Boobie Book Club and the Redneck Feminist: 10 Rules for a Productive and Fulfilling Girls’ Camping Weekend

1. Don’t tell your dad that you are going on a girls-only trip to climb Old Rag and talk about Tina Fey’s Bossypants. He will worry that the “wrong people” will mistake your feminism for lesbianism and murder you. What he is referring to is the gruesome 1996 slaying of two female hikers along the Appalachian Trail which remains unsolved to this day – for the sake of comforting Dad, you might want to point out that this specific crime also remains unrepeated. But going back to the original rule, it is probably best if you steer clear of this conversation all together because, let's face it, it’s kind of a downer and a bad way to start things off.

2.Choose your campsite carefully. A discerning camper knows that no matter how many campsites are available at the time of registration, it is essential that you preview them all before committing to one. There are a number of factors that one should consider when selecting the best place to pitch her tent. Among other ideal conditions, such as a lack of rocks, “widow maker” trees, and little girl ghosts on bicycles, proximity to rednecks deserves special attention. While it might make more sense to some people (such as people who went to fancy universities, listen to NPR, and/or master the didgeridoo) to try to stay as far away from rednecks as possible, you must remember that cultural exchanges are important if you want to be an open-minded, well-rounded feminist, so you should strive to place yourself in diverse settings whenever possible (in the end, you probably have more in common with the four Chinese tourists playing mahjong on a picnic table next to the other campsite that you were considering). Keep in mind: rednecks, like black bear cubs and deer, are just as afraid of you as you are of them.

3.Check the weather, and for god’s sake, woman, seam seal your tent! Otherwise, you will end up sleeping in your car.

4.When the man at the gas station asks you how much wood you would like to buy, do not respond, “Enough for one fire, please.” This is not a thing.

5.Blow on it. This is how you get your campfire to grow. It is also what rednecks shout repeatedly at girls from the next campsite over when their first strategy of just standing there and staring at them for an hour fails to get their attention. For the record, fanning the fire with a Tupperware container lid will do the trick, while also entertaining your neighbors from Bumpass, Virginia (name of place has NOT been changed to protect rednecks). About five minutes after we got our fire started, the torrential downpour resumed and we sought refuge in the leaky tent (see rule #3).

6.When the only girl in the group of rednecks invites you to toast marshmallows over their propane-enhanced fire, take her up on it. This will lead to one of the cultural exchanges mentioned above and enrich everyone’s understanding of social groups that differ from their own. You will learn that sometimes women are linebackers on their high school football teams until they drop out, after which it is against the rules to play anymore. They will learn that sometimes women work in neuroscience labs and experiment on rats.

7.Don’t ask the girl redneck how she broke her leg. While her ability to tackle and be tackled by men on football fields is admirable, the fact that she gets in physical fights with guys who push her down hard enough that she ends up in a cast for 4-to-8 weeks is not quite the breed of feminism that you’re going for.

8.If you think that there is a possibility that you will be struck by lightning, assume this position:
Granted, it looks kind of silly, but in the event that you are indeed struck by lightning, it will divert the electricity away from your vital organs and increase your chances of survival. Then, once the storm has passed, you can play leap frog. This tip falls into the same category as not dropping your hands to your sides during a stampede and spitting to find which way is up before you start digging after you’ve been buried by an avalanche. These are just a few of the many dire situations that feminists worldwide risk finding themselves in every day.

9. Don’t buy a “zesty” pickle-in-a-bag from the camp store. While you may find the phallic cartoon pickle man on the package intriguing after a few glasses of wine (read: a few swigs directly from the bottle that you pushed the cork into with your chapstick because you didn't bring a corkscrew), there are multiple reasons why this is never a good idea. You’re a feminist, after all.

10. Don’t feed the animals. This means throwing your uneaten, neon-colored alleged pickle product in the bear-safe trash cans which can be found near the bathrooms and scattered among the campsites (opening them the first time can be a little tricky, but that’s kind of the point, and once you get the hang of it, it’s a practically effortless procedure). It may be obvious to you, but wild animals do not realize that zesty pickles-in-bags are not viable sources of sustenance. They will come and eat whatever you leave lying around. Then they will get used to human contact. Then they will die. This is a simple but important point: It may be within a feminist’s right to be truculent at times, but it is never ok to kill animals for no reason.

renewing my visa again, again

Manuel and I went to Colonia yesterday. It was a 70s, clear skies day, a perfect day for a visa run. We rented a pair of rickety bikes -- Manuel's was gray because he likes things that are not so black and white, and mine was pink because I'm a girl -- and rode along the water to the old dilapidated bullfighting ring that I first visited about this time 2 years ago. The holes in the fence surrounding it that we'd climbed through then have since been patched, and we didn't go in. Across the street, there was a sign nailed to a tree that said "antiguedades," but there weren't any antiques for sale.

On the way back, we had to climb a hill. It wasn't a very big hill, but it left me winded, and I remember thinking, "How the hell did I ever make it over the Rockies?" But it was all downhill after that, which is a good thing when you're on a bicycle.

Back in town, we didn't go to the historical district, where there's a lighthouse built inside the ruins of an old convent, a tree growing out of the wall of a 17th century house, a museum with a whale skeleton. After all, there's only so many times you can look at Uruguay's oldest church without it getting old. I've been there before, and yesterday I just wasn't in the mood for time traveling or taking black and white pictures of shadows on cobblestones.

What I was in the mood for (as was Manuel) was drinking beer in a plaza, and that's what we did for the rest of the afternoon, until it was time to return the bikes and head back to Buenos Aires for another 90 days.

By the town's main plaza, there was a cart selling fried food and drinks (including very cold beer), with some plastic tables on the sidewalk. We picked a table in the sun and leaned our bikes against a nearby tree. Manuel asked an old man at another table if the bikes would be ok like that, unlocked. "No pasa nada," the old man assured us. "Esto es Colonia." He informed us that, in Colonia, people didn't bother stealing old bikes and, after a pause, added "Aca roban los bancos," which either means that they rob banks or that they steal benches. We didn't clarify.

As one beer turned into 4 beers (we could pay with Argentine pesos, but we only had a 50 and, since they couldn't give us change in Argentine pesos, we decided it was better just to spend the whole 50 on beer rather than accumulate a bunch of Uruguayan pesos), our conversation wandered all over the place. At one point, Manuel administered a makeshift IQ test to me that was meant to resemble one that he'd been using in one of his psychology classes (it was all about finding patterns, and I found a lot of patterns, but not the right ones). In another moment, we were critiquing Argentine infrastructure.

It started with me teaching Manuel what the word "gutter" meant. I don't remember how it came up. Maybe I was trying to convince him that we should adopt a dog to save it from a life in the gutter. This is a safe bet, as I am often trying to convince him that we should adopt a dog. Other arguments have included "because they're cute" and "because I want one."

"What's a gutter?" he asked.
"Like, I don't know, maybe where they find you after the mafia kills you," I said.
"I don't think we really have a mafia in Argentina," he said. "It takes too much organization. We only have disorganized crime here."
I laughed and thought about another way to explain the essence of a gutter. "Ok, then, what the water from the street goes into."
"Ah, that sounds like something else you need organization for."

Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that I've been here for 2 years. I like it here, but it can also be frustrating. Argentina, like Colonia, while charming enough, is a little backwards in certain ways. There are some things that I don't think I'll ever fully get used to, like streets that flood and cars that treat you more like targets than obstacles at intersections and inflation rates that make me think of the Weimar Republic (where, so they say, if you went to a bar planning on drinking two glasses of beer, it would behoove you to order them both at the same time because if you waited to order the second one until you'd finished the first one, the price would have already gone up).

Some things, though, have become routine, like going back to Uruguay, over and over and over again. How many times, I wonder, does one have to renew her "temporary" status in a place before she becomes permanent?

Like Toilets that Flush Backwards

My grandmother Helen is pretty well-known among a certain circle of New York and Cleveland Jews and members of our family for sending people random junk in the mail. Often it is a newspaper clipping, her perception of your interest in which is not always clear. If you are lucky, she has scribbled an explanation on the back of the envelope -- a New York Times review of a play, for example, might be accompanied with a note like this: "Tony Kushner was your Uncle Hugh's roommate at Columbia, but Tony was mean to Hughie because he wasn't a homosexual." But more often than not, there is no such note, and you are left to guess why she has sent you a page full of real estate listings in Crown Heights or an advertisement for the sociology department at the New School (the latter, you suspect, may have been instigated by that one time you mentioned sociolinguistics in passing).

When visiting her in East Hampton, my brother showed her a drawing of an anime character he had copied from a graphic novel, and a week later she sent him an invitation to the opening of an exhibition on American painting that had taken place six months earlier in California (my brother lives in Virginia). One time she sent me a used bra that was at least 4 sizes too big for me. And I'm pretty sure my cousin Rebecca once got a pair of pantyhose with a hole in them.

Sometimes she does send something useful, but often with strange ideas as to how you should use it. Not too long ago, she sent me a small rubber cosmetics bag with an assortment of sample-sized eyeshadows, lipsticks, and mascaras inside -- the kind you get sometimes as a free gift when you buy other makeup -- along with a note suggesting I use the bag as a clutch when I go out dancing at night.

Once in a while, though, a real gem arrives. Shortly before returning to Buenos Aires, I received a package from her that, along with a bunch of crap I didn't want, contained an old necklace of hers that I actually thought looked pretty cool. Now, I was a bit conflicted at first about wearing the necklace, as it just so happens that this necklace is made out of ivory, which, at least in theory, I am against. But, like, a vegan friend of mine who once reasoned that it was OK for him to wear leather as long as it was vintage (invoking a logic that was based more on fashion, I believe, than ethics), I decided that it was OK for me to wear the necklace because the poachers responsible for the necklace were probably long gone by now and, therefore, posed no threat to the lives of any current or future elephants.

Plus, this necklace has actual magical powers.

At first, I thought it was just a good luck necklace. I was, after all, wearing this necklace when I took my laptop to the Apple store in order to purchase a new battery and, instead of charging me 150 dollars, the guy working at the genius bar gave me the battery for free, presumably just to be nice (my warranty on the previous battery had run out a long time ago).

As an isolated incident, of course, this does not prove that my necklace has any magical powers. Perhaps a stranger had recently given the genius bar guy a free car and he was simply paying it forward. Maybe he was just in a good mood. Maybe it was actually my cleavage that had magical powers.

But I was also wearing this necklace when I boarded my plane back to Buenos Aires and no one was seated next to me, giving me extra room to stretch out and sleep comfortably on the overnight flight.

Clearly, this necklace of mine had magical powers. And up to this point, it seemed that these powers were exclusively good.

Unfortunately, like toilets that flush backwards, my necklace's powers appear to reverse on the other side of the equator. I was wearing the necklace when I got off the plane and Manuel's brother's car wouldn't start. I was still wearing the necklace when, after getting the car running, Martin slammed on the brakes on the way out of the airport parking lot. We didn't hit the car in front of us, but the bag with my laptop in it slid off the seat next to me and hit the floor pretty hard.

At this point, it should have become clear to me that this necklace had ceased to be the good luck charm like it had been in the northern hemisphere, but was rather proving to be somewhat of a curse. But I left the necklace on and was still wearing it when we got home and I tried to turn on my computer and it wouldn't start.

Then I wore it to the MacStation, where the tech support guy informed me that, unlike at genius bars, at MacStatons, you have to pay 150 pesos just to have them look at your computer.

And I even wore it when I went back to get the diagnosis and was informed that not only did I need a new hard drive and would probably lose most of my data (only some of which is backed up, of course -- thanks, necklace), it would also take over a month for the new hard drive to arrive.

To make matters worse, soon after I got back to Buenos Aires, the city suffered some of the coldest temperatures it has seen in years.

I took off the necklace.

My First Essay on Pragmatics

While I've been home, one of the questions I've been getting the most from people is if Manuel and I ever experience any sort of language barrier. I answer that, generally speaking, no, we do not, and explain that Manuel grew up going to a bilingual school -- he even learned his colors in English before Spanish, for some reason.

But more than that, I think it's true, as Manuel himself once suggested, that when you live with someone for a while or are around them all the time, you end up establishing your own (inter)personal mini-language (regardless of whether or not you share the same native tongue), the components of which would not necessarily make automatic sense to the untrained ear, but which are unambiguous -- crystal clear -- to those in-the-know.

For a close group of friends of mine in college, our mini-language involved referring to objects by their colors. If I wanted Rina to hand me the blue blanket off the back of the couch, for instance, I might say, "Hey Rins, will you pass me the blue?" Someone unfamiliar with this way of speaking might respond with a, "Huh? The blue what?" but Rina would know exactly what I meant, just as I would know that if Sophie and I were making omelettes and she were to say, "I need the yellowish orange," I should scan the vicinity for the nearest yellowish orange object and then give her the bag of shredded cheddar cheese.

And so it is with Manuel and me. We've developed our own way of communicating, our own mini-language. For example, sometimes I make nouns into verbs, and he has gotten used to this. Now, it should be noted that, while among native English speakers, I've noticed, this practice is not all that uncommon (and even if I said "water me" or "beer me" to someone who didn't themself -- it should be a word, it really, really shoud -- say things like this, it would more or less make sense given the context), in Spanish (apparently), people just don't talk like that.

Nonetheless, when I ask Manuel, "me aguas?" or, "me cervezas?" he will pass me the water or beer without hesitating, albeit also without being quiet -- he will usually protest my bastardizing of his language by shouting, "Don't say that!" or, "La puta que te partio!" (roughly translated, "the whore who gave birth to you!")

Another aspect of our mini-language has to do with vocabulary. Despite Manuel's near-flawless English, his vocabulary is not without its holes -- for a long time, he didn't know the word "oven" and there are certain vegetables, like carrots and lettuce, that he either doesn't know or just doesn't bother to come up with mid-sentence. And so a lot of our conversations include sentences like this: "Baby, will you turn on the horno for the meat? I'm going to cut up the zanahorias and put them in the lechuga with the tomatoes."

For the most part, we get by just fine like this -- conversations primarily in English with Spanish words thrown in from here to there. Still, there are times when things do get lost in translation and communication does temporarily break down. For example, one night not too long ago, we had just finished a late (though not so late by Argentine standards) dinner and Manuel said that he was going to make some black tea, and did I want him to make me some, as well? I said no thank you, that I was going to go to bed soon and didn't want to have anything with caffeine in it.

To which he responded, "No, I asked if you wanted some tea."

"No, I don't want anything with caffeine in it," I said, not sure why I was having to repeat myself.

"No, no, no," he came back with. "I said, 'Do you want some TEA?'"

At this point, I began to suspect that something was amiss, but, like the toddler who foolishly reaches for the hot stove a second time, not expecting to get burned, I repeated yet again, more slowly and louder (because sometimes it seems like just raising the volume is enough to get your point across), "I. DON'T. WANT. CAFFEINE."

"But tea doesn't have caffeine in it," he said.

"Black tea sure as hell does," I said and thought, have you been living under a rock your whole life?

"No it doesn't," he said. "It has te-eine."

"What the fuck is te-eine?"

"Coffee has cafeina, and tea has teina." And this is how I learned that in Spanish there's a different word for the caffeine in coffee and the caffeine in tea.

"Well, not in English, it doesn't," I said.

In the end, it was relieving to know that it was just Argentina where my boyfriend had been living his whole life, not under a rock, but, as I confirmed with you, Candy, when I went to visit you in Princeton, regardless of the language in which you are speaking, the substances in question in coffee and tea are molecularly identical, so it's not a good idea to drink either one of them right before you go to bed.

In other words, what's in a name? That which we call caffeine by any other name would keep you up all night.

Groggy Thoughts Upon Returning to America

The flight from Buenos Aires to Houston got in around 5 a.m., and I went directly to the gate of my connecting flight to take a nap on the floor. I slept for a while, before being awakened by the voice of a woman nearby who was loudly telling her young child to stop crying (if I'd been in Argentina, I would have perhaps not understood her and have been able to tune it out, but -- sigh -- welcome back to the land of overheard conversations).

Sitting up and looking around, I noticed that the waiting area had filled up significantly in the time I'd been asleep, and I suddenly felt too self-conscious about being sprawled out on the floor in front of a bunch of people to go back to sleep. I decided to go buy a doughnut and a cup of coffee. This cost me less than three dollars, which didn't strike me as very much -- especially for an airport. Despite the small sum, I was allowed to pay with a credit card, which was a good thing, I realized as I fetched it from my wallet, since the only cash I had was pesos.

As I sat in the food court eating my doughnut, the feelings that came to me were mixed: comfort and convenience (the ease of my small talk with the immigration officer, paying with a credit card!), along with something akin to queasiness. The latter(est) perhaps had something to do with my lack of a good night's sleep, or the fact that my stomach had grown unaccustomed to dougnuts in its South American sabbatical, but it brought to mind the way I feel sometimes returning home from work when all the windows in the apartment have been shut all day. There's a closed -- cerrado -- quality, if not a smell, to the air.

Airports, I suppose, do physically have something in common with a shut-up apartment, but I had a feeling this feeling was more related to the announcement I'd heard as I was coming through security reminding all travelers that the current security warning level was "orange." For this reason, it was very important that everyone do their part by reporting any suspicious activity or behavior.

Perhaps I've been out of the country too long -- maybe it's all the Spanglish I've been speaking -- but I found it hard upon hearing this to get a clear idea of just how dangerous orange danger really was. Isn't it always a good idea -- common sense, even -- to report suspicious activity or behavior?

The only thing orange made me think of was how someone once told me that the most popular color for decorating doctor's office waiting rooms was orange because orange was a "neutral" color, that in general people have neither strongly positive nor strongly negative feelings toward the color. If this was true, did that make the current security warning level "indifferent"?

Was there some sort of color wheel involved in this system, I wondered, in which orange was more dangerous than yellow (and much more dangerous than purple), but less dangerous than red?

All ROY-G-BIVing aside, it ocurred to me that perhaps a good ole' fashioned numerical scale of 1-10 might provide a clearer reference point and leave less room for confusion. Case in point: While I was walking through the airport, a guy with a bunch of explosives strapped to his body passed me, but I was so caught up in my thoughts about doctors' offices and rainbows that I wasn't able to alert the proper authorities in time before he blew up the whole airport.

That didn't really happen, and I'm not writing to you from beyond the grave. It was just a joke. But as I was putting my shoes back on after going through security, I heard another announcement informing all passengers that any inappropriate jokes would not be taken lightly. And this is why, I think, the Houston aiport evoked my stinky cerrado apartment in the evenings -- though, who knows? Maybe the same kind of announcements are made in the Buenos Aires airport, where it's just easier for me to tune things out.

P.S. You know you've been out of the States too long when you get back and find yourself peeling apart two-ply toilet paper before using it. Because to not do so just seems wasteful...

addendum to the pot post

Although I did once see two policemen beating a man on the sidewalk, it's not entirely unjust to say that the police here will let you get away with murder-- if the price is right. In fact, you've probably heard that bribing the police to get away with minor infractions (inoffensive offenses) is about as common here as the glass-walled-in smoking sections in cafes, where you can watch the smokers smoking in their fog of smokey smoke from the safety of your own unadulterated air. But don't sit too close to the door, or you'll be smacked in the face with a backdraft-ish wave of secondhand smoke every time someone goes in or comes out of one of these pressurized hot boxes of tobacco.

While smoking pot has been decriminalized, it isn't legal. Especially smoking pot while operating a motor vehicle. The other night, a few of Manu's friends were doing just that (shame on them) when they were pulled over by the police. The offenders all consulted their billeteras and negotiated a payoff. Then, it was determined that the corner they were stopped at was too well-lit, and some arrangement was made like, go three blocks down that dark street over there and pull over and give us the money. Well, they'd gone about five blocks when the guy driving remembered he was supposed to be looking for a parking spot. At about the same time, the police car drove up next to them and one of the officers gestured out the window something like, oh, forget it, you dumb dead beats, and drove off. Apparently, they were too high to be bothered with.


Disclaimer: Let it be known that I, Sandy, am hereby in no way promoting this kind of behavior (kids, don't try this at home). It is dangerous. But, then again, so is war.

foxy ladies

Manu's madre came back from Germany last week and is staying with us until Thursday. She seems to think my Spanish has improved since she left in July, and she must not be wrong because not only was I able to understand her entire end of a phone conversation she had the other day while I sat across the room pretending to read (pero no soy chismosa -- de verdad!), but I was also able to participate in the 3-hour conversation she and I had after she hung up. Just me and her. For three hours. In Spanish.

I fumbled my way through some sentences (no doubt riddled with grammatical and syntactical errors), but mostly Cristina did the talking. Here is a translation of the story she told me:

The Saga of the Country Club Squatters

The house that Manu grew up in is about an hour outside the city in what they call a "country," which is a residential country club. Walled-in, security-guarded, and complete with two golf courses, seven polo fields, extensive horse stables, soccer fields, tennis courts, club pool, club house and restaurant, bar, shopping, a gas station, and a Coto (Walmart-ish, but more bougie), it's a good place to summer or raise children.

Now they're trying to sell the house (a slow process), and in the meantime they rent it. The woman who's been living in it for the past year or so is a rich politician of some sort, and very cheap (it turns out). She's littered the house with crappy furniture, which, in Cristina's opinion, makes it harder to sell, and what's more, she's stopped paying rent.

Let me explain: Living in this neighborhood isn't cheap. On top of the price of the house itself, monthly utilities are very high, and you have to pay membership fees that almost match the amount for the rent. This woman (her name, Alicia, I believe, should be drowned out by groggers like Hamen's on Purim), who knows that Cristina has to pay these fees if no one is renting the house, and who also knows that it is hard to rent a house like this in the winter, came to Cristina at the end of last summer with this proposal: she had to move out because she "couldn't afford" to keep paying the rent, but if Cristina would let her stay there rent-free until she found a new tenant, she would continue to pay the fees.

Cristina describes this woman as like a fox. I describe her as a bitch (a side note: one of my students is tickled that in English the words "bitch" and "witch" are so similar in sound and meaning, and that she can use both to describe her mother-in-law).

Well, Alicia (boo! hiss!) has been thus living rent-free since March or April. She complains to Cristina about the "poor condition" that the house is in and in the same breath offers to buy it from her for half the asking price. Now that summer is rolling around again, Cristina has decided enough is enough and is kicking her out. The only thing is, the woman said she'd move out two weeks ago and she's still there. My suggestion was to change the locks and sell the furniture.

This story makes Cristina sound like a pushover, but she's not. And this actually isn't the first time someone has tried to take advantage of her good will.

Some years ago, she was renting it to a similarly "foxy" woman, who was living there with her children and came to Cristina bemoaning her economical situation and begging to not pay rent for a few months. At the time, Manu and his brother and sister were all living with Cristina in a rented apartment in the city, and Cristina's response to her tenant was this: "If you don't pay me the rent, then I can't pay my rent. But I have no problem helping you out. If you can't pay the rent, I will just bring my children and we will all live together in the house" (it's a big house, and she wasn't bluffing).

The woman paid the rent.

walking after midnight on scalabrini ortiz

On Scalabrini Ortiz, about halfway between our house and the hostel where Manu works, there's a sidewalk stand that sells flowers and incense and other fragrant things. It's inconspicous enough, nothing eye-catching to set it apart from any other flower stand in the city. Nothing famous-looking, no plaque marking it as the oldest, best, most traditional. No apparent need to stay open long hours to cater to hoards of life-long loyal patrons or swarms of tourists crowding around to catch sight of the "Famous Buenos Aires Man-Eating-Flower Stand" or the "Plaid-Clad, One-Armed Florist." There's nothing freak show or David Lynch about it. Nothing hyphenation-worthy, nothing special. No, nothing like that.

Still, as I was walking home from the hostel with Manu one night in the wee small hours of the morning, after having taken him dinner while he was working and stayed drinking cerveza until he got off, we passed this flower stand and it was open. All the surrounding storefronts were dark and locked, and it seemed to me odd that it was open at this time of night on a day of the week (Monday) when I could imagine little else open aside from the windows of drug dealers' vans, the legs of local transvestite prostitutes, and the McDonalds across the street. What did this flower and incense and who-knows-what-else stand have in common, I wondered, with said windows and legs and McDonalds?

locos por el porro: tell your children

This week, the Argentinian Supreme Court voted to decriminalize the possession of small amounts of marijuana for personal use by adults in private. According to Cabinet Chief Aníbal Fernández, the move will allow the government to focus its anti-drug efforts on traffickers instead of users, and allow users "to be treated as addicts instead of criminals." (http://www.buenosairesherald.com/BreakingNews/View/10082)

Despite my D.A.R.E. and Cartoon All-Stars education, I´m not particularly concerned that this new law will effect a Reefer Madness wave of pot-induced incidents of manslaughter, suicide, and rape in Buenos Aires. Rather, I doubt it will have much of an effect on anyone who hasn´t already been fined or forced to complete some sort of anti-drug program because a police officer caught them with a joint (as for those who have, I imagine it might make them a little less paranoid while smoking up... or, maybe not).

Nonetheless, I thought this was a good occasion to compile and share some vocabulary related to this now-slightly-less-illegal pastime. I consulted some local "addicts" and came up with the following list:

porro, faso- pot/weed

una vela, un cohete (literally, "missile"), un canuto, un churro (after the oblong tubular shaped pastry by the same name), un porro, porrito ("little cute porro"), un faso, un fasito ("little cute faso"), un paraguayo/paragua (from paraguay, conotation of being not strong; not to be confused with "paraguas," meaning umbrella), un pinito (one that smells like a little cute pine tree)- a joint

estar loco/reloco ("crazy/very crazy"), estar de la cabeza, estar del tomate (roughly, "out-of-your-mind high"; literally, "of the tomato"), estar fumado ("smoked"), estar de la nuca (nuca is the part of your head that meets the top back of your neck, this term comes from the idea of being punched in this location and subsequently knocked out), estar del orto (orto is a euphemism for anus meaning sunset), me pegó ("it hit me")- to be high

una tuca- roach (end of the joint)
tuquera- roach clip
un finito- really skinny joint
un troncho- very thick joint

la punta- the dealer

las sedas- the rolling papers

picar- to separate pot with one´s fingers in preparation for making a joint (there is probably a term for this in English, but I´m no expert, and "to separate pot with one´s fingers in preparation for making a joint" yielded nothing on urban dictionary)

armar un porro, etc.- to roll a joint

una seca- a drag/hit/toke

bajon- munchies

Now that you know the imporant vocabulary, you´re ready for some sentences. Let´s try speaking like a porteño!

"¿Me das una seca?"- "Can I have a hit?"

"Uh, ¡como tira!"- "Oh my, how it pulls!"

"Como pega este fasito!"- "How it does make me high, this little cute joint!"

"Estoy con bajon/ Estoy de bajon/ Tengo bajon/ Vamos a bajonear algo/ Estoy bajoneando pizza."- "I am with munchies/ I am of munchies/ I have munchies/ Let´s go munchies(verb) something/ I have the munchies for pizza."



Take that, Canada.

Of Meat and Meeting

Sometimes I wonder why I don´t have more friends. Then I interact with people.

Sunday night, Manu and I go out to dinner with one of my few sub-equatorial friends Meghan, her mother, who´s in town for the week, Meghan´s friend Danny, and Danny´s recently expatriated friend Felix. We all meet at a popular parilla in San Telmo that boasts meat so tender you can cut it with a spoon-- where, of course, I order fish. So when Felix at the other end of the table starts making the kind of sounds I´ve only ever heard through a wall when someone in another room was watching an adult film, I ask for a bite.

Sure, he says, let me get you a slice-- er, scoop. I return to my own plate and am squeezing lemon on my fish, when I overhear him whisper to Danny, "What´s her name again?" and I, instead of quietly continuing what I´m doing in politely feigned obvliousness, say, pretty loudly, "Jeanette."

Felix turns the same color as the inside of his steak, and I begin apologizing profusely, explaining that the only reason I remember his name is that when I met him yesterday he was talking about how he´d just come from a store named Felix, where he´d bought a t-shirt that said Felix, which he showed me. And then I start talking about the intro psych class I took in college and am rambling on about pneumonic devices and how repetition, like rhymes and acronyms, helps commit things to memory, when I stop myself.

"I´m awkward," I say.

An awkward moment of silence follows.

"Really awkward," I say, realizing that that´s not the best way to break an awkward moment of silence, as another awkward moment of silence follows that is about as unending (and certainly as awkward) as what happens when you divide one by three on a calculator. An era of silence, more like.

Eventually, Meghan´s mom starts talking about the colored antique soda bottles she bought at the fería to accent her newly redocorated bar room back in New Jersey, and how she got the idea from Better Homes and Gardens, or was it House Beautiful? Felix passes me the promised bite of his meat, the consumption of which, indeed, is not unlike an orgasm-- though, in this case, kind of like an orgasm interrupted by your mom walking in. I eat some of Manu´s fries, but don´t finish my fish.

In the taxi home, I´m still thinking about that intro psych class. Maybe I should buy Felix a bottle of fernet, and he can remember me with a limerick:

I once met a girl named Jeanette,
Whose name I did soon forget,
But with this here fernet,
I´ll remember her yet,
Jeanette, Jeanette, Jeanette

Then again, "I once met a girl named Jeanette, who was awkward," has a certain ring to it.

Que los cumplas feliz!

Yesterday was Manu's mom's birthday (and today's my mom's birthday -- hi, mom!). Just as I stereotypically imagine any Latin American, Italian, Greek, or Jewish family function should be, a birthday in Manu's family means a gaggle of family members sitting, standing, and stumbling around a giant table drinking wine and eating meat. Just as the family members are many, so are these birthdays frequent.

Manu dislikes these gatherings. He moped when his Tio Carlos called us lovebirds and seemed not thrilled about the fact that everyone was comparing him to Freud because of his beard and round glasses, and the fact that he studies psychology. "I'm not even studying psychoanalysis! Besides, Freud didn't have long hair," he said, and then frowned at me when I patted him sympathetically on the head and called him my poor Freudito. Then he skulked off to pet the dog. I asked him if it wasn't a bit rude to hide like that, and he responded that, well, not really. His family is used to him disappearing-- indeed, I've heard many times how, growing up, he was always the child who got lost. "Mariana and Martin would follow Cristina like little ducklings," I'm told by various relatives, while Manu wandered off to inspect a dead bird or stick his finger in a crack on the sidewalk. Mom and ducklings would turn a corner, and, oops.

Likewise, he's always been protective of his personal space. Before he could speak in words, he had a vocabulary that consisted of the sounds "la-la" and "ka-ka." "La-la" conveyed favorableness, while "ka-ka" was distaste. He would carry around a big stick, and if someone came too close to him, he would whack them with it and shout, "ka-ka!"

When it comes to extended family, I grew up with plenty of personal space. My cousins, etc. are spread thin (there really aren't very many of them to be spread) from sea to shining sea, and just about the only time we were all ever in the same place was when someone died.

Perhaps that's why I, unlike my better half, actually enjoy these My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding-type get-togethers that revolve around something other than a funeral (though, I'll admit, the seventeen of us huddled in the state park to illegally scatter Grandma's ashes by the Elfin Forest after telling the park ranger that we'd been singing glory, glory, hallelujah just for the hell of it, was actually kind of fun). My favorite part of the birthday party was when Cristina opened her present from the kids and us novios: a pair of tall brown leather boots, with a bit of a heel. She liked them a lot, and they promptly got passed around the giant table, so that all the uncles could take their turn smelling them and pulling on them to demonstrate what a very nice gift they were indeed-- the real thing, made of strong, fragrant leather. They're Argentines, after all. They should know.

Little boobie

Mi amore, flor de primavera, Sandy,

I realize this post will be so heavily laden with inside jokes that it may make no sense to anyone but you, and it may questionably make sense to you since I woke up on an airplane at 6 this morning and haven't slept since.  

I decided to go to the gym and a Gotham Magazine party for Mary Lousie Parker's new play and magazine cover today rather than unpacking and putting photos up.  I then realized that you have all of the best photos from the trip and will have to look through mine for some gems to barter a trade with.

It is weird to be back in New York and having every moment of my life planned through Saturday evening (I refuse to even speak of a time past then at this point).  It is also weird to not be able to say random words in Spanish, though I've kind of still been doing that today.

For the record, my dad does not think  you broke the internet in Valparaiso.

More later, and photos later, not sure of when since I need to pack and sleep and oyyyy no me quiero trabajar manana!!

Besos y besotos y muchas gracias para los dos semanos

Ciao,

Candy

Here's to here!

Bon Bon,

Last Sunday in Cordoba. Kelsey, Josepha, Anna, and I took a bus to a little town called Jesus Maria, an hour outside the capital. When we got off the bus, it was kind of cold, and we walked around in the rain looking for the Jesuit estancia, Estancia X_____ (this is me forgetting the name of the estancia, not me nodding to gothic and old Russian literature). On the “outskirts” of town (“outskirts” because how big, I wonder, does a town have to be to have outskirts?), there was a (very small) river with farmish animals grazing along its banks, which were inclined and green. Across a rickety bridge, rising from the hill, was a giant crucifix the size of a really big crucifix. And mounted on this giant crucifix was… Can you guess it? It was Jesus. A giant Jesus. Rain streamed down Giant Jesus’s face like tears. There was no one else around, and it was a little eerie, like the beginning of a movie about exorcisms or the stigmata. Upon glimpsing the Jesus, we called upon our knowledge of The Official Rules of Wandering Around in a South American Country for guidance. Rule #219 states: “When wandering around in a South American country, you glimpse a ungodly-sized Jesus, go to it.” We go-ed. And as we trudged across the bridge—in the rain—toward Jesus, Estancia X_____ came into view, as did the gate in front of it, which was shut and locked. We immediately realized we’d been in violation of Rule #10: “Don’t forget siesta time.” Wiping rainwater off the wet sign, we read that Estancia X_____ would reopen at 15:00. It was 13:00.

Did I mention it was raining? As we swam back across the bridge toward town in search of somewhere sheltered to bide the time, Jo complained (justly) about the wetness of her flip-flopped feet. Anna coughed like a dying emphysema patient but didn’t complain (possibly because she’d lost her voice—she’d had a cold all weekend). Kelsey and I sang a Spanish version of Old McDonald Had A Farm. It started like this…

Senor Sanchez tenia un estancia
Ay ay ay ay ay
Y en esta estancia habia una vaca
Ay ay ay ay ay

… And stopped when cow was the only animal we could think of in Spanish.

Across the bridge, we came across a “bar” on a corner, which was a room barely big enough for a smattering of lawn furniture, a pool table, a TV with music videos playing, and a handful of old local men sitting around watching said music videos. We pulled two plastic tables together and ordered some pizza, milanesa, and beer (Rule #1: Drink the cerveza). Then, some children transpired and they and the old men went over to a table in the back to join the owners (a husband and wife) for a family-style asado. To numb the guilt we suddenly felt for intruding on this Sunday family time, we played a drinking game, which consisted of us taking turns around the table proposing toasts to our various traveling experiences and everyone drinking. For example:
“Here’s to Oktoberfest!” (the inspiration for our weekend trip to Cordoba, it’s the third largest Oktoberfest in the world, located in a town called Villa General Belgrano, which is about two hours outside the capital and home to a large German community because a lot of… Germans settled there after World War II).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to liter-sized beer steins!” (which we had to purchase prior to purchasing the beer at Oktoberfest in order to have something to put the beer in—BYO Beer Stein).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Hugh!” (as in Hefner, the name we gave to the proprietor of our favorite beer booth. Not only did he facially resemble his namesake, but he was also smooth and charming with the ladies, providing us with discounted and, later, free beer. I imagine it was funny watching us explain “playboy” to him in Spanish. We knew he grasped the concept when he promptly tipped his muffin-shaped chef’s hat and refilled our steins with a wink).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to mani!” (pronounced mah-NEE, it’s peanuts, which we’ve found you can pretty much get anywhere for free if you ask—and we do).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the Russian dancers!” (who performed on the Oktoberfest stage, inspiring a drinking game of their own—whenever one of them kicks, everybody drinks).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the Swing Kids!” (the Swiss jazz band that played the Glenn Miller song from the old Chips Ahoy! commercials twice).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to La Cumbrecita!” (which is the name of the “fairy tale” walking town that one of my students suggested we go see due to its fairytaleness and proximity to VGB, and not, as it turns out, a cutesy nickname for La Cumbre, which is the extreme sports town nowhere near VGB where we reserved a hostel—by the time we realized our mistake, everything in La Cumbrecita was booked—que lastima!).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to canceling three out of the four hostel reservations we made this weekend!” (in addition to the one in La Cumbre, our constantly changing plans made us cancel one in Cordoba when we thought we were going to be in a different town overnight, only to then decide we were going to stay in Cordoba after all and book a different hostel, which we all but stormed out of shortly after checking in when we realized that, rather than being in a bedroom, we were actually on the other side of, not a wall, but a screen, from the common room, where there was apparently a dance party happening when we were trying to sleep at 2am. It was so loud that when we called Nacho, a friend of a friend who lives in Cordoba, para pedir to sleep on his floor, we had to shout into the phone while plugging our non-phone-side ear with our finger).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to arguing with the guy at the fourth hostel!” (who tried to charge us 35 pesos per person though the rate we’d booked online was 25 pesos—we won).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to being those Americans!”
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Nacho!” (for going to sleep at a friend’s house to make room for us to sleep in his apartment).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Nacho Dos!” (Nacho’s friend named Nacho).
Everybody drinks. At this point, we ran out of beer. One of the owners (wife) noticed and said, “Las Chicas necesitan mas cerveza.” When she brought it to us, we asked her for some mani, which she also brought to us.
“Here’s to this place!” (come in, she said, I’ll give you, shelter from the storm…)
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to this weekend and changing every single plan we made!”
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Uruguay!” (where we went for two days in September to renew our visas, which must be done every 90 days by leaving the country—a trip that was also poorly planned, as in, our plan was “let’s go get a boat to Colonia del Sacramento and when we get there find a place to stay and something to do,” which worked fine in Colonia, where there are exactly four things to do—and we successfully did them all, which in retrospect perhaps gave us a cocky, blasé attitude toward the necessity of actually planning future trips).
Everybody drinks.
“While we’re on the topic of Uruguay, here’s to the bikes!” (which were lent to us by our hostel free of charge, except for a deposit, which was worth more than the bikes, which didn’t have brakes but did have broken seats and flat tires).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the bullfighting stadium!” (where we rode our bikes 5km along the Rio de la Plata, the widest river in the world and the 1-hour-Buquebus-boatride barrier between Uruguay and Buenos Aires. When we got to the stadium, which was of an estimated similar age and condition to our bikes, there was a barbed wire fence blocking us from the crumbling edifice. Not far from a gate, which we presumed locked, we spied a large hole in the fence, which we climbed through WITH our bikes so as to prevent them from being stolen. Some passersby saw us and warned us to be careful. “Why? Are we going to get arrested?” we asked. “No,” they said, “but the building might fall on your head.” What silly Americans we are for fearing breaking the rules—this is South America, after all, there are no rules—when there are large chunks of breaking concrete to fear. Well, the stadium didn’t collapse and bury us alive, and as we were heading back to the hole in the fence, a tour bus was stopped and unloading and someone came over and opened the gate).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the horses!” (which we rode on the beach next to the river).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the lighthouse!” (built inside the ruins of a 17th century convent in the historic quarter of the city).
Everybody drinks.

Those are just a few examples. You get the point.

Well, after lunch, the rain let up and we made it to the estancia, which had some Jesusy things and a room with a spoon collection. Before heading back to the capital, we picked up some local wine and alfajores (which Cordoba is famous for) as a thank you for Nacho, who we met up with briefly to bid farewell before heading to the omnibus terminal. Then we were just one overnight bus ride with a very loudly snoring man away from home.

I got dumped and robbed on Saturday. Then I went to see La Chihuahua de Beverly Hills, which was dubbed in Spanish and really, quite terribly, very awful.

I drew a picture:



Here’s to here!

Saaaaaaaaandy

P.S. Everybody drinks.

tengo pocos ganas de hacer cosas

Dear Candy,

I’m sorry to keep you waiting (with breath abated, no?), but I was off helping Sarah Palin defend Alaska from Russian invaders. Thankfully, the situation now seems to be under control.

Back in Buenos Aires, I've been thinking a good deal about these deliverymen who deliver bread, who balance giant baskets of bread on their head. They’re beauty and they’re grace. I think that deep down, what they really care about is world peace, but they’re ill about this situation they’ve been put in, this situation that involves them having to balance genuinely enormous baskets of bread on their head and sometimes ride a bicycle at the same time. I think perhaps some of them don’t have any bread to eat themselves.

If elected, I will feed all the starving children without maps. I never meant to become one of these women who only ever picked up a book to balance it on her head, but. Well.

I’ve got this story I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s a mystery about the only living descendant of Jesus. She’s a monkey. The question of her existence is causing problems for some people.

You know, I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I’ve decided the root of our problems lies in opposable thumbs. I am opposed to opposable thumbs. Life would be a whole lot funnier if we all went around trying to pick things up with our paws. And less violent—imagine trying to hold a gun with your paw. Or a machete. Yes, if you want to know where I stand, I am for world peace and opposed to opposable thumbs. Let’s party.

(I’m afraid I’m showing early symptoms of turning into a Deep Thought by Jack Handy.)

A while back, I hosted a TEFL happy hour in my new apartment, which is very much big enough to host a happy hour and has parquet and wainscoting and a balcony off my bedroom. We made a little cow and fetched as many empty beer bottles as we could carry from under the sink in the kitchen and took them downstairs to the Chinese grocer, where we exchanged them for full beer bottles, and for less than 100 pesos we were able to get more than ten people quite happy. Once we were good and happy, we went to hear a funk band play at a bar in Palermo, where Juantastic and I danced all night. No one else wanted to dance, except for Shakira, who kept trying to cut in. Maybe I should have been embarrassed to be the only ones dancing, but that’s the good thing about being in a foreign country where no one will recognize you as that girl who was dancing with the old guy and his dog.

I brought this pair of black flats down here with me and was wearing them everywhere until there was a hole in the sole of the right one. My first reaction was to wonder if I walk lopsidedly, or if my right leg is longer than my left leg. My second reaction was to buy a new pair of black flats. Up until this point, I had been walking nearly everywhere, fearful of the labyrinthine collectivo (bus) system and indignant towards the less-than-convenient Subte (though a fan of the light blue A line, with its old cars and doors that must be opened manually; it’s fun to watch an over-eager businessman type passenger—preferably in a suit or a V-neck sweater over an oxford shirt because to me it is preferable that all men wear those—open the door before the train has come to a complete stop and fall on his face. It is even more fun to step over him).

Well, I got these new shoes that caused these truly titanic blisters to form on the back of my heels, and I was forced to either spend all my money buying all of the bandaids in South America or learn how to take the bus (90 centavos per ride). I bought a “Guia T.”



First, you look up your departure address in the index in the front. This will direct you to a map and coordinates. The coordinates on the map correspond with bus lines that stop at those coordinates. These are listed on the page opposite the map. Note the bus numbers for your departure coordinates. Next, look up your arrival address in the index in the front and find the coordinates and corresponding bus lines for your arrival address. If any of the bus lines are the same, you can take them from your departure address to your arrival address (if not, then you become frustrated). Next, turn to the back of the Guia T, where you will find a list of bus lines with the streets that they stop on. Find the appropriate street within your coordinates and go there. Walk up and down it until you find the bus stop. I know it sounds complicated, and it is. But often you will find lines that pick you up within five blocks of your departure address and drop you off within five blocks of your arrival address. Lots of page turning and very little walking.

I suppose now would be an appropriate time to mention that the food here comes in three varieties: dulce de leche (which I won’t deny sometimes eating straight from the tub with a big spoon), fried meat, and ham and cheese croissant. Now, while this diet may have been the direct cause of the heart attack I had yesterday, its visible* (*important) effects had been kept to a minimum with all the walking, which, in case you forgot, had been vastly reduced due to titanic blisters, which I got because I did too much walking in the old shoes and had to buy new shoes. In other words, if I hadn’t been doing so much goddamn walking, I would still be able to be doing a lot of walking. But, well. The logical solution: eat better. My solution: ignore the nagging, self-diagnosed stress fracture in my left foot (which is somehow more tolerable than the blisters and perhaps also related to the same lopsided walking that caused a hole to form in my right shoe? The interconnectedness of things astounds me)—I took up running laps around the Plaza del Congreso, which is a block from my apartment.

Now, it’s not unfair to say that the Plaza del Congreso is not the nicest plaza in BA. Nearly all the buses pass through it, billowing plumes of black smoke in their wake. It is also heavily trafficked by what Anna calls the Buenos Aires “crotch rockets,” which are definitively NOT motorcycles, but rather screeching-demon-from-Hell excuses for vehicles. They are completely tiny and absolutely deafening. They are the Napoleon Complex of the transportation psyche.

But it’s a block from my apartment and people go there with their dogs, which I like, so I go. I am especially fond of one woman who walks her large husky while carrying her small husky puppy. One day as I ran past, the large husky tried to jump on me, which I thought was cute and made me smile. But this woman, who was yanked off balance and almost dropped her small husky puppy, did not seem to find it as adorable. I’m pretty sure she snarled at me.

Like any rightful plaza, my plaza is filled with pigeons (palomas). These porteno pigeons are entirely unafraid of people, who tend to let them swarm all over them like zombies while their children feed them the corn that they get from the vendors with signs that say "maiz para las palomas." Now, if people want to be covered in flying rats, that’s their prerogative, right? Well, it gets personal when these groups of pigeons refuse to scatter and fly out of the way as I approach them. Instead, they attempt to outrun me. This is not only annoying, but also just doesn’t work. Though I hate them, I can’t bring myself to step on them or kick them. So I’ve developed this wild arm-flailing “shoo!” motion that seems to do the trick, mas o menos. Anyway, I really hate these pigeons and I blame inflation for people resorting to this relatively inexpensive pastime. Bueno. To recap: pigeons are gross. They’re like rats with wings. Truly terrifying.

I have a new guitar teacher. His name is Juan. I met him through couchsurfing.com, and one night I dragged Anna out to meet him and his friends Bruno and Emilio. We sat around until 4 a.m. drinking Fernet and Coke and playing guitars (I can still only play “Me and Bobby McGee” and the lead-in to “Redemption Song”). When Juan asked us what we’d done in BA so far, we told him about some of the bars we’d gone to (Teatro, La Cigale—where on a Tuesday night you can go and be sure to get groped by up to several French men).
“I don’t remember the names of most of the places,” I said. “For example, the other night we went to hear this cool funk band play somewhere in Palermo.”
“Where in Palermo?” he said.
“I’m not sure… close to Teatro?”
“Was there a tuba player?”
“Hmm… I think so.”
“Did he have kind of big hair?”
“Yes, yes, I think that’s him. Do you know the band?”
“You were dancing with a sort of old man with a dog, no?”
“Oh my god.”
“I remember you. You were famous that night.”
And that’s the story of how I learned it’s never safe to be the only ones dancing.

Juan’s middle name is Ignacio. Juani’s middle name is Ignacio. One of my students showed me pictures of her two sons: “This one is Juan Martin,” she said. “And this one is Juan Ignacio.” She has two sons named Juan. “I have two sons named Juan,” she said. I’m beginning to feel like whatsherface in Goodfellas, when she notes that all the men are named Paul or Pauly. If only Ray Liotta were here...

Un beso,
Sandy

9/2 Skype call notes

1. Airplanes

• ~18 hours each way. budget 1 day for travel in each direction
• fly airmexicana; look on travelocity or orbitz for tickets

2. Sandy will need to make a shopping list for Candy, to include sexy grandma shoes, unless the return policy is less than duration of trip.

3. Next steps Argentina

1. Set a date for Candy to get plane tickets: October 21st.
2. Candy talks to her boss about taking off February 16th-27th, (traveling February 14th-29th), sometime this week but not tomorrow.
3. By September 19th, we each have an annotated list of 3 places we want to go. Guidelines:

- Length: between .5-1 pages.
- Activities should take place between the 15th and the 28th.
- A rainforest must be included. Rafting is preferable.
- Tentative itinerary: 1-2 days in Buenes Aires, a few days each going to a different place in Argentina/Chile/Peru, and almost a whole week in Brazil at the beach, in Rio, at Carnival, and 1-2 days in Buenes Aires at the end.
- There will be NO collaboration with each other on this project and all research must be kept confidential until the 19th.

4. Candy should not watch City of God.

5. Juantastic is Sandy's real friend, Juanathon is Sandy's imaginary friend.

6. Juan Ignacio is a popular name for people Sandy knows.

7. Candy should not blog when drunk and should think about editing her posts after writing them.

8. Sandy can sing like Tom Waits.

9. Weekly skype calls are encouraged. (Candy is home by 10 EST/11 Argentina time on Wednesdays, 9 EST/10 Argentina time on Tuesdays, a miserable wench on Mondays, and sometimes allowed to have fun on Thursdays. Wednesday and Tuesday are the best nights for me).

10. Candy loves Sandy!

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

How funny that I was coming home to write about languages and saw that you beat me to it!

I had a very humorous exchange this evening at dinner with my dad, my stepmom, and her mother in SoHo. We're eating a variety of fish and discussing Solzhenitsyn when the women at the table next to us interrupt me:

"Excuse me, would you like a martini? [flattery followed. I can't repeat it here without embarrassing myself] You look like you drink martinis."

"Hi, ok, thanks!"

"Can we take a picture with you and your family?"

"...OK."

"Wow, you're American?"

"Yes, I live in New York."

"That's so great that your dad and your mother are here to visit you!" [note: they were referring to my stepmom's mother, and couldn't quite figure out where my stepmom came into this picture]

"They live in Brooklyn, too."

I took a photo with them, they took a photo of me and my family, and they continued to flatter me while I wanted to continue discussing Solzhenitsyn's critique of Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev, but such is life. It shocked me that they were so surprised to hear that I spoke fluent English. I suppose it makes sense since to that point, they had heard me speak another language (and therefore assumed I only spoke that one?), which was quite shocking to me as I usually speak 2-6 languages a week (last week involved English, Russian with the family, Spanish in the blog, Sanskrit at yoga, Japanese at Kaoru's taiko class, and I usually toss around some French even when not in the midst of a full-fledged French film series).

Having spoken 2 languages since I was 5, I find the idea of speaking only one language so foreign that I had to think for a minute about why they thought I wasn't American (Is it my wrap dress? My sexy grandma shoes? My bangs? My wine? Oh, wait, maybe it's because I'm speaking another language).

Interestingly enough, they started talking about family values and about how "dads rock" and I didn't have the heart to tell them that I come from a "broken home," and that the woman they referred to as my mother was my step-grandmother.

*****

Well, that was all I was going to write, but I also read what you wrote and feel compelled to add my thoughts on this chicken coming before the egg. Most people find it quite amusing that I have a band before I can play an instrument, but I need to be able to see the big picture before I can focus on the smaller details (in this case, learning to play an instrument). So it's pretty safe to say that I would not be learning to play an instrument if it were not for Boobie Circus. By the by, I've drafted someone to play ukelele for our cover of "Judy is a Punk." Soon enough I can start scoping out a place for us to have our first rehearsal.

*****

What did I tell you about Flight of the Conchords and beer????

*****

Hey, about our meeting in February: let's plan it! Dates and airports should come first, followed by Carnival plans. Si?

P.S.

I love the lyrics! Especially, "Brunch, you're my favorite, you kick dinner's ass!" I miss brunch. They do not believe in brunch in Argentina.

The blue and red footed boobies are pretty perfect. Somehow we should incorporate the phrase "Boobies on Parade" into an album or song title, I think. "Boobies on Parade" could be a good follow-up album to our debut self-titled album.

the rest of the backward blog

I'm in the process of translating my first Your Mama joke, but all I have so far is "Tu mama..."

Bang on, Candy, bang on.

Dear Candy

THIS IS NOT A TEST

We interrupt this program to inform you that the (Inter)National Weather Service Doppler Radar has indicated a line of severe people-renting-their-babies-to-sketchy-people-on-the-street-so-that-you-will-be-more-likely-to-pity-them-and-give-them-money-and-less-likely-to-suspect-them-of-mugging-you-and-walk-with-purpose-in-the-opposite-direction. The National Weather Service in Buenos Aires, Argentina, has issued a severe Not Their Babies Watch for the following Capital Federal barrios: La Boca, Constitucion, San Telmo, Monserrat, San Cristobal, Balvanera, San Nicolas, Retiro, Recoleta, Palermo, and Almagro. This watch will remain in effect until further notice, Eastern Standard Time plus and hour.

This throws a wrench in the Baby-Safety Ratio, to say the least. I am afraid to leave the house.