Buenos Ay-ya-ya-res

I am in love. We have only been together for a little more than a week, but I love him so deeply. Despite the fact that he is far, far younger than I. Despite the fact he is one of the hairiest critters I have ever met. Despite the fact he chews with his mouth open. And despite the fact that he has this annoying habit of pooping and peeing on my kitchen floor.

But I love my Zissou.

I just got back to Buenos Aires June 27th. Before I left the city, a month earlier, I bought a puppy from a breeder and told him I would pick him up in a month when I returned. Zissou is a Spanish Water Dog, a relatively unknown breed commonly confused with Portuguese Water Dogs. I am not sure how prolific these dogs are in Spain, but Spain might just be the only country that knows about the breed at all well.

Getting a puppy could be one of the stupidest things I have ever done here, and there were many, many of those “stupid” things. As they run through my mind as I type this, I can assure you they were not, and will never be, written down for general public consumption! But I also think that having a puppy is: 1. Something I have dreamed of since my family’s dog, Willie, died in 2001; and 2. Yet another thing that gives me a strange glimpse into life in Buenos Aires.

People here love their dogs. But dogs are seen differently here than they are in the States, in ways that I cannot even begin to articulate. For one, street dogs are a fact of life. When, in Providence, we see a dog without an owner, our first inkling is to assume that the dog HAS a home and is lost. That would be the exception here. Dogs are all over the place, hanging in groups in the plazas, sleeping on the stoops of shops, running across streets, trying to avoid traffic. Like I said, people love dogs, so often you will see dog food left out for street dogs to eat. People take in street dogs all the time. But that certainly does not make a dent.

In terms of pure breed dogs, Buenos Aires is full of them. They are not into the gourmet dogs like we are the in States. You don’t see Labradoodles or Cockapoos. You see Golden Retrievers, Weimaraners, Poodles and Pugs. Beagles, Pittbulls, and the Argentine Dogo, an intimidating dog bred to hunt wild hogs. Veterinarians have offices two or three to a block, across the street from one another. The city is dog crazy. They joke that a family will have holes in their shows and a pure bred dog to boot.

I saw the ad for the Spanish Water Dog pups on MercadoLibre, a website much like Ebay, but broken down by city and country. The title said “Perros de Aqua Espanol.” I had never heard of such a thing, so I clicked the ad and saw a picture of a moppy smiley dog. I decided to take an educated guess and look up the breed in English. S-P-A-N-I-S-H. W-A-T-E-R. D-O-G. Sure enough, sites appeared and the pictures they contained were the same–moppy happy dogs. I read the breed description–rustic, working dog, great companion, loyal and warm, easy to train, non-shedding, hair turns into thin dreadlocks. I was sold.

I didn’t want to buy a dog off a site like Ebay, despite the fact the ad said this breeder was the only one of this kind in all of South America. I continued my search and came across a listing for the breed by a house that claimed to be “the only breeder in South America.” Ok, maybe they are not lying. So, I wrote an email, explaining my situation, that I had to go back to the States, but wanted to get a puppy when I moved back and asked if pups would be available then. The breeder wrote back, said there were pups just born in the beginning of March if I was interested. I asked if I could see them. He said he lived too far away and then I got an email that the pups had been moved to just outside the city limits to a friend’s house. I could go visit them there.

Jessica Fain and I took the train down to Don Torcuato, a suburb outside of Buenos Aires City, and Dante, the breeder’s friend who was taking care of the litter, met me at the train station. I might not have recognized him had he not brought along his adult Spanish Water Dog. As I approached, being a dog lover, I thought the dog would come close, embrace me, etc. He could have cared less. I got worried, this breed might not be the right one for me.

But as I spent the next hour or so playing with the puppies and petting his adult dogs, I realized that the dogs are shy, but they like people. If you pet them, they’ll come back for more and will be very sweet. If not, they’ll leave you alone. Kinda the perfect personality for me, considering some of my friends love dogs and some just plain don’t.

So, I picked out my pup. The biggest black male. The black ones were priced less than the chocolate colored ones. The males were almost half the price of the females. These factors made it likely that I would pick a black male, but I also was looking for the most outgoing of the pups and the one I picked definitely stood out.

When I got back to the city, I got in contact with Dante and I picked up my pooch that Saturday. Zissou, named after the Bill Murray character Steve Zissou from the Life Aquatic, is a very smart little devil. He will gladly stop chewing on something wrong and take one of his toys. He does not generally make the same mistake twice.

The difficulties I have with Zissou are partly due to his character and due to the city itself. Zissou is very shy and very timid, especially in unknown situations, which there have been many. Not only do I live in one of the noisiest cities in the world. my neighborhood, San Telmo, has nothing green in it. It is pure concrete, cobblestone, and asphalt. Thus “outside” is as unfamiliar a terrain as Mars’, and he just doesn’t have any idea that I want him to go to the bathroom out there, especially with all the noise and commotion.

He’s also afraid of everyone, including Susannah and Cristian, who are some of the least threatening people in the world. Both Susannah and Cristian love dogs, so it is a wonder why Zissou is so scared. He runs to me whenever they come in the room!

We are working on getting him more accustomed to other people. Do not worry.

But one of the funniest aspects of having this dog here is how interested and meddlesome people can be. In the beginning, when I was trying my hardest to get Zissou to go to the bathroom outside, people would constantly ask me what breed he was. I would tell them, perro de agua espanol. They would look at me and I could tell exactly what they were thinking, “Stupid foreigner, doesn’t even know what kind of dog she has.”

But I do and I am totally smitten with him. And our top priority is to make Zissou a little less afraid and a little more outgoing. And to hopefully stop crapping in my kitchen. Even if it is on newspaper, I look forward to the day when I do not have that going on in my house. But all in due time.

I was just doing a little background investigating in order to write a better post and I realized, damn girl, you don’t know squat about Cumbia and yet you want to write a post about it?  And then I thought, no, you always write about things you don’t know squat about.  I don’t even know how to squat.  What is a squat?  Shall we proceed?

So, for those of you who know me, I like music.  I know, you think, Leslie?  She doesn’t care for tunes.  But if you really know me, you know that, in fact, I am a music fan.  I am saying it here, loud, clear, and in some boring font: I enjoy listening to music.  I also really enjoying dancing.  If you want to imagine me dancing, I recommend renting The Life Aquatic.  According to my friend Rebecca, Steve Zissou (Bill Murray) wiggles just like moi!  It’s the scene when they’re about the go diving and he talks about how they put a rabbit ear on their helmets to pipe in some music.  Then he copies my moves.  I should have patented them….  Money in the bank.

But life has been hard here in Argentina.  As you can see from my previous posts I have been very unhappy.  I have no idea why this post is so sarcastic.  I apologize.  No, but really, I haven’t really been able to quench my music addiction here.  Yes, Lo de Roberto’s, but after a while….  Well, it lost its charm.  I don’t understand tango lyrics.  And tangeuros are dangerous.  They’ll break your heart.

Rock Nacional, aka anything that is rock and made in Argentina, has its moments, but for the most part, leaves something to be desired.  What is a wiggly giggly girl to do?  Of course, dancing in the shower is fun until you slip. 

Last night, I called my friend Jessica Fain (see Busqueada de Huevos) and invited myself to a party.  I am good at that.  Anyway, she said it was in a "Casa de Juventud."  A youth house.  Youth hostel?  No.  Youth House.  Do young people live there?  No.

Tennessee and I got in a cab and booked it to this place.  I was nervous I was going to forget the address, but when we got out of the cab there was a door with a few youngsters in front and a sign that said, "Casa de Juventud."  Apparently Jessica was not wrong, it sure was a house of youth.

Now, earlier in the evening I met up with Tennessee and Ernesto (see gangsta picture in my profile).  Ernesto had to go to a birthday party at a club and invited us to come along, but warned us about the steep cover charge.  He called it cheto, which I guess translates to upscale, but depending on how you say it can be a positive or a negative negative thing.  But what he said after stuck with me, "You’d probably not like it.  It’s not cool, cheap, or underground."

You can all stop laughing now.  I know I am not underground.  I am aware of that.  But I do enjoy the cheap stuff.  And if I have to pay a steep cover to get in somewhere, it better rock and the booze should be free.

So, Tennessee and I, in a weird twist and turn of an evening, ended up at the Casa de Juventud.  We got our free drink (with the cover of 5 pesos, yippeee!) and found Jessica and her friend Cris. 

And then I heard it.  Cumbia.  It has this distinct chuu-chi-chi-chuu-chi-chi-chuu.  Sounds like someone shaking a can with rice in it.  As you do.

Of course I had heard Cumbia before.  I hear it daily.  I am in South America.  They’re crazy for Cumbia.  Every car that drives by is fueled with Cumbia.  When people clean their apartments, they have to air out the Cumbia on the balconey.  I have been aware of it for a while.  But it never really interested me before.

Apparently Cumbia comes from Colombia. If you look at the pictures here, you’ll see that it seems really folky and kinda like something you’d send to your grandma on a postcard.  But, oh my sweets, this is not the Cumbia that people are crazy about.

There is a type of Cumbia, Cumbia Villera, which is pretty popular in Argentina.  I am not sure if we were listening to Villera or what, but I guess it’s like if Cumbia were Rap, Cumbia Villera would be Gangsta Rap.  I say this because, apparently, Villera talks about poverty, stealing things, living in ghettos, etc.  And like rap, there are MANY socioeconomic conotations to be a fan of this music.  It is not high class to like Cumbia, especially if you like Cumbia Villera. 

Which I find interesting.  Unlike the States, where well-fed suburban kids have huge collections of rap, dress like rappers, etc., but live a very different life from those portrayed on the albums, that is just not what happens here.  This, however, goes way deeper.  The whole concept of dressing down just doesn’t exist here.  In general, if you have money, you dress like it.  If you have money, you go to these places.  If you don’t you look like option B and you go these places. 

I believe something started in the 60s and was sign, sealed, and delivered with grunge rock that just twisted our whole conception of money and appearing a certain class in the United States.  Distressed jeans that cost $300?  Or, another example, I, like many of you, enjoy thrift store shopping because I like the clothes and the prices and that smell of must, but secondhand clothes in Argentina have almost no fashion value whatsoever.  Yet I can see a old raggedy t-shirt and feel like a million bucks.  Or maybe Americans like to be walking paradoxes.  I do, don’t you?

In any case, so, I am at this Cumbia party in a Casa de Juventud and Cris asks me if I am going to dance.  I say I don’t know how to dance Cumbia.  She’s like, "Don’t worry about it, it’s easy, it’s like Salsa." "I don’t dance Salsa."  "Don’t worry about it."

So, I wiggle.  I giggle.  Did you know that you can get away with that in Cumbia?  You don’t have to know what you’re doing at all.  I mean, open your eyes, imitate, but it’s not like Salsa, which I have tried, and then felt the ridicule of people’s laughter.  I cannot isolate my hips.  It’s a learning disorder, ok, stop making fun.  But Cumbia gets major major bonus points from me for being so accepting.  Steve Zissou would be very at home dancing Cumbia.  Maybe.

But I danced and danced and danced and danced some more.  I found a new fun thing, and it is Cumbia, and if that makes me low class, bring it.  I am an American and I like people thinking I have no class.

Last year I was in Buenos Aires for Easter. I have to say it was one of the most depressing weekends of my life. I really didn’t have any friends and the whole city completely empties for the holiday. The weekend starts on Thursday when a lot of people get off work for a long weekend. It is not so much that Argentines are religious. It is more that they love their vacations. Nothing is open, no one is here, and everyone who is is doing something with their family. Man, it is making me sad even now!

But I have come a long way since last Easter. I have some friends and I knew this weekend was going to be a big ol’ bummer. So, I decided to organize an egg hunt.

My friend Ruben (aka Joe) and I decided to get together and dye eggs. The trouble is there are no CVSs or Walgreens here. Moreover, they don’t even have Easter Egg Hunts, so there would be no egg dying kits to be found, even if I knew where to buy them. I decided to walk around the ‘hood and see what I could find. As I said earlier, very few things were open as everyone had fled the city for the holiday. I came across an all-purpose store (you know, they sold candy, cigarettes and dolls) and bought some small tubes of tempera paint and some little brushes. I then went to a small market and bought 2 and a half dozen eggs.

And I boiled those bad boys. I boiled them hard.

My buddy Rodrigo was over when Joe stopped by after poker and we went to town on those eggs. Being Leslie, I decided every egg would have a number on it and that they all had to be written the same way, so I took out a Sharpie and wrote 1 -24 on all the eggs. After that, though, I put control-freak-Leslie aside and said that the boys could do whatever they wanted to the eggs. And the came out SO WELL!

The next afternoon, Joe and I went to the park and hid the eggs. My buddy Sam Slaughter, who had been couch surfing at my pad, came a little later. I tried to make a map of Parque Lezama the night before so that we could mark down about where every egg was hidden. Joe and I also tried to write a little description. Most descriptions said “in a tree.” But a few of our eggs had interesting homes. Some were in Statues or fences, one was in a kiosk at the feria where a woman was selling kaleidescopes, and another was on top of a bass drum of a band that played.

A little later some friends met up for the Easter Picnic we planned. We were definitely lacking in food. As we waited for the troops to rally, a little boy on a bike and his sister rolled past and asked me what we were doing with all the little eggs. I explained the tradition and told the two of them they could be part of the hunt in one hour. But as little kids would do in an egg hunt, they started looking right away.

Tennessee and Jessica Fain were the only two “grown-ups” in the mood to hunt and Joe and I knew where they were, so it was on: the oldies vs. the newbies. The kids had a head start for sure (by one hour) but by that point, random people had seen a lot of the more visible eggs and “moved them.” I’d like to think they were a nice snack for someone, but since they don’t do egg hunts here, maybe they didn’t realize they were hardboiled nor fresh. Maybe some were eaten by dogs. Maybe someone thought they were too beautiful to leave in a tree. I cannot know for sure. But I like to think there is a shrine to one of my eggs in someone’s house. I mean, isn’t that we all hope?

In the end, the kids had to go home, so they only found 6 eggs in total, and while Tennessee definitely had the height advantage, Jessica had the advantage of walking around with Ruben, who, well, knew where the eggs were.

We then walked around with the map trying to find the rest. In total, we only maintained 15 eggs. I don’t think that is a bad amount considering how many people were in Parque Lezama, how big the area of the hunt was, and how delicious a hardboiled egg is.

The hardest egg to get was in a nook about 15 feet in a tree. I am not going to tell you how Ruben and I got it in there, but Jessica retrieved it! A very large guy with a skinny girlfriend walked by and Jessica and I asked them if they could help us. The guy asked if he should pick Jessica up and we were like, “Well, we thought you’d pick up your girlfriend,” but apparently he wanted to grab Jessica!

I won’t name names, but one of my friends came to the picnic and said something in an obviously snide way, “Wow, you put a lot of effort into this.” And he was right. But I really enjoyed every minute of it and if it is uncool to put effort into aimless activities, then I am just the biggest loser out there. And it feels great.

Again, this post is long overdue.  Pardon me.

My buddy Tennessee heard of a religious theme park in Buenos Aires and of course our interest was peaked.  We decided to go on a Saturday because his roommate, Joe, who I call Ruben (long story), works during the week.  Turns out the park is not open on weekdays anyway (maybe??), so it all worked out for the best.  Our friend, Jena, met us at the door.

To start, I have to say that we were going to this park ironically.  But we were the only ones.  Thus, we tried to be as respectful as possible.  Don’t worry, Mom, I did not shame our family.  I kept my cynicism on the inside. 

We started by trekking up this giant fake mountain.  We saw the crusificion of Jesus and continued up the stairs.  We got to the top and looked down at an ampitheater full of people.  All of a sudden, a 6-story Jesus came out of the mountain we were climbing! They resurrect Christ on the hour every hour!  He was huge, he had awesome theme music, who wouldn’t bounce around excited?

But contrary to what I assumed, La Tierra Santa is not just a Christian theme park, it includes many many religions.  We spent a lot of time in the muslim section, eating at El Café Bagdad some empanadas arabes (Arabian empanadas).  They were great!

I made Ruben, Tennessee and Jena pose with many of the statues in the park.  We also went through the Jewish section (for those of you who remember my story about walking through Once with Ari Heckman asking people where the frontier of the Jewish sector was, well, you can sleep comfortably knowing we found it in La Tierra Santa).  There was a fake Wailing Wall and a sign that said any notes would be brought to the real Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.

The most interesting thing about this place, though, is how it came to be.  A few years ago, the government wanted to develop the large piece of land on which it resides.  They asked for bids and different organizations started proposing projects and bidding on the land.  Out of nowhere, the whole bidding process ended and a worker’s union (not sure which one) just got the land.  I think there was a bit of confusion as to why they got it outright.  And they turned the land into a religious theme park and it is has been WILDLY SUCCESSFUL.  If you think about it, can you think of another religious theme park anywhere else in the world?  Sure, religious tourist attractions, but generally those are sites where something happened first–they were not stetches of undeveloped land by the airport.

I was a bit disappointed that this theme park didn’t have any rides.  I was kinda hoping for a Noah’s Upside Down Ark or a Jesus’s Wild Coaster or something like that.  But the photo opportunities were not exhausted in my one visit.  I will be bringing many visitors back to La Tierra Santa.  Just one more reason you all should come visit me.

P.S.  I hope I did not offend anyone with this post.  You have to admit that there is something hilarious about a religious theme park, no matter how religious you are.

I have been going to some soccer games lately.  As you might know, soccer (in Spanish, futbol) is the most popular sport in much of South America, and Argentina is no exception.  The team that gets my support is La Boca.  I guess I picked this team because the neighborhood that houses the stadium is right next to mine, so I figure they’re my team.

The team’s official name is Boca Juniors.  Why Juniors?  No idea.  I think they picked it because it is an English word.  They’re is nothing Junior about this team, though.  The biggest rivalry in Argentina is between Boca and River, a team that resides in the upscale neighborhood of Belgrano.  And the fight goes way beyond the field–it is basically a class war.  River calls themselves "Los Millionarios," aka the millionaires.  I once went on a few dates with this guy, but when he found out I was a Boca fan, he got all upset.  It is like the Capulets and the Montagues, the Sharks and the Jets, you cannot be sympathetic to the other side!

The games are amazingly intense, and for a girl who constantly complained that she didn’t understand why people got so into sporting events, I have come to understand a bit better.  I have to say, though, Boca fans know how to back a team like no other fanbase I have ever seen.  I sit in the "popular" section, meaning there are no assigned seats, and no one is sitting anyway.  There is always someone playing a big bass drum, others on horns, and everyone singing songs to cheer on the team.  People tie banners that cascade all the way down the stadium, they handout flags and confetti….  It is a very powerful experience to be amongst the Boca fans, you cannot leave without being completely seduced.

My first game was probably my favorite so far.  For some reason, early in the game, the opposing team got a penalty kick.  The goalie took the kick and scored.  Ok, we Boca fans can deal.  What happened next, well, just goes to show what not to do when playing in La Cancha (the stadium of La Boca).

So, the goalie scores, and then goes up to the corner of the field and starts TAUNTING the fans.  You can imagine he was saying stuff like, "Yeah, that’s right, who just scored on you guys?, etc." and gesticulating and dancing about.  WELL, the fans start chucking whatever they can over the stands into the field, mostly empty plastic bottles, but there is a downpour of trash right on his head.  And he gets a yellow card for being so obnoxious.  But the most important part about this is how short sighted that goalie must be.  First of all, I doubt he expected the yellow card.  But more so, he forgets that after the first half, the sides change, and he will be manning goal right infront of the popular section!

So, the second half is about to start, the players take their positions.  Unfortunately for this goalie, he cannot get in goal.  Buckets of trash are being thrown into his net.  Nonstop.  It literally lasts (and I mean literally) 15 minutes.  Eventually, Palermo, a very popular player on La Boca, has to come over and plea with the fans to let the game begin because it can’t start until the goalie gets in position!

I just couldn’t stop laughing.  It was truly amazing.  And while one could say that Boca fans take everything too far, I completely disagree.  In this case, this guy got his just desserts.

One of the icons of La Boca is the number 12.  The reason why La Boca is associated with the number 12 is that there are 11 players on the field on either football team.  But when you consider the force of the Boca fanbase, well, they have 12 players.

Now, that’s beautiful.

I apologize for the next four posts.  I have been very bad about keeping up my blog and so these are all late late late!  I promise to work harder in the future!

_____

My friend Emanuel (Ema) never liked to celebrate his birthday, but Susannah and I were very keen on making this one special.  After a number of conversations, we got him to agree to a birthday costume party at our pad. 

Being that all my friends are super creative, I feel this intense anxiety whenever I have to come up with a costume.  For one, I cannot be the same thing I have ever been, nor anything a friend of mine has been.  Additionally, I prefer homemade costumes to store bought.  But how to accomplish this goal without Saver’s, the Salvation Army, or Lorraine’s Fabric Store?  Nor my pre-existing closet filled with bizarreness?  The task was daunting, to say the least.

I finally decided to go as a cita ciega, or in English, a blind date.  I donned some feminine gear, tied it up with ribbons, and then put on some hefty sunglasses and made a cane out of a curtain rod.  Get it?  BLIND date?  I also pinned a note with a rose that said, "Soy Leslie, busco a Pepe/I’m Leslie, I am looking for Pepe".  Needless to say Pepe never showed.  Or maybe I just didn’t see him.

Susannah and Cristian were very attractive aliens.  And Ema was a priest.  Pretty much everyone showed up in costume.

My favorite was a friend of Ema’s that came as a piquatero (picketer).  To explain what a piquatero is would be a whole other blog entry, so I will save that explanation for the future, but I promise he had a very convincing constume.  (See picture with bumble bee girl).

All in all my souirees here have a mixed party favor of making me feel at home and also like I am making a life for myself outside of the good ol’ USA all at the same time. Yay friendship!

I have been home for the last two months, doing the whole family holiday thing and working at a couple stores as a seasonal worker. It has been nice to be in the land of iced coffee and and chowdah where I cannot walk on the street without running into a lifelong friend, and I feel rejuvinated for another stint at BsAs. Nonetheless, I must tell you all about one of the reasons I came home, my installation at the Dirt Palace.

I am a silkscreen printer, but most of my work serves as posters for rock bands or promotion for political or art related events. Rarely do I get an opportunity to make art for art’s sake, and even more rarely do I get an opportunity to display that work. I have often said that the street is my gallery since I tend to wheat paste my posters on poles and boxes around town, but for the first time I had a REAL exhibition experience.

The Dirt Palace is a women’s art collective in Olneyville, a post industrial neighborhood of Providence, Rhode Island. The first floor of the building once was a department store, so they still have the large display window that faces the street from that era. The women of the DP along with the Rhode Island State Council for the Arts (RISCA) invite an artist a month to put an installation in the window and I was their artist from mid December to mid January.

My installation is called "Merry X-Mess, Mr. President." I created a print to serve as wallpaper in the installation. The print is a five color silkscreen I printed at the Dirt Palace in their screen printing studio. Additionally, I added some Christmas decorations such as lights and garlands and topped off the whole thing with a little note to Mr. George W. Bush, president extraordinaire.

Basically, I gave the President a 1-way ticket to the North Pole. I figured it was a fitting holiday gift, he likes to go on vacation, doesn’t he?

For the closing, I invited friends and family to the Dirt Palace and opted out of the whole cheese plate tradition and instead created a kicking ice cream bar. We had three flavors of Newport Creamery ice cream, both hot fudge and butterscotch topping, M&Ms, Reese’s Pieces, two kinds of sprinkles, Trix cereal, pink waffer cookies, nuts, cherries, and whipped cream. And booze, of course. It was awesome. I also raffled off a framed print and my buddy Zach Markovitz won it. He never wins anything!

In any case, that is the scoop on my first exhibition. I hope to have many more, and who knows, maybe we’ll have more exciting treats at future events. As always, the more the merrier.

I am obviously getting older.  If I drink, I get a hangover.  No matter what.  As we say here, estoy con resaca.

Last night I went to Lo De Roberto which translates to Roberto’s Place more or less.  This is THE spot to hear tango.  A new friend of mine, Jennie, is here on a grant to study tango violin.  She is a regular at the bar and I have decided I want to be her regular sidekick at said bar.

This bar holds about 30 people maximum, but there always seems to be about 20 too many.  If you’re lucky, you get a chair, and you sit with your 10 peso bottle of Dalton Malbec (Oh, how it makes me think of 007, that sexy Dalton), and watch a few guys playing guitar, maybe bowing a violin, hopefully manipulating a bandoleon (the squeezebox like instrument), and of course, singing with strong storytelling voices.  The other day, I swear to god, Brent Lang’s doppleganger got up and belted out some of the most awe inspiring lunfardo (tango slang) I have ever heard.  I wish I knew what the hell he was saying.

It’s watching tango at a milonga (dance hall) or the currently closed Catedral and listening to the tangueros in bars like Roberto’s Place that really reminds me I am the luckiest little traveler.  You cannot get this stuff outside of Buenos Aires because when you do it is all show and there’s nothing authentic about it.  And I am not trying to be all snotty about the authenticity thing, but it’s like when you have the real thing, everything else tastes like kraft singles.   All aspects about the experience enchant me–the low lighting, the clothes (mixture of men in grey suits, young guys in soccer jackets, girls in whatever they want), the way the audience participates (with respect and ease), the settings (hodge podged and often dusty).  I never seem to bring a camera and I always wonder how I would be able to capture how I feel with a snapshot.

The tango crowd, well, that’s another side benefit.  Machismo is a problem for me, in general, and the tango types are generally pretty machista.  There are usually not too many ladies at the bar, and those who are tend to be there with someone, so being a single lady makes me a hot ticket.  But I have had it up to my limit with the macho guy thing here.  I need to be seen as an equal again, it’s going to drive me loca.  So, when I say side benefit, it is either tongue and cheek or someone tongue on my cheek.  Take your pick.

In the meantime, I enjoy the Wednesday night tradition .  Show up at Lo De Roberto around midnight, listen to music that makes your heart bleed, drink too much red wine, around 2 have a mass exodus to the second bar, La De Estela (Estela’s Place, you’re learning quick!) where the same musicians and the same people are together, just about 4 or 5 blocks away.  Leave when the sun comes up too drunk and pushing some drooling machista out of your way as you find your bus home.  Truly a beautiful thing.

When I woke up today, I would have written off my memories of the night before as a dream had it not been for the fact that I got a text message from my friend Rodrigo telling me he was sorry he was so drunk.

Rodrigo invited me and Susannah (my roommate) and her new beau, Christian, to a party in a casa tomada (taken house, I think we’d call it a squat in English) across the street from his place in La Boca.  The new lovers decided to stay at the restaurant and, well, be in love.  Of course I was excited to go.

The party was actually a show in an abandoned old Jewish Temple.  A series of performances of juggling, acrobatics, magic, dance, and clown skits were set in what would have been the main synagogue of the temple.  Young, dirty, artsy types (just like I like ‘em) walked around drinking what we in the States would call a Forty, but what they just call beer here (by the way, most beer in Argentina is sold in large bottles, you rarely see servings for 1). 

I was transfixed.  Not only were the performances unexpected, they were incredibly well done.  A guy juggled fire!  Some dude actually made magic look sexy!  How can any of this be happening in an deserted house of worship?   

There is this type of acrobatics that is done here in Argentina and I have not seen it done anywhere else, though, as Susannah and I discussed, I don’t know if its just because I don’t tend to see acrobatics at all in the States or if it is an Argentinean artform.  But women will half dance, half climb two pieces of fabric suspended from the ceiling.  It is incredibly graceful, and they will let go of their grip, be it from their hands or feet, and seem to fall and then WOOSH they have somehow prevented the end of their lives by knotting the rope, hanging elegantly from their ankle as their hands strike a pose.  All of this is incredibly beautiful.  Last night, the woman who did this type of performance was wearing a white top and poofy white pants, exposing her midriff, and they turned off the lights, turned on a black light, and all you could see was a negative space animation, but real life.  They threw feathers from the upper balconies and the black lights made it look like it was snowing.  Her suspended fabric was black, so when she climbed it, it looked as thought she was flying in a very specific, very seductive way.

I felt like I was watching the best variety show a bunch of friends ever put on, but I am not sure how professional these people were or not.  And out of nowhere, in the middle of all this thought, two dogs started to fight.  This country doesn’t have Bob Barker compelling his fanbase to spade and neuter their pets, so the streets are home to many independent dogs.

I have heard dogs fighting to the death from my apartment.  It is a horrifying sound, especially to a puppy lover like myself.  I have yet to see a dead dog in the street, but I am telling you, with that kind of barking, I think they don’t leave the corpses, they eat them. 

So, in the middle of this dark, all-too-professional show, two dogs started to fight in the middle of the audience.  No one could see, I can only imagine why a dog would choose to fight in this arena, Amores Perros this was not, and the crowd started to move away from the dogs as their barking and gnashing became obviously very real and very dangerous to the people around them. 

The performers were awesome about this, too!  They just convinced the audience to bring their attention back to the stage.  In fact, there was a two person dance going on before the dog fight, and they restarted the whole dance!  I thought that was admirable, considering they were more than half done.  Admirable, and at the same time, silly.  It was strange to see five minutes of dance, which had been completely new to me, seem obvious and dull.  A few drunks would also interrupt their show, and the clowns would beckon the eyes of the crowd back to the front of the room.  I just, well, was impressed all around.  Argentines have a special gift for tolerating people’s right to be weird and, at times, obnoxious, but at the same time, they don’t let it interrupt what is going on.  I respect that a lot.

I can’t get over it.  Like a dream, I just accepted everything as it came.  I never questioned why I would be in an abandoned temple on a Saturday night drinking a large bottle of beer watching a guy do rope magic while a couples made out in front of me, my buddy Rodrigo befriended a wall, and two dogs almost declared war.  But that’s the kind of stuff that happens in Buenos Aires.  Apparently.

It is common knowledge here that any time you make plans, there is a 50/50 chance they will actually come through.  I think one of the reasons people like me in this country is because I show up when I am invited somewhere.  In general, people just don’t.

That is why it should be no great surprise that, despite cleaning up my pad, preparing empanadas (from scratch) and cheese plates, my friends canceled on me this evening.  My buddy Juan called an hour after he was supposed to come over and said, "I am at the psychologist" (FYI everyone in Buenos Aires has a psychologist or a psychiatrist, it is like having a dentist), "I have futbol (soccer) afterward and then dinner with my family, so can me and boys come over on Wednesday?"

I know that if I had been speaking English I would have said something in a cutesy manner like, "Juan, these sound like obligations you would have known about before we made the plan to see my apartment and hangout," but given that I am just getting to the point where I understand people on the phone, I said, "No, its all good.  Nope, no, Wednesday is good.  Ok, kisses, luck, ciao." 

And I wasn’t even upset, I just stood there and was like, "Oh yeah!  I forgot they might cancel, whoops!"

Just another moment when I realize I am understanding how things work here, but not like it’s first nature, not quite yet.