TICK TOCK

4 days left. Time is just flying back. More fun, more adventures (I must write about Bar "El Chino" in Pompeya, adventures in Boedo, and more, but that will have to wait), but I just feel LA pulling me back to "reality." Bittersweet, to say the least. I will relish the melancholy but I will not wallow in misery. (I believe that would be in keeping with the spirit of the tango.)

Tourist Trap Tango

The other day I went to La Boca, a very interesting part of Buenos Aires (ok, it's all interesting, granted). I'll write more, but for now, I thought you might enjoy this:

MateMania, Part 2

Some more mate pics. BTW, everyone was more than happy to have their mate moments captured by the camera.

This isn't a mate pic but it was from the same day in Recoleta (a neighborhood in Buenos Aires). A bunch of people playing this really goofy game where they are all still and then everyone has a spazz attack. Sort of a moronic version of duck-duck-goose, I guess. Really funny to watch. Have they no shame?!?!?

Mate Mania!

What is mate? (pronounced Mah-tay) It's kind of like green tea, but it's much more. Very much an Argentinian cultural institution. It is everywhere. Everyone drinks it, all the time, everywhere. But it isn't just Argentinia's Coca-Cola (everyone drinks that too) but a social custom. Mate is shared among friends from a single mate mug, sipped through a straw which is usually made of silver, often with some ornate metalwork. They love it, couldn't imagine life without it. MateMania! For the record, I find it quite nice as well. A bitter variant on green tea but very tasty, to be sure.

And now, for the first time in this blog's history......(drum roll please) ........ PICTURES! BTW, these were all taken at the Recoleta/Plaza Francia street fair that happens every Sunday.

P.S. Apparently I can't rotate the pix. For now, you'll have to twist and turn. I'll fix this when I get home, to my MACINTOSH!!!!

Less than 2 weeks before I return to LA

I can't help but feel a bit sad already.

Tango 2: The Ten Toes of REDEMPTION!!!

Not that I didn't have a great time at my first tango lesson (see below, it's down there somewhere) but it was a bit difficult and I felt somewhat out of place due to my age and inability to understand 99% of what was being said. At a party I went to a couple of weeks ago (damn, I forgot to blog this fantastic party!) I was given the name of one "Mimi" who comes highly recommended as a tango teacher and whose class is, supposedly, more of what I might be looking for.

I arrive at 86 Callao at the same time as a tallish, dyed-red-haired woman. She's smoking a cigarette and gives me a smile. She is hardly a senior citizen but I think, oh no, she's here for the tango class and she's perhaps the youngest member of the class besides myself. We both approach the elevator and I ask if she's here for the tango class. She gives me a warm smile and says she is. I solicit no further details from her but she goes on to tell me that this class is great, and really good for your health. Is it as good as, say, giving up smoking, I wonder, silently.

As it turns out, this fiery red smoker is Mimi herself. The teacher of the class. Perhaps I should have known, but I am gripped with language- and dancing-based twin anxieties and thus I suspect my powers of deduction temporarily disabled. Once in her studio I mention the Americans who referred me and she smiles even bigger than before. I am welcome and I must have no fear. I am not bereft of fear, but my spirit is lightened.

Inside there is a mix of students and I am most certainly NOT the youngest nor the oldest. There are men and women, including some apparent tourists. And there is even that most common of sights: the cute gal I fall for at first sight. (As I said, this is common, even if "she" is not. I am, after all, a single guy in a country chock full of beautiful latinas.) The class starts out similarly to my first in that we all move alone, practicing moving forward and back, stepping this way that that. Mimi expresses something that I can relate to: a technical philosphy. And it is that when we move, in Tango, it is as if we move on one foot, one pedestal, one body. Sure, we have two legs, two feet, but they are just parts of the whole, and it is a matter of what we do with these parts, how we distribute our weight, revolve around our center of gravities, this is what defines our dancing selves. Some might not care to think of dance, or anything, in these terms, but I do.

Eventually we pair up and my first steps are, like before, terrible. I apologize profusely to my partner, that she has to waste her time with the likes of me. But she kindly smiles and takes it in stride (pun intended). Mimi sees that I am like an elephant on ice and comes to my rescue. She takes hold of me, rattles of some words tht thankfully seem to make some sense to me and then somehow makes me understand what I need to do to become Señor Suave and dance properly. Yes, this is what it's all about. As boring as it might appear to an outside eye, these six steps repeated over and over again are marvelous.

We switch partners a few more times and then something odd happens. I wind up with someone that is both Argentinian AND unable to effortlessly dance the tango. I would have thought that this is just in everyone's collective subconscious, in their blood, whether they like it or not. But not so, apparently. And this woman is looking so flustered and just can't get it right. Of course I want to help but the woman's steps are a bit different, I don't know them, can hardly describe these things in Spanish, not to mention how absurd it would be for me to suggest that she do something other than what she's doing, which happens to be wrong time after time after time. Thankfully one of the teacher's assistants finally sees her missteps and comes to the rescue. She is somewhat embarassed, actually apologizes to me, but then we dance our hearts our for many minutes to come.

The funny thing is that for me, of course this is a taste of the exotic. I don't even dance, let alone dance the Argentine Tango. So for me, I lose myself in the image, the lore. I imagine myself in a bizarro world Argentine style, of sartorial otherness, perhaps wearing absurd cologne, images of Duval, Pacino, Fred Flintstone come to mind. I want to be not the geekydorkyjewboywithadoctorateinmusic but rather that guy who receives the rose from the femme fatale. But that poor woman was just thinking, "how can I remember my steps, like all my other portena friends who do it so effortlessly?" Poor dear.

I will be back on tuesday, and hopefully more after that as well.

A word or two on driving in BA

As many of you know, years ago I was a NYC taxi driver. The yellow cabbie has an almost-legendary place in American urban lore and is, in fact, known beyond the borders of the U.S. And yet compared to BA, driving a yellow cab is like floating in a heated swimming pool: slow, calm, peaceful.

The cars here, taxis and regular cars alike are small, loud, fast and dangerous. I assume there is some kind of goverment rationing of headlights as no car here actually has both a left and a right functioning headlight and many seem to have neither. Not the case with their horns, however. I suppose that taxi drivers are great slalom skiers as they are most adept at coming as close to oncoming objects, be they other cars, pedestrians, whatever, but yet still manage to miss them by just a hair. (No time penalty on that run, bravo!) As Laura (porteña back home) warned me, drivers pay little heed to traffic lights and the stop signs (Pare!) are absolutely meaningless. To say that the pedestrian never has the right of way would be an understatement. He or she is, rather, invisible. Just keeps us all that much on our toes, right?

Sunshine and a Kiss. What a Difference!

Like many European countries, people here greet each other with a kiss on the cheek. Just one kiss here, unlike two in Italy or two or even four in France, but still, there is a kiss, some contact beyond a cold and distant handshake. Of course it is fun, but beyond that, it just makes things warmer, closer, better.

Today was also the warmest and sunniest day I've experienced since my arrival. It is, for those unaware, winter here and while not a snowy frigid winter a la NYC or Berlin, it is definitely a damp cold, not to mention dark, thus impeding some of the exterior glory that might otherwise be. (Or should I say, WILL be, a few weeks after I leave!?!?) It was a bittersweet thing to behold. Children running around wildly, cafe patrons lounging out of doors, and a glorious long winter sunlight all around. It was wonderful, if fleeting, and then, no more. (Waking up at noon didn't help matters either, tis true.)

Success! Spanish Teachers and Museums!!!

After a small quasi-meltdown (see below) I went all out and contacted as many spanish teachers as I could find. I already have met some very nice bilingual folks will to help me with Spanish but they've already become more like friends and so I don't want to burden them nor change the nature of our relationships. Luckily not one but two new teachers appeared readywillingandable to give me lessons.

And, as it turned out, neither of them flaked on me, both are absolutely delightful in every way and I am now completely fluent in Spanish. OK, neither flaked and they are both delightful in every way. My Spanish is, I swear, definitely getting better. (Here's an example of something I can now say with confidence: "Ein Bier bitte!" Pretty good, right?)

Laura, my best friend in BA (yes, I know, I haven't mentioned any names, people, etc. I'm just trying to protect the innocent) stepped up yet again and offered to accompany me to MALBA, the Museo de Arte Latinoamericana de Buenos Aires (or something like that). I was so thrilled to take in art again, like I used to so often. I did, in fact, find the museum to be most enjoyable, but even if I hadn't, it felt great to have that part of my brain stimulated again. They say that LA has no culture and it is most certainly not true. There are plenty of museums, galleries, concerts, etc. The problem is no one really gives a shit about them, never goes, and only laments how little culture they find the time and energy for. (I am as guilty as the rest, lest it be unclear.)

I should also say tht I've made it to the Japanese Gardens, a very quaint public garden with various Japanese elements (bridges, koi, bonzai, zen rock garden, etc.) as well as the zoo, walked through a ton of beautiful public parks, Buenos Aires' Chinatown and lots of other stuff that I've just failed to write about in my boring and most-incomplete blog.

Señor DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up

If this theme hasn't already been expressed, then here it is (again?): A great thing about being a stranger, a tourist, out of your element, is that you are willing to take chances (perhaps), with fewer (if any) routines, instinctual reactions, and that as such opportunities that might not otherwise present themselves occur, and then you might take advantage of them. While there is a comfort to the familiar, of course, there is of course a great excitement in the UNfamiliar, delight in the new, a revitalizing aspect to the path not yet taken (and worn out from overuse).

The phone rings in my BA apt and I answer it. A male African voice asks to speak with Alyssa (the owner of the apt) and I inform the voice that she is not here, that she is, in fact, in the US for the next few weeks. He tells me he's calling to inform her of an audition, for a tv commercial but if she's not around, not to worry. And then he asks me what I look like.

Resisting the urge to say something like a cross between Johnny Depp and George Clooney (see how being a tourist changes you!?!?) I describe myself more accurately. And despite these details I'm invited to go to the casting call if I'm so inclined. I laugh then, as I laugh now because Alyssa, from what I've seen in photos, is a sexy black woman with big green eyes, a lithe body and cute nappy hair. Despite my hazel-green eyes, I think it's safe to say that I bear little resemblance. And yet there I was, being asked in at the door and then later videotaped as I was interviewed about my life, my favorite songs, asked to SING my favorite song (I sang "Ain't No Way" by Aretha Franklin as I knew that "Kentucky Avenue" by Tom Waits just wasn't going to do it, and "Everything Happens To Me" a la Chet Baker would be too slow), then onto what makes someone sexy, etc. I knew I had no shot in hell but I hardly cared. In LA I would feel polluted hanging around with trendy modelly wannabes willing to sell whatever soul they had left in order to be the next Face of Nokia. But here it was new, fresh, and I must say I enjoyed the experience. Truth is I actually thought these folks were considerably less vapid than the analogous LA bunch, but I might be fooling myself there. Not sure.

In addition to the good time, I had some great conversations with some absurdly pretty girls and even got the number of most interesting woman with whom I'm spending the day tomorrow. So goes the life of a tourist.

Noche Flamenca

My lord, what an unbelievable experience! 3 flamenco dancers (two men, one woman), 2 singers, and 2 of the most unbelievable guitarists I've ever heard. Made me feel like I had no right to ever touch my guitar again. Beyond that, words just would not do it all justice. (How's that for a great blog entry???)

If anyone cares to learn more, the group is Noche Flamenca, led by a dancer, Soledad Barrio.

Portrait of the Artist as a Tourist

I think of myself as an artist. Of music, of course. When I think about what I like, in life, generally, I think, "music, art, film, etc." Culture, inasmuch as that means anything specific. And yet, I'm about to enter my fourth week here and have still not gone to a museum. (I've gone to parks, gardens, the zoo, the movies, an amazing concert, but no museums, which I usually love). It's just weird. When I lived in NYC, I'd go to MOMA at least once a month, but really more like once a week or more. Whenever I've lived in other cities, I learn the collections of all the major museums. (Rome was a bit of an exception due to the fact that all the art and museums are falling apart and only open every 7th tuesday of every quarter unless the portanero doesn't feel like showing up, or if it's cloudy, etc...) It would be a shame (or a farce) to think that I've just seen enough art and don't need it anymore. But i have, arguably at least, seen a good percentage of the masterpieces and masters of the world. Maybe it's just more interesting to try to reconcile the existence of the beautiful art nouveau architecture among rich businessmen and cartoneros (homeless scavengers who pick through the garbage), the tango-infused music that soaks the environment throughout, the traffic that resemble a demolition derby driven by blind people, the parks, the dogs, not to mention the ongoing challenge of just trying to understand newspapers and street signs.

As I said, I'm about to enter my fourth week here. How strange. At first I thought that a month is the absolutely WRONG amount of time for a trip. Too long for a vacation, too short to think of it as a move to another city. But I've come up with a solution, albeit just a way of psyching myself out: I've decided to think of each week or so as a new vacation. The first was one of blind exploration into new physical spaces and activities, the second, some more of the same with some socialization with new-found friends, the third, further branching out with some cultural activities (more movies and an amazing concert of flamenco dance, singing, music; see above). Inasmuch as I've tried to plan anything, the next phase will focus on lessons (spanish and perhaps more tango) as well as some museums. We'll see what actually happens.

It's just a funny thing, to truly identify yourself as one thing (composer, artist, whatever) and then find that when transposed onto a new environment, everything changes, the radar detects different things (empanadas, dogshit, a distant view of the river) and, in the best of times, it all becomes interesting, new, fresh, and wonderful.

Crisis Over

OK. Deep breaths taken, small nap as well. Reflection. Long walk. Crisis over.

Even if I didn't find TWO spanish teachers tonight (who knows if either/both will actually keep their appointments) I think I would have been able to regain my sanity. Sometimes, even when we know we are hurting ourselves (mentally, emotionally), we still are unable to change course midstream. Thankfully, I'm at least getting a bit better at it. (See Paean to Gertrude below, if you like.)

Taking the Bad with the Good

Those who know me know well that it is rare, perhaps unprecedented, to go 3 weeks (if not 3 hours) without bitching and moaning like a spoiled child. Well, it's not quite 3 weeks and all this good cheer couldn't last forever, right?

Today was/is a not-so-great day.

Of course there are things that are frustrating, difficult, unpleasant about this city. The "aires" is hardly all that "buenos", rather the pollution is evident. Car exhaust is thick and unpleasant as is the cigarette smoke. Noisy too, of course from the intense traffic. In my particular case, this is exacerbated by the construction going on in the building where I live. (Although I find it hard to believe they're actually building or repairing anything. It just sounds like they've hired a group of monkeys to hit things with hammers for hours at a time.)

The main thing that triggered my frustration today is my still not having found a spanish teacher. There is that old joke about a man not being able to procure certain services in a certain type of institution despite his possession of a surfeit of funds that are wrapped around a certain part of his body. This is how I feel, not being able to find a spanish teacher in argentina, armed with pesos-a-plenty. Teachers respond, make appointments and then, for no apparent reason, cancel or reschedule long into the future. It is very frustrating, especially given how important the ability to communicate colors your experience in a foreign place. I can blather and babble just fine in my lame-ass spanglish, but if I had some training and some guidance I would be able to actually speak.

Having said all this, I did finally find someone today and she swears she'll show up tomorrow. We'll see.

Also, despite being happily single and willing to just live, date, hang out casually with whomever, love is everywhere here (how do you say, "Get a room!" in Spanish!?!) and I would like some myself. Truth is I've had a few "encounters" of varying degree of intimacy (conspicuously NOT chronicled here), and that was all well and good. But it would be nice to something a bit more intense, serious, whatever, and I know it won't (perhaps CAN'T) happen in the time allotted. Of course I've been happy, buoyant, content for 99% of the time, so it's not so terrible. But being only human, I can lapse from time to time, of course. It doesn't make it any easier that the porteñas are a gorgeous lot. (They are also, for the most part, crazy. But in a good way that I enjoy. And that would be for another discussion anyway.)

Let's see, what else can I bitch about????

Little teeny waxpaper napkins. Whose idea was that? Oh who cares about such trivial things.....

The EGinBA Index

Number of days in BAires: 16
Number of days leaving the apartment before 1pm: 0
Number of days asleep before 4am: 0
Number of hours walking per day, on average: 5
Number of times stepped in dogshit: 2 (both within one hour of the other)
Number of steaks eaten: ca. 10
Number of times I had "fries with that": 10
Number of taxis taken: ca. 12
Number of taxi rides that included extensive discussion about politics: all but 1
Number of taxi drivers who asked specifically if I was an "amigo de Señor Bush": 2
Number of taxi drivers who tried to shortchange me: 2
Number of films seen (in theatres): 2
Percentage seen alone (without companion): 100
Percentage of films that were American: 0
Percentage enjoyed thoroughly: 50
Number of museums attended: 0
Number of public parks or gardens: 4 or more (depending on how you define park)
Number of zoos attended: 1
Number of giraffes seen: 1
Number of rhinoceroses: 2
Lions: 3
Tigers: 0
Bears (oh my!): 3
Percentage of bears that were polar bears, just inches away, on the other side of the lexan glass: 66
Empanadas: Lots!
Percentage of empanadas that were thoroughly delicious: 100
Amount of American fast food consumed: Nada
Number of Macintosh computers seen: 3
Number of Macintosh computers seen solely as part of a room decoration: 2
Bottles of Malbec wine consumed, either alone or with companion: 5
Number of hangovers: 0
Street fairs attended: 2
Number of meat sandwiches consumed while walking amid street fairs: 3
Number of conversations arising spontaneously with unknown pedestrians: 4
Number of hours per day in internet cafes: 1 (average)

Good night

Paean for Gertrude

Gertrude was my therapist (as in my "shrink") up from about 2 years ago (give or take) up until she had a stroke, about 6 months ago (give or take). She said her stroke was relatively mild and she suffered no permanent damage beyond a weakened overall endurance, a general fatigue, etc. I did speak with her a few times after her stroke but eventually I stopped calling her because I felt my calls put as much pressure on her to recover and regain sessions with me as it did to actually express my concern and/or good wishes.

Regardless of the opinions of those who know me well, I don't think of myself as someone who needs therapy. Some people live for it, are addicted to it. Some to the extent that they even believe that ALL people should be in therapy, all the time. (I might feel that way about massages. Not psychological therapy, however.) Be this as it may, about 2 years ago conditions in my life were such that it seemed the right time to seek some councel, some support, some help. I was referred to a sliding-scale clinic and, just by chance, was assigned Gertrude. A funny name I thought. Gertrude. The name of one of my grandmothers, in fact. (Gietel, as she was actually called. The yiddishization of Gertrude I always assumed.) Would my shrink be a bitter, overbearing, kvetchy bubby too?

Not at all. To my surprise and mild amusement, Gertrude turned out to be a short Japanese woman. I am not sure how old she was but certainly older than me by a good bit. Frankly, my first impression was that this woman probably did not have whatever it might take to understand me, my situation, my problems, etc. (And at some point I shared with her these impressions.) But, thankfully, I was mistaken.

In short, when I started to see Gertrude I had certain goals, however vague. Whatever they were, more generally, I just needed to get my shit together, needed to feel hopeful, on track, with a sense that I was moving forward, not backwards. Inasmuch as the goals were concrete they were to get my dissertation done, get my doctorate over with, improve my work situation, improve my social and dating life, but moreover, just get a sense of inner peace. I also talked about wanting to indulge in travel and adventure, like I had done so often more than a decade ago. Specifically, Buenos Aires popped up more and more on my radar and I often discussed this with her.

Perhaps on a different blog I could discuss more thoroughly my sessions with Gertrude. Her mixture of more-or-less traditional psychology with a pinch of Buddhism mixed in. I would discuss my greatly increased ability to accept things as they are, matched by my failure to create problems in my mind before there was a reason or need to do so. And how, armed with these aspects of a new perspective, things progressed, from one positive step to another (not without missteps and regressions, of course; I am, after all, only human) until, here and now I sit, happily, in Buenos Aires.

Gertrude, I think of you often, and have done so during my time with you as well as since your stroke. Many of my friends know you as something of a guiding light for me (however silly that might sound both to her and to me). I hope that you are well and that, at some point in time, we can chat again about life, Buenos Aires, John Cage, and all that good stuff.

I'm Staying An Extra Week!

I didn't want to leave any sooner than I had to so I've extended my trip another week. Yea!

I know I've been remiss...

I love writing this blog, even if few people actually check it out. But I've been so busy with my walking around aimlessly and such, I just haven't had time. But lots has been happening and good lots at that.

Worst Band Name I've EVER seen...

AIRBAG! I'm not saying anything about the band or their music. But that name, wow....

Time Flies and the Anxiety of Free Time

When I lived in Rome, over a decade ago, I chanced upon a place that offered time in an isolation tank. This is the contraption that was featured in the film "Altered States," i.e., a covered tub or basin that was filled with hypersalinated 98-degree water then covered up. As such you floated, felt no cold or warmth, heard no sound and saw no light. It was a pretty amazing experience. People who experience the isolation tank have a huge range of experience, from ecstasy to paralyzing fear. Personally I thought it was pretty wonderful. The only crazy thing was my perception and obsession with time. I was having such a great time in the tank, and the tank was altering my perception of time so much, that for a while (who knows how long?) I was fixated on how much time I had left to enjoy this amazing experience.

And so it goes here in BAires. I am having such a great time, but time itself seems elusive, fleeting, of a different nature than it normally is in my "normal" life. And as such, I too often find myself aware of how much time I have left here (I'm scheduled to return the 24th of August, although I must admit that I am starting to consider extending my trip if possible.) and then find myself caught up in the loop of wondering what I'll get done, what I'll see, do, accomplish before my glorious adventure comes to a close.

Not the right way of thinking perhaps, but I am who I am, and only human at that. Still, things continue to be new, fresh, wonderful, and I am grateful.