The Internet Infrastructure Here Sucks

Well, it does.

Seriously, having finally given up on stealing a consistent signal from my neighbors I head to where I believe there is a decent internet cafe to find out that they have neither microphones nor cameras, so I head out for another and discover that the USB extension the computers are provided with actually prevents usage of USB´s unless you bring some sort of adaptive unit. So, this post will be without pictures, maybe I will add them at a later date.

It will also be without structure as pictures usually remind me what I was going to talk about. So let´s begin.

Uh.

I´m sick again! Hooray. With luck, this could turn out to be like a weekly thing! What excitement! I don´t wanna go to the doctor as I just went and it didn´t seem to help me that much. Grah.

So, aside from contracting disease, what have I been up to?

Well, yesterday I went to buy tango shoes! And here would be a picture if such a thing were possible. And, surprise, surprise, there were none in my size! But here´s the kicker. As there were none in my size, I´m going to have them made for me! Meaning I got to selected everything from the model to the kind of leather. That´s right, leather, handmade-to-fit shoes. At what price you ask? Around 100 dollars. Eat your heart out , Primer Mundo.

What did I choose for my new look? Stay tuned...

But what about the adventure?

The trip, organized by my tango teacher, began with the premise that I would would meet up with dancing buddy Klara of Sweden, or Suezia which is phonetically similar to a country named Suizia. Don´t fuck that up.

Following my nature, I was running late and had to abandon my meeting with la Sueca in order to meet up directly with the adventurers. Curiously, I met up with Aldo, a late-comer to my tango class, of Mexican fame. I quite happily made my way to the rendevous with him trying out my Spanish. He was quite complimentary and bemused by my incorporation of Mexican slang.

We arrived at the profe´s (proh-feh, short for profesor) house and waited for one more person. I suspect that Profe makes a lot of money being a tango dancer . I know that something was up once I realized that there were only two apartments listed per floor of the rather large building we saw.

We told stories and chatted until the last member arrived. It seems that el profe knows a lot of people in the circus. No, really. Every other time he opened his mouth it was to tell us some story about his friend the clown who worked in a circus. He may also know a lion-tamer and/or some person that works for Cirque du Soleil. Sometimes the details get lost in translation.

Anyway, it seems that being a professional tango dancer can be pretty exciting.

We left, we arrived, we bought shoes. That skips over the part where I cursed this fake 50 centavo coin that had arrived in my possesion, thereby duping me into believing that I could take the bus only to have to perform the tic-tac buying, friend-begging ritual that is trying to find change in Buenos Aires (remind me to explain this).

The place was really cool, really old-timey. That would best be explained with pictures, alas. I can tell you that it smelled perfectly like a cobbler´s. Glue and leather in eye-watering abundance. It had a kind of ill-lit, dusty, timeless feel that was really accented by the intensified old-world Italian feeling I get from places away from the city center.

Speaking of vestigial Italianisms, they say ¨capo¨here kind of life we might say boss or chief. Some of you might already recognize the word from watching mafia movies or having been to Italy. For instance, a cartonero (this too, I should explain) was wheeling his cart of recyclables on by and said ¨¿Capo, una monedita?¨ ¨Capo, a little change¨and then rolled on by without stopping.

Incidentally, my reaction to a beggar that didn´t stop to beg properly was bemusement. Then, I was advised that they do this to evaluate the fear level of the walkee, someone who hesitates or stops will certainly give them change and based on the temerity of the beggar, a potential mark for more aggressive negotiaion.

Personally, I believe that this is bullshit and part of the gigantic fear porteños have regarding their city. But onward!

We asked the cobbler where we could find good food. She directed us a few blocks away. Upon telling our teacher that we planned to eat he made a face and said ¨¿Here?¨Naturally, the area we were in was rather dangerous and we would get killed there. Again. But, he accompanied us to the place and life went on. Delicious cheap pasta had inside.

Afterward, Aldo and newfound lunchmate Alena, Karla and I went on an extended walking tour in the direction of the American embassy where I intended to register to vote. Naturally, it was closed but there was a nice security guard whose English was almost totally American. Damn the Argentine practice of using the language of our across-the-pond cousins.

Unrelatedly, MY BAND HAS A CONCERT!

Oh you didn´t know I had a band? I´m in band. I´m in my capoeira instructor´s band. One day, I he told us that he was performing in a bar near my house. I gathered a friend and went. I saw that they were pretty good and later told Mario (my capoeira instructor) such. I also said ¨You know, you guys really need a trombonist¨ Mario then said "yeah." I then said "I play trombone." I went to a rehearsal, years and years of private lessons and practice finally proved their worth in front of the eyes of those who don´t think the trombone is silliest instrument in the world.

If I understand correctly, I think they think I´m the shit.

They are a reggae band, Mario raps, I want to rap, too.

Speaking of not being silly, I practice the trombone in the park here. I must, there is no other recourse. Years of painful awareness of the "nerdiness" of my instrument has caused me to avoid playing in front of the uninitiated. And by that I mean people who had not invested years and thousands in learning other "nerdy instruments" (things that are not trumpet guitar and sax).

Anyway, not only did not anyone even look at me twice, I´ve been getting the distinct impression that the trombone is a "cool instrument" here. Wtf, mate?

Example, an similar interaction between some Argentines and an American.

American Chick: Oh, you play an instrument?

Nathan: Yeah, the trombone. Supercool, right?

American Chick: (Pause) No, that is pretty cool.

Not so good, see? But,

Argentina: You play an instrument?

Nathan: Yeah, the trombone.

Argentina: Oh is that the (finger-twiddling trumpet gesture)?

Nathan: No, its the one with the (punching action slide-trombone gesture)

Argentina: What?! How cool! Jeez, what don´t you do?

Nathan: Uh, pardon me miss, I´ve never received a positive reaction to my playing the trombone before. My culture has left me unprepared for this reaction and the way you are regarding me out of the corner of your eye.

Or, after running through a tune unaccompanied in the park, Silia, the person I brought for emotional support remarks

Silia: (sighs) Bitches will want to fuck you.

While I´m still waiting on that, its a nice thought.

Anyway, I hope my grandad will pardon the poor language choice of my friends but notice that I was much classier in the way I described the same phenomenon.

Thanks and to all a good night.