Damelo! (Give it to me!)

Dear Candy,

It’s been a while since I wrote. Disculpame. All these things keep happening and I keep thinking, “I need to tell Candy about this!” and then I keep not telling you about them and now they’ve piled up into this huge pile and I don’t know where to begin. So, themes:

{Theme: The name Juan.}

I haven’t seen much of Juan or Juani lately, but I have been spending quite a bit of time with my new dear friend Juantastic. One of the volunteer students from the TEFL course (a component of the class was practice teaching sessions), Juantastic (referred to as such because when I saved his phone number in my phone, I had too many Juans—other people liked it, and it’s stuck) is a 58-year-old filmmaker of sorts (for unknown reasons he sometimes introduces himself as Tati, after the French comedic filmmaker Jacques Tati, which contributed to the formation of “Juantastic”), has lived all over the world (but currently with his mother in BA), and speaks bits and pieces of many languages, all at the same time. This makes him almost as hard to understand in English as in Spanish. Presumably, he is Argentine, though vaguely black and, depending on the day, he will tell you he is “from” Zaire, Brazil, Paraguay, France, or Switzerland. His stories include, but are certainly not limited to: the time he proposed marriage to Princess Diana at a nightclub in Italy, his close friendship with Charlie Chaplin or one of his wives, and where he got his black-and-white-checkered flannel shirt (“chemise,” he says) that is identical to my black-and-white-checkered flannel shirt and why he failed to wear it on the day we designated as our twin day. When questioned on the trueness of Juantastic’s tales, K assured us that bits and pieces of all of them (but all of none of them) are true.

Juantastic has a car, which he refers to interchangeably as “The Porsche” or “The Ferrari.” The rear passenger side door doesn’t open, and the front passenger side door must be opened from the inside because the outside has no handle. The backseat slides around, and there is a constant and overwhelming reek of fume. I didn’t check, but I believe there is also a hole in the floor in front of the driver’s seat through which Juan sticks his feet and runs to make the car move. One evening after class, a few of us TEFLers decided to journey to K’s house in the “suburbs” (think the Bronx, not Westchester) for some wine, Tango, and pizza. “It is good thing I bring the Ferrari today,” Juantastic said, as K, Raymi, and Anna positioned themselves on the oscillating backseat and I climbed into the front with Juantastic’s Bernese Mountain Dog, Shakira. Riding in a car with Juantastic is never not an adventure. As a general rule, he doesn’t recognize red lights or one-way signs, and on the return trip from K’s, he all but came to a complete stop in the middle of a busy street, so that we could observe the policemen beating some (apparent) drug dealers on the sidewalk.


{Theme: Places that used to be theaters and are now other things.}

A while back, Juan (the younger) took me to the bookstore El Ateneo, which used to be the theater The Grand Splendid. It is grand and splendid and everything that literature and theater ought to be (Juan used the word “classic”). It has billowing crimson curtains and a soaring ceiling painted with angels and things that fly, and you can curl up with a potential purchase in a box seat. Juan and I sipped espressos while a tuxedoed man played the piano in the café that was once the stage where such Tango legends as Carlos Gardel performed. Reciting Spanish sentences amidst all this splendor and grandness, I felt a bit like I was acting a part myself.

There is a club/bar here on the outskirts of Palermo that also used to be a theater, aptly named Teatro, where I attended an “underground,” or “indie” (read: hipster) fiesta called Bubumara, at which I was introduced to a local band that made me think of both the Moldy Peaches and Gwar, though less for their sound than for their use of costumes: a keyboard-playing marionette (he wore a giant hand hat with strings that connected to his wrists), a guitar-or-bass-playing piece of popcorn, a flute and horn section (as I recall, they were shiny and striped and possibly resembled bumblebees), a man-sized iron (as in, with which to de-wrinkle clothes), and a singing/electric-banjo-playing pirate. I think there was also an accordion (if not, I wanted there to have been one—Boobie Circus, too, needs an accordion, in my opinion). I turned to Nacho, the cute history and economics student from La Plata (a city about an hour away from BA), who was standing next to me and whose name makes me think of chips and who taught me that popcorn is “pochoclo,” and with whom I later discussed French New Wave in Spanish (barely, but how proud are you of me!).

“Uh, disculpame… Conoces… Como se llama esta banda?” I said. “La Manzana Cromatica Protoplasmatica,” he said, and I said “Queeeee?” and he laughed and wrote it down for me on the back of an old Subte card. Supposedly, their lyrics are funny. Due to my current knowledge of the Spanish language (or lack thereof), I am unable to confirm or deny this claim at this time. I can, however, verify the existence of a song called “El Payaso Existencial” (“The Existential Clown”). Likewise, I can safely say that I am a fanatico of the song “Elastico.” En mi opinion, es fantastico. La Manzana Cromatica Protoplasmatica can and should be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGNXk9FiN_E&feature=related.

Next up: the grocery store that used to be a theater. I bought some frozen broccoli.

{Theme: Bands that wear funny costumes.}

My new fashion designer friend, Raffaello, took me to see his friends’ band play the other night. The band is called Anetol Delmonte, and the show was “arbol aqui arbol alla” (tree here tree there). The band members had large tree hats, which are exactly what they sound like. They also had a dancing tree, which was really a dancing person dressed like a tree. What was stranger was the somewhat formal setting of this “recital,” which was café-esque, with tables spaced evenly apart in rows facing a stage. We sat, sharing a nice bottle of red wine (I would expect this type of music to be enjoyed while standing and drinking cheap beer, possibly out of a Styrofoam or red Solo cup). What I believe is Anetol Delmonte’s cover of a Sumo song can be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTRS0w_Vq9E&feature=related.

{Theme: Nachos (short for Ignacios and unrelated to ground beef, guacamole, or sour cream).}

An accidental peep show the other night turned into my befriending my across-the-street vecino (neighbor), Nacho the kinesiologist. It went like this: Anna and me settling down to watch Lara Croft, Tomb Raider (I’d like to say it was dubbed in Spanish, but that would be a lie). Me saying, “Che, that guy across the street is taking off his shirt.” Us watching. Him noticing. Him waving. Us waving. Later, Anna going home and him writing his gmail on a piece of paper and holding it up in the window and me not being able to read it due to lighting. Me going out on my balcony to tell him I couldn’t read it due to lighting and him opening his window to tell me to meet him downstairs. Me meeting him downstairs. Him handing me the piece of paper with his gmail written on it. Us returning to our respective apartments and gchatting. He doesn’t speak any English, which makes him, conveniently, my target audience for Spanish practice. With his kinesiological expertise and assistance, I’ve increased my Spanish body part vocabulary: espalda (back—also, his professional specialty), piernas (legs), cuello (neck), hombros (shoulders), tobillos (ankles), rodillas (knees), caderas (hips), pantorillas (calfs), rostro (face), pechos (breasts), pezon (nipple), cola (butt), cuerpo (body), exhibicionista (exhibitionist).

{Theme: I miss you!}

Lots and lots and lots of love,
Sandy