maldita lengua

Memorias

2012-03-13T22:31:00.000-05:00

Siga La Vida

2012-03-12T21:25:00.000-05:00

As I write this the sound of thunder overpowers the usual noises of screaming buses and children and mothers and drunks and empanada salesmen. Lightening flashes against the neighbor's wall and I can almost see the cockroaches scurry for shelter.

I'm drinking (what may just turn out to be an entire bottle) of malbec and can't believe that I'll be heading back to a land where the metric system is not used (or understood), where bars close at 2 am, where an all too gassy man refers to intelligent and brave women as "sluts" and certain media types get away with defending said gasbag.

But I am excited. It will be great to see all of my friends and family and be back in the strangeness of the dark woods of the midwest.

But I am sad. It's going to sound foolish, but before I came to Argentina I felt as though I'd made all the friends that I would in life. Then I came here. Now I feel as though I'm going to be leaving family. And it's going to be so hard on Wednesday to leave this house and getting on that bus. But that's life, isn't it? Saying hello and goodbye and (hopefully) hello again.

But I'm trying not to think about Wednesday. Let's talk about (last) Saturday.

There's a place where you can go and eat endlessly--the all-you-can-eat buffet. But this isn't just any buffet, this is, after all, Argentina: the Land of Beef.

My wonderful friend Juli had two rules for dining at Siga la Vaca (Follow the Cow): Don't go to the salad bar and don't eat the bread. In fact, she said, don't even look at the salad bar, fully use that carnivore tunnel vision. And we did:

Chorizo and steak

Chorizo (yeah, it really is that good) and pork

Morcilla (Blood Sausage). The less said the better?

Our almost-three-hour-meal celebrated not only our amazing group of friends, but also served as my going away party AND birthday extravaganza. Somehow, after the carne coma, I had two desserts. One even had a candle and the copyrighted birthday song (thanks, Juli!).

Me (the schnoz-y and toothy one), Lauren, Juli, and Leentje. In spirit (and on paper, but you can't make it out) is Lucky who is back home in South Africa (We miss you, chica!).

After our almost-three-hour meal (I need to keep reiterating that), we literally had to fight our way out of the restaurant as humanity queued for the carne. And it was around 11 pm. Oh, Argentina.

It was a wonderful evening where we ate amazing food and shared hilarious stories. But--most importantly--it was my beyond sublime family that truly made the night. Thank you so much for being you and treating me like one of your own.

Okay, Hallmark-y moment over. But Wednesday is really going to be a difficult day. Gulp. Let's not think about it? I need an empanada and a factura (preferably something with dulce de leche or a medialuna. I'm really not picky about sweets).

Sometimes There Are Potholes

2012-03-11T21:05:00.000-05:00

And dumpsters.

Evita and the Cleaners

2012-03-10T16:58:00.000-06:00

It takes an army of feather dusters and even a can of Raid to keep the mausoleums in Recoleta Cemetery clean for the spirits, cats, and tourists.

The family mausoleum where Evita is entombed is heavily trafficked (and flowered).

In this narrow walkway between tombs rests Evita's family's mausoleum. The gaggle of foreign tourists is as permanent as the granite. Every time I have ever been there is always a crowd. And flowers. Oh, Evita, how you still live in the hearts of people the world over.

Well, I have to go now. We are going to an all-you-can-eat meat place. Sounds dangerous. I'll dutifully take pics and report back!

Los Gatos del Cementerio de la Recoleta

2012-03-08T22:09:00.000-06:00

In Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires it feels as though there are as many tourists as graves. Evita is entombed here (don't worry I'll post the pics next time) and everyone still wants a piece of her even in death. But it is possible to snake through the maze of tombs to the less trafficked outskirts and pretend that the throngs of tourists don't exist. It's just solely you and the gatos and the silent graves:

Some of the tombs are in disrepair and the cats live in them. Walking past these forgotten mausoleums, with their broken doors and glass, the smell of cat overpowers. The cemetery is a perfect refuge for the cats, they are fed regularly and the city's feral dogs are safely outside. These guardians of the crypts silently watch the tourists and, I imagine, wait for the last tourist to meander out and for the gates to be closed. I wonder what they do at night? What do they see? What do they feel?

A Graveyard in the Desert

2012-03-07T21:54:00.000-06:00

Have you ever wondered what a graveyard in the desert looks like? Well, aren't you in luck!

This is San Pedro de Atacama, Chile and our hostel is somewhere in the middle of these . . . structures:

And directly behind is the town cemetery. Do you want to see?

And this is just a vehicle that needs to be cleaned. Apparently the infamous "Wash Me" is used all across the world:

Back to the cemetery. What struck both Lauren and myself was how simple the graves were. Many of the graves (if not the majority) did not have the dates of a person's life, let alone the person's name. Only the wooden cross.

Beware of Flooding in the Driest Desert in the World

2012-03-06T23:03:00.000-06:00

After the flamingos, after the llamas, after the high altitude lakes, Lauren and I decided that we'd end the afternoon with a pleasant bike ride to the Pukará de Quitor, an ancient fortress built in the 12th Century. We were told by the woman that rented us the bikes that it was an easy bike ride just out of town without any hills. We set out with our helmets and map and went about a half mile when--surprise!--the road was washed out by a raging river. Funny that she never mentioned that the ROAD WAS GONE.

We decided on an alternative route that we guessed might get us to the Pukará. After the road became progressively more and more hilly--and appeared to be heading directly to a rock corey--Lauren said that we should take a narrow little dirt path. To me it looked like a private lane and I envisioned angry Chilean farmers chasing the gringos, trapping us in the rock corey. It turned out to not only be an actual road, but the road that led us to the Pukará! Crazy! But, you guessed it, the road was washed out by yet another raging river! Our destination mocked us from the other side of the waters. But how could we get across?

We chained the bikes to a telephone pole and surveyed the area: there was no way to cross. We walked up a hill, thinking that we'd be able to find an alternative route. Instead, we found a weird little channel filled with dirty brown mud:

What was it? We followed it for a little while, dancing along the edge, but it simply snaked around the mountain. And it smelled. Maybe it wasn't mud.

Defeated, we returned to our bikes and soon a man in a pickup truck drove up. When he got out to change the hubs, we realized that he was going to drive through the river. Lauren questioned if he would take us and our bikes across and he agreed. What luck!

After all of that we only had a half hour to view the ancient fortress. We made the most of it by virtually running to the top, through the ruins.

Then my camera died.

I really wish we had had more time to explore the area and learn about the ancient culture. Next time.

On the way back to town we were again trapped by a washed out road. Luckily, three guys on bikes came along and we followed them down a narrow lane. This was a private lane and it soon led to a little farmstead where big dogs continually barked and encircled us. The guys pleaded with the woman to let us pass through the farm as the sun began to set (I'm sure thoughts of being stuck in the desert at night raced through everyone's heads). It didn't seem like she was going to and then finally she let us. The dogs continued to bark as we biked further up the lane, past broken down shacks, junked cars, and endless scary backwoods-y things. Finally, we made it out and we found the main road that led to town.

What an adventure.

After we ditched the bikes (and were going to chew out the woman that told us that it would be super easy to get to the ruins, but she was conveniently not to be found) we walked back to our hostel. I pointed out Lauren that there seemed to be an overabundance of people with bloody noses. We had met at least three people that had tissues shoved up one of their nostrils. Like an idiot I said how amazed I was that I hadn't gotten a bloody nose (I have a tendency to get them. Boo.). As soon as we got back to the hostel--Boom!--bloody nose! It was on and off for two and half hours. Not fun. In that time poor Lauren walked back to town (a fifteen minute walk) at least four times as she attempted to get money from an ATM, then a money exchange house, and then for food. Lauren brought back the best beef sandwich that I've ever had. It was a thin layer of good quality steak topped with spicy green beans. It was amazing! And the best thick cut potato fries with parsley! Thanks, Lauren!

It was a crazy day and our last in San Pedro de Atacama. And oh so memorable.

Llamas!

2012-03-05T11:22:00.000-06:00

Continuing with Chilean adventures:

As we traveled to two high altitude lakes our tour bus stopped so we could admire a few hundred llamas.

There was even a solitary and mysterious llama shepherd in the distance:

Many of the llamas had been sheered for their wool. In addition to their lanolin-free wool, llamas are also raised for meat. While I wasn't able to try llama, it is readily available in northern Argentina and Chile. How does a llama empanada sound? Having kept two llamas (hi Bucky! hi Charlotte!) as slightly distant pets, I had mixed feelings about eating llama. The night that I thought that I just might eat llama I had a slight problem and wasn't able. Oh well.

Be careful: Llama crossing (the white one wasn't so much crossing as eating. He or she seemed to be eating gravel in the middle of the road the entire time we were gawking):

Remember Those Mutant Pinecones?

2012-03-04T12:22:00.001-06:00

Remember those mutant pinecones that Leentje and I discovered in Uruguay? Well, it seems they've also been spotted in Australia where a warning has been issued for these "watermelon-sized" pinecones. Mayor Diane Blackwood warned residents of Warragul, Australia that the pinecones are potentially lethal, explaining, "They are the size of a watermelon, falling literally out of the sky from potentially 20 meters high. So you wouldn't want to be under one, I tell you."

Sounds like she's talking from personal experience.

In the article they refer to the tree as 120 year-old bunya pine. Must also be in Uruguay, no?

Me with the mutants:

Flamingos!

2012-03-02T10:18:00.000-06:00

Within the Salar de Atacama lies the Chaxa Lagoon which is home to not only Chilean and Andean Flamingos, but also Baird's Sandpiper, Crested Duck, Andean Avocet, and Puna Plover. These flamingos live in a salt lake where they filter food from the water with their bills. I think the I photographed Andean Flamingos, which are one of the rarest flamingos in the world. These flamingos are the only ones with yellow legs:

Unfortunately, Andean Flamingos are a threatened species due in a large part to mining for borax. While the habitat that we visited is protected, mining was being done in the surrounding area. Flamingos will abandon nesting colonies if mining starts. Also, borax is highly toxic to Andean Flamingos.

Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon)

2012-02-29T13:47:00.000-06:00

Otherworldly. Mythic. Ghostly. Surreal. Mystical. Welcome to the Valley of the Moon.

Basing ourselves in San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, Lauren and I took an excursion to the Moon Valley just outside of the tiny and extremely touristy town. As the van wound its way past bizarre rock formations and the salt covered ground, it was difficult to imagine that we were still on earth. Sculpted by wind for countless centuries, this area of the Atacama desert is truly breathtaking and alien. The Moon Valley is located in the Cordillera de la Sal (Salt Mountain Range). Salt covers the ground like snow and fools the eyes.

Our tour group spent hours exploring the bizarre terrain and taking hundreds of photographs.

From the brochure: "The Three Maries. These formations are the result of intense erosion processes. They are composed of gravel, clay, salt, gems, and quartz, and are approximately one million years old."

"The Great Dune Path. For thousands of years strong winds have affected these reliefs, creating huge fields of sand dunes. The Great Sand Dune was probably formed by the accumulation of sand, prompted by natural barriers which constitute the base of the dunes."

The salt is simply amazing. Here, you can see a footprint embedded in the hardened (yet crumbly) salt. For some reason I felt the need to include my fingers as well.

Our guide took us to a windy overlook to enjoy a sunset in the desert.

The Valley of the Moon is managed by the Indigenous Association of the Moon Valley, which consists of six communities: Coyo, Larache, Quitor, Sequitor, Solor, and San Pedro de Atacama. Along with the National Forest Corporation they strive to protect the "renewable natural resources of these ancestral territories, while at the same time caring for the natural and cultural heritage of the communities."

Wow

2012-02-28T18:26:00.002-06:00

Wow, it just took a full two minutes for me to remember how to charge my cell phone from the States. First time I picked it up in three and a half months! (I had to move a flappy thing--that threw me.)

Funny how once too familiar things can become so alien.

On the Way to Chile

2012-02-28T11:10:00.001-06:00

We'd been on the bus bound for Chile since 1:30 AM, thinking we were finally on our way to the driest desert in the world, when we hit a bit of a snag:

Rain had ripped through the highway as smoothly as a hot knife through chocolate cake. Sigh. And we were so close! We could see the Andes! A bus had tried to drive around, but got stuck:

Thankfully, our drivers decided not to attempt the same. Instead we turned around and went to a truck stop that was an hour or so away. When we returned to the cut road, a makeshift one had been prepared. All of the passengers had to walk to the other side and then the empty bus drove through the wasteland. It was very biblical.

Yay, Andesmar! You made it!

Soon we were on the road again, hoping that someday we'd make it to Chile. Other than this little problem the ride was uneventful. I sat next to a young monk from Mexico who was going to a small church in Chile. He became extremely happy when the film Machete was shown on the bus, passing around Mexican candies and explaining that it was a Mexican film. But after the first five minutes of nudity and blood, the film was switched for something much more benign like a Jackie Chan rom-com or one of those Fockers movies (but it all blurs together).

A Drunk on the Bus and Bathing in Jujuy

2012-02-27T19:53:00.000-06:00

This begins a series of painfully detailed accounts of my trip to Chile. You've been warned (but when you're retired, you have such time to exhaust every last element).

Let's go!

I met up with Lauren in San Salvador del Jujuy, Argentina after a forgettable 23 hour bus ride. Well, forgettable other than the drunk that was assigned the seat next to me. Thankfully, he moved to a vacant one. This was fine, if not a relief, until a man and his son came to claim those two seats after a few stops. But Drunk Buddha wouldn't wake, chin pleasantly resting on his chest, a lake of drool balancing on the northernmost point of his stomach. It was something. Finally the rightful owner of the seat was able to roust the drunk. He staggered down the aisle and plunked down in another--and illegal--seat.

Once settled in, the man's son called his mother to tell her about the borracho (drunk). Only, Mom couldn't hear too well and the boy kept yelling borracho louder and louder. The father repeatedly tried to quiet him, worried that the drunk would hear, but it was apparently still sleepy time.

After that more seat chaos occurred as people had to find alternative ones because they couldn't wake Mr. Drinks A Lot. It became increasingly more and more complicated until bus personnel were called. The next day the drunk was forced to sit next to me as his game of musical chairs had finally come to an end. As he drank several cans of beer (did he smuggle in an entire fridge?) and sucked on coca leaves (he showed me the mushy mess tucked between his cheek and gums), he talked to me about the price of gas and other exciting things, like what his sister did for a living. I tried my best to find the trees outside the window fascinating and thought about how chatty strangers are annoying in any language. Finally I arrived in Jujuy and found Lauren waiting for me at the bus terminal.

The next morning we boarded the bus destined for San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, but after an hour of sitting at some sort of bus cleaning station, we were told that the route to Chile had been closed due to snow! They'd try again at 1:30 the next morning. We had roughly 13 hours to kill in Jujuy, a town that really only has one thing going for it: the extremely chaotic bus terminal (why else would you ever go there?). We discussed our options over lunch in a restaurant where essentially nothing on the menu was available, not even coffee. Our waiter's round moon face broke into a smile each time he giggled that, despite being on the menu, the item was not available. And the coffee machine was broken. It was turning into one of those days. But wait.

After consulting with a tourist office we took a bus out of the city to a termas, or hot springs. We both thought that hot springs would ease our travel woes and dutifully brought our bathing suits. When we saw the hot springs, an outdoor pool painted an ill-conceived neon blue filled with bracken water and entirely too many children, Lauren asked where the pretty one was. We were told to go to the hotel where we'd find natural hot springs with rocks. At the hotel we paid for an hour in the hot spring. We waited while they cleaned it. Um, clean it? Did someone spill something on a rock or something? A woman escorted us down a hallway with narrow doors, stopping at door number 13. When we stepped inside we both burst out laughing. This was our natural and rock filled hot spring:

A bathtub! Yay, we paid 16 USD to take a bath together for an hour. But this was the view from the window:

Given how our day was going, we simply laughed at our luck and wondered if they had any beer (they didn't). Afterwards, we made use of the hotel's free wi-fi and ate at their surprisingly tasty restaurant.

We made it back to the bus terminal where we camped out until 1:30 AM when we finally left for Chile! But our bus problems weren't over! Oh, no.

To be continued. . .

Back in BA

2012-02-26T15:09:00.001-06:00

After an adventurous trip with Lauren to Chile, we are back in the land of empanadas. I'm a bit exhausted to write about the trip today (the 24 hour bus ride killed me), but will soon.

Off to the Desert

2012-02-18T10:39:00.002-06:00

Tonight I leave for northern Argentina. After a short 23 hour bus ride Lauren will pick me up in Jujuy and then on Monday we leave for San Pedro de Atacama, Chile! We head back to San Salvador del Jujuy, Argentina on Friday, the 24th. And should arrive back in Buenos Aires on Sunday, the 26th.

I sent Lauren a desperate email and totally guilted her into allowing me to crash her traveling sola gig. No, it wasn't really like that (yes, it was).

Wish me luck--these are some horrendous hours to be stuck on a bus. But that's Argentina, everything is at least a day a way.

Leentje Dances

2012-02-18T10:34:00.000-06:00

My wonderful friend Leentje was honored at the tango hall that she studies at. This is a huge honor because Argentines think of tango as only theirs, and Leentje came all the way from Belgium to study here. As you can see, she has impressed the natives with her elegant and flawless steps!

Juli and I were there that night and had a wonderful time. If you look real close--and kind of squint your eyes--you can see us standing against the wall opposite from the camera. We would be the ones excessively clapping and screaming--the proud friends.

Smells in South America

2012-02-15T22:11:00.000-06:00

I'm reading Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses in which she explores our senses in almost autistic detail with anecdotes, myths, and science trails. In the section about smell I came across this:

Nationality influences fragrances, as many companies have discovered. Germans like pine, French prefer flowery scents, Japanese like more delicate odors, North Americans insist on bold smells, and South Americans want even stronger ones. In Venezuela, floor-cleaning products contain ten times as much pine fragrance as those in the United States.

Now, I cannot speak for Venezuela, but all the smells that I've encountered in Argentina have been amplified, if not apocalyptic. Upon opening the bag that my clothes are returned in from the cleaners, I'm overtaken by a scent that screams, "I'm clean! I'm fresh! I smell good!" It's a loud smell, much like colognes and perfumes here. All one has to do is simply walk down the sidewalk--in this city of good air--and you are overtaken, if not abducted, by a person's bottle-born scent. They absolutely marinate in it. My host mom runs around the house spraying our towels, bedding, and what ever else she can with a bottle of special scent. When she firsts enters the house, she lights up a stick of incense--that's how you know when she's here, when you smell that heavy, almost sweet aroma. It's one way to announce one's presence.

In my remaining time here, I'll have to focus more on the scents of things.

Bomba de Papa

2012-02-14T11:54:00.000-06:00

The other day I found this at the panadería:

It's called bomba de papa--potato bomb! Slicing into I discovered:

With a country that is overly obsessed with ham, I shouldn't have been surprised to find diced ham inside. But I was. Okay, ham aside, what is it? Essentially, bomb de papa is mashed potatoes with diced ham that is rolled in pan rallado (breadcrumbs) and then fried. That uneven square in either piece? That's a chunk of cheese.

The scary thing is that I actually like it. They are less than 2 USD and literally just a block away. Yikes!

Maybe it's a blessing, but they seem to be extremely popular and are generally sold out. Yesterday I was not able to get one so I had to wake up early today. Can you imagine? But when you're retired, you find yourself putting too much importance on little things.

News Flash: Not Done Venting

2012-02-12T22:31:00.000-06:00

I know that this blog is intended for the wonders and naiveté of being out of your element and the occasional tomato hornworm, but, man, am I . . . displeased.

Just a moment ago I entered the bathroom only to find water splashed on every available surface of the counter and a puddle on the floor. Now, we've gone through this before: Lauren had a talking to with Housemate who DOESN'T USE THE KITCHEN and GOBBLES ENTIRE CHEESECAKES AND BOXES OF CHOCOLATE FROM PATAGONIA (are you sensing a pattern?), giving her a helpful item called a towel and highlighting the benefits of its use. Housemate only giggled and then ran off to her room WITHOUT sopping up the water that was still on the floor!

I realize that she cleans her food utensils in the bathroom sink (which is why it doesn't drain and, hello, we have a kitchen!) and has a tendency to wash her face multiple, multiple times a day (seriously, she's as OCD as a raccoon--splashing, splashing, splashing), but she should still realize that she shares the bathroom and that she needs to clean up after herself.

Now, I probably shouldn't share this little detail, but in the spirit of venting, here it goes: I constantly find pee on the toilet seat!?! She's a she! How does this happen?!? The other day, gulp, I found a droplet of watery blood on the seat so, after promptly dry heaving, I poured a gallon of vinegar over it and prayed.

She's incredibly young and in the beginning of a four year study abroad program. Do I just give her the benefit of the doubt? Or do I politely--once again--explain to her that she needs to remember that she shares this house with others? How many times will it take?

Suddenly, my blog has spiraled into passive aggressive ravings about my housemates. Remind me next time that I'm at my most sane (relatively) when I LIVE ALONE!

Update to an Earlier Post

2012-02-12T21:02:00.000-06:00

For all of you (all two of you?), you might be interested to know that it was not my housemate and her lack of kitchen love that caused the terrible crash the night that I couldn't sleep (rest assured, the rice cooker is still okay and she continues to clog the drain in the bathroom sink and put odd foodstuffs in the toilet), no, rather it was my host mom's brother's inept ways. You see, he'd replaced lightbulbs in Lauren's room, placed the glass cover thing over the bulbs (what is that thing called????), "tightened" the screws, and most likely congratulated himself for a job well done. Later that night the light fixture cover thing crashed to the floor. Thank goodness Lauren is on vacation! She could have been killed or severely dented.

Needless to say, I now know how to say "I'm going to kill him" in Spanish.

Las Islas Malvinas

2012-02-11T17:55:00.000-06:00

In light of Prince William setting up shop in the Malvinas (or Falklands, but you won't catch me calling them that) and the UK "militarizing"(Cristina's words) the South Atlantic, I thought that I'd put up a picture of El Monumento a los Caídos en Malvinas (Monument for the Fallen in the Falklands):

Which was conveniently placed directly across from el Torre Monumental (or, before 1982, el Torre de los Ingleses: The Tower of the English, a gift from the British in 1910). Are you getting the picture now?

Not the best picture, but this was taken up the hill from the Malvinas Monument. You can see the back of the monument in the bottom of the picture and the Tower behind the Argentine flag.

I'm sure that this tension between Argentina and the UK is simply a lot of hot air and that things will not accelerate as they unfortunately did in 1982. Argentina expressed its apprehensions about the UK in the Malvinas at the UN recently, stating that a UK sub with nuclear weapons is now in the South Atlantic (which violates an international treaty). The UK responded that the accusations were "manifestly absurd," which is so, so British, isn't?

Can't Sleep or Smells through the Window

2012-02-08T21:15:00.000-06:00

I haven't been sleeping well lately. Today I woke up around 5:20 AM (sometimes I can't fall asleep until that time), so when I went to sleep before 10 PM earlier, I slept so hard that when I woke up just a short hour later, I assumed that I'd been sleeping for several. I'd been willing myself back to sleep for a good hour when an awful smell came in through the window. It smelled like, well, a rotten a egg. As if to confirm my suspicion, a man outside announced in an operatic voice, "Rotten eggs!" In bed, curled up in a fit of giggles, I realized that I'm not falling asleep anytime soon and also wondered at just what point did life become a Monty Python skit?

He's still out there somewhere, singing a mock opera as I type this, but, now, it's no longer funny. So much so, that a baby is wailing not too far away as police sirens blare through the barrio.

Ugh.

It seems to be the theme of tonight. Earlier there was a terrible crash and I think it came from the room of the housemate who REFUSES TO USE THE KITCHEN in any capacity. I imagine she broke her crockpot or rice cooker, but that happens when one REFUSES TO USE THE KITCHEN in any capacity (well, except for when hopping into the kitchen in the night to eat the entirety of a barely touched cheesecake like some sort of ravenous rabbit. Yes, I still remember!) Not bitter. Not bitter. Then, as if to add another instrument to the night's opera, one of the newer housemates kept slamming a door so hard that I wouldn't be surprised if it's no longer functioning.

Double Ugh.

Oh, great. Now Operatic Man has formed a band. And their song? "La Bomba." Yeah.

At the Vegetable Stand

2012-02-08T12:43:00.000-06:00

Lauren is missed at the vegetable stand. She's befriended the young people that run it, and, now in her absence, they ask where she is and when she'll be back. The youngest one, (I'm not exactly sure if she's in her teens, twenties, or what) while quizzing me about Lauren's whereabouts, said Alemania--Germany--and then raised her eyebrows. I replied that Lauren is in Salta and is not, that I'm aware, going to Germany. She simply repeated what'd she'd said, again ending on Alemania (and again with the arched eyebrows). I was confused. Were we talking about my friend? I raised my hands high in the air to verify that we were indeed talking about Lauren--she of the tall stature--and arched my eyebrows. The girl nodded enthusiastically. Finally, I realized that she was asking where Lauren was from, not where she was vacationing. Whoops. She, apparently, understood that our conversation was going nowhere fast so she told me about Selena Gomez, who, I soon learned, is here in Argentina. The girl was excited by this. Her eyes scanned the mountain of vegetables that surrounded her as if she'd spot Miss Gomez.

The Superbowl in Argentina

2012-02-06T18:39:00.002-06:00

Last night, around midnight, I emerged from my room in search of an empanada (or two) only to discover the doors to the kitchen closed. This normally doesn't occur. I approached apprehensively, watching the curtains swirling on the other side of the glass and wondering who was in la cocina (with the ceiling fan on full blast). The doors swung open and one of the new French housemates burst forward, exclaiming . . . something. Was it French? Spanish? English? Mandarin? I stared at him. He repeated his statement again wholeheartedly, looking pleased like a diligent dog after performing a particularly challenging trick. Slowly, the sounds became words and the words became English. "The Giants won the Superbowl." He'd been watching it on the TV. I had forgotten that we had one.

Have You Tried Tuna Fruta?

2012-02-05T15:26:00.000-06:00

Recently, strange little fruits have been inhabiting the stands of the greengrocers. Today I was told that it is tuna. Funny, no? I thought I had heard wrong, so I spelled it, and, yes, it is indeed called tuna. Or prickly pear in English.

But Walmart does not have such things, leaving me entirely unprepared and bewildered.

Despite the greengrocer's excellent advice on how to eat such a thing, I still had to google what to do. This video is narrated by a slightly sedated Grizzly Adams, but is informative. (Apparently Grizzly Adams traded in those mountains and bears for cacti and crappy digital video cameras)

While tuna is like a slightly less acidic kiwi and extremely refreshing, I think I'll stick with kiwi. Tuna has way too many seeds to make eating it enjoyable.

I'm Naive

2012-02-03T13:43:00.000-06:00

At this point, it goes beyond woefully or even blissfully.

The other day as Lauren and I walked back to the house after a late lunch, I pointed out the two boys who are always sleeping on the sidewalk come mid afternoon. I've posted about them before: they're around ten or so and sprawl out on the sidewalks in the neighborhood. Lauren responded that they're on drugs, most likely huffing. And here I thought that they were upholding the tradition of an afternoon siesta in a somewhat uncomfortable manner. Nope. The only tradition that they practice is an unfortunate new one: extremely young children, homeless and addicts.

It reminds me of a similar situation in Chicago. I'd been attending UIC for three semesters and one day I pointed out a homeless man sleeping on a sidewalk to Mateo. I wondered aloud why there seem to be so many sleepy homeless people. But without money for coffee, who wouldn't be out napping on the curb? Mateo said that they were dropping. I stared at the man as his head bobbed up and down as if he was looking for something in his navel. "Oh, they're sleepy and they dropped something? And homeless? Isn't that just the pits." I imagine Mateo rolled his eyes, but I was too busy looking for whatever it was the man had lost. No, they hadn't dropped something, they were doped up on heroin which, apparently, causes one's head to bob up and down, or dropping.

Another time I trudged through the snow on Cicero on my way to the school that I was co-teaching at. The sidewalks hadn't been shoveled in months and I had to walk in the street. As I approached a parking lot a man in a white van looked expectantly at me through the opened window. Walking up to the man, I assumed that he was lost and needed directions. (Like I could give directions to anywhere in Chicago, let alone on Cicero). So I marched up to the man in the van. He said something, but it sounded odd and vaguely foreign. Oh, no! He's lost and foreign! "Pardon me, young man," I began, "but I can't understand you. I teach English as a Second Language. What can I help you with?" I imagine that I was blinking my wide eyes like an overeager woodchuck. When I finally figured out that he was trying--desperately--to sell me cocaine, I apologized, declining and wishing him the best of luck on such a cold day. But really, there are other reasons white people visit Cicero, not simply just for coke and whores! Talk about racial profiling.

An Ayn Rand Groundhog Day

2012-02-02T20:42:00.000-06:00

Last night Lauren and I celebrated her final evening in the city at a local German bar (she'll be in northern parts of Argentina and Chile for the next few weeks). There's never anyone at the bar (the only other patron last night was reading American Gods). And they give you free and incredibly salty popcorn. A win-win.

Afterwards, during the two blocks home, we had an adventure: Sneaking into a creepy apartment building and ducking below open windows to see what was beyond the curve in the hallway (nothing, just a door). The only witness was a cat who snaked its tail through the railing of a marble staircase, while, I'm sure, silently judging us. Regardless, I still am convinced that ghosts dance between those crumbling walls, over those cracked tiles.

But our night wasn't over. Oh, no. Upon returning home, we discovered a copy of The Fountainhead in the common area. We promptly fled to the terrace with the book, ripped it in half, and hurled both halves toward the dumpsters down the street. Each severed section smacked against the pavement with the weight of staunch and ridiculously feverish ideology.

And here's the kicker: We did this around 3 AM on Ayn Rand's birthday! Entirely ignorant of the date's significance. Amazing!

Let me come clean about two things. I've never actually read anything by Ayn Rand, but people that I think are smart and funny wholeheartedly dislike her. While on the other hand, insane people have seized her and her "philosophies," slapping them across homemade signs that they parade around like distorted children at a circus. And, apparently, that's enough for me. Secondly, I'm adamantly opposed to destroying books--books are our friends, as my mom always says. Today I'm blaming the dynamic duo of tequila and cerveza. I'm sure of it.

Bueno.

Happy Groundhog Day! How will you celebrate? How will you celebrate the 107th birthday of Ayn Rand? Here's a list of quotes from The Christian Science Monitor to help you commemorate.

And, more importantly, here's to Lauren! Have a grand adventure: I hope you meet some wonderfully crazy people, see amazing sites, and eat bizarre food (llama empanadas???)!

Mutant Pinecones

2012-01-31T12:09:00.000-06:00

Look, Bobby! I found a (mutant) pinecone!

Mutant pinecones slumbered like mammoths in the courtyard. We stuck our cameras through the gate, but how could we get in? Looking at the grounds surrounded by a many winged white building, the complex had a crazed mental institution look about it. Suddenly thoughts of De Palma's Sisters fluttered and flickered through my head. Should we risk that for the sake of mutants?

Yes.

We skirted around the fence and building to the front where we realized that it wasn't a scary mental institution at all, but a subdued cultural center that specialized in classes of knitting and painting. But it was closed! A woman appeared in the front office, pacing restlessly. I stared through the window at the woman and imagined devastatingly cute puppies that have just been orphaned. It worked--she quickly motioned us inside (The door wasn't even locked. Oh, Uruguay.) Leentje in her excellent Spanish explained that we were enamored with the mutants and that we desperately had to see them. The woman was amused and said that they fall all the time. She pointed to the door to the courtyard and said that we could have as many as we wanted. If only I traveled with a wheelbarrow--this would have become an excellent job opportunity.

It was wonderful. Leentje and I took one monster each.

The front office lady put down the phone to marvel as we glided past filled with piney glee. As I closed the door I saw her laughing into the phone. These gringo tourists.

But how could we get these back to Buenos Aires? We needed a plan. Passing a supermarket, I picked up a handful of plastic bags (The cashier was more than happy to give me a bunch. Oh, Uruguay.). With our illegal organic matter thoroughly hidden we gorged ourselves on chivito sandwiches and decided to tell Argentine immigration that the pinecones were gifts from a real live person from Uruguay.

With pinecones double bagged, passports stamped, we rode the ferry back to Argentina. The pinecones slept on our laps like sticky alien babies. But this story doesn't have a happy ending. No.

Back in Argentina, as the pinecones went through the scanner, a large man demanded to know who the "piñas" belonged to. We reluctantly answered. He wrenched them from our hands and hurled them into the trash (the striking smash of a dead dream) and then promptly disregarded us.

Knowing what happens to the trash here (languishing on a corner until the cartoneros come and sort through it) I'm betting that the pinecones are out there somewhere and have become playthings for some cartonero child. Perhaps they are imagined as mutant alien pods. Yes.

El Chivito

2012-01-29T12:45:00.000-06:00

Chivtio is a popular sandwich in Uruguay and you cannot leave the country without eating what is essentially suicide on a bun.

But never fear, you too can make your own!

All you'll need:

one thin slice of steak

one thin slice of ham

bacon

fried eggs

mozzarella

mayo

your choice of toppings: giardiniera, pickles, and the like

and, of course, a bun of your choice, but preferably white (duh!)

possibly ETMs on standby or, at least, 911 on speed dial

Don't worry, I've already started detoxing, well, as soon as I get done with these croissants, empanadas, and coffee.

For Friends Stuck in Winter: Colorful Colonia

2012-01-28T12:32:00.000-06:00

(and for those of you who didn't enjoy that excessive meat post)

Picturesque. Is there a better word for Colonia del Sacremento, Uruguay? With it's cobblestoned streets, fresh air, and beautiful sunlight, I dreamed my way through the old part of the city, imagining living in one of the old colonial houses along the coast, drinking mate in the afternoons, and writing whatever it is that I write. They even have the cutest way of putting out the trash:

Who wouldn't want to live in a place where there is so little trash that you just hang little bags on the side of trees?

And while it's just an incredibly wide river, it does certainly feel coastal with even a hint of salt in the air. There are little beaches and plenty of pebble gathering opportunities (Don't worry, Mom: I found two little pebbles just for you.)

Uruguay! Exotic Uruguay!

2012-01-28T11:50:00.000-06:00

Yesterday my friend Leentje and I went to Uruguay to, ahem, renew our visas (only three months in Argentina, friends). So we took the ferry across the wide and brown Río de la Plata to Colonia del Sacramento.

Upon arriving in Uruguay we immediately noticed that we weren't in Buenos Aires anymore. The terminal in Colonia was clean, modern, and shiny while the terminal in Argentina is located underneath a rather noisy overpass for the freeway in a sketchy area (When I walked there last week to book the tickets, somewhat lost, I found myself on a street next to an abandoned factory where wild dogs humped and young children in the single digits worked on their graffiti skills).

Colonia is a sleepy town on the coast where tourists wander aimlessly and quietly and the locals dream from the porch stoops while drinking mate. This is how you spend the afternoon in Colonia:

Sitting on the stoop with your thermos of hot water--but not too hot--your mate gourd and straw, watching the day go by and smiling at the tourists. With such happy, laid-back locals, many of whom sit in their front rooms with their doors actually open, I began to think that Colonia was paradise. The feral dogs, screaming buses, and never-ending, pounding footsteps of Buenos Aires quickly vanished, replaced with clean sea air and beautiful fresh light.

During our meanderings we spotted a serious amount of Beetles:

Notice the jug of water on the top. That's how you know that this car is for sale! A jug of water on top of a car is the South American way to announce that the car is for sale!

And old cars too:

Now I realize that most people don't go to a World Heritage Site and take pictures of cars, trees, and mutant pinecones (Oh! I didn't even tell you about that yet!), but Colonia has such a Portland vibe that it just makes a person want to meander around, stumbling upon weird little offbeat treats. In my next post I'll have to show some touristy photos and tell the story about the Mutant Pinecones and our ill-fated attempt to smuggle them into Argentina. Nos vemos!

Not for Vegetarians

2012-01-25T10:32:00.000-06:00

Since my father has been all "Where's the beef?" And I was all . . . yeah, you get the picture. So let's get on with an over abundance of gratuitous meat photos from the San Telmo Mercado, which is half a block away from the house.

So, um, does anyone want me pick up some tongue and brains for some light snacking tonight? Ugh.

Feria de San Telmo

2012-01-23T09:00:00.000-06:00

Every Sunday calle Defensa (Defensa Street) is closed and then this happens:

Mate gourds/cups are plentiful at the feria. A tourist cannot leave the country without this typical Argentine tea-like drink and its unique cup and metal straw.

It's is hard to see, but the street is full of people--walking, talking, eating, shopping. If you make it bigger you can see the crowd a little bit better.

After purchasing copies of Calendario 2012 & Recorrido Visual de San Telmo by local artist Michael Jackson, Lauren, Johannes, and I found la casa mínima--the narrowest house in Argentina!

La casa mínima meet la chica mínima (it's the yoga, baby)!

Happy Birthday, David Lynch!

2012-01-20T12:41:00.000-06:00

From a recent article about his obsession with coffee:

Coffee became tied to what I called "The Art Life." I loved to go to diners and drink coffee and try to catch ideas for the work. Coffee has always seemed to facilitate thinking and catching ideas. Not only that, but the flavor of coffee is beyond the beyond good.
Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.

Thanks for the inspiration!

Here's to finger snapping, backwards talking, dancing midgets; plastic-wrapped prom queens; severed ears; and elderly men who use their lawnmowers as their primary means of transportation!

Street People

2012-01-19T19:51:00.000-06:00

Last night I saw a rather soiled version of that grape guy from those Fruit of the Loom commercials. Only, instead of purple balloon-sized grapes surrounding his torso, wadded up garbage bags covered what needed to be covered.

It was quite something.

Lady Gaga would've been inspired.

Unfortunately, street people are all too prevalent here--some scary, some sad, the majority best left alone.

On the way to the closest ATM to the house, I generally see the same two boys and their dogs sleeping on the sidewalk. They are around ten or so and I walk past them in the early afternoon. Next door is a rather nice looking restaurant and the San Telmo Market that is filled with turistas. And here they sleep, cheeks pressed against the bricks. And their dogs too.

It is not uncommon to see people curled up on doorsteps or the entryways of closed stores. It's hard for me to get used to seeing such sites. But I know that it is safest to ignore these poor people (I made a lot of unwanted friends in Chicago because I like to say hi and make eye contact when people greet me. Not such a good idea when the person reeks of garbage and tends to dress in their entire wardrobe all at once).

I've seen a lot of people carrying mattresses around during the day, or propping them up along buildings. In the nighttime you see people sleeping on these dirty mattresses along the streets, next to buildings, in entryways. Usually mounds of garbage tower close by and stray dogs too.

Such is life, I guess. But still hard to see. Harder still, to realize that you casually ignore these people as you rush past on your way to some restaurant or bar. How soon that icy tunnel vision becomes permanent.

Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams"

2012-01-18T12:50:00.001-06:00

Let's go spelunking!

Over the past few days I've met five to six Germans, but one loses track of these things. (Seriously, what is the pull that Argentina has on Germans?) Anyhow, none of these five to six Germans had ever heard of Werner Herzog. It astounds me. It's akin to someone from the US not having heard of Altman--both directors have a such a huge and diverse body work. How could you have never been exposed to it?

The Cave of Forgotten Dreams is a documentary about the Chauvet Cave in Southern France. When the cave was first discovered in 1994 the paintings were suspected as fakes because they looked that fresh. They turned out to be the oldest cave paintings ever discovered, some 35,000 years old. Herzog was given unprecedented access to film the site (it is rightfully closed to the public), creating a film that it is mysterious, beautiful, and captivating.

Generally, I view 3D films as a gimmicky way to hurl crap in your face for a few extra dollars, making you jump just for the sake of it. However, this film uses 3D technology in an entirely organic way that is much more thoughtful and, therefore, powerful. The 3D lives for the caves, highlighting its curves, its stalagmites, its heartbeat. At times the human figures look unreal, as though superimposed in the cave, emphasizing the way in which humans have been removed from this environment for tens of thousands of years. There is a beautiful sequence where the camera slowly pans across the cave walls, revealing its curves, showing how the artists used the shape and turn of the cave walls in their depictions of bison, horses, and lions. This sequence fully captures the caves and 3D technology at the same time. Perhaps there will be a time where 3D films aim for something a bit more than heightened video game thrills.

Parallels are drawn between the paintings and cinema throughout the film. These are the dreams of the artist from over 30,000 years ago just as cinema is a dream. Herzog calls the paintings "proto-cinema," in the way that they convey movement: A bison has eight legs, giving the illusion that it is running. One depicts a horse with an open mouth. And in one exhilarating sequence, Fred Astaire dances with his shadow, leaving the viewer to wonder how the artist viewed her own shadow in the flickering light on those cave walls. This is the talent of Herzog: He makes surprising and sometimes laughable connections that allow you to see elements of life in new ways.

Herzog also creates an environment where people--even scientists--are allowed to be so goofily human. We discover that one scientist was a circus man before he found his field. Another dresses in the way the cave painters would have and plays a flute that would have been used during that time. As he demonstrates the flute he plays a tune that he discovered--"The Star Spangled Banner." It's thrilling to see such staunchly academic people filled with the wonder of life.

Of course, the film also questions our concept of time and mortality. Some of the cave drawings overlap. Carbon dating proves that some drawings are separated by 5,000 years. We now know this fact, but certainly the original artists did not. Herzog states that we are haunted by history in a way that the cave artists never could have been. How will our culture be seen in the future? What stories and dreams will those in the future imagine about us?

There is a bizarre postscript to the film. It's only bizarre because it is real. Don't read ahead if you'd rather not have things spoiled--but it's a documentary about a cave, how could there be spoilers? Just a few miles away from this amazing cave is a nuclear power plant. The water that is used to cool the reactors is fed into a massive greenhouse where the now warm water has created a subtropical climate. Alligators are thriving. Even albino ones. Yes, some alligators have become white albino mutants. Herzog wonders if we are the albino mutants looking back at earlier humans that can only exist in our dreams. These albinos, are they doppelgangers? Do doppelgangers ever meet their other? Can we meet our doppelselves, he muses. It's a wonderfully goofy and thoughtful ending.

Puerto Madero

2012-01-17T07:04:00.001-06:00

San Telmo is a wonderful neighborhood--it's close to downtown, the Casa Rosada, and more bars and steak houses than you could ever want or possibly visit. Just a short walk from San Telmo is Puerto Madero, an old waterfront that has been renovated into an urban, trendy, and pricey neighborhood. The original brick warehouses still line the waterfront, in addition to numerous high rises, condos, and hotels. There's even a Hilton. It's a nice, safe area to go for a walk and it was here that we viewed the fireworks on New Year's Eve.

Given the trendy businesses, condos, and whatnot, Puerto Madero threatens to be mistaken for any other city in the world. Thankfully, there are a few Argentine touches:

This is the Puente de la Mujer (Woman's Bridge). It's a pedestrian bridge and it's even guarded by the Virgin Mary:

Colorful cranes line the waterfront as well. Some are yellow while others are red. And apparently Puerto Madero is the permanent home for these retirees.

My Life in Empanadas

2012-01-15T10:40:00.000-06:00

Complete with really crappy empanada photos! I don't see food photography in my future.

With a bit of help from my friend Juli, I marched to the local panadería and said, "Me gustaría un empanada de cada sabor, pero no atun." This is the danger here, living so close to so many kinds of empanadas. Instead of a fat tire around the middle, I just have one large and ever expanding empanada.

Ugh.

Here are the empanadas that the local bakery offers (except for tuna):

Cebolla y Queso: Onion and cheese.
Verdura: Veggies. Swiss chard, spinach, and onions. (I think) It is surprisingly Swiss chard-y.
Carne: Ground beef.
Pollo: Shredded chicken
Jamón y Queso: Ham and cheese. These were once my favorite but I must have eaten too many. Essentially it's just a slice of ham and cheese rolled up inside.
Humita: Pumpkin and corn. These have turned out to be my favorite. It's mashed pumpkin with kernels of corn. Yum!

Follow the labels in the above photo with a grain of salt. Each empanada is unique in the way that it is shaped and the way that the dough is crimped and folded. I got a bit confused when I tried to differentiate between all of them. Many places offer a helpful empanada key, showing the shapes for each individual one. And now I think that the verdura is actually the caprese: mozz, basil, tomatoes, and olives. It seems that I'm missing more than just the tuna. Hmm. Maybe my español isn't as foolproof as I thought.

One day, while the kitchen door was open, I spied a counter full of circles of dough and little heaps of filling in their centers. So rest assured, these are all handmade by real Argentines. And fresh!

Relief

2012-01-11T09:53:00.000-06:00

It has been so hot here recently--in the 90s and even up to 100--that today is blissful with its overcast and cool 79 degrees. And on those oven-like days, the hot sun feels as though it's going to burn your skin off. I now know what a vampire feels like, and not one of those wussy, sparkly kind either, a real one like Bela Lugosi or Spike.

Every Day, Once a Day, Give Yourself a Present

2012-01-10T10:25:00.000-06:00

With these wise words, I woke up early to treat myself. Last night I finished Chapter Ten (!) and promised myself that today I'd wake up early and go to Havanna. Before I fell asleep I concentrated on this, knowing that I'd have to focus on the goal intently because I don't have an alarm clock. I awoke early and enjoyed morning in the city: pleasant breeze, non-abrasive sunlight, near empty streets, freshly sanitized sidewalks (San Telmo is bit like the French Quarter--the stones need to be bleached and hosed after the previous night's debauchery).

Havanna is a coffee house chain here, but it's not just any chain--it's a place filled with wonder and Willy Wonka-type glee. Because, you see, they serve little bits of granulated happiness:

An alfajor is a cookie sandwich filled with (what else) dulce de leche. And the alfajores of Havanna are wrapped in foil. The foil reads, Alfajor relleno con dulce de leche con cobertura de chocolate. I opened it just like Grandpa Joe said--slowly, a little bit at a time. And I found the golden ticket and it looked like this:

Then I took a bite and it looked like this:

I ordered today's present with espresso and it was served on my own tray with a hard wafer cookie and a shot of water with gas:

All for around 3.72 USD or 16 pesos.

High on sugar and caffeine, I jotted notes in my moleskine for Chapter Eleven, tapping my pencil and jerking my head, I'm sure, after the second espresso--but people do that here, it's a highly caffeinated city.

This post is dedicated to my good friend Mateo--he taught me how to catch ideas in such a Lynchian way in Havannas across the city in 2008. I remember the fist day at the school when we met. On break we went down to the Havanna stand inside Galerías Pacífico to chat. At the time I thought, man, this guy's the real thing: Jazzed about writing, carrying his moleskin like Hemingway. Then, once back in Chicago, he not only helped me buy my first moleskine, but later gave me one that he had personally re-created AND, as always, listening to me and helping me think in a writerly way.

In December Mateo and his wonderful girlfriend Michelle became engaged on Machu Picchu. Congratulations! Here's to a happy and creative future!

An Upset Stomach and Baking Soda

2012-01-08T14:06:00.001-06:00

For the past few days I've had an upset stomach. I've been drinking hot teas with fresh ginger, basil, and mint because, for me, that's easier than running out and buying some, you know, actual medicine. This morning my stomach still hurt so I went online and discovered that a teaspoon of baking soda dissolved in warm water cures an upset stomach.

Baking soda is something I've been meaning to purchase for awhile, but have never spotted it in the store. I like to brush my teeth with it at times and also I've noticed that my one pair of shoes are little smelly (sorry, housemates!).

So I marched to the local supermercado with the Spanish for baking soda--bicarbonato de sodio--written down for when I'm inevitably not understood. The always rude and never helpful cashier was there like she always is and she marched to an aisle and pointed at a bottle of soy sauce. Soy sauce! She grabbed my notebook and started jabbering incomprehensibly, finally asking an innocent bystander. The lady said that I'd have to go to a pharmacy to buy it. Of course!

And the pharmacy was closed! So I went to the San Telmo indoor market and must have looked distraught because my usual vegetable supplier asked what was wrong. He then pointed to a meat and cheese vendor whose stand doubles as a makeshift grocery store. And they had it!

One reason that I may have never found baking soda was because I was looking for one of those little orange boxes. Instead it looks like this:

As I write this my stomach is feeling much better. Thank you baking soda! Thank you meat and cheese and odd groceries vendor! Oh, and for the little bag it was about .46 USD! 50 grams for 2 pesos or .46 US cents. Which, now that I think about it, is a little pricey. One of those orange boxes is around a buck, right? Oh, well. Happy now.

Torta

2012-01-08T11:49:00.000-06:00

Isn't this beautiful? Leentje (who orchestrated our wonderful Christmas Eve menu) brought this to the house on New Year's Eve. She bought it at a local panadería. How could you cut into something that is so breathtaking? But we did:

All those flaky layers and dulce de leche (a carmel-like spread that's super creamy)!

Things Collide

2012-01-06T11:12:00.000-06:00

I've been in love with the latest album by Zola Jesus since September. Conatus is strange and beautiful, mysterious and dark. She's a relatively young, former opera singer from the dark woods of Wisconsin. At times, her lyrics are completely incomprehensible, as if she's formed a new language to express her emotions. I like that. Luckily NPR still streams the entire album here. I listen to it several times a week, if not daily.

Anyhow, you can imagine my glee when--after obsessively google news-ing David Lynch--I discovered that Lynch, or Dave as I like to refer to him, has remixed her song "In Your Nature." I'm still in shock! Lynch has added his own guitars and mood, changing the song completely. You can listen to the track below.

From the PR:

Nika Roza Danilova, admittedly, has never been a huge fan of remixes in general. Although she makes dance-y beats and music, the dozens of remix requests that come in each week — both asking her to lend her own stems or to produce for other bands — have been declined. Both artist and label tend to feel that most remixes frequently fail to improve on the original and since Sacred Bones is not (yet) a full fledged dance 12-inch label, no one in this camp has felt that remixes are an imperative for our roster artists who do not wish to engage in them.

Once in a while though, an opportunity comes along that we simply can not pass up. The chance to work with one of our all time favorite artists, David Lynch, was such an opportunity. And so it is our honor to present the first and only official authorized Zola Jesus remix, "In Your Nature," as heard through the ears of David Lynch. We gave Mr. Lynch a copy of her album Conatus and let him pick which track he wanted to work with. He chose a track that we felt already had single potential, and replaced the tension building string patches with intricately crafted guitar parts, orchestrated and performed by himself and music assistant Dean Hurley. What was once a dance track becomes a lurching, cinematic masterpiece. The beat is slowed to a crawl, drum and synth patches removed entirely, and what is left is something perhaps closer to the nature of Zola Jesus than we ever could have hoped for.

I Got a Haircut

2012-01-04T19:55:00.000-06:00

And of course I picked a place owned by a woman who was at least a hundred years old. She told me sit and wait while she finished up with a client. If the person doing your eyebrows and tint doesn't have eyebrows herself, would you really want her to work on yours? I tried not to watch as Grandma Moses finished up with the elderly lady, covering her head with what looked to be a prop from Lost in Space. I began to look around, did I pick the wrong place? There was a ceiling fan sitting comfortably on an easy chair and a picture of my lucky haircutter person from her Colonial days on the mirror. But she said it would only be 25 pesos (5.81 USD).

When it was my turn Rosa let me pick between number one and number two on the shaver settings. But then she went ahead and did what she wanted to anyway. Like every other Argentine, she refused to speak to me in Español when she found out I spoke English, even though I continued to speak to her in my sadly butchered Spanish. Apparently my Spanish scares the natives into barely fluent English speakers. (And now I know how annoying I was back home when I insisted on giving change back in Spanish to anyone I thought looked Hispanic.) She told me that "the hot is sun today," her painted on lips looking as though they may fall off with each syllable. Her fingers were ice cold on my skin, but I didn't mind, it really was a hot day.

While she lethargically ran the shaver over my scalp, a woman came in asking about the prices of manicures and the like. Rosa fired off the prices like she'd done it one too many times and began to absently dig the shaver into my scalp. The cord smacked me in the face. The woman got her prices and left and Rosa stopped digging to China on my head and returned to her sleepy motions.

She finished and then brushed every available piece of skin on my body--even what had been covered--with a utensil that had the kind of bristles normally reserved for cleaning muddy boots or hooves.

In the end I was very pleased with my buzz cut and told Rosa so in Spanish.

She smiled down at me and said, "A dalmatian, please."

"What?" I asked, finally breaking out the English.

"A dalmatian, please." Rosa batted her remaining eyelashes and smiled.

Since I generally don't travel well with dalmatians, I left her a nice tip and thanked her again. The other client napped beneath the numerous contraptions on top of her head. I waved goodbye.

Out on the street I wondered with horror how many times I'd used the most incredibly wrong word? I could see myself looking a bit too pleased upon putting together a sentence of the "Dick and Jane" variety, only to meet with a furrowed-brow reply that didn't really have anything to do with what I had just said. Here, I thought the Argentines just liked to go off on tangents! No, they just had no clue about what I was blathering on about.

New Year's Eve in Buenos Aires

2012-01-03T05:20:00.000-06:00

White dresses and shoes, fireworks and sparklers, Colombian comfort food and wine. Snow dancing between buildings and blanketing the sidewalks. A Chinese paper lantern--filled with dreams--spontaneously combusting. It's New Year's Eve in Buenos Aires!

On Friday--the last business day of the old year--white tiny papers danced high above, drifting down to the streets like snow. Out of windows high up basketfuls of papers hurled into the sky, endlessly crisscrossing as they cascaded down. It's a tradition to throw out old desk calendars on the last work day before the New Year. White calendar pages blew in the wind and lined the gutters all over the city.

We celebrated New Year's Eve on the terrace with Colombian food. There was a tasty potato salad with many ingredients and pollo relleno--a chicken that seemed to be stuffed with meatloaf and eggs, but I might have that completely wrong.

Before midnight we marched to Puerto Madero to watch the fireworks along the waterfront. There were many people dressed in white which is a New Year's tradition. None of us wore white--nobody told us.

The fireworks were incredible! They were shot off all along the waterfront and from both sides. At times it was like watching a tennis match. We were so close that some shot off directly above us. Fun!

One of our New Year's Eve plans was to have all of the housemates write their hopes and dreams for the coming new year on a paper lantern. We accomplished this in the dark at Puerto Madero, but then discovered that one side of the lantern was completely open. Once home, Lauren did a quick patch job and we all raced to the terrace where we thought our hopes and dreams would fly into the sky like some sort of heavenly beacon for the New Year. Nope. We lit it and it promptly fell to the sidewalk two-stories below where it burst into flames. Children from the neighbor's prosti-tot party ran up to our now fully engulfed hopes/dreams and began to roast marshmallows. No, I lied, but they did get dangerously close. We dutifully watched until our dreams were ashes.

Argentina is a perfect place to nurse a two-day hangover--the bland food settles the stomach as the drunks passed out on stoops remind one never to do this sort of thing again.

Happy New Year! Feliz Año Nuevo!

Can I Vent A Bit? or: The Cheesecake Mystery

2012-01-02T09:46:00.001-06:00

I made another cheesecake using non-imported cream cheese. It's much cheaper and barely needs to be mixed, resulting in a lighter cheesecake that didn't crack. The plan was to share some with the housemates on New Year's Eve and sell the rest at the San Telmo feria (outdoor flea market thing) the following day. Needless to say, I was a bit, ahem, under the weather yesterday (go figure) and didn't make it to the feria. Last night there was a good quarter to a third of the cheesecake left, but since I wasn't eating any solids in the foreseeable future I hardly looked at it.

Today it's gone.

Someone ate all of it during the night, leaving the dirty pan and two spoons in the sink and crumbs on the counter. I'm confident that there was only one culprit and that the two spoons were left to throw us off the trail.

With this cheesecake and the cheesecake before it, I was intending to give some to our wonderful host mom and now BOTH times it has mysteriously vanished overnight. I guess it must be my trusting midwestern nature, but I feel that if there's the last of something that was homemade and you didn't make it, you SAVE it for the person who did. YOU DO NOT EAT IT ALL OF IT WITHOUT ASKING!!

This happened with a box of chocolates that our host mom brought from Patagonia. The chocolates didnt even survive one day in this house. It was a present intended for everyone and not for one individual to inhale while everyone was out, leaving the empty box on the table like nothing had happened.

And culprit: I know who you are. You and your nasty little capers! And your annoyingly squeaky door!

Hmm. Maybe I'll make another cheesecake, only lace it with Exlax and then I'll undertake a stakeout and see who's been using the bathroom a little more than normal.

Okay, vent over. Happy New Year!

Too Much Meat

2011-12-30T20:20:00.002-06:00

Ugh. I'm in pain.

Tonight Lauren, Juliana, and I went to a parilla--a traditional steak house--and, yup, I'm in pain. Even my feet are grimacing. I'm not much of a meat person, but, damn, the steak was amazing. Before we made it to the steak, we started things out with bread and chimichurri, which is a sauce made with garlic, parsley, and olive oil and--yes, Sheila--is the one spicy thing in Argentina. Then we moved on to chorizo sausage and grilled provolone cheese. After that the steak arrived in all of its two-stories-tall glory. Oh, and somewhere in there was a huge plate of french fries and even a pork of some sort, but the food coma is settling in now and I'm not aware of the things I've consumed.

Dios mío.

Thank the cows on the Pampas that the house is only two blocks away after all that, but that's the wonder of San Telmo where insane parillas like Don Ernesto are on every corner like a Starbucks back home.

We went at the relatively early hour of 9 and got to sit wherever we wanted. As we ate and laughed Lauren pointed out a table with many small children. While it is normal to take your children out to eat at 10 or 11 at night here, it's still an odd sight to get used to. (And they were drinking Coke!) By the time we left around 10:30 or so the restaurant was filling up and the children were still eating.

And tomorrow there is the promise of traditional Colombian food to ring in the new year. Woo-hoo!

Spanish Films without Subtitles

2011-12-29T11:23:00.001-06:00

Last night Lauren and I went to the cinema and saw the film La Campana.

I tried really hard to follow the Spanish. I really did. But I only understood a handful of words, particularly when someone asked a two word question very slowly: Que paso? That I got. But not the subsequent answers. So for me the film didn't really make a lot of sense.

There were a lot of solitary and broody fishermen in boats and seaside bars. And one mouthy whore. There was a girl thrown into the mix, but her character stared vacantly into the distance so often that I wondered what she was looking at. Was she psychic? Did she make that guy have a heart attack just by squinting through the window? What was she looking for in the distance anyway? Did she like to find beavers in clouds? Again, not sure.

Campana is Spanish for bell, and today I'm wondering, where was the bell?

The film seems to be influenced in part by one of those drunk fisherman tales--the mysteries of the ocean, its power and unforgiving ways, blah, blah, blah. A whiskey loving fisherman who dreams of Bermuda Triangle themed fancies to break the monotony while playing chess by himself. Yeah, it was that kind of film.

Not comprehending the dialogue--or the story for that matter--I found myself grasping for meaning in the transition between scenes, in the odd object that the camera lingered on for way too long. It didn't exactly help. There were odd closeups of characters inserted seemingly at random in scenes that they had nothing to do with. Or did they? Wait, when she broke the glass and it seemed like such a big deal did that make the boat suddenly start way out in the middle of the ocean? As she gazes out the window (for like the hundredth time) and there was that ten minute pan of Mar de la Plata did that signify something?

Or maybe I'm just over thinking a really crappy film.

Christmas in the Plaza de Mayo

2011-12-28T08:57:00.000-06:00

The tree in front of the Casa Rosada (Presidential Palace)

Manger scene in front of giant Christmas tree

Christmas in Buenos Aires

2011-12-26T11:51:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas!!

Of course the internet has been out since yesterday so this is a day late.

We did all of our celebrating on Christmas Eve as is the custom here. And ate way too much which is the custom everywhere.

A friend of the house from Belgium put together an amazing menu and we did our best to help her put it all together.

We had:

ricotta dip with parsley and roasted bell pepper
baked figs with goat cheese and bacon
crostini with fresh tomatoes and basil
Belgian stew (a mix of dark beer, beef, onions, mustard, bread. Delicious!)
cooked carrots and parsley
au gratin potatoes
cooked cabbage
homemade ice cream with baked apples
coffee and liqueur cheesecake
and champagne!

Champagne on the terrace

Fig wrapped with bacon and stuffed with the most intense goat cheese. Made the Europeans blissful.

Cheesecake! Made without a mixer and sour cream. Turned out well!

Blurry dessert but tasty! Homemade ice cream made with raw eggs. And no one died!

All followed by fireworks at midnight that we watched from the terrace.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

FELIZ NAVIDAD

FELICES FIESTAS

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Navidad Eve '11 (mas)

2011-12-24T22:30:00.001-06:00

Apparently the Argentines like a shit load of fireworks on Christmas Eve. It is now 1:30 AM and the sky is alive with explosives. Kind of like Iraq.

And the fathers have disappeared with their bottles of beer and the mothers have their heels and boobs hanging out, leaving the children to run in the street with fire and things that go BOOM!

It's a different kind of Christmas here.

Navidad Eve '11

2011-12-24T17:55:00.001-06:00

Tango lessons en la cocina.

The Misadventures of a Cheesecake Baker

2011-12-23T19:31:00.000-06:00

For Christmas I elected myself the official cheesecake baker person!

Foolish, foolish me.

Upon finding a springform pan, I ran to the terrace and declared that I would bake a cheesecake for our holiday celebrations. I assumed that of course they'd have all the ingredients in Argentina, why else would there be a springfrom pan if not for cheesecake? Besides if Lauren can take on an entire Thanksgiving meal, why couldn't I bake a cheesecake?

I went with Lauren to a Walmarty, Wholefoodsy kind of place in Palermo where the escalators don't have stairs (seriously, it's like the Jetsons track at the airport, but, you know, only elevated). We found actual Philadelphia cream cheese in eight ounce packages. But they were 20 pesos (Just a bit under 5 USD!!!) each. And I needed three. Ugh.

With expensive imported cream cheese in hand, we searched for graham crackers, but they seem to not exist in Argentina so I had to improvise with little cookie wafers. But that's okay, right? We found something that appeared to be sour cream that declared its tastiness on the side of the package. When I got home and tried it I realized that . . . it was cream cheese. Incredibly inexpensive cream cheese! Damn. I looked in two local supermarkets for sour cream and I was told that it does not exist in South America. Ugh. Foiled again! After some quick googling I found a way to make sour cream substitute or, the site added, to use Casacrem as a substitute. Casacrem is what I bought thinking it was sour cream! So I squeezed a little lemon on it to give it some zing and added it.

Heavy cream is added to the mixture as well as sour cream. After searching in the dictionary I discovered no less than four variations for "heavy cream." A wonderful housemate told me which one was used here. (Crema doble)

The recipe calls for room temperature eggs, which is great because that's how eggs are sold here. This amazed me because back home eggs are treated like a hazardous material. Don't even try to sell these at the farmers' market (at least in IL) without a hazmat suit and decent running shoes. No, here in Buenos Aires eggs are sold on the bottom shelf in the cereal aisle. Interesting, no?

I'm writing this while the cheesecake is in the gas oven and I think it might just take as long as Lauren's turkey. The gas oven is something that I cannot get used to. There isn't a way to know what the temp of the oven is so we're hoping that it's around 300.

A bit later. Shhh! Don't tell the housemates, but I think that I over baked it a tad as there is a huge crack. It should still taste good.

Much later. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and that's when Christmas is celebrated here. I'm not sure what we are supposed to do on the actual day of Christmas. Sleep it off? Anyhow, I'll have to write about all the food we bought and all the food we made earlier today. So much food. But now I sleep.

I Hope This Doesn't Sound Pretentious

2011-12-20T23:05:00.000-06:00

I've had a couple of great days.

Before bed the other night I made a to do list for the following day. They were simple yet important things: BUY BODY SOAP, BUY A CORKSCREW. And then there was FINISH CHAPTER FOUR. Finish Chapter Four! After that was START CHAPTER FIVE.

As the day progressed I made checkmarks here and there and before I knew it, the checkmarks added up to what some might call a feeling of accomplishment.

While I didn't realize everything from my list--still need to start those postcards--I did finish Chapter Four AND today I finished Chapter Five. I even have a good bit of Chapter Six done!

This is a rewrite and in some cases it's a rewrite of a rewrite. Honestly, some of these beginning chapters have been completely rewritten four to five times as the story and the characters evolved and transformed. These characters continue to surprise me.

During the past few days the door has been open to that sometimes hidden room and ideas and sentences keep tumbling out. At times it's hard to turn it off at night as the words, phrases, and sentences still stream through the threshold of that weird and wonderful place.

And I'm excited about Chapter Five--it's been the Chapter I've been looking forward to the most. A character that took over the last draft is introduced in Chapter Five and her energy and lively ways are a joy to experience. I can't wait to see what she does!

Tonight with Chapter Five done and the next chapter looming, I took a walk with my journal and found myself at a pizzeria where I was able to sketch out/dream out what happens next. I new what needed to happen, but not quite how or why or what else these individuals needed to say or do or feel. The pizza with it's insane amount of cheese--I have met my saturated fat content for the month--surely helped me catch those all important ideas. With the pizza gone and notebook at hand I jazzed up my thoughts with a bit of espresso. Once home I got the opening scenes of the chapter done.

I'm just amazed how productive these past few days have been. One of my reasons for coming to Buenos Aires was to write and, I'll admit, a part of me wondered if I actually would or even could. Now I feel like a zombie half the time, lost in my little piney world and bumping into walls. There are preparations that I need to make for the coming month (as in, where am I going to live? where am I going? wait, December is almost over?), but my brain is too focused on these people and their lives. I've even cut down on obsessively googling David Lynch, which I don't think I managed even during finals.

The other day an odd little piece flashed in my brain, and I wondered what it was and where it came from. A few moments passed before I realized that I had written a short story and that what I had seen was an image from the story. It's so strange to me that I more or less dumped out this story into my word processor, saved it, and then subsequently forgot all about it until a few days later. I've never done that before. The mind is strange.

A remarkable woman named Karen once told me about the importance of creating a schedule and mapping out the day. And you know what? It really, really works!

Filming

2011-12-19T20:27:00.000-06:00

You know the wonderful San Telmo Market where I spend all my pesos on avocados and oranges? Today there was a film crew there complete with smoke machines, cables, catering tables, and fancy looking people. I couldn't get to my usual supplier as his stand was obscured by a makeshift wall thing, so I had to go a different way. While I picked through avocados I could hear the film crew shouting in flat North American English, so I'm guessing it wasn't a local Argentine production. The guy that I buy produce from simply said that they were filming a movie. Tomorrow when I go back I'll get the full scoop. Maybe I'll have to take a dictionary.

Miranda July's The Future

2011-12-19T10:17:00.000-06:00

I find it unreasonable that so many discredit Miranda July's films as too cute or too quirky. Is it because of this (which is actually from one of her short stories. Yes, she writes as well. She's that kind of woman):

If you are sad, ask yourself why you are sad. Then pick up the phone and call someone and tell him or her the answer to the question. If you don't know anyone, call the operator and tell him or her. Most people don't know that the operator has to listen, it is a law. Also, the postman is not allowed to go inside your house, but you can talk to him on public property for up to four minutes or until he wants to go, whichever comes first.

--Miranda July,

"The Shared Patio"

Both the above and her films deal with characters that long to express themselves, to make connections, but, generally, find it difficult to do so. In that way her works are truly universal, because who doesn't feel like that? Despite this, it may be the talking cats, quarters tapped against street poles, fathers lighting their hands on fire, or the abundance of the bewildered elderly that turn people off from her films. In a quirky light hearted way she blends the absurd with the mundane and is very much like Lynch in that respect. Maybe her works appeal to me in my love for Twin Peaks and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman.

I saw her new film The Future at the hidden cinema down the street. I think that I may have been the youngest person in attendance (I generally bounce between being the oldest or the youngest. Always). After the film the audience had a debate and I tried my best to follow along to the español. I think they ended up agreeing that the film was an enigma. I think. One woman made a comment about the way in which lights were used in the film and boy did people seem to be impressed by that. It was fun to watch this crowd made up of sixty-something bearded men and women wrapped up in scarves debate Miranda July. They seemed to really care, which was nice.

The Future is very much like her previous film Me and You and Everyone We Know. Yet, it appears to be more focused than the prior film, whittling down its characters and story lines, and leaves the audience in a much darker and questioning territory. And how dark! I was surprised how un-sugary many parts of the film were. In the end I'll have to re-watch to see how it compares with her first film. On this one viewing, I'd have to say that The Future feels even more truthful than Me and You and Everyone We Know and, therefore, is a more mature and superior film.

Lars Von Trier's Melancholia

2011-12-17T11:35:00.000-06:00

The film Melancholia is pretty much the most depressing thing that I've ever seen.

And I like depressing films.

Ugh.

But it was pretty. The images are still living inside my head.

Before I came to Buenos Aires, I signed up for the film club Buenos Aires Mon Amour Cine Club, not knowing that I'd end up living a block away. Almost each day they filled my inbox with a laundry list of exceptional film screenings. But it wasn't until last night that I discovered that the cinema was so close. I never went because I couldn't find where they were located anywhere on their site and it made me a bit hesitant. I like to Google map my ventures thoroughly.

It's not until you reserve a ticket to the screening that they email you the address. Weird, no? Last night I walked the mere block to the location, but there wasn't a sign or any indication that it was a cinema. As I looked at the many varied buzzers, I noticed that one had the cinema club's name on it. A middle-aged man opened the door and ushered me into a long, ill-lit hallway leading to a door where light spilled out. Halfway there the lights went out in the hallway, and I thought, um, do I have my rape whistle? Thankfully I made it to the little office and everything was legit. It's a small theater, and they run films off a DVD, but I actually really liked it. Great sound, great screen, and really uncomfortable seats.

A Picture of Friends

2011-12-15T17:33:00.000-06:00

I've only been gone a month, and already they've resorted to putting bags over their heads. Dios Mío!

Wait, are they robbers or are they just being interrogated? I wasn't aware that Abu Ghraib had such a wide and wonderful assortment of candy.

Sigh. I miss these fun, slightly dangerous times at the Store.

A Smallish Update

2011-12-13T14:56:00.000-06:00

It's not Montezuma's Revenge, thank god, but it seems I have a cold.

Ugh.

It's just uncomfortable enough to suck up all of my attention, leaving little for staring out of cafe windows, fleeing for my life when crossing the street, or eyeing the sidewalk for dog poo. No, I've been holed up in my room dramatically flinging myself on my bed and then onto the chair when the mattress has become tiresome.

Yesterday, with pesos running low, I went to the ATM only to discover that BOTH machines did not have money. Last week there was some big Virgin Mary holiday--aye, these Catholics--and they turned it into an extended vacation. And then la Presidente was re-innagurated. Needless to say, the Argentines ransacked those ATMs leaving nothing for sick gringos. Humph. And what did I do with those few, precious remaining pesos? I promptly ran to the bakery and bought anything that appeared to have a gallon of sugar dumped on it. But, finally, today the ATM had more money and I bought something that looked like a giant empanada that turned out to be a giant empanada. Not sure if that's a good thing or not.

I'm sure my cold is based on the cold front that has settled on the city--it's in the 70s! Brr! Where's my coat?--and not on the returning-at-dawn nightly outings last week. Yup.

As far as in house adventures, one of the housemates is from China and sometimes I find David Cronenberg artifacts lurking in the bathroom. The other night I discovered a bowl of water that had something questionable in it. Nylons? Sausage Castings? Intestines? It appeared to be too organic to be just a half dozen nylons coiled and shining in the light. It was quite unsettling and I subsequently haven't used the bathroom since. If it was food, first of all, why would you even be eating it, and why would you let it marinate directly across from the toilet?

For the past two days there have been what appear to be six capers huddled together on a towel next to the kitchen sink. Why would you save six capers? Who says, you know, I'm kind of full, I better save these on the counter for the next three days? I don't even think any of the housemates eat capers. Maybe they're not capers. Maybe the eggs of some disfigured and equally David Cronenberg-esque (sorry, he's my go to guy for body horror) sea creature?

I'm rambling. Maybe it's time to eat the other half of the giant empanada.

The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer

2011-12-11T11:19:00.001-06:00

It's both wonderful and strange that after more than twenty years The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer has been re-released. Mark Frost and David Lynch, the co-creaters of Twin Peaks, have written new forewords to this edition.

Here's a sample:

The happier ending is Twin Peaks is still out there. Waiting, watchful, alive. Haunted, full of shivers and delights, a candle glimpsed in a log cabin window, while passing through a deep and darkening wood.

Some dreams survive.

Mark Frost

Even though Mark Frost and I started catching ideas in a Los Angeles coffee shop, it was the great mystery of the woods that began to creep in--riding on a kind of dark night wind, bringing everything that was to become Twin Peaks. Mark and I just had to smile and marvel at what was being revealed! We just leaned into the wind and welcomed it all like a deep and thrilling dream.

Laura Palmer was born in this dream, and so was her diary; Jennifer Lynch found The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer in the heart and mind of Laura herself. Thank you to Jennifer Lynch; thanks to all the great Twin Peaks family; and the biggest thanks to Mark Frost!

Let's get some pie and coffee and enjoy reading this secret account of a life--the life of a girl who lived near the dark woods . . . in a town called Twin Peaks.

David Lynch

An Observation on Nachos

2011-12-10T16:57:00.001-06:00

The other night I ate nachos. My friend Lucky had never had them. And you know what? They were the most Argentine nachos. Of course! Not a hint of spice--or flavor, for that matter--just the strong pervasiveness of the yellow plastic cheese-like substance. They were served more like a dip than the multi layered nacho platter. The chips lurked around the pool of yellow as if hesitant to jump in. And who could blame them? Off to the side was a small dish of something red. Oh good! It's going to have a bite, isn't? Wrong. Just intensely bland tomato paste. What am I supposed to do with this?

But I ate it. And suffered. If there ever was a time to buy Metamucil in bulk, now would be that time. Ugh. Upon fixing myself a hot tea of fresh ginger and basil to ease the pain, a housemate eyed the mug. "Huh," she said after I had explained the tea, "I'll have to try that when I'm old." Which, I'll interpret as old as in Old, and not old as in anyone no longer in their twenties and, therefore, who cannot fully appreciate the supposed greatness that is Ke$ha.

Argentina does have some really great food. The ice cream and pizza are phenomenal. It's just that it seems someone forgot to import spices (as in spicy hot) into the country. Maybe I've ate one too many empanadas this week.

Laura, please send your hot mustard. Right now.

I Want to Be in a Band

2011-12-09T12:04:00.001-06:00

A jazz band.

But I don't think I could pull it off.

Last night my friend Lucky and I went to a pub where one of her friends was playing. All we had was a text with the address and instructions to ring the bell. After we'd been in the taxi for a very long time, watching the pesos increase on the meter, and peering between the seats through the windshield at entirely unfamiliar streets, we realized that, yeah, maybe we should have googled this? We did make it. Lucky said that it was the most expensive taxi ride that she'd had since she's been here. But it was worth the trip!

It seems that every bar in Buenos Aires is either up or down a flight of stairs and this one was no exception. The pub was small--looking suspiciously like a former apartment--and the "stage" was essentially in the corner of the living room. We managed to get a table right in the middle between the band and the bar. Very nice. The first band consisted of six: Cello, two saxophones, guitar, drums, and keyboard. Not really into jazz, I wasn't sure what to expect, but the band was great! The lead guitarist was this funny little man who--I think--sang the notes as he played. He played with his eyes and mouth, raising his eyebrows to the top of his head and scrunching his lips out. We quickly coined this look "Jazz Face." He jerked up and down as if he was on a trampoline. His performance was a joy to watch as he was having such a fantastic time. At one point Lucky said that he looked like a cartoon character. Which he did, but in a really energetic and fun way.

I envy people that can sing and play instruments. And then perform in front of people. It is a gift.

The interactions between the bandmates also made the performance special. They'd smile and eye each other. They laughed at one another and egged the other person on. Or they'd step back so that the someone could have more attention. I also enjoyed seeing the way a performer reacted after doing an intense and satisfying solo: they'd step back a bit, close their eyes, smile, and still be with the music, the moment, but also with themselves, relishing their contribution and the sounds.

Afterwards I spoke with Lucky's friend Jonathan. He said that he and the other musicians don't really talk that much. They talk while they perform, communicating through the music and that is all they need. Isn't that amazing? When he was at the keys Jonathan had Jazz Face, but mostly he had Jazz Elbows. Fun to watch.

Oh, and one of Jonathan's friends is a guy from France who has been traveling around South America for five months in a red Beetle. I think he started in Mexico, but I was probably talking about Jazz Hands or something, so I missed that part. This is his last month and he's looking to sell it, should anyone be interested!

The pub closed around 4 AM. I think. We waited on the sidewalk for the bus and watched a rat zigzag between holes in the curb. By the time we got home it was dawn. Which was a surprise, because it didn't feel like it should be. Dawn always sneaks up on you here in Buenos Aires.

La Richmond

2011-12-07T18:05:00.001-06:00

Remember back in August when I posted this about the legendary cafe La Richmond in Buenos Aires? Of course you do! The cafe was closed in August and was supposed to become a Nike shop. Hmmm. This is what it looked like today:

Yes, the windows have been whitewashed and graffitied. Even the gold pillars. And no Nikes! The Guardian wrote back in August:

The plight of the Richmond has dominated local media since the cafe's insides were gutted last Monday morning. Apparently to ensure it could not be returned to its former splendour even if the local government rules against the Nike shop, the Richmond was emptied of its historical interior, right down to its grandiosely comfortable Chesterfield wingback leather armchairs, in a 3am raid. The movers took the precaution of pulling down the security camera on the front of the building first.

I tried to peer in, but it's rather difficult because there is another set of windows and doors on the inside that have also been whitewashed. I need a ladder.

Last Friday I had a wonderful lunch with two great people from the Fundación Ortega y Gasset--my old school--and they told me that the employees of the Richmond still have not been paid. Some are even owed multiple months worth of pay. A place where Borges and Graham Greene frequented, where in the '20s and '30s a group of artists known as the "Florida Group" met, where in '08 Mateo, Ross, and I spent a long afternoon--it's all history and graffiti now.

The Richmond is on Calle Florida, which is a pedestrian walkway that I endured every morning in order to get to classes in '08. It's hard to imagine doing this daily. Simply: It's chaos. This is consumerism at its worst. There are so many people that it's almost impossible to take a few steps; one needs to sidestep as fast as Fred and Ginger. And I'm not that coordinated. Then there is the army of people that shove flyers at you on everything from restaurants to tours. I tried to be polite and say no thanks, but by the end of the first block I just acted like they didn't exist. And, of course, there are the manteros who slap down blankets in the center of Calle Florida to sell their wares. With their blankets of crap in the center, it's hard to cross the street. There is a war between the shop owners on Calle Florida and the manteros because the legal owners pay taxes while the blanket vendors do not, yet get (and takeaway) a lot of business.

So, what have we learned from this post? The Richmond is still closed (and vandalized) and stay away from Calle Florida if you want to keep your sanity.

My New Home in San Telmo

2011-12-06T12:44:00.001-06:00

On Friday I moved into a new place! My new home is in San Telmo, a neighborhood with cobbled streets, narrow sidewalks, and unique, colonial-style buildings. It is a beautiful part of the city with many restaurants, bars, and cafes. On Sundays there is a feria--an outdoor flea market--that attracts a huge amount of vendors and shoppers. The outdoor market is held in Plaza Dorrego but they also shut down certain blocks where both antiques and tango dancers spill onto the streets equally. There are paintings by local artists, handmade jewelry, antiques, vintage clothing, and a rather huge assortment of antique seltzer bottles:

I'm trying to figure out a way to get all of these home without smashing them. Please send bubble wrap.

Just down at the end of the block from my house is the famous Mercado San Telmo. It's an indoor farmers' market/flea market. You can see it from our terrace (it's the large building at the end of the block with the green AND Yay! We have a terrace).

Inside are beautiful produce stands and an endless number of vendors. I get lost in this market almost on a daily basis, staring at all the old books, records, antiques, clothes, plants, cheeses, meats, and unsettling amounts of Nazis literature. It is simply beautiful inside:

I've been living off of avocados, red bell peppers, bananas, oranges, ginger, basil, arugula, and lettuce. I shouldn't go there, actually, it all looks so wonderful that I buy it regardless if I need it!

All of this is due to my dear friend Lauren (and to Sheila for putting us into contact). As soon as a room became available in the house she told me. My new host mom is so, so wonderful. And all of my housemates are nice as well. It's an eclectic mix from all over the globe: France, Colombia, China, South Africa, and the US. This is where I celebrated Thanksgiving. Lauren was brave enough (read: crazy enough) to take on this insanely iconic meal and amazingly pulled it off. She has a highly enjoyable narrative about her sometimes Lucy-esque adventure over at her blog here.

So, I love San Telmo! It's much livelier, safer, cleaner, and prettier than the previous neighborhood. It is super close to the Casa Rosada, Microcentro, and Puerto Madero. My original host mom is such a sweet person, so patient and friendly, but I was ready for a new neighborhood (how many times can you step in dog poop or get run over by the wagons of trash pickers?). I left on good terms though, and Original Host Mom would love to have me back. She was, after all, my contact here and I will always appreciate that.

Hola from my new casa

2011-12-05T10:01:00.001-06:00

Just a quick hello from my new house. Yes, I moved and I'll have to tell you all about my new house, friends, and neighborhood, but right now I'm busy: I'm writing! I'm working on my decades-in-the-making story, drinking coffee in those oversized teabags (café en saquitos), eating port salut and red onion sandwiches, and thinking. The view out my window is sunny, but looks out onto beige walls, a rusted ladder, and some apparatus called "Bluesky" that is also painted beige. If I angle my head just right I can see the sky and some electrical wires. At times children and parents scream from some unknown location close by (including last night around 1 pm). And dogs howl and cry. Then there are the buses that rampage through the streets at all hours. When they brake it sounds like an aged dinosaur being slowly tortured at a place like Abu Ghraib.

But this all okay! Let's me live inside my head even more; overly caffeinated fingers smacking at the keys.

Wish me luck!

Teatro Colón

2011-12-03T09:29:00.001-06:00

Feeling rather touristy, I attended a tour at the Teatro Colón the other day. When I was here in 2008 the theatre was closed due to a $100 million renovation that ended up taking three years. As our group entered the ornate entrance hall there were several gasps, so I think that the renovation was a success. Lots of marble, gold, and fancy things attached to walls. Wikipedia has some decent pictures so maybe you should go there to get an idea.

The Colón seats over 2,000 people and there's also room for 1,000 more if standing. The acoustics are so good that Pavarotti claimed there was only one thing wrong with the theatre: It was too perfect and, therefore, he had to be perfect as well.

There was ballet practice on the stage when we went into the theatre itself, so the lights were off. Due to this everyone got a full refund of 60 pesos (around 13 USD). Score! I actually liked seeing the darkened theatre, it was more mysterious that way. It really is massive. We watched the ballet dancers on the stage--some practicing, others loitering. Behind them, a foggy projection of blurred images on a loop. Thousands of empty seats faced the dancers. I wonder what that was like? Would you crave for an audience? Would all those vacancies staring back at you create some anxiety? Or would you be solely concentrating on your own body and its movements?

Day of Green, Night of Garbage

2011-12-02T16:23:00.000-06:00

For those of you who have grown up with subways and the like, it is most likely hard to understand the little thrill of taking the subway to a new neighborhood, ascending the stairs out of that labyrinthian and noisy world, seeing bits and pieces of clouds, trees, and buildings (and, if your lucky, hearing great street musicians), until, finally, you're above ground and this new world is all for you.

Yesterday I was craving open spaces and real, live vegetation so I took the Subte to the Japanese Gardens and the Jardín Botánico Carlos Thays. Both are in the neighborhood of Palermo, which is much cleaner and quieter than what I know. Palermo has a huge amount of parks and monuments. The zoo is here as well, just across the street from the botanical garden. This green space was just what I needed with it's huge trees, flowers, and elaborate cacti:

Yerba mate is like green tea but is consumed in a unique way. I should really explain it at some point. I've always wondered what the plant itself looked like and I finally found it:

At the Jardín Japonés I found sushi! Sushi is as far as you can get from empanadas so it made the trip so worth it. Empanadas are wonderful, but I've been craving something with . . . flavor. The wasabi and ginger were perfect. The garden itself is, of course, beautiful. Meandering around the streams, rocks, and bridges, I spotted many, many cats. Both here and at the Carlos Thays Botanical Garden the cats slept in the sun or meandered, ignoring the tourists.

After all of that walking, I stayed in last night and even ordered pizza. I helped my host mom take out the garbage. She'd been cleaning out a few things so we had an odd assortment: a couple of regular trash bags and thick cardboard from a broken down box. We put it out on the curb and it took no less than 10 minutes for the cardboard to disappear and the bags to be emptied out across the sidewalk. She must have had no use for a black wig for that was left on the sidewalk after the bags had been emptied. Later I noticed that only pieces of the wig were left. Then later they were gone as well. As I waited for the pizza next door, the garbage truck screeched to a quick stop out front and a man, as though in a race, threw bags and large debris at the truck, but not necessarily in the truck. Obviously a lot of garbage was still all over the sidewalk--and now street--after the truck raced away. So it goes.

Donde está el gato?

2011-12-01T20:33:00.001-06:00

No está en Japón, pero...

Jacaranda Trees

2011-11-30T17:57:00.000-06:00

These wonderful trees are all over the city, lining streets, dotting sidewalks, and towering over many parks and plazas. Walking through Plaza de San Martín, the ground blanketed in purple, as though the earth is made of crepe paper, is dreamlike. Stand beneath the branches, watch the petals drift down purple, and breathe in the sweet (almost) lilac fragrance. I could write a haiku about this tree.

Yet, sadly, the jacaranda are slowly losing their blooms, however I still encounter a few:

For Michaela: Una Panadería

2011-11-29T13:27:00.001-06:00

This is the wonderful little panadería close to where I live (where the bakery ladies laugh at me as we converse in español).

I purchased two large empanadas, one churro, and one other little tasty square all for around 2.33 USD!!! Isn't that ridiculous? The empanadas made for a filling lunch and the desserts topped it off nicely. One bakery lady wanted to know if there were bakeries in my country. She looked disappointed when I said that there were, so I quickly added that they weren't like this!

All the desserts here are super sweet. Remember how big those sugar packets were? Argentines love sugar!

Oh, and I want to mention something about the milk here. Both milk and yogurt are sold in bags. Let me show you:

The yogurt is more pourable than spoonable. So far I haven't been able to find any greek yogurt. I'm not a big cereal person, but I add it to my yogurt just to thicken it a little.

For One Week I Had a Babysitter

2011-11-28T11:46:00.001-06:00

Sheila! I told you not to ask!

Yes, this past week I had a babysitter. Last Saturday my Host Mom left for Brazil. For the past week the cleaning lady has been staying here and, um, essentially she's been babysitting me. (As I explained to Lauren, Argentine rule of thumb: Never leave los gringos alone in the casa!) So we watch iCarly, Los Simpsons, Drake and Josh, and any other programing intended for the less mature set that she thinks I might enjoy. We drink sugary citrus flavored water and talk about the heat and Bart Simpson. When I leave the house, she always asks me if I have the keys. I must look like someone who would always forget them (I wouldn't get far. In fact I wouldn't be able to leave because I need a combination of three keys to unlock two doors in order to get outside!). She gives me certain looks that are normally reserved for five year olds. Humph. She questions everything I do. Like: Do you have the fan on in your room? You bought coffee to go? You took a walk? You're going to eat that? You're going to walk there? You eat cereal? You don't put a pound of sugar in your coffee?

One night she got home from cleaning all day and before she did anything she insisted on making my bed. I have no idea why. I had made my bed but, apparently, she could sense from the kitchen that it just wouldn't do. So she marched down the hallway, into my room, and made my bed. Um, okay.

Now Host Mom has returned and my babysitter is gone. I'll have to watch iCarly all by myself. And it's dubbed! Dubbed!

Little Triumphs and Minor Observations

2011-11-27T17:12:00.000-06:00

Fanny packs are still popular here.

Sweaters are draped across a person's back with the sleeves hanging down the front. Something that I haven't seen outside of a John Hughes film.

Twilight is--unfortunately and unsurprisingly--extremely popular here. I made the mistake of going to the cinema on Friday night where people were corralled into separate lines: one for those seeking glittery vampires and another for everyone else. The series is referred to as Amanecer, which means dawn. The word for twilight is "crepúsculo." Despite the city literally being covered in Amanecer all of the cashiers wore t shirts with US/English logo of Twilight.

Maybe just maybe my Spanish is getting better? Today I was able to convey so much to the amused ladies at the bakery. I explained to them that the supermarket was closed and then questioned if there was another close by. They gave me directions and--you know what?--I actually found the store! Score! I then returned to the bakery and bought an empanada de caprese and a huge slice of budin de pan (bread pudding). The ladies talked to me a bit more and it was fun.

The store is referred to as "la tienda de Chinos." Essentially, that store run by Chinese. However, here in Argentina anyone that is Asian is called "chino" regardless if they are from China or not.

At the store I purchased coffee, but not just any coffee: coffee in a bag (like a teabag). Isn't that odd? My babysitter (don't ask) has repeatedly encouraged me to buy coffee in this way. It's kind of not really anything like coffee, but it kind of is. And I kind of like it. I think.

Oh, and I swear that I saw Kurt Vonnegut standing across the street the other day. He was dressed in a suit and hailed a taxi. See, Vonnegut didn't pass away, he's in South America! I knew it was him by the hair.

So, yeah, big day, huh? Asked directions and bought food. Huge life accomplishments.

Redington 2

2011-11-24T21:01:00.000-06:00

Continuing from this earlier post.

She'd seen the Man with the 'possum like grin before, but memory--her memory--was like a grainy, static-y television in the days before satellite and high def when images bled into one another or faded out entirely. She preferred the grain and the static to the gloss and the sheen. But where had she seen him before?

Weeks ago she'd found herself in an old rural train station doubling as a sort-of cafe that specialized in ill-conceived make-dos involving gourds and white bread sandwiches. It was a place for the lost and the had been lost. Is that when it had all started?

Or was it the tunnel?

The proprietor ushered her across scratched floorboards to a chair near the wood stove. He told her that it was raining. Was it? She glanced back through the cracked front window to find that it was. When she turned back, he had settled into a rocking chair next to the fire. But wasn't he going to make her a sandwich? He rocked some, making a terrible racket--the chair cracked like old bones--then he stopped and cocked his head. Something hard made contact with the wooden porch out front. "Just the walnuts," he answered. He got up and turned on an old radio. The fiddle music sounded homemade and the warbling made her head hurt in an entirely new way.

He started the rocker back up and gazed at her passively. He told her about the area, how people from bigger towns scoff at a little place like this, but, really, they wouldn't know, would they? Once they had a 'coon feed, or was it a beaver feed, he couldn't quite remember, just that whatever it was it tasted like a lot of meat and bread. It sounded disgusting but her stomach grumbled nonetheless. He cut her off before she could remind him about the sandwich. "The wood stove was here," he said pointing to a darkened spot on the floorboards to his right, "and I moved it here," a space only two feet away.

He looked pleased with himself so she complimented him. Smiling, he continued to rock back and forth, absently rubbing the denim on his upper legs. Taking advantage of his silence, she began to tell him what brought her here--her thoughts and memory finally forming straight lines rather than flickers and scratches. The more she talked the more her memory opened up for her, and she was just about to get to something important when the man shot up from the chair and ran outside, leaving the front door gaping open. She was surprised that his slow ways masked such speed.

Sitting at the table, staring after the man running up the gravel road, the images and connections that had seemed so real now began to fade into confusion, into flickering nothing. Her phone rang. She'd forgotten all about it, its ringer sounded foreign and displaced in a station filled with dusty banjos and arrowheads. Sam's voice sounded garbled, but she related her newly remembered history anyway. Then she added, "Sam, I'm lost. I can't find my way."

Silence. She looked at the phone. "What's that? You're breaking up. I can't hear you."

She pleaded again for direction, for guidance but the call was lost. The man couldn't be seen from the window, so she gathered up her things to leave. But when she tried to walk through the open doorway she discovered that she couldn't. She could reach through and feel the damp, cold air outside, but her feet wouldn't move--couldn't move.

The fiddle music droned on endlessly as if in a loop. Now the phone's signal was gone. The front door began to close, revealing the command "Close Door" written in marker on its glass. How'd she get here, she thought? All her life she'd looked through doorways but never passed through them. As if she had been given the command "Close Door" and--unlike the majority of time--she had followed orders. "Close door," she said. "Close door. Close door."

Well, It's Not Turkey But...

2011-11-24T11:43:00.001-06:00

Hola! Como estás? Todo bien?

Happy Thanksgiving!

So, yes it's not turkey but does this compare in terms of gluttony?

This is café con leche competo at London City Confitería. Amazing! Notice the knife. It's wrapped in thin napkin. Why? I don't know, but sometimes it's difficult to unwrap.

London City is a block from the Plaza de Mayo which is a huge tourist attraction with the Casa Rosada (presidential palace), city hall, cathedrals, and the city hall from colonial times. But I don't have a picture of any of that.

This is looking down Diagonal Roque Sáenz Peña with the Obelisco in the distance and the Plaza directly behind me. If you make it bigger you can see the jacaranda trees, but the light is not very good.

Argentines love a good march/parade. While I had my coffee, a huge march shut down Av. de Mayo directly outside London City. It went on for more than an hour. Labor unions, universities, immigrant groups all marched together. Fireworks shot up into the air. They marched to the Plaza de Mayo and then a little bit later they marched back down the avenue. It was much more mellow on the return.

From the cafe window:

The surreal part was that I could either watch all of this from the window or I could watch the live news converge on TV. I alternated between both, trying to figure out which was more real.

I think I need more coffee.

Blue Velvet at Former Torture Site

2011-11-22T11:48:00.000-06:00

Admittedly, not everyone's idea of a fun night-out-about-town, but it works for me.

On my first full day in Buenos Aires, my gift to myself was a free screening of Blue Velvet at the Espacio Cultural Nuestros Hijos (ECUNHI). While many would take in a tango show or visit the Casa Rosada, I, on the other hand, would prefer to see a film that I've not only seen countless times, but that I also own. Why? Ask David Lynch.

A note on the site: It is a former naval academy (Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada: ESMA). The huge complex--several blocks wide made up of many buildings in the northern part of the city--was used as a clandestine detention and torture center during the Dirty War. It is believed that at least five thousand of the Disappeared were imprisoned and/or exterminated here. The academy is in the city, which is astounding that such atrocities occurred at a location that is so visible. There was also a maternity ward for prisoners as well as ample office space for those in power. Now, the entire complex is a Museum of Memory so that the events that occurred here will never be forgotten. The organization of the Las Madres (Mothers of the Disappeared) has turned one building into a cultural space where every month a director is featured. This month's auteur is David Lynch.

I took a taxi and ended up being twenty minutes late. Immediately I was struck by the solitude of the grounds--just beyond the tall, imposing fence was the chaos of the city, but once inside it seemed somehow distant and quiet. Huge trees lined the narrow lane between buildings. It wasn't dark yet, but it wasn't light either, and in the half-light I followed the street, not sure where exactly I needed to go, but not really caring. The buildings appeared to be empty, and my mind quickly filled the darkened structures with a vague idea of what could have transpired within their walls. Somehow I managed to find the cultural center. It seemed to be a building without people, but filled with an assortment of activity. With no one at the front desk, I meandered through an art space with paintings and collages, into a rock concert with very few in attendance, and, with really no where else to go, into the heart of the building itself. White walls lined the long hallway just like most institutional-like places. Many of the rooms had meetings going on inside, but no film. Where was the cinema? Photos of Las Madres were on the walls and photos of the Disappeared hung from the ceiling. As I neared the end of the hall, I heard music--the music that swells when Sandy emerges out of the darkness, introducing herself to Jeffrey, and to us. I had finally found Blue Velvet.

It's not a film for most people, I'm well aware of that, but it is an important film nonetheless in the way in which it explores what's beneath the surface of things, the evil that hides there, how it corrupts the innocent. When I first read about the Museum of Memory and the cultural center of Las Madres, the idea seemed a bit gruesome. Why would you want to go there, I thought. Why would you want to turn a place like that into a concert venue, art gallery, cafe, and cinema? And it's probably the same question that many people ask about a film like Blue Velvet, which has scenes that so unflinchingly show evil they're hard to watch. Why would you want to watch that? But I don't think that we can insulate ourselves from what is nasty in the world. We need places like ESMA and films like Blue Velvet to remind us of evil, so that we are not lulled into an almost drug induced complacency where we see no evil, hear no evil, etc.

There's a scene in the film where the once innocent Jeffrey turns to the still innocent Sandy and questions her why are there people like Frank (essentially, the personification of evil). Sandy doesn't so much as answer but rather explains a dream that she had about how the world was dark because all the robins had left. And then, suddenly, the robins returned and brought with them a blinding light of love.

It's a little hokey, and as the organ music intensifies--they're conveniently parked outside a church--the viewer doesn't know if it's supposed to be funny or sincere. In the end it doesn't really matter; it answers Jeffrey's question about our troubled world in an intuitive way: To get through the darkness one needs to recognize it, keep your ideals, and stay hopeful for the future (and robins). And isn't' that what life is? A mixture of horror, hokey sentimentality, and hope? Sometimes all within the same moment. And this former torture site now reflects that as well--it simultaneously reminds us of the power of evil, of repression and gives us hope in its art galleries, concerts, and films. It is a space where people were illegally imprisoned for their beliefs (or suspected beliefs), but now it's a community center in which people can express themselves freely and also honor the past.

Gas Station Espresso or The View from the Cafe Window

2011-11-21T11:29:00.001-06:00

After a few days of eating out, I felt that I should scale back on the addicting confiterías and get some more groceries. Because, you see, although moderately priced, these cafe bills are adding up! Besides this blog was threatening to become "The View from the Cafe Window."

First I saw Jesus from the caffeinated comfort of a cafe window, then last night a person was mugged across the street from the restaurant where I had a wonderful veggie pizza thing. I should have timed it; the police kept the robber face down on the sidewalk for the longest time with his hands cuffed behind his back. And we all know how gross these sidewalks are here! Finally, after I had enjoyed a couple of cafés con leche, they allowed the man to sit up in a sort of reclining Buddha position. It had to have been an hour later when they finally pushed him into the police car.

On Friday I watched from yet another cafe window as a younger woman sorted through a massive pile of trash. She had the diligence of an expert as she separated plastic, cardboard, and wood into different canvas bins. Others--all in their twenties as well--brought her a continuous supply of rubble. They're well equipped with bins on wheels and so forth; it's a real professional operation.

After I dropped off my laundry (where they wash and fold for only around 5 USD!) I bought an empanada de chicken and an alfajor from a little bakery. I found a new supermercado where I bought bananas, lettuce, and Swiss chard all for around 2 USD. It was a crazy amount of Swiss chard and the lady kept questioning if I really wanted all of it. I haven't had a green smoothie for a week, so this will all get used!

Next I picked up a cappuccino at a gas station. They have a huge espresso machine behind the counter and the clerk, in addition to ringing up gas purchases, makes a surprisingly mean barista. And, of course, my drink was accompanied by four massive packets of sugar. No wonder Host Mom has high blood sugar. This gas station is like any other in the States--the usual assortment of sugary food-like substances and coolers devoted to liquids of varying colors.

While there may be robbers and trash sorters, dog poop and crumbling sidewalks; the-almost-excellent gas station espresso, empanadas, and super cheap produce more than make up for it. Ahh, Argentina.

This is an empanada and an alfajor (type of cookie with tons of dulce de leche--caramel):

Lauren, Jesus, & Sugar

2011-11-20T09:10:00.000-06:00

Today I finally met the famous Lauren! Thanks to a mutual (and wonderful, wonderful, wonderful) friend named Sheila, we've been in contact since August and she has been an amazing resource, sending me links, hints, advice, and just plain friendly vibes. Over a late lunch (early dinner?) we traded stories and mucho laughter. It was inspiring. She even escorted me to the ATM where, along the way, we ran into two mini parades/marches with much drumming and flag waving. How exciting!

Was it the café con leche or your buena onda that turned me into such a chatty Cathy? Maybe I gave host mom's family a run for their money? Probably not. Regardless, thank you so much for all the emails and for a fun lunch and the mini tour of the barrio. !Qué buenaventura!

Afterwards I walked to the Plaza de Mayo where yet another mini parade was finishing up. Then I stumbled upon an Italian festival with live music, food stands, Italian crafts, and a life-sized wooden Jesus nailed to a cross. I took a seat in one of my favorite places, London City, ordered café con leche completo and then watched from the window as people caressed Jesus, took pictures, and even posed with the crucifixion scene (I mean, as you huddle the family together to pose with Christ on the cross, do you smile?). Quite something, really, to see someone reverently caress the face of Jesus, make the sign of the cross, and then promptly snap a pic. How the devout have evolved in this digital age.

Soon the waiter brought my order on a silver platter (literally, I'm not kidding) and I marveled at it all: café, a stainless steel pitcher with steamed milk, four huge sugar packets, orange juice, a pitcher of water, three croissants, dulce de leche (caramel-like spread), orange marmalade, and butter. Can you believe all that? And for less than 7 USD??? After I delicately spread dulce de leche on a croissant I discovered that Jesus was gone, ushered off to some holy corner, I'm sure. After Jesus disappeared it started to rain and then the waiter told me that London City was closing. Oh, so that's why they had started locking doors and putting tables in front of them? I thought it was some strange Argentine custom.

And just so we're clear, look at one of these sugar packets compared to a cell phone:

That is one big diabetes inducing packet of sugar, chicos. 6.25 grams! And they give you four!!

An Argentine Meal

2011-11-19T08:17:00.001-06:00

I left them around 2am. By then they had hauled out old clothes and had started to try them on, laughing, talking, and shouting all the while.

I had been invited to have dinner with my host mom and her family. We sat down to eat around 10pm in the formal dining room. Host mom's little granddaughter had been running around playing with new toys, but she joined us as well. Let's see, about the table were: Host mom, her cousin, a son and his wife, and another daughter in law. We had malbec wine, both grapefruit and apple juice, cold potato and beet salad, a type of cole slaw, arugula salad, crusty bread, asparagus, and oven baked chicken. In a land of beef, a surprising amount of veggies, no? (Where's the beef, anyhow?) It was all very good. The chicken was dusted with oregano, a popular spice here. After midnight coffee was served.

Over dinner I may as well have been at a tennis match as my head swiveled side to side, attempting to follow the conversation, which was difficult because generally there were three conversations going at once. They shouted over one another in a friendly way, using wide hand gestures and expressions. They talk with their whole body. I think they discussed McDonald's for at least an hour--which they pronounce as MacDondald's (emphasis on the "Mac"). Talk, talk, talk--debating the meat, French fries, coffee, and even the cleanliness of the bathrooms. I've never heard so much talk about so little.

All in all, it was a wonderful meal that left me exhausted afterwards. They were still going when I was in bed after 2. (It was my mistake to wake up so early yesterday morning (around 8 or so) and trek down to the Congreso. Should have slept all day to prepare for all this!)

I think they felt sorry for me, asking how I was and making little jokes. I told them that I needed subtitles, but I'm not so sure if I'd be able to keep up even then!

Congreso and Jacaranda Trees

2011-11-18T09:22:00.001-06:00

Jacaranda trees line many streets and plazas here in Buenos Aires. The blooms fall from the trees freely and dot the sidewalks with their delicate purples and blues. I wanted to scoop them up, but then thought better of it.

Yes, that is The Thinker by Rodin.

El Congreso is just a short walk from my host mom's.

First and Second Day Misadventures

2011-11-17T13:19:00.001-06:00

Hola! Host mom's internet is nonexistent, so I'm back at La Continental having medialunas (croissants) with dulce de leche and cafe con leche and using their wonderful wifi. My nose was dry from the flight--I have dry nose issues which causes bleeding, and, after many nose cauterizations, is mostly fixed--so I searched all over for ointment or saline moisturizing spray. Last night I went to a pharmacy and declared, "Mi nariz sacar!" Which would be fine if I wanted to remove or take out my nose. No wonder the pharmacist gave such odd looks to me. I should have used seco (dry) or sequedad (dryness). In my defense, "sacar sangre" means to bleed, so that is why I was confused. Yeah, right. Needless, to say I did not fix my nose problems, and, thankfully, did not have it removed. (It's a little plus-sized, but I'm a bit partial to it.)

The next issue was an adaptor for the outlet in my host mom's house. They have odd shaped outlets here and in order to charge the laptop and whatnot I need an adaptor. Well, I walked everywhere looking for one of these things, pointing in my little notebook at the words (complete with drawings) and trying my best to speak Spanish. No one had one. They all gave me directions with extremely helpful hand gestures, but I couldn't find the place. In the meantime I was reacquainted with the wonderfully dangerous sidewalks of Buenos Aires.

Navigating the streets/sidewalks is an extreme sport in itself. In addition to high stakes Frogger-like crossings of streets, there are broken tiles and whole sections of sidewalk gone and sometimes replaced with a wooden pallet or cardboard or the occasional unconscious person. There's also the air-conditioning units that drip continuously from above, which is better than stepping in dog poop. At least I hope that's what is dripping down onto the sidewalk from above. And then there are the homeless people sleeping on the sidewalk against buildings. Last night when I first encountered this on a darkened street I jumped and then promptly ignored it. Next to a hip hotel/spa with its oh-so trendy mood lighting was a huge pile of filth. It grew up from the sidewalk in layers against the building. Perched on top of the heap was a can of pork and beans with its lid raggedly and still attached. Oh my.

But I did find the adaptor. Somehow after many hours I made it to the electricity store where three separate shopkeepers had instructed me to go. Their instructions had finally settled in apparently.

Oh, and everyone was out on the streets selling, selling, selling: sandwiches, huge amounts of socks (really, every seller pushes the socks), books, pens, bread, bras, shoes, toys, underwear, etc. They crowd the sidewalks and it makes it hard to get past with all the people.

So loud. So crazy. So lively.

Estoy Aquí (2011 edition)

2011-11-16T12:17:00.001-06:00

Here I am in Buenos Aires! I'm at a cafe eating empanadas and using the internet because my host mom's is extremely slow. But this works. It's hot--I think around 89 or so. Lot's of people, lot's of traffic. The flight was ten hours from DC to Buenos Aires, and I still feel it in all of its cramped glory.

The restaurant is called La Continental and it's where Ross and I ate on our first day here way back in '08. So it's kind of weird to be back and not have the safety net of Mateo, Ross, or Rodrigo (or anyone else from the school). But my host mom is great and I think I may even understand some of the words she says to me. I think.

So I sit here drinking Coke out of a glass bottle (I thought I was ordering carbonated water: gaseosa is pop to us gringos, not carbonated water--that'd be agua con gas. Ugh, I have a lot of remembering to do.).

From Fondue to Jug's to Cannova's to Chicago

2011-11-14T16:07:00.000-06:00

This week has been tricky--much like making fondue--mixing just the right amount of ingredients, stirring constantly, adding a bit more wine, until the end result is a wonderful mixture of warmth, sweetness, and lively fun.

It was a week of goodbyes, food, hello-agains, more food, beer, wine, and more food. Oh, and a wedding. Simply: it was a hell of a week (in a good way).

I've been struggling to compose this post for a few days now. My head is all over the place: last day at work, parties, wedding, and getting ready for the big trip.

Now I'm in the city and my mind is even more all over the place. Whatever Chicago street cred I had (which, let's face it, was barely any) is 100% non-exisistent. Trying to meet at Lula's on Kedzie for lunch wasn't so much difficult as it was disorientating. I had forgotten what it's like to be a pedestrian in the city. It's funny how you make little landmarks for yourself: "Look! Disfigured pumpkins! I am going the right way!" So, yes, head all over. But thoughts are collecting. A smidge.

There was a moment back there in the land of corn and trees where my thoughts did come together.

It wasn't until I was at the country garden that I felt a bit more at ease. Planting the garlic that Laura gave, listening to small woodland creatures being shot at in the distance, really helped me center my thoughts and prepare mentally for the big trip. The earth was cold as I dug my little holes for the cloves. It was much like how the dirt felt early last spring when I first started planting all those rows. In a way I'd come full circle: saying goodbye to my garden, but in that goodbye was also a hello, a spark, a seed of a brighter future. And that's how all goodbyes should be.

How I can possibly say thanks to all the wonderful people in my life that proved just how wonderful they are in this past chaotic week (and without turning this into a laundry list of stale thank you-s)? In the end, know that you are thanked wholeheartedly. Your kindness and attention are truly appreciated. I feel blessed to have so many genuine and kindhearted people in my life.

Books both given in tissue paper and on darkened street corners! I had forgotten the beauty of a gift of a good book. The smell of a new hardcover is transporting isn't? Kindle and IPad--just can't compete! I wonder if in the horrible paperless future, ebooks will come with "new book smell" in the download?

What have I learned this past week? Although, I've never had a Manhattan, I now know the proper ratio of vermouth and bitters to make one. Yes I do.

And look: A cake! For me! Thank you!

Flower Girl Gone Wild!!

2011-11-12T17:09:00.000-06:00

But after your first limo ride (and entirely too much mountain dew) wouldn't you?

When Obama Met Cristina....

2011-11-05T22:36:00.000-05:00

Party at Jug's Bar in Elizabeth this Tuesday!

2011-11-05T22:16:00.000-05:00

To all of my devoted readers--all five of you, err, let's be realistic here, all three of you--you are invited to a party at Jug's in Elizabeth this Tuesday, November 8th in honor of my official and willful unemployment! The party starts around 5:30 or whenever I can escape the deli at work for thankfully the last time. Chet is paying for everything so let's have a blast!

The Countdown Begins!

2011-11-02T20:58:00.000-05:00

It's finally November! While for most people that generally entails a month of cold rain, newly naked trees, and bleak skies all topped off with sheer, forceful gluttony centered around a rather large and ill-conceived bird, I, on the other hand, find in November a new sense of adventure, fun, and empanadas! (Really, I'm not trying to rub it in, honest.)

In less than two weeks I leave for Buenos Aires!

In a recent email from my wonderful host mom Ana there was a bit of confusion (on my part) when she used the word "inmobiliaria" in relation to her work schedule on the day that I arrive. As I whipped through the Spanish dictionary I imagined any number of scenarios as to why Ana had become immobile because, you see, that is what I foolishly suspected the word to mean. It's called "false friends" when a word in one language appears to correspond with a word in another but really doesn't. (Did that make sense?) As it turns out, inmobiliaria means real estate, which makes sense because that is what she does. And what a relief to know that she is still mobile because there are a lot of steps in Buenos Aires--seriously, in some McDonalds you have to climb stairs to the second floor to order that Big Mac. Jeesh!

With less than two weeks to go, what am I doing in order to prepare? Well, it may seem that I'm trying to adjust to eating supper around 11pm like the crazy and apparently over-caffienated Argentines, but, actually, it's just that I'm still attempting to get rid of all of these tomatoes and roasting takes around three hours. And I never start anything until way too late.

And if you are wondering what the real Spanish word is for immobile, it's inmóvil and inmovilizado, which, I guess, really are cognates.

texting

2011-11-02T20:27:00.000-05:00

It was elegiac and it was bigoted and narrow, it mistook circumspection for character, and I wanted to help him.

. . .

You think your pessimism is an advantage, but it's nothing but an unwillingness to grasp realities.

. . .

Oh, what can you do with a man like that? What can you do? How can you dissuade his eye in a crowd from seeking out the cheek with acne, the infirm hand; how can you teach him to respond to the inestimable greatness of the race, the harsh surface beauty of life; how can you put his finger for him on the obdurate truths before which fear and horror are powerless? The sea that morning was iridescent and dark. My wife and my sister were swimming--Diana and Helen--and I saw their uncovered heads, black and gold in the dark water. I saw them come out and I saw that they were naked, unshy, beautiful, and full of grace, and I watched the naked women walk out of the sea.

--John Cheever,

"Goodbye, My Brother"

Paris Review - Rhonda Discovers Art, Katherine Dunn

2011-11-01T22:27:00.000-05:00

Paris Review - Rhonda Discovers Art, Katherine Dunn

A wonderful writer. Why hasn't she written more? This is an excerpt from a novel that she has been working on since 1989.

Texting

2011-11-01T22:03:00.000-05:00

"When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets," Papa would say, "she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing. 'Spread you lips, sweet Lil," they'd cluck, 'and show us your choppers!'"

Katherine Dunn,

Geek Love

David Lynch Streaming at NPR

2011-10-31T21:43:00.000-05:00

David Lynch's album "Crazy Clown Time" is streaming for a limited time at NPR.

my favorite tracks so far: She Rise Up, Noah's Ark, Pinky's Dream, I know

Actually, "Pinky's Dream" is just perfect.

Full Disclosure

2011-10-30T23:38:00.000-05:00

I'm not cut out for the Back-to-Basics life.

The last few years seem to have been on repeat: By late winter my body is craving an unprocessed, detoxed existence in the sun filled with hard work, and less digitized shenanigans mediated by an ongoing and evermore invasive variety of screens. So nose in a seed pack, fingers in the soil I get to work preparing and planting while dreaming about making cheese from scratch and creating handmade paper. Horrifically, I actually begin to think that one of those back-to-the-land communes could be kind of cool--communes got a bad rap, but they could be something special. Ugh. What is wrong with me?

By late fall, I'm so sick of tomatoes, radishes, and whatever else I seemingly planted by the freighter that I cannot wait for the frost--the kind that turns basil plants black and brittle and finally puts a stop to that ever growing ogre known as the tomato plant (they seriously never stop growing--it's kind of frightening when you think about it). Today my parents and I cut up and baked/steamed a pumpkin well over fifty pounds. As I scanned the kitchen littered with dishes and utensils dirtied by this daylong endeavor, while my father diligently separated the meat from the pumpkin flesh into bowl after bowl after bowl (and then what are we supposed to do with it?), I thought, thank god I only had one pumpkin that got this huge and that the majority of the plants croaked. Had I been a fully committed (and deranged) back-to-basics person/nut-er, my days and nights would be filled with stockpiling the larder rather than having time for what is truly important: obsessively adding films to my netflix queue, searching for free books for the kindle, and googling important facts like how did manila envelopes get their name anyway?

Yet, as I write this I'm envisioning my expanded garden next year and just how I could set up that paper making studio.

Uh oh

2011-10-29T08:01:00.000-05:00

The kale is frozen, chicos!

La rizada tiene helada!

Last Farmers' Market for the Season

2011-10-28T23:12:00.001-05:00

It hardly seems possible, but this Saturday the Hanover Farmers' Market marks the end of a season filled with radishes, friends, mustards, pies, good times, and lots and lots of kale. And basil. We endured the heat by cooling in the shade, huddled under awnings in the rain, and battled for the sunny side of the street in the chilly fall air. And now the season's over! I once felt like an outsider timidly asking if I could hang out and sell some Swiss chard and kale, now I feel that I have this incredibly supportive family that will not only tell me the best way to plant garlic and what weeds are edible, but also what life can offer to those that are positive and open. Things really do grow.

A big, veggie-of-your-choice infused thank you to all of you who also braved the weather and the miles by showing your support for locally, lovably grown veggies and homemade delights! The market is small and Hanover is a little, well, let's just say it has room to dream, so the faithful supporters truly are great friends!

Thanks for a great year!

See you at the Hanover Farmers' Market this Saturday the 29th between 9 and 11am!!

Lindsay!

2011-10-28T23:11:00.000-05:00

Here's to Lindsay who endured her PhD exams today!

I know that it went well--because how could it not, you are that brilliant! Hopefully tonight finds you unwinding a bit. Remember Frank's ode to Ben! Enjoy that PBR and listen, listen, listen because there's always music in the air.

See you soon and congrats!

Blond Angel of Death Found Guilty

2011-10-28T22:03:00.000-05:00

Watch:

Read: This

Astiz was also responsible for the kidnapping and murder of three founders of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo human rights group. The group began in the 70s for the purpose of locating lost family members who had been abducted by security police.

The men convicted all worked at Esma, the Naval Mechanical School in Buenos Aires, which was the largest secret killing operation in the country during the dictatorship famously known as the “Dirty War”.

When I was in Buenos Aires in '08 I saw las Madres marching in front of the presidential palace as they do every Thursday at 3:30. To think that they've been marching for over thirty years is staggering. I hope that the sentencing brings some closure--if that is even possible. Go here to see my post about the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo.

For Jim and Carol: Argentina!

2011-10-27T21:57:00.001-05:00

Fast facts:

Argentina is the world's eighth largest country
It is slightly smaller than India
It is 2,400 miles long from north to south (compared with the width of the US: 2,680 (from California to Maine) and the length of the Mississippi: 2,552 miles. And, just because you can never have too many numbers in one factoid: There are around 1,860 miles between Florida and Minnesota.)
Controversy: Is the Rio de la Plata a river or a gulf of the Atlantic Ocean? If you consider it a river, it is the widest river in the world at a 140 miles at its mouth.
Tierra del Fuego is the world's "southernmost permanently inhabited territory" (Lonely Planet Argentina).
Animales en Argentina include, but are not limited to: llama, guanaco, vicuna, flamingos, Magellanic penguins, cormorants, sea lions, fur seals, elephant seals, orcas, whales and capybaras, the world's largest rodents--don't worry, I'll take a picture.
The top five "cultivated commodities" are soybeans, corn, sugar cane, wheat, and sunflower seed.
Around 3 million people live in Buenos Aires. The population of Greater Buenos Aires is around 13 million, while the total population of Argentina is 40 million. Buenos Aires is the second largest metropolitan area in South America (after Sao Paulo, Brazil).
Argentina is home to glaciers, the Andes, the Pampas, street signs that double as ad-space, and Iguazu Falls, which my friend Lauren captured so wonderfully in her blog post--complete with amazing pictures and even a video.

Success! Flight booked, life now in motion

2011-10-26T12:28:00.000-05:00

Finally able to book the flight to Buenos Aires by dealing with Continental directly (although it was difficult and I had to speak with three separate people from three different countries: UK, India, Unkown.). Forget you Expedia! Forget you Priceline!

I leave Chicago for DC on the 15th of November at 6:13PM and will arrive in the land of empanadas the following morning at 10:50AM.

The trip now feels like a tangible thing (like Christmas!) that is now getting closer and closer (like Christmas!).

hitting. head. against. wall.

2011-10-24T23:32:00.001-05:00

Ugh. I had hoped that this would be a celebratory post concerning my flight to Buenos Aires, but after entirely too much time both Expedia and Priceline were "unable to complete the booking at this time." Why are things so difficult?

At one point the lovely Priceline site referred to my tentative itinerary as "multi destination" but my tired eyes/brain read as "multi-dimensional," which, although hinting at daring adventure, sounds a bit too messy for me.

Are there any sites out there that are more successful or is this standard?

Tomorrow I shall try again.

Late Season Tomatoes

2011-10-23T22:23:00.000-05:00

the horror of getting rid of them?

Tonight I'm slow roasting tomatoes and the kitchen smells wonderful, delighting me with dreams of olive oil coated pasta, cracked pepper, and red wine. I shouldn't be this hungry this late in the day (and I should have started this slow roasting business much earlier).