Dearest Gorda,
In addition to having to hold try-outs for lead singer (though so far, there is only one interested party), we have a potential song-writer (and stage performer). A sample of lyrics will follow after a brief description of the song.
The first is a song about the long arduous path my insurance claim took to getting to the post office, and how it was eventually mailed in Oneonta, NY. Celia sang it and I transcribed it in Nick's Diner of the same town. I think a tape recorder/learning to write music would be useful in getting the melody down, though I have neither of those at the moment.
The second is a song about having Eggs Benedict for lunch.
*****
Trying to go to the post office
(Chorus)
Trying to go to the post office
but I haven't made it yet
Trying to go to the post office
to mail my insurance check
(bridge)
Gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta go
never never never never never gonna go
Trying to go to the post office
but I haven't made it yet
Started in the city but I couldn't get it done,
Didn't have a stamp and the money wouldn't run
*****
Benny Benny Benny
Benny, Benny, Benny
You might be a traitor but you taste so good
I wish I could find somewhere to eat you in my hood
Brunch, you're my favorite, you kick dinner's ass
...
*****
Follow up:
The claim was mailed, and the Eggs Benedict were delicious. What do you think of the lyrics?
My first taiko drum class is this Sunday.
Idea for the cover art for our demo: red-footed boobies in a circus: one with face paint (and perhaps a few getting out of a small car), a few on trapeze, one with a beard (can we include a side show in this circus?), and of course one on stilts. As no actual boobies should be harmed in the making of this band, we will need to find a graphic designer who understands the complexity of boobie circus.
*****
I miss you! Your depiction of phonetic dialect reminiscent of Tom Wolfe, and I recommend you follow the goings on of the playa privados a la I am Charlotte Simmons. I've made peace with alternate side parking by going to Sunac to get groceries on the day I move my car (once, now, and usually a trip over the weekend). I've been meaning to ask, have you seen the walls painted by Blu?
Your amiga,
Candy
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
hablamanos sobre sexo, baby (por supuesto)
Hey Fatso,
Here, “Gorda/o” is a term of endearment, like “Hon" or “Sugar” or “Booger Breath,” and does not reflect the Fatso's size in any way, shape, or form. What do you think? Let's keep it. At least ironically?
* * * * *
On Friday, I met an Argentine model named Juan whose English is (dare I say it?) worse than my Spanish. We decided to exchange language lessons. I’m afraid I may be forming somewhat of a habit of arranging "lessons" with tall, dark, and alarmingly good-looking Spanish-speaking men named John. It's likely to become addictive.
* * * * *
I’ve had two ten-American-dollar-an-hour guitar lessons with Juani now at his apartment. During our first lesson, we (he) restrung my guitar and went over the names of the strings and chords, which he refers to by their Sound of Music names (do a deer a female deer re a drop of golden sun mi a name I call myself fah a long long way to run so a needle pulling thread la a note to follow so ti a drink with jam and bread and that will bring us back to do…). I also learned the Spanish words for case (estuche – mine, Juani marvelled, is “Que duro!” “How hard!”), string (cuerda), pick (pua), tight (tenso), out of tune (desafinada), to tune (afinar), fret (traste), chord (acorde), and to have a hangover (tener resaca).
Juani showed me the chords for “Creep,” by Radiohead. We sat in his living room, which was small and had brightly-colored landscapes on canvases leaning up against walls.
“Who’s the painter?” I asked.
“My father.”
“Does he live in Interiors (the provinces, where Juani is from, which makes him, he explained, not porteno)?”
“No, he lives here.”
“You live with your father?”
“Yes. And my older sister and my brother.”
It’s quite normal here, I’ve learned, to live with one’s family into one’s thirties.
As if on cue, his brother came home. He has 21 years and speaks English very good from working at a GM call center (where he assists many American callers with their car problems). He kissed me on the cheek, took a seat across the table from us, and sat there throughout the rest of the lesson, commenting on Juani’s English and eating cheese.
Before the lesson ended, Juani’s father also came home. He, too, kissed me on the cheek and told me I had a pretty name and pretty eyes.
As I was leaving, Juani’s sister emerged from another part of the apartment (apparently, she’d been there the whole time) and kissed me on the cheek.
Juani walked me out, kissed me (alas) on the cheek, and told me to sing the song while I’m practicing.
* * * * *
My TEFL teacher (I’ll call her “K”) is thirty-something with two kids and a “worthless” ex-husband. K returned from a weekend trip to Spain to inform us that her crippling fear of flying had been temporarily assuaged by her makeout session with the man sitting next to her on the plane. K also told us how, to the Argentine, there is no such thing as an inappropriate question. One might say to a friend, for example, “You’re looking a little fatter. Have you gained weight?” Over a lunch of pizza and beer with her the other day, I tried on some Argentine bluntness for size. “If it’s normal for people to live with their families until their thirty-five,” I asked, sipping my Quilmes, “then where do they go to… do things?”
And this is how I learned about something called a “playa privado,” or a private parking lot, which one rents by the hour or bi-hourly and which, K assured us, has nothing to do with the beach (playa). Informally, it’s referred to as “telo” (derived from “hotel”), and is frequented by normal, everyday, boyfriend-girlfriend type monogamous people.
* * * * *
I don’t know why it came up, but my host mother Elsa (who is pushing seventy and has lists of rules posted on her students’ bedroom doors which mandate bed-making and strictly prohibit “relaciones sexuales”) told me about something called an “amigovio/a.” This is a person who is mas que un amigo/a, pero menos que un/a novio/a. I wanted to ask her if one would accompany such a relation to a telo, but I refrained. She asked me if we had a term for this in English and to keep myself from blurting out “fuck buddy” at the dinner table, I took a deep breath and said, “friend with benefits.” Luckily, she didn’t ask me what kind of benefits.
* * * * *
Last night, I met Juan on a street corner in the rain. I was five minutes late (which in Argentine time is twenty-five minutes early). He was toting an English textbook and dictionary and teased me about getting lost. Then I followed him in a big circle to find some bar that was supposedly “just around the corner,” which we never found. I teased him about getting lost.
We went to a Mexican restaurant, where Juan practically passed out from what I considered to be some very mild salsa. I teased him some more and taught him the various meanings of the English word “pussy.” He had never heard of Negra Modelo and made me order two in Spanish. “Nos traes dos cervezas por favor” (“Bring us two beers please”).
* * * * *
Juani scheduled our second guitar lesson for a time when the apartment would be empty, so that “I can give all my attention to you and you can give all your attention to me.” When I came over, he tested me on “Creep,” scolding me for not being able to sing and strum at the same time. “You didn’t practice,” he said (I swear, Candy, I did! It’s like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time!). He took the guitar to show me what I was doing wrong. While he played, I kept looking at his face. “Look at my hands,” he said. “Sorry,” I said, but kept looking at his face. “Look at my hands,” he said. “Sorry,” I said, and looked at his hands, but not at the chords. I became fixated on the way he held the pua. Can a person have sexy thumbs? If so, Juani does.
“You’re not paying attention,” he said.
“What?” I said.
After the lesson was over, we sat drinking mate (pronounced mah-tay, it tastes sort of like green tea, but is made with loose leaves and sipped out of a straw. You’ll share one cup among friends, passing it around a circle like a joint) and talking about tango (which he hopes to play professionally once he finishes violin school). I told him how my pure roommate was aghast (I believe her words were, “Well, I never…”) at the prostitution theme of the tango show we saw at Café Tortoni (totally expensive, but I love the cavernous, stained glass ceilings, art nouveau- or deco?- mirrors, tuxedoed waiters, and chocolate espeso—dense hot chocolate, churros optional for dipping). “This place is for tourists,” he said and promised to take me to hear some “real” tango. “As for prostitutes…”
I asked him about telos, explaining that in the U.S., the only people who rent hotel rooms by the hour are with a prostitute or cheating on a spouse.
“Yes, those people go there, too,” he said.
“But also people like you... and/or me?”
“I’ll show you why,” he said, putting the mate on the table and leading me across the room through a door to the back of the apartment: a little hallway with three other doors.
“The bathroom is there,” he said, pointing to the to door on our left. He opened the door directly in front of us. Inside was a room the size of a cupboard with a twin-sized bed. “This is where my sister sleeps,” he said. “Sometimes his boyfriend sleeps here.”
“Her boyfriend,” I said.
“Her boyfriend,” he said, and opened the third door, to our right. This room was the size of two cupboards. Against one wall was another twin-sized bed. “This is where my father sleeps.” And against the opposite wall were bunk beds. “My brother and myself.”
At this point, his mother and younger sister came home. They still live in Interiors (when I asked Juani if his parents were married, he explained, “Yes, but when my father lost the pizza shop, some of us had to come to Buenos Aires”) but were in town for the older sister’s boyfriend’s completion of his biochemistry degree. They each kissed me on the cheek, then grabbed the champagne they stopped by to pick up before heading over to the school to throw raw huevos (eggs), aceite (oil), and cabbage at him as he came out of his final exam. It’s a tradition.
“Doesn’t that get smelly?” I asked Juani.
“Yes,” he said.
* * * * *
“Thank you,” I said.
“Fank you,” Juan said.
“Thank,” I said.
“Fank,” Juan said.
“Th-,” I said, pointing to my tongue.
“Th-,” Juan said.
“Good!” I said. Then he kissed me.
Then we left the Mexican restaurant and were kissing (past continuous) in the street in the rain, and by the time we stopped, his “th-“ was quite good. He started talking about where else we could go, but I got cold feet (literally—Juan scolded me for not wearing “sockets”) and went home.
* * * * *
My fake friend Juanathon told me I talk about sex too much.
I told him to go fuck himself.
* * * * *
In other news, a pigeon may or may not have peed on my face today. But I guess that can happen in any city.
Happy Trails,
Sandy
P.S. Sumo is the name of Juani’s favorite Argentine rock band, and he gave me their CD “Corpinos En La Madrugada” to listen to. Some of their songs are in English (including one called “Telefonos – White Trash”) because the singer, who was Italian, lived for a time in the U.S., where he developed a heroin habit. He moved to Argentina to stop using heroin, but started drinking and then died. Check them out. “Banderitas Y Globos” has a circusy flair to it. Me gusta "Quiero Quiero" tambien.
Here, “Gorda/o” is a term of endearment, like “Hon" or “Sugar” or “Booger Breath,” and does not reflect the Fatso's size in any way, shape, or form. What do you think? Let's keep it. At least ironically?
* * * * *
On Friday, I met an Argentine model named Juan whose English is (dare I say it?) worse than my Spanish. We decided to exchange language lessons. I’m afraid I may be forming somewhat of a habit of arranging "lessons" with tall, dark, and alarmingly good-looking Spanish-speaking men named John. It's likely to become addictive.
* * * * *
I’ve had two ten-American-dollar-an-hour guitar lessons with Juani now at his apartment. During our first lesson, we (he) restrung my guitar and went over the names of the strings and chords, which he refers to by their Sound of Music names (do a deer a female deer re a drop of golden sun mi a name I call myself fah a long long way to run so a needle pulling thread la a note to follow so ti a drink with jam and bread and that will bring us back to do…). I also learned the Spanish words for case (estuche – mine, Juani marvelled, is “Que duro!” “How hard!”), string (cuerda), pick (pua), tight (tenso), out of tune (desafinada), to tune (afinar), fret (traste), chord (acorde), and to have a hangover (tener resaca).
Juani showed me the chords for “Creep,” by Radiohead. We sat in his living room, which was small and had brightly-colored landscapes on canvases leaning up against walls.
“Who’s the painter?” I asked.
“My father.”
“Does he live in Interiors (the provinces, where Juani is from, which makes him, he explained, not porteno)?”
“No, he lives here.”
“You live with your father?”
“Yes. And my older sister and my brother.”
It’s quite normal here, I’ve learned, to live with one’s family into one’s thirties.
As if on cue, his brother came home. He has 21 years and speaks English very good from working at a GM call center (where he assists many American callers with their car problems). He kissed me on the cheek, took a seat across the table from us, and sat there throughout the rest of the lesson, commenting on Juani’s English and eating cheese.
Before the lesson ended, Juani’s father also came home. He, too, kissed me on the cheek and told me I had a pretty name and pretty eyes.
As I was leaving, Juani’s sister emerged from another part of the apartment (apparently, she’d been there the whole time) and kissed me on the cheek.
Juani walked me out, kissed me (alas) on the cheek, and told me to sing the song while I’m practicing.
* * * * *
My TEFL teacher (I’ll call her “K”) is thirty-something with two kids and a “worthless” ex-husband. K returned from a weekend trip to Spain to inform us that her crippling fear of flying had been temporarily assuaged by her makeout session with the man sitting next to her on the plane. K also told us how, to the Argentine, there is no such thing as an inappropriate question. One might say to a friend, for example, “You’re looking a little fatter. Have you gained weight?” Over a lunch of pizza and beer with her the other day, I tried on some Argentine bluntness for size. “If it’s normal for people to live with their families until their thirty-five,” I asked, sipping my Quilmes, “then where do they go to… do things?”
And this is how I learned about something called a “playa privado,” or a private parking lot, which one rents by the hour or bi-hourly and which, K assured us, has nothing to do with the beach (playa). Informally, it’s referred to as “telo” (derived from “hotel”), and is frequented by normal, everyday, boyfriend-girlfriend type monogamous people.
* * * * *
I don’t know why it came up, but my host mother Elsa (who is pushing seventy and has lists of rules posted on her students’ bedroom doors which mandate bed-making and strictly prohibit “relaciones sexuales”) told me about something called an “amigovio/a.” This is a person who is mas que un amigo/a, pero menos que un/a novio/a. I wanted to ask her if one would accompany such a relation to a telo, but I refrained. She asked me if we had a term for this in English and to keep myself from blurting out “fuck buddy” at the dinner table, I took a deep breath and said, “friend with benefits.” Luckily, she didn’t ask me what kind of benefits.
* * * * *
Last night, I met Juan on a street corner in the rain. I was five minutes late (which in Argentine time is twenty-five minutes early). He was toting an English textbook and dictionary and teased me about getting lost. Then I followed him in a big circle to find some bar that was supposedly “just around the corner,” which we never found. I teased him about getting lost.
We went to a Mexican restaurant, where Juan practically passed out from what I considered to be some very mild salsa. I teased him some more and taught him the various meanings of the English word “pussy.” He had never heard of Negra Modelo and made me order two in Spanish. “Nos traes dos cervezas por favor” (“Bring us two beers please”).
* * * * *
Juani scheduled our second guitar lesson for a time when the apartment would be empty, so that “I can give all my attention to you and you can give all your attention to me.” When I came over, he tested me on “Creep,” scolding me for not being able to sing and strum at the same time. “You didn’t practice,” he said (I swear, Candy, I did! It’s like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time!). He took the guitar to show me what I was doing wrong. While he played, I kept looking at his face. “Look at my hands,” he said. “Sorry,” I said, but kept looking at his face. “Look at my hands,” he said. “Sorry,” I said, and looked at his hands, but not at the chords. I became fixated on the way he held the pua. Can a person have sexy thumbs? If so, Juani does.
“You’re not paying attention,” he said.
“What?” I said.
After the lesson was over, we sat drinking mate (pronounced mah-tay, it tastes sort of like green tea, but is made with loose leaves and sipped out of a straw. You’ll share one cup among friends, passing it around a circle like a joint) and talking about tango (which he hopes to play professionally once he finishes violin school). I told him how my pure roommate was aghast (I believe her words were, “Well, I never…”) at the prostitution theme of the tango show we saw at Café Tortoni (totally expensive, but I love the cavernous, stained glass ceilings, art nouveau- or deco?- mirrors, tuxedoed waiters, and chocolate espeso—dense hot chocolate, churros optional for dipping). “This place is for tourists,” he said and promised to take me to hear some “real” tango. “As for prostitutes…”
I asked him about telos, explaining that in the U.S., the only people who rent hotel rooms by the hour are with a prostitute or cheating on a spouse.
“Yes, those people go there, too,” he said.
“But also people like you... and/or me?”
“I’ll show you why,” he said, putting the mate on the table and leading me across the room through a door to the back of the apartment: a little hallway with three other doors.
“The bathroom is there,” he said, pointing to the to door on our left. He opened the door directly in front of us. Inside was a room the size of a cupboard with a twin-sized bed. “This is where my sister sleeps,” he said. “Sometimes his boyfriend sleeps here.”
“Her boyfriend,” I said.
“Her boyfriend,” he said, and opened the third door, to our right. This room was the size of two cupboards. Against one wall was another twin-sized bed. “This is where my father sleeps.” And against the opposite wall were bunk beds. “My brother and myself.”
At this point, his mother and younger sister came home. They still live in Interiors (when I asked Juani if his parents were married, he explained, “Yes, but when my father lost the pizza shop, some of us had to come to Buenos Aires”) but were in town for the older sister’s boyfriend’s completion of his biochemistry degree. They each kissed me on the cheek, then grabbed the champagne they stopped by to pick up before heading over to the school to throw raw huevos (eggs), aceite (oil), and cabbage at him as he came out of his final exam. It’s a tradition.
“Doesn’t that get smelly?” I asked Juani.
“Yes,” he said.
* * * * *
“Thank you,” I said.
“Fank you,” Juan said.
“Thank,” I said.
“Fank,” Juan said.
“Th-,” I said, pointing to my tongue.
“Th-,” Juan said.
“Good!” I said. Then he kissed me.
Then we left the Mexican restaurant and were kissing (past continuous) in the street in the rain, and by the time we stopped, his “th-“ was quite good. He started talking about where else we could go, but I got cold feet (literally—Juan scolded me for not wearing “sockets”) and went home.
* * * * *
My fake friend Juanathon told me I talk about sex too much.
I told him to go fuck himself.
* * * * *
In other news, a pigeon may or may not have peed on my face today. But I guess that can happen in any city.
Happy Trails,
Sandy
P.S. Sumo is the name of Juani’s favorite Argentine rock band, and he gave me their CD “Corpinos En La Madrugada” to listen to. Some of their songs are in English (including one called “Telefonos – White Trash”) because the singer, who was Italian, lived for a time in the U.S., where he developed a heroin habit. He moved to Argentina to stop using heroin, but started drinking and then died. Check them out. “Banderitas Y Globos” has a circusy flair to it. Me gusta "Quiero Quiero" tambien.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Moon your friends.
Dear Candy,
Feliz Dia del Amigo! In Argentina, Friend’s Day is a day for hanging out with friends one sees on a regular basis (in America, we call this “Saturday”), but also for contacting seldom-met friends, from whom one may be separated by time or space. Basically, it’s my new favorite holiday, and I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before Enrique Febbraro, the Argentine teacher, musician, and dentist (como se dice “Renaissance Man?”) who lobbied to turn the anniversary of the first lunar landing (20 July, 1969) into an international celebration of friendship. His argument: Because on this day, the whole world had been friends with Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong, and Michael Collins.
So, just as the Apollo 11 astronauts traveled through space, tonight I travel through cyberspace. In the name of friendship. And humanity. And space.
Your friend,
Sandy
Feliz Dia del Amigo! In Argentina, Friend’s Day is a day for hanging out with friends one sees on a regular basis (in America, we call this “Saturday”), but also for contacting seldom-met friends, from whom one may be separated by time or space. Basically, it’s my new favorite holiday, and I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before Enrique Febbraro, the Argentine teacher, musician, and dentist (como se dice “Renaissance Man?”) who lobbied to turn the anniversary of the first lunar landing (20 July, 1969) into an international celebration of friendship. His argument: Because on this day, the whole world had been friends with Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong, and Michael Collins.
So, just as the Apollo 11 astronauts traveled through space, tonight I travel through cyberspace. In the name of friendship. And humanity. And space.
Your friend,
Sandy
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
To say that pedestrians aren´t granted the right of way would be an understatement...
Dear Candy,
I find walking to be a good way to orient oneself in a new city. I´ve been doing a lot of it here. Here´s what I think about it: In general, I´ve found the sidewalks, while lining lovely, sometimes cobblestoned streets of often handsomely-architectured buildings, to be quite narrow and littered with dog shit. This alone poses some challenges to the Fast-Walking New Yorker (a sub-sect of the Impatient American), as she tries to navigate around locals, who she begins to suspect are conspiring against her to be crippled, hand-holding, shoe-tying, watch-checking, cell-phone-answering, small-child-leading, long-lost-lover-greeting, or otherwise slow-moving, directly in front of her, at all times (This year, I will try to learn to take my time. ASAP). Let us add to this the fact that many intersections here don´t have traffic lights or stop signs. You can imagine what this does to one's nerves while riding in a cab, careening toward -- and just barely missing -- another (I haven´t learned the Spanish word for "yield," and I´m not sure it exists). But when you consider the unbelievable width of roads (I´ve counted up to 18 lanes of traffic!), the fact that pedestrians seem to be viewed more as targets than obstacles (especially by bus drivers), and, in instances of traffic lights, that they change not only from green to yellow to red, but also from red to yellow to green in a way that can surely only be interpreted as, "on your mark, get set, go!", you have what I´ve discovered as a pedestrian to be a truly terrifying experience. I call it "crossing the street."
Sorry about the Yoga dilemma. It was not my intention to sell you something useless and then flee the country with your money (¿Or was it? Maybe if teaching doesn´t work out, I´ll have a promising future as a con artist... or you will, as an identity thief). As for keeping a car in the Burg, I found alternate side parking took some getting used to at first (it sort of requires the same attentiveness as having a pet... not a dog, maybe, but a goldfish absolutely). After a while, though, I developed a rhythm that worked for me. And the benefits of having it to travel to such far and exotic Brooklyn locations as Spuyten Duyvil or Greenpoint, in my opinion, outweighed the inconveniences of the Monday/Thursday-Tuesday/Friday-Tuesday-Wednesday re-parking dance. I regret not leaving you my police parking pass (speaking of impersonating other people). TEFL classes started this week, and I´m excited about them. More on that later.
Today´s language lesson: Here it rains frogs instead of cats and dogs. In France, it rains ropes (there is a French chico, Didier, staying at Elsa's now, as well as the new American girl, Anna).
Salud,
Sandy
I find walking to be a good way to orient oneself in a new city. I´ve been doing a lot of it here. Here´s what I think about it: In general, I´ve found the sidewalks, while lining lovely, sometimes cobblestoned streets of often handsomely-architectured buildings, to be quite narrow and littered with dog shit. This alone poses some challenges to the Fast-Walking New Yorker (a sub-sect of the Impatient American), as she tries to navigate around locals, who she begins to suspect are conspiring against her to be crippled, hand-holding, shoe-tying, watch-checking, cell-phone-answering, small-child-leading, long-lost-lover-greeting, or otherwise slow-moving, directly in front of her, at all times (This year, I will try to learn to take my time. ASAP). Let us add to this the fact that many intersections here don´t have traffic lights or stop signs. You can imagine what this does to one's nerves while riding in a cab, careening toward -- and just barely missing -- another (I haven´t learned the Spanish word for "yield," and I´m not sure it exists). But when you consider the unbelievable width of roads (I´ve counted up to 18 lanes of traffic!), the fact that pedestrians seem to be viewed more as targets than obstacles (especially by bus drivers), and, in instances of traffic lights, that they change not only from green to yellow to red, but also from red to yellow to green in a way that can surely only be interpreted as, "on your mark, get set, go!", you have what I´ve discovered as a pedestrian to be a truly terrifying experience. I call it "crossing the street."
Sorry about the Yoga dilemma. It was not my intention to sell you something useless and then flee the country with your money (¿Or was it? Maybe if teaching doesn´t work out, I´ll have a promising future as a con artist... or you will, as an identity thief). As for keeping a car in the Burg, I found alternate side parking took some getting used to at first (it sort of requires the same attentiveness as having a pet... not a dog, maybe, but a goldfish absolutely). After a while, though, I developed a rhythm that worked for me. And the benefits of having it to travel to such far and exotic Brooklyn locations as Spuyten Duyvil or Greenpoint, in my opinion, outweighed the inconveniences of the Monday/Thursday-Tuesday/Friday-Tuesday-Wednesday re-parking dance. I regret not leaving you my police parking pass (speaking of impersonating other people). TEFL classes started this week, and I´m excited about them. More on that later.
Today´s language lesson: Here it rains frogs instead of cats and dogs. In France, it rains ropes (there is a French chico, Didier, staying at Elsa's now, as well as the new American girl, Anna).
Salud,
Sandy
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
ningunas grietas del asno?
I think a graph of babies to safety is worth exploring, and applicable, with modification, to such Brooklyn spots as Park Slope (speak loudly in English and ask a lot of people where the closest free trade coffee can be found) and Williamsburg (hold tight to your iPod and walk with abstract purpose). After the correlation between babies and safety has been mapped, I think a survey of how many times "Manco" comes up in conversation is due. I'll start counting tomorrow.
I greatly enjoy updates on your Spanish lessons, as my co-workers will sometimes speak to me in Spanish because they assume that I am Hispanic and all I have is "Hola, yo no comprendo espanol. Donde estan los senors guapos?"
I pulled a really smooth move today - I had your yoga pass transferred to my name :-) I kept saying that you were in Argentina until they made an exception to the fact that the pass wasn't mine and expired in June. The class was really great, and I'll keep going on Wednesdays save for a potential trivia reunion.
I caught a glimpse of the New York City cataratas that Olafur Eliasson constructed, though I most certainly did not ride the most comfortable bus to get there. My car is proving to be more of a hassle than I'd anticipated, though it did enable me to go to Mac's show at Goodbye Blue Monday tonight with quite a bit of ease. I had to leave early because it was close to bedtime so I only caught a couple of songs. I had to refrain from texting you all day to tell you about how great it would have been for you to come to the show!
I'm so glad to hear that all is well! Simone inquired as to your well-being last night and I told her that last I had heard, you were in Argentina, alive, and that you had joined a boobie circus. The latter is a bit alarming but very understandable.
Oy carumba, I need to learn to play the drums!
I greatly enjoy updates on your Spanish lessons, as my co-workers will sometimes speak to me in Spanish because they assume that I am Hispanic and all I have is "Hola, yo no comprendo espanol. Donde estan los senors guapos?"
I pulled a really smooth move today - I had your yoga pass transferred to my name :-) I kept saying that you were in Argentina until they made an exception to the fact that the pass wasn't mine and expired in June. The class was really great, and I'll keep going on Wednesdays save for a potential trivia reunion.
I caught a glimpse of the New York City cataratas that Olafur Eliasson constructed, though I most certainly did not ride the most comfortable bus to get there. My car is proving to be more of a hassle than I'd anticipated, though it did enable me to go to Mac's show at Goodbye Blue Monday tonight with quite a bit of ease. I had to leave early because it was close to bedtime so I only caught a couple of songs. I had to refrain from texting you all day to tell you about how great it would have been for you to come to the show!
I'm so glad to hear that all is well! Simone inquired as to your well-being last night and I told her that last I had heard, you were in Argentina, alive, and that you had joined a boobie circus. The latter is a bit alarming but very understandable.
Oy carumba, I need to learn to play the drums!
P.S.
I read the itching in JFK and yes, it made me itch, too! The stuff about mirrors and phantom limbs was interesting. Here, we learned that they have a word for a person missing a hand. "Manco." I asked our friends last night how often that word comes up in conversation. So far for me, it's come up in every conversation I've had.
Como se dice "assless chaps"?
Dear Candy,
Sorry for not writing sooner. It’s been a hell of a week and a half. The flights more or less went off without a hitch. They were just very long and during my layover in B. Juarez International airport in Mexico City, I slept on the floor, which made me feel pretty homeless. I was stumped a little by the immigration card, which asked me my “purpose of entry” into Argentina. There were all these little boxes with words next to them. Was I coming for “trabajo?” Technically, I suppose that’s the end goal, but something tells me that Mr. Argentina, who won’t let foreigners have a bank account or a monthly phone plan (at some point I’ll have to get a burner and pay as I go), would be displeased with my simply informing him I am going to work in his country. I suspect he might respond with a snarky comment about my needing something called a visa, at which point I could offer him my Bank of America credito/debito (no effectivo). At this point he will either mistake me for the silly, stupid (pero linda!) American girl who just doesn’t translate and let it slide, wink and take the bribe, or, more likely, he will introduce me to his good friend, Mr. Argentine Prison. I’ve just realized that I’m still referring to an entire country as Mr. Argentina, that it makes little sense (my Spanish sucks and instead of that getting better, my English is just getting worse), and that there are future, actual run-ins with policia to my tale, so I’ll abandon this hypothetical and say, without segway (human transporter)—I did not check the “trabajo” box on the immigration card. Another box I did not check was “educacion.” I considered “salud” – indeed, one beneficiary of this trip is my mental health. But flagging myself as “crazy American” would be perhaps an unflattering introduction. “Convenciones” struck me as an intriguing option. “Otros?” I wondered if I’d have to provide a follow up, in which case, would “I hear porteno men are hot” be acceptable? Before settling on “vaccaciones,” I heeded the warning below: NOTICE – Travelers entering as “transitory” residents are not allowed to work in the country. Infringers may be declared “illegal residents” and forced to leave the national territory by a certain date. I hope I don’t get deported.
Once through customs, I followed the super-specific pick-up directions provided by my school: “We have arranged an airport pick-up for you based on the information that follows below. As you exit the baggage claim area at the International Terminal you will see the VIP Car booth on the left side, next to the “Meeting Point.” Look for the logo, which is a crown with five stars above it. The booth area is before you exit the “Arrivals Hall.” Your name should be on a sign posted in this booth. You will be asked to sign a pink voucher, which is proof that you were taken to your destination. This message will self-destruct in ten seconds.” I sat in the front seat of the cab (the porter laid my guitar across the back, leaving me little choice). The driver, Ariel kept telling me how pretty my ojos were, and I wanted to tell him to keep his ojos on the road, but I played the silly, stupid American girl who just doesn’t translate, shrugging and laughing uncomfortably when he reached over and squeezed my knee. I thought back to a guidebook that had mentioned the Argentine version of personal space (men, for example, greet each other with one kiss on the cheek). According to the guidebook, the physical-contact-wary foreigner may be made uncomfortable by the close-talking porteno. Back in the cab, I wondered where one draws the line between cultural difference and sexual predator. Suddenly we were stopped in a dark street, and I realized I had no way of knowing whether this was my host mother’s home or where cab drivers take unsuspecting American girls to do bad things to them. The suspense built. Ariel said some more Spanish things. I said “no comprendo.” He gave me his card, which had his cell phone number handwritten on it and asked if I would call him. I shrugged and laughed uncomfortably. Then my host mother, Elsa, answered the door. The next day at Spanish school orientation, they had us sign a list of safety precautions, which included bullet-point “Do not sit in the front seat of cabs” and bullet-point “Women should avoid smiling at or making eye-contact with men because they may think you are interested in forming a deeper relationship.”
There was this other girl, Kyle, staying at Elsa’s, who left this morning for Ecuador. She lived in Costa Rica for a year when she was younger and thus speaks well. We spent the entire semana y media together, and she did a lot of translating for me. This was good and bad for obvious reasons. We did a lot of fun things together, like eat pollo suprema suiza (“Chicken to the Swiss” – we also encountered delicacies like pasta a la mantequilla, translated on menus as “pasta to the butter”). Chicken to the Swiss is fried chicken under melted cheese, served with fries. One day, we took the subte the wrong way and were confused when we reached the end of the line but hadn’t passed our stop. When everyone got off, we deduced that we should, as well. Another train pulled in across the platform, and then there were two sitting there. We must have been looking quite befuddled because a man pointed and laughed at us, before explaining that both were going the same way. I decided this was subway karma for all the times I rolled my eyes at people at 8th Ave who didn’t understand that both trains go to Brooklyn.
Another thing that happens a lot is people warning us of places we shouldn’t go and then us going there. As is the norm in Argentina, there’s currently a lot going on politically and economically. Much of it has to do with inflation and taxes on soy. Workers are unhappy. The subte employees went on strike the other day, and there are a lot of protests and demonstrations in the streets, especially near Congresso. We are told these are “peligrosos” and that we should stay away. Yesterday, we stumbled across one such protest and promptly found a window seat in a nearby café and had some chicken to the Swiss.
Kyle wandered into a non-touristy neighborhood by herself one day, and someone came up behind her and told her she shouldn’t be there. If we take a picture of a funny storefront (like the one near our apartment called New York that has lots of shiny dresses in it), people will stop in the street to tell us to be careful with our camera. Bruno (the director of Linguatec, where I’m taking my Spanish classes – he’s tiny and painfully shy and I want to put him in my pocket) told us to carry a dummy wallet with only a little bit of money in it in case someone mugs us. And never, ever, have your real passport on you, everyone says, though it’s illegal here to go anywhere without documentation (identification). We carry copies, instead.
It’s been hard for us to tell whether people are being overly cautious or if it actually is worse here than in some other big city, like New York (I survived Baltimore, for crying out loud! Don’t they have El Wire here?). We’ve devised a system by which to gauge our safety in a given neighborhood. It goes like this: It stands to reason that people with babies probably won’t get mugged (yes, it does). Therefore, one’s safety is directly proportional to the number of babies in one’s vicinity. So, if we ever suspect that we should maybe fear for our lives, we stop and count babies. The more babies, the better. There is one exception to this rule: If there is only one baby, someone could have stolen it and taken it to a place where there weren’t any other babies, and we wouldn’t want to be in a place with the kind of people who steal babies. Thus, the scale: 0 babies = hold tight to your wallet and walk with purpose. 1 baby = get the hell away. 2 babies = stroll or walk slowly while humming to yourself. 3 babies = speak loudly in English and ask a lot of people in broken Spanish which way to the McCafe (a South American phenomenon! It’s like Starbucks, but even fancier and cleaner if you can believe it, but with the McDonald’s brand and you don’t need t-Mobile to use the free wi-fi). 4 or more babies = lie down and take a nap on the sidewalk with a sign strung around your neck which reads “There are many American dollars in my pockets.”
There is a stray cat that lives in our building. We call her Gatita (translation: "teeny tiny little cat"), and when she hears us coming, she runs to greet us like a dog, meowing at the top of her lungs. We think the neighbors feed her, but she seems pretty starved for attention because she will just rub and rub and rub up against your leg, and if you pick her up, she will purr maniacally, crawl up on your shoulder, and nuzzle your face with hers. I want to put her in my other pocket.
The other day at lunch, I ordered a salad (como vos, Candy!), and when I didn’t understand the dressing options, the waiter brought me all of them. Another waiter had to bring over another table because all the dressings wouldn’t fit on ours.
We met a muy guapo porteno boy named Juani on the street the other night. He was carrying a violin, and we were drinking vino tinto (rojo) out of a plastic bag. He drank some of our wine and told us where to find a “Bohemian” bar nearby, where we met up with him after an unusually drunk dinner at our host mother’s. There were some people singing and playing guitar and a guy tap dancing whose name was Tomas. He gave us his card. I’m doing pretty well with networking here, don’t you think? So far, I’ve gotten cards from a cab driver and a tap dancer. It was a muy divertido night. Did I mention that Juani is muy guapo? I smiled at and made eye-contact with him. He’s going to give me guitar lessons for ten American dollars an hour, which is quite a bargain, compared to the $50 that Mr. Caine charges me in Williamsburg (I will have to have a discussion with Mr. Caine when I get back). Anyway, I thought you’d be happy to know that Operation Boobie Circus is continuing on the international front.
Some important words/phrases I learned: Coger, which in other countries is used like tomar, for “to take” or “to have,” here means “to fuck.” In Spain, for example, one could tell someone, “Cogi el autobus.” If you said that here, however, someone might respond, “Como cogiste un autobus? Ja-ja-ja!” I also learned how to say “Go take a big shit” in Spanish, but I forgot, so I just keep saying it in English.
This weekend, I traveled north with Kyle and another girl from Spanish school named Jessica to Iguazu, which borders Brazil and Paraguay and is home to the cataratas (waterfalls). They were magnificent and I took an entire roll of film, but I’m not confident in my ability to do them justice, so I suggest you see what Wikipedia has to say about them. It is, however, probably worth mentioning the 17-hour bus ride (EACH WAY) we endured to reach them. “Endured” is probably a poor word choice because the bus we took was maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I foresee a wedding day in my future, when I will tell my husband-to-be, “You are the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He will say, “Second, sweetie? What’s first?” My response: “Super Cama” (I recommend the Via Bariloche line). Imagine the most comfortable Lay-Z-Boy you’ve ever been in, but it reclines to 180-degrees! Then, mientras you’re lying there, someone keeps coming by and putting food and coffee and champagne in front of you. I want to live in this bus.
On the return trip, we were stopped four times by police, who came on board with drug dogs and checked documentation. The severity of the situation didn’t translate for me, but afterwards Kyle explained that we were almost detained because we only had copies of our passports with us.
Today is Flag Day, a national holiday. No school today, so there is plenty of time to bask in this hangover (Kyle and I were out late -- a custom to which we are yet unaccostumed -- with some very sharply-dressed portenos last night) and write to you. I’m having a great time, but I miss everyone back home very much. I can’t wait to hear all about what’s going on there! Write soon!
Besos,
Sandy
Sorry for not writing sooner. It’s been a hell of a week and a half. The flights more or less went off without a hitch. They were just very long and during my layover in B. Juarez International airport in Mexico City, I slept on the floor, which made me feel pretty homeless. I was stumped a little by the immigration card, which asked me my “purpose of entry” into Argentina. There were all these little boxes with words next to them. Was I coming for “trabajo?” Technically, I suppose that’s the end goal, but something tells me that Mr. Argentina, who won’t let foreigners have a bank account or a monthly phone plan (at some point I’ll have to get a burner and pay as I go), would be displeased with my simply informing him I am going to work in his country. I suspect he might respond with a snarky comment about my needing something called a visa, at which point I could offer him my Bank of America credito/debito (no effectivo). At this point he will either mistake me for the silly, stupid (pero linda!) American girl who just doesn’t translate and let it slide, wink and take the bribe, or, more likely, he will introduce me to his good friend, Mr. Argentine Prison. I’ve just realized that I’m still referring to an entire country as Mr. Argentina, that it makes little sense (my Spanish sucks and instead of that getting better, my English is just getting worse), and that there are future, actual run-ins with policia to my tale, so I’ll abandon this hypothetical and say, without segway (human transporter)—I did not check the “trabajo” box on the immigration card. Another box I did not check was “educacion.” I considered “salud” – indeed, one beneficiary of this trip is my mental health. But flagging myself as “crazy American” would be perhaps an unflattering introduction. “Convenciones” struck me as an intriguing option. “Otros?” I wondered if I’d have to provide a follow up, in which case, would “I hear porteno men are hot” be acceptable? Before settling on “vaccaciones,” I heeded the warning below: NOTICE – Travelers entering as “transitory” residents are not allowed to work in the country. Infringers may be declared “illegal residents” and forced to leave the national territory by a certain date. I hope I don’t get deported.
Once through customs, I followed the super-specific pick-up directions provided by my school: “We have arranged an airport pick-up for you based on the information that follows below. As you exit the baggage claim area at the International Terminal you will see the VIP Car booth on the left side, next to the “Meeting Point.” Look for the logo, which is a crown with five stars above it. The booth area is before you exit the “Arrivals Hall.” Your name should be on a sign posted in this booth. You will be asked to sign a pink voucher, which is proof that you were taken to your destination. This message will self-destruct in ten seconds.” I sat in the front seat of the cab (the porter laid my guitar across the back, leaving me little choice). The driver, Ariel kept telling me how pretty my ojos were, and I wanted to tell him to keep his ojos on the road, but I played the silly, stupid American girl who just doesn’t translate, shrugging and laughing uncomfortably when he reached over and squeezed my knee. I thought back to a guidebook that had mentioned the Argentine version of personal space (men, for example, greet each other with one kiss on the cheek). According to the guidebook, the physical-contact-wary foreigner may be made uncomfortable by the close-talking porteno. Back in the cab, I wondered where one draws the line between cultural difference and sexual predator. Suddenly we were stopped in a dark street, and I realized I had no way of knowing whether this was my host mother’s home or where cab drivers take unsuspecting American girls to do bad things to them. The suspense built. Ariel said some more Spanish things. I said “no comprendo.” He gave me his card, which had his cell phone number handwritten on it and asked if I would call him. I shrugged and laughed uncomfortably. Then my host mother, Elsa, answered the door. The next day at Spanish school orientation, they had us sign a list of safety precautions, which included bullet-point “Do not sit in the front seat of cabs” and bullet-point “Women should avoid smiling at or making eye-contact with men because they may think you are interested in forming a deeper relationship.”
There was this other girl, Kyle, staying at Elsa’s, who left this morning for Ecuador. She lived in Costa Rica for a year when she was younger and thus speaks well. We spent the entire semana y media together, and she did a lot of translating for me. This was good and bad for obvious reasons. We did a lot of fun things together, like eat pollo suprema suiza (“Chicken to the Swiss” – we also encountered delicacies like pasta a la mantequilla, translated on menus as “pasta to the butter”). Chicken to the Swiss is fried chicken under melted cheese, served with fries. One day, we took the subte the wrong way and were confused when we reached the end of the line but hadn’t passed our stop. When everyone got off, we deduced that we should, as well. Another train pulled in across the platform, and then there were two sitting there. We must have been looking quite befuddled because a man pointed and laughed at us, before explaining that both were going the same way. I decided this was subway karma for all the times I rolled my eyes at people at 8th Ave who didn’t understand that both trains go to Brooklyn.
Another thing that happens a lot is people warning us of places we shouldn’t go and then us going there. As is the norm in Argentina, there’s currently a lot going on politically and economically. Much of it has to do with inflation and taxes on soy. Workers are unhappy. The subte employees went on strike the other day, and there are a lot of protests and demonstrations in the streets, especially near Congresso. We are told these are “peligrosos” and that we should stay away. Yesterday, we stumbled across one such protest and promptly found a window seat in a nearby café and had some chicken to the Swiss.
Kyle wandered into a non-touristy neighborhood by herself one day, and someone came up behind her and told her she shouldn’t be there. If we take a picture of a funny storefront (like the one near our apartment called New York that has lots of shiny dresses in it), people will stop in the street to tell us to be careful with our camera. Bruno (the director of Linguatec, where I’m taking my Spanish classes – he’s tiny and painfully shy and I want to put him in my pocket) told us to carry a dummy wallet with only a little bit of money in it in case someone mugs us. And never, ever, have your real passport on you, everyone says, though it’s illegal here to go anywhere without documentation (identification). We carry copies, instead.
It’s been hard for us to tell whether people are being overly cautious or if it actually is worse here than in some other big city, like New York (I survived Baltimore, for crying out loud! Don’t they have El Wire here?). We’ve devised a system by which to gauge our safety in a given neighborhood. It goes like this: It stands to reason that people with babies probably won’t get mugged (yes, it does). Therefore, one’s safety is directly proportional to the number of babies in one’s vicinity. So, if we ever suspect that we should maybe fear for our lives, we stop and count babies. The more babies, the better. There is one exception to this rule: If there is only one baby, someone could have stolen it and taken it to a place where there weren’t any other babies, and we wouldn’t want to be in a place with the kind of people who steal babies. Thus, the scale: 0 babies = hold tight to your wallet and walk with purpose. 1 baby = get the hell away. 2 babies = stroll or walk slowly while humming to yourself. 3 babies = speak loudly in English and ask a lot of people in broken Spanish which way to the McCafe (a South American phenomenon! It’s like Starbucks, but even fancier and cleaner if you can believe it, but with the McDonald’s brand and you don’t need t-Mobile to use the free wi-fi). 4 or more babies = lie down and take a nap on the sidewalk with a sign strung around your neck which reads “There are many American dollars in my pockets.”
There is a stray cat that lives in our building. We call her Gatita (translation: "teeny tiny little cat"), and when she hears us coming, she runs to greet us like a dog, meowing at the top of her lungs. We think the neighbors feed her, but she seems pretty starved for attention because she will just rub and rub and rub up against your leg, and if you pick her up, she will purr maniacally, crawl up on your shoulder, and nuzzle your face with hers. I want to put her in my other pocket.
The other day at lunch, I ordered a salad (como vos, Candy!), and when I didn’t understand the dressing options, the waiter brought me all of them. Another waiter had to bring over another table because all the dressings wouldn’t fit on ours.
We met a muy guapo porteno boy named Juani on the street the other night. He was carrying a violin, and we were drinking vino tinto (rojo) out of a plastic bag. He drank some of our wine and told us where to find a “Bohemian” bar nearby, where we met up with him after an unusually drunk dinner at our host mother’s. There were some people singing and playing guitar and a guy tap dancing whose name was Tomas. He gave us his card. I’m doing pretty well with networking here, don’t you think? So far, I’ve gotten cards from a cab driver and a tap dancer. It was a muy divertido night. Did I mention that Juani is muy guapo? I smiled at and made eye-contact with him. He’s going to give me guitar lessons for ten American dollars an hour, which is quite a bargain, compared to the $50 that Mr. Caine charges me in Williamsburg (I will have to have a discussion with Mr. Caine when I get back). Anyway, I thought you’d be happy to know that Operation Boobie Circus is continuing on the international front.
Some important words/phrases I learned: Coger, which in other countries is used like tomar, for “to take” or “to have,” here means “to fuck.” In Spain, for example, one could tell someone, “Cogi el autobus.” If you said that here, however, someone might respond, “Como cogiste un autobus? Ja-ja-ja!” I also learned how to say “Go take a big shit” in Spanish, but I forgot, so I just keep saying it in English.
This weekend, I traveled north with Kyle and another girl from Spanish school named Jessica to Iguazu, which borders Brazil and Paraguay and is home to the cataratas (waterfalls). They were magnificent and I took an entire roll of film, but I’m not confident in my ability to do them justice, so I suggest you see what Wikipedia has to say about them. It is, however, probably worth mentioning the 17-hour bus ride (EACH WAY) we endured to reach them. “Endured” is probably a poor word choice because the bus we took was maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I foresee a wedding day in my future, when I will tell my husband-to-be, “You are the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He will say, “Second, sweetie? What’s first?” My response: “Super Cama” (I recommend the Via Bariloche line). Imagine the most comfortable Lay-Z-Boy you’ve ever been in, but it reclines to 180-degrees! Then, mientras you’re lying there, someone keeps coming by and putting food and coffee and champagne in front of you. I want to live in this bus.
On the return trip, we were stopped four times by police, who came on board with drug dogs and checked documentation. The severity of the situation didn’t translate for me, but afterwards Kyle explained that we were almost detained because we only had copies of our passports with us.
Today is Flag Day, a national holiday. No school today, so there is plenty of time to bask in this hangover (Kyle and I were out late -- a custom to which we are yet unaccostumed -- with some very sharply-dressed portenos last night) and write to you. I’m having a great time, but I miss everyone back home very much. I can’t wait to hear all about what’s going on there! Write soon!
Besos,
Sandy
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