Today I have visited the beautiful and mysterious Recoleta, Buenos Aire's famous necropolis. Imagine if you will the great population density of Buenos Aires herself, the crowded, narrow streets with buildings that quickly run into each other and grow upward instead. Now change that so its a population density of dead people and that they require even less personal space than a porteño and you can begin to imagine what I mean when I say this place is wall to wall dead people.
Two and three-story tombs and mausoleums made of luxurious stone throw up ornate crosses and angels into the sky, wedged together like necrotic tv antennae. You'd think at some point somebody would have realized that their tomb would stand out more if it were not an imposing 16-foot tall black marble monstrosity, but no, brute ostentation carries the day.
The press of religious imagery backdropped by Buenos Aire's frequently cloudy sky gives a horror movie-set feel to the place. This feeling is intensified by the cats that pose photogenically in rays of light that break through the triple-layered crosses and overcast.
The buried seemed pretty convinced that they were going to be resurrected. Stairways into the crypts have hand rails and the marble covers are on rails so they can be moved with minimal effort.
Alot of door have shiny new padlocks on them. This is because La Recoleta is still in use. People gettin' buried there all the time. But it makes the place spookier... somehow.
Yesterday, seeking spanish conversation, I went to find a Milonga (a social tango dance). I headed for one reputed to have good classes, arrived about an hour too late and was informed that there would be no milonga tonight, only a show.
There's this thing that happens when you speak to me in a language that it not English. I have this desperate desire to complete our interaction quickly so I can make up for the time I spent fumbling for a word. This comes at the expense of my brain-thinking time. Therefore, I bought a ticket for this show about which I barely asked.
I was directed to talk to the chico to my left about seating. And he informed me that there was no space at the tables but I could come back at 10 to see if anybody hadn't show up. Or, sit at the bar. I, having no idea what time it was or what time the show started and being too stupefied by this entire "speaking and listening to spanish" thing, was too dumb to pull out my phone and check. The fastest option, pursuant to my unfortunate rule, was to agree to sit at the bar.
So, there I was. By myself, waiting for a show of an unknown length, time and content seated, of all places, at a bar. I did the only thing I could do. I ordered a fresh-squeezed orange juice.
They were out. Faced with the option of drinking nasty water con gaso, or being American and forcing a glass of tap water onto the table or drinking alcohol, I ordered a Warsteiner, something I'd read was "smooth" which I hoped meant drinkable. I also ordered a sirloin steak. I enjoyed one of them.
The good news is, the food and show were great. It turned out to be a tango singer backed by guitars. And judging by the reactions of the audience, she was quite hilarious.
I also struck up a conversation with the girl seated to my left, a 21 year-old psych student, who informed me that Argentinian psychologists are really into Freud.
And finally the loomings. My host mother and I have a weird relationship. Specifically, she doesn't speak to me very often and she cooks lousy food while I'm pretty sure she and her son are eating better. I'm looking into this.
The lady in the apartment above is running around in her high heels, so that means its time for me to go to bed. Gnight!
Nathan
Two and three-story tombs and mausoleums made of luxurious stone throw up ornate crosses and angels into the sky, wedged together like necrotic tv antennae. You'd think at some point somebody would have realized that their tomb would stand out more if it were not an imposing 16-foot tall black marble monstrosity, but no, brute ostentation carries the day.
The press of religious imagery backdropped by Buenos Aire's frequently cloudy sky gives a horror movie-set feel to the place. This feeling is intensified by the cats that pose photogenically in rays of light that break through the triple-layered crosses and overcast.
The buried seemed pretty convinced that they were going to be resurrected. Stairways into the crypts have hand rails and the marble covers are on rails so they can be moved with minimal effort.
Alot of door have shiny new padlocks on them. This is because La Recoleta is still in use. People gettin' buried there all the time. But it makes the place spookier... somehow.
Yesterday, seeking spanish conversation, I went to find a Milonga (a social tango dance). I headed for one reputed to have good classes, arrived about an hour too late and was informed that there would be no milonga tonight, only a show.
There's this thing that happens when you speak to me in a language that it not English. I have this desperate desire to complete our interaction quickly so I can make up for the time I spent fumbling for a word. This comes at the expense of my brain-thinking time. Therefore, I bought a ticket for this show about which I barely asked.
I was directed to talk to the chico to my left about seating. And he informed me that there was no space at the tables but I could come back at 10 to see if anybody hadn't show up. Or, sit at the bar. I, having no idea what time it was or what time the show started and being too stupefied by this entire "speaking and listening to spanish" thing, was too dumb to pull out my phone and check. The fastest option, pursuant to my unfortunate rule, was to agree to sit at the bar.
So, there I was. By myself, waiting for a show of an unknown length, time and content seated, of all places, at a bar. I did the only thing I could do. I ordered a fresh-squeezed orange juice.
They were out. Faced with the option of drinking nasty water con gaso, or being American and forcing a glass of tap water onto the table or drinking alcohol, I ordered a Warsteiner, something I'd read was "smooth" which I hoped meant drinkable. I also ordered a sirloin steak. I enjoyed one of them.
The good news is, the food and show were great. It turned out to be a tango singer backed by guitars. And judging by the reactions of the audience, she was quite hilarious.
I also struck up a conversation with the girl seated to my left, a 21 year-old psych student, who informed me that Argentinian psychologists are really into Freud.
And finally the loomings. My host mother and I have a weird relationship. Specifically, she doesn't speak to me very often and she cooks lousy food while I'm pretty sure she and her son are eating better. I'm looking into this.
The lady in the apartment above is running around in her high heels, so that means its time for me to go to bed. Gnight!
Nathan
Comments
My host mother in Italy fed us fish sticks from time to time. Fish sticks.
at least your host mother feeds you, though!
but ya. hmm. can I send you care packages? like cookies or something? or are the international mail people not going to appreciate that?
~Jessica
Also, I think you have forgotten my prime directive: never talk to anyone you are not prepared to kill, because they might be a Freudian. You know now what you must do.
Rachel (Voss)