaced by roast chicken but there was the infamous Minnesota green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, gravy, all served on my patio in the subtropical night air.
When I woke up on Friday, not only was I in more pain, but I had a hangover as well. There was someone with a jackhammer across the street and the sound reminded me of the dentist drill I would soon be facing.
Heating up some espresso, I turned on the laptop to search for an English speaking dentist. I lucked out--I was pumped--I found one and they were going to fit me in!
Look at me, taking care of myself in a foreign city. Yes, who needs Spanish when you're as resourceful as me. The taxi dropped me off at the address from the Internet, and the doorman let me in reluctantly. I pointed at my tooth, showed him the floor number and the name of the dentist, which I had cleverly written on a piece of paper for such occasions. He kept pointing at his watch.
I took the elevator to the 12th floor which looked suspiciously like a floor of apartments. No one answered at number 12G. Hmmm, the doorman must have meant they were gone for lunch. No problem. I'll just go shopping for an hour. It was unfortunate I'd taken that sedative in preparation for the visit, but no matter, it should still be in effect by the time I'm in the chair.
One hour and two unneeded purchases later I returned to "Office" 12G. I rang the bell and was greeted by a lambast of Spanish and a door that remained closed. I slipped my piece of paper under the door where it was slipped back to me. But the guy next door, the one leaving with his bicycle, said this was a dentist office!
I broke down and pulled out my Buenos Aires cell phone, which I greatly fear. Not only do I dislike cell phones in general, but this one gives me incomprehensible messages in Spanish everytime I try to use it.
And then a miracle happened. Not only did I manage to redial the correct number, but a voice answered, and the voice spoke English. The dental office had changed locations.
Upon arriving at the right office I was greeted by a very handsome young man with perfect white teeth and impeccible English. He gave me another sedative, drilled me, drained the abscess, gave me a script for antibiotics and painkillers and sent me off with a kiss on the cheek. Only in Argentina will you get a kiss on the cheek from your dentist.
I took the subway home where a middle-aged man stared at me. And stared at me. He either had a staring-sort-of-tic, or else he couldn't take his eyes off the dichotomy of my facial affect--the left side being frozen and the right being rather relaxed from copious sedatives (I make no apologies for those sedatives. Dentists terrify me). Or perhaps he found me attractive in my no make-up, eyes glazed and frozen jaw state.
I topped off a stellar day by using my ATM card and forgetting in my fog to remove it, which the machine promptly ate. Now, that ATM card makes a difference in whether I eat in Argentina. The guard, in Spanish, insisted I return Monday to deal with it, which I wasn't going to buy. No, no guard was going to keep me from my card .... I knew I'd never see it Monday. I pointed to my tooth and burst into tears, a language universally understood by everyone, including stubborn bank guards. I got my card.
I had guests, both American and Argentine, coming for dinner, so I put off seeing a dentist that day and as the pain and pressure increased I gobbled Tylenol Extra Strength and gulped, not sipped, Champagne in an effort to stave off the throbbing.
In spite of the tooth, it was a fine feast. My tango teacher and her boyfriend were there to help me prepare food ... she had thought to throw in cans of cranberry sauce and pumpkin into her suitcase. The turkey was replaced by roast chicken but there was the infamous Minnesota green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, gravy, all served on my patio in the subtropical night air.
When I woke up on Friday, not only was I in more pain, but I had a hangover as well. There was someone with a jackhammer across the street and the sound reminded me of the dentist drill I would soon be facing.
Heating up some espresso, I turned on the laptop to search for an English speaking dentist. I lucked out--I was pumped--I found one and they were going to fit me in!
Look at me, taking care of myself in a foreign city. Yes, who needs Spanish when you're as resourceful as me. The taxi dropped me off at the address from the Internet, and the doorman let me in reluctantly. I pointed at my tooth, showed him the floor number and the name of the dentist, which I had cleverly written on a piece of paper for such occasions. He kept pointing at his watch.
I took the elevator to the 12th floor which looked suspiciously like a floor of apartments. No one answered at number 12G. Hmmm, the doorman must have meant they were gone for lunch. No problem. I'll just go shopping for an hour. It was unfortunate I'd taken that sedative in preparation for the visit, but no matter, it should still be in effect by the time I'm in the chair.
One hour and two unneeded purchases later I returned to "Office" 12G. I rang the bell and was greeted by a lambast of Spanish and a door that remained closed. I slipped my piece of paper under the door where it was slipped back to me. But the guy next door, the one leaving with his bicycle, said this was a dentist office!
I broke down and pulled out my Buenos Aires cell phone, which I greatly fear. Not only do I dislike cell phones in general, but this one gives me incomprehensible messages in Spanish everytime I try to use it.
And then a miracle happened. Not only did I manage to redial the correct number, but a voice answered, and the voice spoke English. The dental office had changed locations.
Upon arriving at the right office I was greeted by a very handsome young man with perfect white teeth and impeccible English. He gave me another sedative, drilled me, drained the abscess, gave me a script for antibiotics and painkillers and sent me off with a kiss on the cheek. Only in Argentina will you get a kiss on the cheek from your dentist.
I took the subway home where a middle-aged man stared at me. And stared at me. He either had a staring-sort-of-tic, or else he couldn't take his eyes off the dichotomy of my facial affect--the left side being frozen and the right being rather relaxed from copious sedatives (I make no apologies for those sedatives. Dentists terrify me). Or perhaps he found me attractive in my no make-up, eyes glazed and frozen jaw state.
I topped off a stellar day by using my ATM card and forgetting in my fog to remove it, which the machine promptly ate. Now, that ATM card makes a difference in whether I eat in Argentina. The guard, in Spanish, insisted I return Monday to deal with it, which I wasn't going to buy. No, no guard was going to keep me from my card .... I knew I'd never see it Monday. I pointed to my tooth and burst into tears, a language universally understood by everyone, including stubborn bank guards. I got my card.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Champagne Just Because It's Sunday
Hola all my nonexistent followers,
Victory this week: I've got a house! Here's the link:www.vrbo.com/262055. It's a darling little house on a little block of pastel colored stucco homes. I've been here about 48 hours.
Things I've learned this week in Buenos Aires: Don't lean your face over a bidet to experiment with how it works. A curiously refreshing facial results.
Also, don't wear anything but stable flat shoes on the uneven, potholed sidewalks of BA. Only Argentine women can navigate the pavement in three inch heels.
And don't look around to admire the stunning colonial buildings. I ended up on my face yesterday doing that, luckily, not in dog poop.
It's really unfortunate about the dog poop and the uneven sidewalks ... all this wonderful architecture and you can't even look around to enjoy it. I heard an American say yesterday, "Looking down you get a two-fer ... you avoid dog poop and cracked sidewalks."
I said perhaps I should wear knee pads and wrist protectors while walking here, and my companion added, "and a helmet."
Also, the taxi drivers are out for blood. Pedestrians must constantly be dodging and running, even in marked crosswalks. My method is to try to cross with a woman with a small child or a pregnant woman to improve my odds. Old people aren't as safe a bet.
Pluses of being here: Excellent $5 bottles of Argentine champagne, gelato in exotic tropical fruit flavors with whiskey and rum added. Cheap cabs. Being able to buy flowers everyday if I wanted to ... parilla chicken and chimmichurri sauce.
On Sunday I went for a steak dinner in a local restaurant that doesn't even have a sign. My landlords, a very nice Argentine couple had introduced me to it when I came to see the house. I went by myself and there were several tables of people eating and drinking champagne. "It must be some kind of celebration," I thought. Someone sent me over a glass and all the tables lifted their glasses to me.
An older man came over to me (he was the only English speaker) and I asked was it a birthday, anniversary? "No, it's Sunday," he answered. Gotta love a city that drinks champagne just because it's Sunday.
And the restaurant had a framed photo of John Gotti on the wall with his birth and death dates ... like he was a movie star!
Victory this week: I've got a house! Here's the link:www.vrbo.com/262055. It's a darling little house on a little block of pastel colored stucco homes. I've been here about 48 hours.
Things I've learned this week in Buenos Aires: Don't lean your face over a bidet to experiment with how it works. A curiously refreshing facial results.
Also, don't wear anything but stable flat shoes on the uneven, potholed sidewalks of BA. Only Argentine women can navigate the pavement in three inch heels.
And don't look around to admire the stunning colonial buildings. I ended up on my face yesterday doing that, luckily, not in dog poop.
It's really unfortunate about the dog poop and the uneven sidewalks ... all this wonderful architecture and you can't even look around to enjoy it. I heard an American say yesterday, "Looking down you get a two-fer ... you avoid dog poop and cracked sidewalks."
I said perhaps I should wear knee pads and wrist protectors while walking here, and my companion added, "and a helmet."
Also, the taxi drivers are out for blood. Pedestrians must constantly be dodging and running, even in marked crosswalks. My method is to try to cross with a woman with a small child or a pregnant woman to improve my odds. Old people aren't as safe a bet.
Pluses of being here: Excellent $5 bottles of Argentine champagne, gelato in exotic tropical fruit flavors with whiskey and rum added. Cheap cabs. Being able to buy flowers everyday if I wanted to ... parilla chicken and chimmichurri sauce.
On Sunday I went for a steak dinner in a local restaurant that doesn't even have a sign. My landlords, a very nice Argentine couple had introduced me to it when I came to see the house. I went by myself and there were several tables of people eating and drinking champagne. "It must be some kind of celebration," I thought. Someone sent me over a glass and all the tables lifted their glasses to me.
An older man came over to me (he was the only English speaker) and I asked was it a birthday, anniversary? "No, it's Sunday," he answered. Gotta love a city that drinks champagne just because it's Sunday.
And the restaurant had a framed photo of John Gotti on the wall with his birth and death dates ... like he was a movie star!
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