From What I Can Remember

http://www.quirkyguide.com/story/my-cusack-moment/

http://www.quirkyguide.com/competitions/

Club Silencio is a quirky new experience in Buenos Aires. Inspired by the film Mulholland Drive, it aims to take your subconscious on a rollercoaster ride.

There’s no doorbell, no sound and no light as you arrive. Only the crowd waiting in the street brings some reassurance that you are at the correct venue. Then the door opens, revealing a silver mask and a finger commanding silence. A blindfold robs you of your sight, and stimulates your imagination while relaxing to original music by the Argentinean-Jewish songwriter, Shoni Shed.

Between songs feathers delight you, massages sedate you and smells capture you, transporting you toward the ethereal world. When blindfolds are removed natural world films play, as Shoni’s intense yet soothing voice sinks you deeper into your seat.

Walking into the Subte station I was reminded of how dangerous this city can be as a bus almost hit me.  My attention was drawn upon a fight taking place in the street.  Many other people had the same distraction as the police arrived and began to intervene.  So far, Caroline and I have had a safe journey without injuries or robberies.  That streak ended yesterday.

Caroline was running late for class and couldn’t visit the fotocopieria (the store where you make photocopies) close to our house.  She only had enough change for one bus fare and was planning on getting change when she made copies, but such was not the case.  When she arrived to Recoleta, another neighborhood, Caroline found a fotocopieria and made three copies.   A little math:

3 x .25 = .75

$10.00  (Caroline’s Money)

-    .75 (Cost of copies)

$9.25   (Change)

She handed ten pesos to the rough looking man behind the counter and he gave her $1.25 pesos and went about his  business.

Caroline asked for the rest of her change and the young man said, “What change?”

“I gave you 10 pesos, I need 8 more pesos.  I have to get to work.  Can I please have my change.”

No answer.

A woman entered the shop, giving Caroline a little more confidence.  “Please give me my change back!”

Again, there was no response.

The woman left; not wanting to be part of what was going to happen next.

Caroline tried one last time, explaining that she had no money and needed the change.  The man’s left hip rotated back, extending his right hip, and gave Caroline a clear view of his a 12” knife.  Goose bumps flared and she left immediately.  This was no ordinary fotocopieria.

Frustrated and scared, she arrived to class late and explained the story to her two students.  They persisted in going back with her so they could help resolve the problem.  When they returned, the young man had been replaced by an equally seedy looking older man, with some resemblances to the other; crooked nose, greasy lopsided haircut, and a few of the same missing teeth.  They asked the old man if he knew of a younger man working at the store.

“I am the only one working here.  I have no idea what you are talking about”, he insisted.

The situation was costing Caroline more than her change should have been, so they left to a nearby café and proceeded with class.  After class, the students walked Caroline to the bus stop, which was near the fotocopieria.  As they passed, they glanced inside and the two men, huddled together, turned and gave Caroline the most deadly look she had ever received.  Her spine shivered.

Her bus arrived.  She jumped on and put her money in the meter.  The coins weren’t registering.  The moment was intense:  the driver was yelling to the other passengers to get on so he could shut the door, Caroline kept putting her money in the meter with no success and the passengers were pushing her forward so they could fit on the bus.  The bus started abruptly and Caroline flew forward –catching herself on another passenger.  New suit – with a pissed off look, he shrugged her off.  “The coin is fake!” shouted the man behind her.  Caroline was forced to the side as the other passengers paid and found their seats.  Caroline was left alone, struggling to find some loose change in her purse.  No dice.

Tears dropped.  “I’m sorry, but I have no more money and I need to get home.”  The bus halted to a stop and the door swung open.  The driver snapped his fingers revealing his first finger pointing straight towards the door.  “Please…?”  She looked down the aisle of the bus.  Not one soul was looking back at her.

Caroline made it home.  An old man found her crying and asked for her story.  He gave her the $1.25 for the bus.

Later that night, Caroline received an email asking her to interview in the morning for an In-House translation company.  The next morning, she got the job.  Starting Monday, Caroline will have the job of her dreams (without the paycheck).

Today has been, borrowing the phrase from the title of my brother’s movie, A Little Trip to Heaven.  Mitia, my roommate, woke up at 2:30pm, walked straight through the living room onto the terrace and gazed into the sky.  He turned around and said: “I am thinking of something funny.  Let us ride bikes to the Costanera Sur Nature Reserve and enjoy the sun.”  Caroline, who was feverishly typing away on her first paid translation gig (yeah!), was out of commission for the day and I was just about to study some Spanish.  I slammed my book shut, confirming our afternoon plans.  Mitia had just purchased a new bike and needed to wear it in.  I, on the other hand, had my roommate’s bike, a bike that had been worn in for about ten years.  Two flat tires, dirt caked the frame, brakes that hardly worked, and a seat that was stuck at the lowest height.  No problem.  I dusted off the cobwebs, visited the local tire dealership, filled my tires, and peddled away.

I have explained the lay of the land of the Buenos Aires roads before:  they are treacherous and I never imagined putting myself into harms way by biking through them, but I felt it was time.

Two blocks into the ride, my seat snapped and was slanted at a 48° angle.  My efforts to fix the seat were fruitless and after a brief encounter with death as a bus nearly clipped me, I decided to relinquish my efforts and concentrate on the journey.  And what a beautiful trip it was.  Cruising downhill we weaved in and out of traffic, getting honked at by taxis and dodging buses as they darted to the curb after noticing an eager passenger’s hand signal them, beckoning the driver to pick them up.

We found ourselves among many other cyclists, runners, and families taking an afternoon stroll when we arrived at the Nature Reserve.  The place was amazing and it seemed like we were in a little slice of the Amazon.  Surrounded by trees, birds, marshland, and silence I looked into the distance and noticed the sky scrapers trying to regain their importance to the city.  We were indeed, inside the jungle within a jungle.

We decided to ditch our bikes and cut through the brush to find ourselves on the beach of Rio del Plata – the river that feeds into the Atlantic Ocean and separates Argentina from Uruguay.  The Nature Reserve was formed in the 1970’s when the city built massive highways, dumping every piece of land, rock, brick, whatever, into the reserve.  It created a beach without sand but large pieces of brick and stone.  (Have you ever seen a round brick?)

Jumping onto our bikes, we finished the loop and headed back into the metropolitan jungle.  We took off our shirts giving the sun access to our pale bodies.  Cycling into the city center we heard some music near Plaza de Mayo.  Resting in front of the Casa de Rosada, the governmental building where Eva Peron once gave her passionate speeches in front of thousands of Peronists, the plaza is home to the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo.  These women have persistently come to the Plaza since 1977, marching with signs and pictures that display their missing sons and daughters, the desaparecidos, who were taken by the government during the Dirty War.  Today, the mothers were not alone.

We entered through the back entrance of the Plaza and we were enclosed within a group of gay protesters.  We had interrupted the gay pride march of Buenos Aires.  Their colorful flags obscured the mother’s view of the Casa.  A bit suffocated, we headed to the desolate streets that led home.

Relaxing in the living room, Mitia stretched out across the floor, hands behind his head, smile draped across his face.  I leaned against the terrace watching the life vanish from the streets.  The sun sank; the streets cooled, opening doors throughout the city to the mosquitoes.  The wind picked up as the sky’s empty stomach began to grumble.  Seconds later a torrential storm attacked the city; revitalizing the withered nature in the streets while dampening the spirits of the Argentines.  Except those from Oregon, of course.

The phrase, In a Second, does not exist here. Neither does In and Out. Not in this city. You can go in, but the city has the ability to swallow you – not allowing an exit. Everything in this city takes a long time. You can get two or three errands done in a day, max. A day with no work, that is. One of the reasons things take so long is because there is always a line. Sometimes a line will appear in the middle of the sidewalk with no clear indication of where it’s going and what it is for but Argentines keep joining it, feeding their curiosity.

Forget something while cooking? Easy – send your wife out to get some cream and continue to cook. NO! Stop cutting the vegetables, turn off the stove and take out that book you have wanted to read for a year but just haven’t been able to find the time because she is going to take a while. Supermercados have the tendency to shut down all but one register in the evenings and the afternoons. Come to think of it, the mornings too. Thus creating a line that can wrap around the interior of the store (obviously depending how big the supermercado is – but I’ve seen it happen and it is not a marketing technique – although it would be a good one).

Waiting for the subway? Normally, you buy a ticket, the doors open and you go in, sit down. Take the subte at the wrong time (which happens a lot) and you could be waiting for three or four trains, before finding one with room. If you don’t want to wait you must push, shove, and practically dig your way through a sea of people and you’ll be on. The passengers in this picture will soon be entering full subte cabins.

The situation is amazing, though. Countless times I have been standing – comfortably – in the subte and then, usually at Plaza Miserere (Misery square) hoards of people (refer to the picture) fight their way in and I am smashed against the wall – with someone’s bag piercing my gut, someone’s foot on my shoe, and someone’s hand on my ass. (I only mind when it’s a man’s). It’s incredible and it shocks me to see how the animal literally comes out to play. Even the old people get dirty. These descriptions are just a slice of the pie when describing what we call “Chaos”. At first it was humorous. But now, as I have been transforming from a visitor into a resident, it has started to strain my body and occasionally I develop the “look”

The “look” is the gaze that most Argentines have while traveling through the city. While their ghostly stare looks peaceful, it masks the anger and emptiness that rests behind the mesmerized eyes. Pale faces are exaggerated by the bolsas negras (black bags) sagging underneath the eyes. Teeth are invisible as the heavy frowns weigh down the lips and the overall spirit of the city. If one is lucky, they can travel with a seat and sleep during the journey home. Even the children get down. One girl who couldn’t have been more than 7 years old spent the whole day passing out stickers for passengers to buy for a peso, she leaned against the door, staring at her broken reflection as we zipped through the tunnels. It’s depressing. It’s sad.

Yesterday I had one of those days. It was probably my worst day in Buenos Aires. Although I received great news, it was a day filled with waiting, wondering, sweating, cursing, and pondering on why we chose this city. A day where I wore the “look” on my bus ride home, thinking: Where did my day go?

It started at 7 a.m. My interview was at 9:45. Now, 7 is early for me. I know, I know, boo hoo, but seriously, 7 is early in this country. I gave myself 2 hours to GET to the school. It was a bilingual school outside the city, requiring three buses. ONE: a bus from my house to Plaza Italia (40 minutes standing). TWO: a bus to a town outside the city (45 minutes). THREE: Another bus to the school. I was told this was the safest route…not the comment you want to hear when you are thinking about spending your days there. I then sat through a two hour interview.

I was sitting in front of a talker. …the type that gets excited when telling stories about organizing her kitchen towel drawer last Friday night. I was tired so I let her do her job as I pretended to do mine. Halfway thought the conversation – I kid you not – she stopped talking and said “well?” I batted my eyes and said “That is amazing.” I must have answered correctly because she immediately continued to blab. Finally, I left and waited for my first (but actually FOURTH) bus back. Twenty minutes and 14 mosquito bites later, I was on. FIVE: took the next bus to Buenos Aires and then decided to spice things up a bit as I took the subte to my next meeting SIX.

After my meeting, I took the SEVENTH bus of the day home to eat lunch. It was a late lunch (4:00p.m) but I needed to eat because my day was about to start. I had two children coming over for an English class and then I was off to catch the subte (EIGHT) for another private lesson. I returned home, by subte (NINE), close to ten o’clock. Showered myself off and relaxed.

Every day isn’t paradise. If you are still here…YOU get the good news.

The school I interviewed with gave me somewhat of an offer. Four hours with the Elementary students in the morning and then 2 hours in the afternoon with the Middle and High School students. We will see what happens from now till March.

Now, taking my last sip of wine I am thinking about my Spanish teacher, Emiliano. During the 2001 economic downfall in Buenos Aires, he and thousands of other Argentines rallied in Plaza de Mayo. Against all odds, they fought their way past the police brigade into the plaza. They faced hoses full of hot water, batons, and bullets, but they persevered and forced the President out of office. Six days, and six presidents later, the people still rallied. Emiliano suffered a baton to his back during the riot and others endured much more. Although they didn’t get exactly what they wanted, and what they were owed, from the government, they began a life making due with what they had. I have a great family, great friends, and a lovely woman to spend my time with. I might not have the most money, the best job, or the most comfortable bed (if you know me you know I am cursed with beds), but I’m eating well and sleeping with a roof over my head. I feel lucky to be learning a new language, culture, and lifestyle. Getting past these days of disarray, one can find positive and enriching experiences. Yesterday was crap, but, to paraphrase a friend: it’s just one long card game over the course of your life. One bad game is just a small dent – and a few bucks