tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54643979513098324982024-03-20T08:44:27.101-07:00Drugstore GauchoBigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-63655786966081695382018-11-25T07:44:00.000-08:002018-11-25T07:59:50.429-08:00"I'm from the interior"<style type="text/css">
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<b>The following is an unfinished ramble inspired by Trump, being on the periphery and the unitarian vs federalists fallout. </b><br />
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A great motor of Argentine history is the conflict between a (more or less) coastal, financial, cultural and political capital and the rest of the country, throughout which its main industry, agriculture, is dispersed.</div>
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It is through the dominance of Buenos Aires that the rest of the country received its moniker as "the interior". Of course, as a European trader making landfall at the port, all inquiry leads further upriver, further "inside" the country. Where did this fruit come from? Where did these unfamiliar people come from?</div>
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As a result of its geographic position of interlocutor in all commerce between the fields of production and the sea-bound, European purchasers, Buenos Aires achieved great prominence. It becomes a financial center, a point of high population density and subsequently a hotbed of art and culture. It is, for better or for worse, the face that Argentina must show to the world, like New York and LA are for my own country.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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The arrangement is not a pleasant one for the people who live "upriver". The diverse peoples populating the immense stretch of land in the 8th largest country in the world hate to the fact that the "Argentine" accent occasionally shown in Mexican soap operas is inevitably that of the port-city. They resent that many internationally known Argentine stereotypes of arrogance and crookedness are really stereotypes they themselves associate with Buenos Aires. They feel misrepresented, or at best, ignored by the group of people who take the products of their labor and sell it at port. It's incredible to see how often denizens of this city (myself included) will use "Argentina" and "Buenos Aires" interchangeably until reminded that the issue in question is actually only locally relevant. Truly, the egotism of the city's stereotype is not without merit.</div>
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I leave Buenos Aires only occasionally, but I know these things because a great part of the these port-dwellers are transplants. The joke is that everyone living in LA is actually from some nameless town in Idaho or Kansas, trying to "make it". It's much the same in Buenos Aires. In fact, it's usually with a certain begrudging acceptance that Argentines all over the country heed the city's siren call as they advance in their field, or enter in a more specialized one. As one man told me over mates in a recording studio "I wanted to be an audio engineer, but I lived in Chubut. What are you going to record in Chubut? The Patagonian sheep?” He had seen himself obliged to move to Buenos Aires and to become, to his horror, a porteño.</div>
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Looking back, I realize that I too was reluctant--more than reluctant, resentful--of the various Buenos Aireses of my country. As a person destined for work in art and culture,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(or at least, a recent college grad with no clear direction in life) it was often suggested to me that I go to New York and "figure it out." But I couldn't go to New York, you see, I was from Kansas. Their baseball team was a cancer that was ruining the sport. It's expensive far past the point of reason. Moving to New York was selling out in some way, admitting that where I was from was in fact tiny and irrelevant and insufficient.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Though I moved to Buenos Aires, through christmas-time trips, I eventually came to know Chicago and fell in love with it. Chicago is no different than New York or Los Ángeles. It is "the city" for the thousands of miles of farmland that surround it. It is the hub for air transportation such to the point that ocean fish in Chicago (a geographical/culinary blasphemy for some) are probably a whole day fresher than they are in Kansas and other landlocked states. It is the place that all of your friends gravitate to if they were born within 500 miles of it, particularly if they are artists. It is also the city that wields too much influence in state politics, who houses financial mavens whose whims are life and death for working families around the country. But I love it all the same. I am an artist, there beat hearts that sustain my profession. Musical theatre, bars, symphony halls, parades, recording studios, all those magical things that happen when money and population get together. And furthermore, among the giant cities of the US, Chicago faces the same problems that people from Kansas do. It lives in the shadow of Los Ángeles and New York. They call it the Second City. For all its greatness, it is nestled inside the United States. You need a coastline (and a movie industry) to be truly</div>
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great, to let everyone know just how great you are, to grow your legend.</div>
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When I came to Buenos Aires, I didn't understand that I was setting up shop in their New York, but I learned. In the roulette of shoddy temporary lodgings that served as my homes, I shared my dinner table with Argentines that commiserated with all my difficulties of being new in the city. We could complain together about the unhappy look of commuter's faces, how the people who worked the newspaper stands would sometimes be rude to us when we asked for directions. The total inhumanity of transportation at rush hour, the press of bodies, the din of car horns. I looked at them with surprise. Why would you say all this about your city? This is not my city they would tell me. Then they would smile ruefully and tell me "soy del interior". Entrerrianos, cordobeses, jujeños, correntinos. Sworn enemies of Buenos Aires, but nestled in its bosom.</div>
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At first I thought that the interior-Buenos Aires contest was more personal. More like my childhood hatred for the Yankees. Traditional, light-hearted, silly. Then I learned a little of history and I saw that it was not. Buenos Aires is an autonomous zone inside Argentina. Seceding from the country (or vice versa) has been seriously proposed a number of times. The resentment runs deeper than that. As any good historian in Argentina will remind you, time, time and time again: the infrastructure of this country was developed to be extractive. Highways and railway lines do not form an egalitarian grid across the country. There is only a funnel, a carefully aimed fractal, all pointing to Buenos Aires. People from the interior point at the port when they spit and gnash their teeth, lamenting the destruction of indigenous wealth and culture at the hands of the exploitative Europeans, even though many of them sport Italian last names and white faces.</div>
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I learned a lot about how Argentines see themselves. In general, I find myself returning to the same conclusion over and over. Argentines seem to understand themselves better than we do. They aren't squeamish about staring themselves in the mirror and reflecting on the gritty bits. They are sort of refreshingly indelicate on a host of matters that in the United States we prefer to hide behind acronyms.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>While at times they seem brutally sexist or racist to my American sensibilities, I think it is far healthier to be racist and aware of it than to hide it behind a learned facade of political correctness. Certainly, the parties are livelier.</div>
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I have most recently come to the conclusion that Argentines are ahead of us another aspect of understanding themselves. In Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska and Wisconsin and Minnesota, we tell ourselves a certain lie. Well, like a lot of things Americans tell ourselves, maybe it's not a lie so much as it something that is not yet true, but god dammit, my squinting my eyes and believing it, it will become true soon enough! We say that there is a life for you in Kansas City, in Lincoln or Milwaukee. Or maybe even in Hays, Kenosha, or Battle Creek. A life that is just as good as it is anywhere else in the country. The joke is on the New Yorkers, they make fun of us but really they have the tough lives, living on top of each other and fighting for fresh air at Central Park, really the good life is right in in Oconomewoc. Maybe in the olden days it would have been a drag, but now with the Internet and Amazon Prime and Netflix, truly there is no reason to go live in those overpacked sardine cans.</div>
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Argentines don't believe in that sort of nonsense. They know that if they don't pack their bags and move to Buenos Aires, they will be forever ten steps behind the people that do. They know that they are relegated to a second class in their own country. They will wait longer for goods and services that are already commonplace in the city, they will hardly ever see themselves reflected in their media, they won't make the connections that can crack open a new field for them. Many of them choose that life anyway, like many Americans have, but I think Argentines have been much more honest in their calculations. And so I think they are never disappointed.</div>
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Not so, in America. The truth is you do not have a life in Sheboygan. Some towns are feeling the squeeze more than others, but like Argentina, all the money, power and art is gravitating towards a big city on the coast. Which one depends on where you are exactly, (that's the one thing that sets us apart from the Argentines, they have but one Buenos Aires, we have several) but don't doubt that it's going. The striking images from video essays on YouTube may talk about the smallest and the poorest like MacDowell county West Virginia, but I think the time is coming for even the mid-level cities. It's clear they're already culturally irrelevant. I can't remember the last time I saw Kansas City on TV. Soon we'll wake up to the fact that everyone there would prefer to live somewhere else, if only they could. If only they didn't have children, if they could afford it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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But, we lie to ourselves, we tell ourselves that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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http://lm.facebook.com/lsr.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.cracked.com%2Fblog%2F6-reasons-trumps-rise-that-no-one-talks-about%2F&ext=1476958506&hash=AcngnbQ5cGVCccf9aR_jMQ_KuJgGB47nzJXMp1VklklfUA&_rdr</div>
<br />Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-34049047432071393752013-03-24T09:53:00.001-07:002013-03-24T09:53:48.987-07:00Health Care Buenos AiresAfter hearing so much about the occasionally lauded, more often derided, Argentine public health care system, I decided that it merited investigation. Or my girlfriend wanted me to get tested for HIV, gangrenous penis and other sexually transmitted boogiemen. In either case, I went to the hospital and was treated to brief (thank god) anthropological journey through medicine in another country.<br />
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Being that I've still not finished/done my paperwork to be legal here in Argentina, and thereby get the health insurance my company would provide, I'm on the public plan. I'm not sure as to what the limits of the public plan is, in light of the fact that I have done zero actual research regarding the topic. So I can only offer what I might call hearsay, or what anthropology might call the data from my informal interviews. </div>
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In conversation and eavesdropping with my friends and co-workers (that is to say, a statistically non-representative sample, but c'mon, how do you know what YOU know about the health system in YOUR country?), I've determined that the healthcare system in Argentina is great, except for the fact its not. </div>
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As an American, and this topic being debated in my country, I rush to point out that health care in Argentina is free and, reportedly, comprehensive. In conversation, there has never been a person that has complained to me about a lack of coverage in the public health care. I must admit that my circle of "informants", as they are called in the anthropological argot, is decidedly skewed to the young. There is no one I engage in frequent conversation that is over 40 years in age. Non-withstanding, As far has been reported to me, if anything happens to me, or I otherwise need medical attention, I can go the hospital the process of getting that which I require. However, it is that process which is so heavily criticized by the Argentine media and people.</div>
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The first sentence to leap out of an Argentine's mouth while discussing the medical system invariably has to do with the "la cola". Literally tail, this is the local word for lines (as in the kind you wait in). The hypothetical Argentine constructed of the pastiche of my remembered conversations would say something like "Yeah, sure, the medical system is world class after you wait in the line for a few hours. Take some mate, a book and some kleenex, it's a good time". To be honest, I can't recall anyone giving me even a casual figure as to how long the lines would take, but most have emphasized the physical size of the lines. </div>
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Thus armed with replete and comprehensive information to this effect, I didn't really see a time I could schedule an entire day to wait in line to be attended for what was a non-essential operation. Also, as a foreigner, I'm beyond clueless as to how the system actually functions. After all, the first step in Yankee-landia is to call and make an appointment, so at the get-go the first instruction (go wait in line) is somewhat bewildering.</div>
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Hence, I had not made any moves to get tested for STD's. My girlfriend had been initially less than sympathetic towards me and unwillingness to go bumble through the procedure myself, but then, she took matters into her own hands and found a contact in the hospital that would speed us along the procedure. </div>
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So let me contrast what I did, and what I would have had to have done if I were just a normal, unconnected Argentine guy.</div>
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I wake up at 7 AM on a cold monday morning, to hop a short bus ride (crowded, as usual) to the nearest hospital. Some of the buildings were actually as old as the iron gates and fences would suggest. Sadly, their vaguely colonial architectural stylings were lumped together with the standard Argentine government building from Peron's day: an ugly and failed exploration of the design concepts first used by manufacturers of hamster tubes and the large versions with ball pits destined for children. And of course, this being a high traffic location, the same guys that come to hawk fried bits of sugared dough and pastries from tupperware containers at the park on Sundays hang out at the gates of the hospital on Mondays.</div>
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Going in, you get in line to get a card which in theory authorizes you to be in the hospital. And then after you figure out where the hell is the wing you need (no one knows where anything else)Therein I would have to wait in line that stretched up two stories of ye old grand staircase and all of a small lobby to get to the door of the portion of the clinic that handles this sort of thing. A full day's work in short.<br /><br />What ended up happening is that Luana got in touch with a cousin who is a doctor of the blood-drawing kind in the hospital. She told us arrive before the doors opened at 8, skip the first line, skip the second line, wait outside the door, and send her a text message. Then in front of all of these people who has been waiting for god knows how long, sashay into the clinic where she took the samples in all of ten seconds and sent on our merry way. <br /><br />Long story short, social capital can make the public option a real option for you. But if you have some sort of recurring health problem, get paid health insurance. It's cheap by American standards and you can avoid the lines.</div>
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Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-66035554983468587772013-03-24T09:31:00.000-07:002018-11-25T07:53:48.742-08:00(This post from some time ago last year, in 2012)<br />
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It's with a heavy heart that I make post number 70 on this blog and eradicate the 69 from post count that has stood so long as warden to this mostly ignored corner of the internet.<br />
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I thought I would write something, it being late and I being bored, but reading previous entries has moved me to make a post in the vein of the spotty narrative that has sort of evolved out of the last couple of entries. This country, despite it's great size and previous importance to international politics, exists in a paucity of information about itself. As far as I know, my blog is the only English language source detailing the day-to-day in Buenos Aires that isn't run by an idiot tourist/exchange student breathlessly detailing their life-changing experience. Well, that's not true exactly. My gringo friend Ben has a friend Paul (our names truly are hideously monosyllabic, aren't they?) who has some kind of internet presence, but he teaches English for a living and I think writes for free for some kind of English language rag here in town, which is basically the same as the aforementioned breathless exposition by college students. <br />
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Yes, I can sneer at the gringo's teaching English because that's no longer my main gig. You may ascertain from my use of "gig" that I have gracefully joined the creative class as a young artiste, as it corresponds a young man of my WASP background! I get about half or more of my income from music related sources. The truth is, most of that is teaching private lessons, so really I haven't actually stopped teaching so much as changed subjects, so I'm really not any different from the gringos teaching English. You decide. I don't care.<br />
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What I do for money now is trombone playing and teaching, supplemented by giving English classes to students have all been attractive young females about my age. Incidentally, in reference to an older post, that is exactly what was best about working at Wall Street. So many beautiful women stumbling through modal verbs with charming accents. I'm still as boned as I was though, having slept with an unfortunate 0% of my students then and now, being monogamous with Luana, a person who I think appeared in a picture from some 4 years ago. <br />
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Playing trombone in Buenos Aires is a pretty good gig. It's universally difficult to get by as a musician so that I'm able to scrape by eating lots of lentils and rice after only a year and change of trying I think speaks to the easiness of my situation. I'll give myself a little credit, too, I've been pretty smart about all this. <br />
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Inflation has gone up, rent has gone up, and so have the price for my services (a little). I live in a different house (the long story of what has happened with the other house is tale I will tell only if someone whose name I do not know requests it) with more youngish students from Córdoba, a city known for its accent and amiable inhabitants. I pay 1100-1200 pesos a month to cover an odd list of expenses. The rent, some kind of tax and building expenses (paying the unhelpful "superintendent" to throw water all over the floor of the hallway every once in awhile) and a common fund with the cordobeses and I spend on things like buying toilet paper and bulk bags of lentils. It's a little expensive considering what it is, but it's pretty cheap rent, still. <br />
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Listen, I have to be perfectly honest with you, blinking nether. I had kind of hoped that my blog was of service to some mysterious person out there, considering a trip to Argentina. There were a couple of hits from places I had no connection to or from google searches that helped me entertain that fancy. I held on to this idea that my posts would be of interesting historical/ethnological data to someone at sometime. I was interested by my inclusion of numbers and prices and in my mind compared it with some of the earliest forms of writing that we humans have discovered, a bunch of bullshit detailing trivial mercantile transactions in the ancient past.<br />
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But I've just lost faith in that idea at the end of the paragraph beginning with "Inflation".<br />
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I'm compelled to confess some ideas that have motivated my life since graduating college. I'm sure this is less interesting than even the price of eggs in Argentina (about a peso each, I'd reckon), but I've never articulated them before and I would like to do that now.<br />
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I've stopped writing and taking pictures. I haven't really done anything of that kind since moving to Argentina. It's not for lack of time, though at one point I did try to avoid spending too much time "in" English. And its not cause I'm worried about my camera getting nabbed either.<br />
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I was motivated to stop doing this indirectly by my brother, Matt, who deserves far more credit for influencing me than I think he realizes. He quipped to me, I don't even remember about what, I think about photographs, that such and such was "commodifying experience."<br />
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What a phrase, what a concept. I struggle to put its whole meaning and its implications down on paper, but: turning experience into a commodity. Experience, that beautiful ephemeral non-thing, indefinable, immense and unknowable transformed into commodity, that ugly quotidian widget of life, to be put in the same category as pork bellies and oil barrels. <br />
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The object we come up with at the end of our process of commodification might be a poorly composed snapshot inside of an Argentine discotheque or a book about dancing tango well past midnight in a certain now-ruined tango salon, but its really the same. We're afraid to just let that experience lie. We need to have it, we need it a thing.<br />
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Aren't things the source of all the trouble anyway? People with too many things, too few things, with other people's things. There are lot's of ways to look at it, when you stop and think about there are entire fields dedicated to the best way of sorting out our things, but I think it's a road that need not be traveled. The experience was fine on its own. Why do you have to go and make a thing of it?<br />
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That's where I'm at, these days. I just want as few things as possible. I think that at death, everything we ever owned is tied to our bodies and we're cast into a great dark sea. Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-56417977186763928252013-03-24T09:30:00.000-07:002013-03-24T09:30:28.343-07:00I saw this one thing in BrazilI took a trip to Brazil and this scene has been on my mind ever since then. I can't explain why.<br />
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My girlfriend and I were staying with her cousins, people who definitely inhabited the upper half of that famously abrupt divide between the rich and the poor in Brazil. We had been staying in their daughters playroom--a little space about as large as a walk-in closet, but every conceivable surface covered in dolls and toys. When we laid down on the inflatable mattress that we nestled in between the overstuffed bookshelves (stuffed mostly with toys, no books) we would look up towards the ceiling the three tiers of shelving bolted to the wall, so full of dolls that they leaned precariously outward, looking down at us with their shiny fake eyes. The father of this toy-laden child told us that it was impossible to reduce the number of dolls that she had; that if one were to go missing she would know instantly. I doubted it, being that at least half of the dolls were obstructed from view by more dolls and that this child of six years old would need to stand on her own shoulders to even reach the bottom-most shelf. Then one day, we returned from the beach and Sofia, the name of the girl, had climbed the low-lying pink bookshelves via a toy chest and a chair and had created a landslide off of the high shelves in search of one particular doll. If later events in our trip are any indication, I think she was looking for a doll whose main feature was that you could give it water from a bottle and it would wet its diaper.<br />
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One day, the mother took us to accompany her and Sofia to the mall as an excursion. I had politely declined the same offer when it had arisen in the first discussions of what we could do while we were in Rio. I had made it to Rio de Janeiro! In no way did I want to spend that time in invented consumer paradise. But, our hosts and their family repeatedly insisted that this was a good entertainment option. Despite my mindset that a traveler should do what the locals--and particularly his hosts--do, I was still greatly opposed. Then, as I heard conversations about bulletproof cars, the hidden armed guard in the street, and saw a man in very expensive sunglasses hot-footing it across the scorching pavement explaining "they stole my sandals" as he rushed by, I came to understand a little better my hosts point of view. They lived their lives to not get robbed, as many do in Rio. The mall, then, with the subtle exclusion characteristic of the Latin American take on the the middle American institution, was one of the only places that Sofia could run around.<br />
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After treating us lunch in the food court, (considered to be lightly luxurious in Argentina, at least) we walked to a toy store where Sofia, for having finally cleaned her plate, was allowed to have one toy in the store. This required 30 minutes of painful deliberation on Sofia's part. And after that, our extremely generous host insisted on buying all of us some ice cream on stick.<br />
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Sofia ate two child-sized bites of hers before announcing that she didn't like it. In my upbringing, this would have brought recriminations raining down upon my by mother, something about starving children in Africa, but our hostess merely told Sofia to return to her the treat. We stepped outside and while Sofia's mother continued chatting politely with us, she seemed distracted as if she was looking for something in immediate area. As we headed towards the parking garage, I heard her cry out "Moço! O Moço!" I knew this word only as the word you used to summon a waiter although the dictionary tells me it can simply mean young man.<br />
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She had singled out one of the many tanned, shirtless, sandal-wearing men that walk around in the beachy streets of Rio de Janeiro who I could never quite decide were beach bums or just bums. I knew which when I heard her say "Moço, would you like this ice cream? I bought it for my daughter but she doesn't want it anymore, she hardly ate any" Lightening ran up my spine and my gut tensed in that sensation you get when you see someone brazenly do something that somewhere, somehow you know you aren't supposed to do.<br />
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Far from be offended, which I suppose is what my my expectation was, the man stopped walking and put his feet together, and placed one hand on his bare chest and accepted the ice cream giving his thanks in the most dignified manner I have ever seen. And that's where I don't know what to make of it, where to separate my feelings from my cultural from that present moment from everything else. As I saw it then, seeping past my tensed abdomen and creeping up my anglo, electrified spine and was the idea that I was seeing modern feudalism play out--that the correct thing to do was force the child to eat it or to eat it ourselves or throw it in the trash with a feeling of waste and disgust, not give it some stranger in the street. And if this unacceptable situation has indeed come to pass, then the man should have kept walking or expressed an insult to his dignity. To accept it, and (to accept it like he did!) was all wrong. He might not have even been a bum! She could have offered her alms to someone who was just walking back from the beach! Then what?<br />
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And then, I also think, and then what? So she would have offered her slightly used ice cream to a stranger who could of bought his own. Maybe he would have been hungry, maybe he wouldn't even have said "Oh, you've got the wrong man, I'm not even poor." Maybe he would have just eaten it. Maybe the real waste is to have forced it on someone who didn't want it, like me or Sofia, when there were people in need right around us. Maybe throwing it in the trash in front of someone in that street who really wanted it--never mind what I think is "dignity,"--is what really should have tensed my gut and stiffened my neck. Maybe my reaction to gift-giving is what's wrong. Maybe that word charity and the hidden directive to reject it is what's bizarre.<br />
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And what about the feudalism I saw play out? The modern lady bequeathing a pittance to a shirtless peasant. Isn't that all wrong? But what was she supposed to do, throw the ice cream in a trash in the name of dignity and avoiding these feudal comparisons as can as someone hungry looked on?<br /><br />It's hard to say that discomfort should preclude generosity when you you don't know if "discomfort" will make a better society. <br /><br />I don't know. <br /> <br />
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<br />Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-78813876147432508472011-06-23T06:40:00.000-07:002011-06-23T06:57:05.089-07:00How to Live in Buenos Aires, Part Whatever<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><ul class="uiList" style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></ul><div class="content" id="5a96c0fe83c44fcb85b20f375469b81e" style="line-height: 14px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding-top: 2px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 0px; width: 350px; word-wrap: break-word; "></div><ul class="uiList" style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><li class="MessagingMessage uiListItem uiListLight uiListVerticalItemBorder" style="display: block; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-top-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); border-right-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); border-bottom-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); border-left-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); "><div class="clearfix main" style="display: block; zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: -15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: -15px; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 15px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 15px; "><div class="UIImageBlock clearfix" style="display: block; zoom: 1; "><div class="UIImageBlock_Content UIImageBlock_SMALL_Content" style="display: table-cell; vertical-align: top; width: 10000px; "><div><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></li></div></div></div></div></li></ul><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></i></span><ul class="uiList" style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><li class="MessagingMessage uiListItem uiListLight uiListVerticalItemBorder" style="display: block; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-top-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); border-right-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); border-bottom-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); border-left-color: rgb(233, 233, 233); "><div class="clearfix main" style="display: block; zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: -15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: -15px; padding-top: 8px; padding-right: 15px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 15px; "><div class="UIImageBlock clearfix" style="display: block; zoom: 1; "><div class="UIImageBlock_Content UIImageBlock_SMALL_Content" style="display: table-cell; vertical-align: top; width: 10000px; "><div><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></i></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Another technical account of getting started up in Buenos Aires. Per my training in anthropology, I would like to whine defensively that this is based purely off of my experience living in Buenos Aires and is no way representative of what living in Buenos Aires is an standard/typical/objective sense, if such a thing could be established. A different friend informed me that he is planning to come down to live here had some questions after reading my previous posts. Therefore, I answered them and now, published them, grammatical worts and all. </span></i></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Thank you.<br /><br />That did help me gauge where I'll be stepping off, I think. My goal is to be down there in September. Would that be shooting myself in the foot from the get-go?<br /><br />Also, who did you fly down with? I'm planning on buying a ticket this week.<br /><br />What's your story with health insurance?<br /><br />I don't have a TEFL certification. Is this necessary going in or could I take a class while there if necessary?<br /><br />What would a good cushion be going down in terms of cash? I was hoping to have about $5000. More, less?<br /><br />I'll send more questions as I think of them...<br /><br />Thanks again for your help,<br /><br />Benja</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "></span></span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Good questions, some I know the answers too, otheres I will find out the answer.</span></span></li></div><div><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br />As my friend Teo Valdes put it (he was teaching down here before me) somebody who was contracted for a year walks off the job on a friday in september because they felt like quitting and they can put whatever they want on their resume for the time they were down here. That institute promised to have a native teacher year round and suddenly they need someone to start monday. Its all about the money here, no one REALLY cares if the students develop a proper relationship with their teacher. In short, while the main hiring season will have officially finished, many American schools start up in september and I´m sure lots of people who were planning to have a short english teaching adventure before going to college have given their employer the bad news. Thats what I calculate anyway, I,ll try to consult some peeps.<br /><br />Plane, no idea, I could ask my mom if you want. It was a graduation gift.<br /><br />Tefl will definitely make you a more attractive candidate. Again, in my experience, no one really cares if you´re a good teacher or qualified for that matter, but many of them throw some acronyms on their advistement (TEFL/TOEFL/BBQOMG certified native teachers) and they want to be able to back that up. So, in my experience, no one asked to see my tefl before interviewing, although I did make sure to mention it in my resume (CV) and they did want at least a digital scan of the article after they hired me. But, no one followed up on it or otherwise verified it as far as I know, asi que, you could probably make a convincing enough facsimile and send digital images to people if it gets asked of you.<br /><br />of course, that route is rather ¨argento¨. I think taking a course is a fine, if less rogueish, method. I do believe they offer month long training courses here and I believe they advertise they fact that they{ll hook you up with a job afterward. No idea if thats true. I do also believe that they give you some kind of field training, where you actually get some students and you make lesson plans that you actually execute with real ESL students. this kind of TEFl certification is seen as the most desirable, if youre looking at this as a long term investment. Sadly, i found that out from the teaching of my TEFL certification which was in the basement of a local university and definitely involved no real esl kids. So I would say, come down and take a course, if you want to take a course as it offers the most advantages.<br /><br />Cushion? Brother I came down here with 2300 dollars. I live/lived pretty cheaply, but if you can find some rent outside of the usual fuck the foreigner gangbang, you could retire on that money.<br /><br />In precise terms, it depends on your estimated expenditure. Going out in this city is ungodly expensive, at least relative to what you{ll earn. Drinks in a bar, food in a restaurant can set you back 200 pesos pretty easily, and thats 20 hours of work for me. Two and a half days work (I work four hours a day, so sue me). Food remains quite cheap, although inflation is imperceptibly working its magic, a weeks worth of groceries couldn{t cost 100 pesos. Meat is quite expensive actually, because Argentines will pay any price for it. I have a student who works for Southern Beef who tipped me to that bit of info. Aguante chikin, loco.<br /><br />So 5000 seems like a lot of money to me. You could have quite a bit of fun between that and a job. I had a lot of costs starting up and before i got employed i think i spent almost a 1000 dollars. (Rent was 450 dollars of that) I ate out some (1 to 3 times a week) and bought wine with my girlfriend, so I wasn{t exactly bare bonsing it, but I scrimped during the week.<br /><br />I hope I}m not spelling out the obvious or talking too much, but the key is to think in both dollars and pesos. I used to think only in pesos and refused to spend anything out of my savings, but I was living like a poor man in buenos aires. If anything is worse than living like a poor man in the united states, its living like a poor man in the second-world. So ive opened up my bank account to some things important to me, like tango singing classes, and hopefull, capoeira classes. A bit pricey, but what on earth am i doing in this city as a musician if I{m not learning about tango. I{m also hopefully going to start investing some of my money in rehearsal room shit for a band I want to start, pay some musicians, etc. this is a great city to start something creative up.<br /><br />Health insurance, I got my fingers printed the other day, ha, so at best it would be another 1 or 2 months for me to get ¨pre pago¨which is like the nice company sponsored shit. I{m on the public plan at the moment, which involves long times, I{m told. I don{t know much more about it, except that. Part of the plan is not to get sick (bad plan, I know) but in a real emergency if it happened tomorrow, i would go to a nicer hospital and foot the bill. The heatl systems prices aren{t jacked up by malpractice insurance shit here asi que its much cheaper.<br /><br />Hit me with the next round, and I believe I will publish this correspondence to my blog.<br /><br />Nathan</span></span></li></div></div></div></div></li></ul></span>Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-90661220891338044472011-04-18T06:46:00.000-07:002011-04-18T06:49:20.957-07:00A Letter from the Informed<div><i>This is a Facebook message I wrote to a friend who was thinking about moving to Buenos Aires himself. It's funny how I respond much better to prompts than to total freedom. I blame education.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Sam old buddy, howdeedoo,</div><div><br /></div><div>Funny you should ask a question that is so eminently on my mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>Regarding your questions, BA is exactly how I remember it. Kind of a pain of the ass, kind of great. The moneda situation has been rememdied, the people are still short tempered, it's still over crowded and a pain to get around anywhere. The primary difference would be my economic standing now that I'm here under my own power and, more importantly, earning in pesos. But even from a dollar perspective, the city is a little rough.</div><div><br /></div><div>Inflation has struck the city pretty hard in our absence, and food prices have also risen pretty extremely. Whereas before, on the dollar, I always said that Buenos Aires was not cheap exactly, but a surprisingly good deal considering what you were getting, now it has moved firmly into the expensive side of things. I would say prices are more generally along the lines of what you would be willing to pay in the united states if you are accustomed to living cheaply there (like an unemployed liberal arts grad for example). Randomly, some food things will be exceptionally cheap (a kilo of mandarin oranges for 75 american cents or a bundle of onions for the same) whilst other things remains inexplicably (relatively) expensive (3 dollars for 400 grams of butter, garlic for 50 cents a head). Poor college student food remains quite cheap (noodles, eggs and the like) but meat and dairy (and any interesting fruit) is pretty much american prices.</div><div><br /></div><div>The problem is earning in pesos, and not earning very much. The English teaching market here, though perhaps the gentlest, is about as exploitative as any other based on the labor of unconnected immigrants. Jobs range in price from about 20 pesos an hour to 40+ hour (pesos). They don't seem to hard to get, although there is a large pool of applicants. Most applicants are here on some poorly founded concept of adventure and admit that to their potential employers, saying that they will only be here for 3-6 months. Humorously, are totally bewildered when they find themselves without work for the duration of their "working" vacation. Needless to say, making a serious commitment to Buenos Aires, or at least pretending to make such a commitment, is great help in getting a job. I said that I was funny in my cover letter and that appeared to be the sole basis for accepting me for an interview.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the exploitation. I have accepted a job on the bottom end of the pay range (20 p an hour) because I am compensated for almost all of the hours that I work. Also, if I ever get around to doing the paperwork, I can be here legally, but that's a detail. I was also working at another english institute which compensated me 35 pesos an hour, which is a pretty good pay at first glance. I recently quit the job, because after some calculation, it wasn't worth it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I received 35 pesos an hour for every hour I was in front of a class. That's fine, but I was not otherwise compensated for the time it took to prepare for these classes (which, as a novice, I can assure you is lots, especially considering how much time you end up wasting running around making copies). On top of that, the institute required a great deal more planning than what I am told is normal here. I was expected to come up with my own annual plan (based off of some textbook that were given to me) and the supplement it with certain items that, though requested specifcally, were completely left up to me to design. Two movies a school year, broken into small parts with prep and breakdown worksheets, class lessons related to cultural events from my own country (halloween, 4th of july, etc) exam design and grading, and participation in the end of school year concert and all of these things made entirely of your own hand. And they wanted us to attend two uncompensated meetings a month for which they don't even give some pesos for the subte (now 1.20 a ride) For veteran teachers, its not such a bad deal, as they might have accumulated some of their things in their experience and are probably efficient in designing such things. Also, if your passion is teaching, I'm sure you would become an expert pretty quickly. But I'm certainly not in this country to help some parents force English onto their kids and certainly not for that price. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I told other argentines that this is what I was doing for 35 pesos an hour, their eyes bugged out and there was a moment of stunned silence, surpassing, even, the portenio ability to have a comic line for everything. Teaching is a profession notorious for the hours of work outside the paid hours of work, but for comparison, my working in the white, employed by the government teacher friends made 85 pesos an hour for their work.</div><div><br /></div><div>And furthermore, conscious or not, English teaching jobs like these are taking advantage of Americans and other gringos who come to Buenos Aires to work. People like me are muscled into the pay range you see here by Americans who pop down here for a months, rely on their savings to pay rent and use their income for booze money. Also, the expectation that I should show up early for work, give two weeks notice or not take unexpected vacations or sick days, while normal in the anglo-world, was considered to be a enormous courtesy--or even luxury--to my employers by the Argentines to whom I described my working relationship. If they are employing me in black, then they have to understand I'm not actually obligated to do anything that they won't fire me for,</div><div> </div><div>These things however, were outlined in my contract and were vocally impressed upon me by my employer. Furthermore, they rely (begrudingly, I'll say perhaps unconsciously) on the fact that teachers are unlikely to walk off the job because of emotional attachment to their students.</div><div> </div><div>So I'm very happily at Wall Street where they pay me 20 pesos an hour, but I don't do anything more than wear slacks and show up and gab. And I'll get better health insurance if I file that fucking paperwork.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, if you want to make any semi-real quantity of money here, you have to either work like a dog or work like a smart dog and get private students. Which typically pay 40+ for classes and are much easier to prepare for. The only catch is that you have to find them. I've just begun on this myself, so I can't relate how difficult it is, but like many things in Buenos Aires, I think it requires a good network of contacts. </div><div><br /></div><div>The real game here in Buenos Aires, in turns of creating a financially stable existence, is getting your costs down. This is really hard to do in a city with such a well-developed tourist infrastructure, AKA, oiled system of separating unsuspecting yankees from their money. </div><div><br /></div><div>Step 1 and trap 1 one is rent. Glancing at the Buenos Aires craiglist would lead you to believe that the low end of prices for rentable properties in BsAs is around 300-400 dollars a month, which will get you an apartment in a nice part of town with really nice furnishings. Further analysis of craiglist will lead you to believe that there are no unfurnished apartments available for rent in Buenos Aires and that it is customary to describe rent in a ratio of dollars to the week or day.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you're lucky, one day you describe this to a guy from the city and he says "No!" emphatically and tells you for that kind of money you could have a 1 bedroom apartment all to yourself, if you were just willing to live outside of all these fancy districts you had just mentioned to him. What your friend doesn't know and what you just realized is that no one advertises these sorts of properties to foreigners. So the lesson there is that any international or english language resources are going to break your piggy bank, to speak politely. </div><div><br /></div><div>The most conventional way to rent property is to look in a the newspaper on saturday and see the properties listing, which can be dizzying in terms of contractions and argot. Sadly, most properties require something called a garantia, which means someone with property in the city vouches for the fact that you can pay, and if you don't pay, the will. Foreigners (and many Argentines) don't typically have a garantia.</div><div><br /></div><div>So the search is limited somewhat to "alquila due~no" which means that the owner is renting the property and doesn't have an agency (inmobilaria) representing him. There you cut out a very expensive middleman, and may eliminate the garantia. May. It does cut down your options quite a bit and requires a lot of cold-calling and trial and error. </div><div><br /></div><div>Being that there are a ton of argentines and foreigners milling about the city with garantia, there are some services on the internet that have surfaced to help them. comparto depto, solo duenos and a number of internet resources attempt to organize the barbaric latino horde. But its a decidedly web 1.0 affair, there is no central website and information is often out of date or false and posted by a scheming inmobilario that hopes to interest you in another, probably less perfect property. It's pretty gruesome and requires ALOT! of legwork, but this is probably the best option for an unconnected foreigner arriving in the city. But it takes a lot of time. A few conversations I've had with other strapped-for-cash argentines revealed that they spend several months searching for an apartment before finding something that suits their needs. The difference is that they can rely on social capital and live with their parents or friends where as people like you and me Sam, have far less social capital to spend.</div><div><br /></div><div>Other options include subletting a single room from a family apartment or something like that. But that was a relationship I was definitely not comfortable with, although it might have been wiser in a purely economic mindset. Those arrangements are somewhat easy to find and can be a rock bottom price (500 pesos a month, ideally) but are usually somewhat expensive and its usually done by people used to working with foreigners (1000 pesos a month).</div><div><br /></div><div>For my part, I have worked what little contacts I have made here in the city and came up with the place I am now in. It's 900 pesos a month for a small (perhaps 3 by 5 or 6 meters) concrete box on the roof of a very large house that is shared by a number of other argentines, one chileno and one peruvian. The room itself is pretty shitty and definitely doesn't deserve the 900 pesos I pay for it. It has no insulation, doesn't block the sound of the nearby highway and I have to go down a flight of stairs to use the bathroom that I share with 3 other people. But, it's cheap as I could find </div><div> that gave me any level of autonomy, and I like the neighborhood, which is safe and cheap (Boedo) and its been fun living with all the people in the house. Plus, I can practice trombone and I don't bother anyone. And the roof, (kind of like my patio, is enormous and cool)</div><div><br /></div><div>After rent, its just learning how to live in the city and limit expenses, but I haven't found that to be too challenging. Use public transportation, save taxis for emergencies, don't eat out often, buy alcohol at liquor stores, not in bars, etc etc. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I think that's as complete an answer as I can give. Ah, yes, one more important piece of advice. Take all advice with a grain of salt! Too many times I've gotten advice from foreigners who've spent what seemed like a long enough time in the city to be hip, only to find out that these idiots are still paying 400 dollars in rent, or have split a 2 bedroom apartment between 5 people to make ends meet. Other gringos can be more helpful than argentines in many ways, but only gringos who themselves are not morons. Although I only have some 9-10 months of experience of buenos aires all added together, I appear to be a lot smarter than the average gringo bear. People who know as much as me about the city usually have been here at least 2 years. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, so that's a complete answer. Hope you actually read it!</div>Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-77223213619661267562011-03-24T04:50:00.000-07:002011-03-24T06:00:31.139-07:00Right, Right NowHey.<div><br /></div><div>Been awhile, Drugstore-fans, hasn't it?</div><div><br /></div><div>Right now, I'm sitting at the table in the kitchen of the same house that I was staying in when we last met. It was somewhat freezing when I woke up this morning in the concrete box of mine on the roof, so I went to where I am now to seal up the kitchen and use the oven, thereby creating my own personal summer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm making banana bread, that wonderful method by which my mother prevented the waste of bananas. Of course, here, they don't recognize this as bread, so much as they recognize is as "budin," which I take to be somehow related to pudding. The nice thing about that is that it does give lie to the idea that banana bread might somehow be healthy, being that it is not, containing more sugar than all of the export of the Dominican Republic.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have successfully completed what I imagined to be the 0th and 1st stages of my plan here in Buenos Aires. In stage 0, I came to Buenos Aires, resumed with most of my old contacts and make temporary arrangements to live. Now completing stage 1, I have found means for what I believe to be sustainable living. I am paying 900 pesos a month in rent, which I tell myself is not a bad price for how nice the house I am living in is. I have also found work at two english institutes which gives me a fixed income of about 3000 pesos a month. This will be month which comes with a full "paycheck" (cash in an envelope) so I expect to be able to pay a month's rent without using my savings and have enough left over to eat and even spend on meals at restaurants.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are a few problems. The job I like pays only 20 pesos an hour, is located in the most-loathed downtown of Buenos Aires, and it forces me to wear nice pants and shirt. Irritation aside, this will make a significant increase in my expenses for dry cleaning, and in a country where text messages are a quarter a pop (1 peso), you can never really tell what's going to be expensive and what's not. </div><div><br /></div><div>In my other job, I make 35 pesos an hour, I can wear T-shirt and jeans, and is only a 30 minute walk from my home. Sadly, it puts me into daily contact with the most hated thing in Christendom. Small, energetic children and requires me to work much time outside of the hours that they actually pay me. And worse, despite the fact that she is a thin and tall dark-skinned woman who appears to be about 25 years old, my boss is more interested in making sure I do the things they pay me for than flirting with me. As only taxi-drivers in Buenos Aires seem to grasp, there is nothing more terrible than having a beautiful lady-boss who is actually expects you to show up to work on time. Nay! Early, even.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other problem as I am transitioning out of stage 1 is that stage makes it somewhat impossible to get to the point where I'm spending most of my time involved with music and saving some money. The job that pays me better (and is some 2000 of my 3000 pesos) is from 5:30-8:30 or 9:30 M-TR. My other job is daily (except sunday) from 10-2 or 10-4. As you may notice this leaves me precious little time to do those important things like find people to hire me as a trombonist, find trombone students or english students, or do any of the things that I wanted to do while I was here, like compose, or start a webcomic. Oh, or eat or sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have recently asked that half my hours with the little latino bastards from hell be stricken from my schedule, which will hopefully give me some time to prepare the next stage while maintaining a baseline income.</div><div><br /></div><div>Regarding housing: I appear to be doing better than most foreigners to whom I speak. And everyone's rent in the house got hiked, so I'm now paying the least rent! Schaudenfreude, methinks. But it does make me look like a spaz, though, I may still be paying much above what the thing is actually worth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ja ne, friends.</div>Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-2710990301697142502011-02-18T20:02:00.000-08:002011-02-18T20:49:37.042-08:00As of lateThere's so much to say. Where have I been, what have I been doing? I know you'd like to know, or you wouldn't be reading.<div>. </div><div>How I wish I could Twitter every little inane thought that comes into my head and every strange happening that happens to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>For instance, the other day, I read about the saying here, its free to dream or dreaming is free, or whatever. And then I halfway managed to execute the phrase with one of my housemates and he taught me to use it more better. Then yesterday, I bought a scratchpad to write on and I remarked to myself that to dream is free, but to write it down costs 5 and 1/2 pesos.</div><div><br /></div><div>The last month or so has been so totally dedicated to finding a job and getting an apartment/place to stay. I like to think that I did good job exerting myself towards the goals, a commendable effort when its so difficult to chart progress. I often thought or writing a blog post solely about doing these things in Buenos Aires. I guess you're looking at the paragraph that that has become. Anyway, lonely wanderer of the internet, here is how to find a cheap place to stay in Argentina. </div><div><br /></div><div>Forget Craigslist. Americans use Craiglist, and Argentines know it. The only things you'll find on Craigslist are those some hopeful Argentine has put up thinking that some rich Yankee will overpay for. Use American resources and you'll get booted onto the merry-go-round of Argentine for export. And let me tell you that Argentines don't pay those prices.</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't expect Couchsurfing or anything the like to be a whole lot better. Yeah, that website is supposed to be about people helping each other out, but the fact is Argentines in tight financial situations often rent out a room in their house to get some breathing room. Having little idea how to do this, the ask their friends and someone says, hey why not this website couch surfing, and they open a profile pretty much for the purpose of getting someone to help pay their rent (probably more than 50%, I'm betting).</div><div><br /></div><div>This is how it works in Buenos Aires, and this is why you're screwed: people ask their friends to help them find a place to stay. That's how everything works in Buenos Aires. This town is more italian than spaghetti. You need the friend of a friend of somebody's uncle's mechanic who knows a guy who knows a guy that's renting out an apartment. And even, that doesn't guarantee you a good deal, it just admits the possibility of a good deal, which Craigslist can not do.</div><div><br /></div><div>But here's an example of just how necessary it is to know somebody. One day I go to the real estate office and ring the bell. A lady comes to the barred door and asks me what I want. I tell her that I'm looking for a temporary rentals (that's less than than two years, the standard Argentine contract) she says that don't have any and I get the sense that the conversation is supposed to be done. I ask if she knows anyone that might have such a rental and she says that she wouldn't know in this neighborhood. I then took my leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then after some beer-assisted schmoozing in my friendly neighborhood machine shop, I'm directed to the wife of a retired guy that sometimes comes around to drink beer. I see her and there occurs one of those magical spanish conversations where I seem to understand all of the words but really come away with nothing from the conversation. Except, better than nothing, she tells me of a real estate agency where she knows someone and where the <i>might</i> have temporary rentals. She writes down the name Alba, her name, on a scrap of paper along with the address of someplace she thinks they might rent me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I follow her vague directions and wind up at, guess what, the same real estate agency I had been at but a few days ago. I ring, the some women answers in the same way, behind the barred door and I read off my scrap "Uh... I was sent by a women named Alba. She s-"</div><div><br /></div><div>"OH! Alba! Yes! Come in! Come in!" And this lady proceeds to actually do what a real estate agenct is supposed to do. Show me real estate. I managed to communicate to her in her flurry of helpfulness that actually I'm looking for a temporary rental and that maybe this place that Alba had suggested to me might be available. The real estate agent says unfortunately they just rented that place and that I should check out some of the two year rentals cause "Hey, things can be arranged". A few days go by and she calls my on my cell phone and lets me know of a "couple" looking for someone to live with them. I check it out and its an actual house (almost, duplex) with beautiful furnishing and all. My own, somewhat large private room with my own bathroom and carte blanche from the owners to have my girlfriend over and generally have my run of the house. (Incidentally, the couple is a gay one as he quickly informed me at the beginning of the house checking out process). And all that for a mere 1000 pesos. 250 murkan dollars. For how nice that house was, its a very good price. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the record, there do exist actual independent housings for that price. I saw one studio apartment for 800 pesos plus some expenses that would make it nearly 1000 pesos. It was a small square with a bathroom and one window which pointed to inside the building, a "courtyard" view. That is to say the column of air that was built into the design so that the residents wouldn't suffocate. It also came with a fridge and oven. I would have taken it, had it not required a two year contract and a "garantia". (Some property owner vouches for you. If you don't pay, they do.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, nowadays I'm paying 900 pesos for a little concrete box on a roof of what used to be a mansion for the living of an extended family. What I do like about my situation is that I can practice trombone and not bother anyone, that the facilities of the house are good (kitchen, etc) and that its populated exclusively by other bohemians, not the owners. I dislike sharing a house with someone who is renting a space out to me. (What's with that vibe? "I will rent you this room and let you use my kitchen." C'mon, really?) Oh, and finally, that its 225 murka dollars a month. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I do not like about my living situation is that the concrete box turns into a solar oven around 2 pm, the highway is nicely audible 24/7 and that one of the residents of the house is guitar banging rock and roller with stamina matched only by an out-of-tune Apollo with highly accented English.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am tired now. I go to bed. Maybe next time I talk about employment.</div>Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-19917064159388198192011-01-24T12:43:00.000-08:002011-01-24T12:58:52.698-08:00Beer, CommunityBigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-62157536865072356362011-01-18T09:35:00.000-08:002018-11-25T07:57:51.913-08:00Regarding My Sobriquet, Yanki and Associated Questions of Geography"To a foreigner, a Yankee is an American.<br />
To an American, a Yankee is a Northerner.<br />
To a Northerner, a Yankee is a New Englander.<br />
To a New Englander, a Yankee is a Vermonter.<br />
To a Vermonter, a Yankee is someone who still has an outhouse."<br />
<br />
Everyone in a spanish speaking country has a nickname. Un apodo. So it seems, anyway.<br />
<br />
Mine is yankee. Except written yanki and pronounced shan-kee, due to the eccentricities of pronunciation here around the Rio Plata.<br />
<br />
Many people believe that this word is "despectiva" which I take to mean disrespectful. I tell them that it´s not and that the only time I´ve ever heard the word was mainly in the song Yankee Doodle, which does not cause me a feeling of disrespectedness, to say the least.<br />
<br />
Then I realized I´ve never really been to the South and I found this quote, which I assume to be something in general usage. As a guy from the midwest, I said to myself self, huh, well I guess the word can refer to me. Now I realize that maybe a southerner might resent the word. And NOW I realize that perhaps my attitude towards the word is a typical midwestern reaction towards anything and the southern reaction is similarly stereotypical.<br />
<br />
Also, I prefer the term yanki because its a pretty complicated to get into politics surrounding the use of the word American to describe citizens of the United States of America. In case you don´t know, anyone else (except maybe Canadians, I haven´t spoken to one, you tell me) living in the Americas feels like the word American should refer to anyone living on the continent. Ha, yes, thats right. THE continent. From my experience, most people believe that the terms North and South America refer to two extremities of the same object. Terms of direction rather than distinction. Nicholas?<br />
<br />
Did you ever think that might disagree on something such as the number of continents in the world? I mean, yeah it occurred to me, I studied anthropology, I´ll accept anything as possible. But usually its something like the number of colors or vowels, things that we ourselves make. Cultures with two colors? Conceivable (the WASP male for example recognizes two colors Statistically Speaking, Probably Will Match (tan, cream, black, white grey and khaki) and Statistically Speaking, Probably Will Not Match (everything else).<br />
<br />
But my aside aside, people I´ve asked have reported there to be five continents or six, depending on if they´re anticipating my yankee belief in America as two continents in order to fight with me on the topic. So, even in the most continent-generous interactions I´ve had on the subject, we are still short of the typically taught seven continents. Turns out that don´t include<br />
Antartica. Meg? Can we get a statement on all this?<br />
<br />
Another term they throw at me in their efforts to avoid something that my yanki brain will identify as offensive is "norteamericano." While broadly accurate, I can not accept this word on principle. I have no problem being grouped with our lovely, more internationally accepted neighbors to the north (though they probably do), but I´m troubled by the fact that Mexicans are excluded from this groupation*.<br />
<br />
So, then the the exclusion appears to be one primarily of linguistic or racial division. It´s nice to know (in a we´re both lacking sort of way) that the south of the border geographic attitude of Americans is in someway reciprocated.<br />
<br />
There does exist the word "estadounidense" which surely was invented to punish english-speaking hispanophones. The word is baroque piece of booby trap, practically leaking with common points of ensnarement for the unknowing yankee. It´s long, its got that fucking O in it, its got that fucking D in it and on top of that, because its literal translation sounds goofy as balls. I´m not convinced this is a passable way to refer to once self. Unitedstater? Unitedstatist? C´mon.<br />
<br />
So, that leaves me with Yanki, something I gladly accept. I like the idea of introducing myself in away that causes the person on the other end of the introduction to blink and hesitate a little. Hey, I´m speaking in another language that I didn´t study til I was way past my critical period. I´m always off-footed, they can stand to be off-footed for the first round. Furthermore, I think it helps them get to know me a little faster. I am the sort of guy that would gleefully refer to himself as a spic if that term at all referred to me. Though that term is a little strong, reletive to yanki. No one has ever shouted yanki at me while pointing a gun at me and crafting draconian legislation to ruin my life<br />
<br />
Anyway, drugstore yanki, signing off.<br />
<br />
*This blog will still occasionally include formations of words which should not occur in English but do in Spanish for the sake of whimsy and what I like to call "local color".Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-21286923482749345832011-01-08T09:42:00.000-08:002011-01-08T12:34:05.743-08:00The CompromiseHello and welcome back.<br /><br />This blog is ready to begin in seriousness, once again, as I am back in America of South in the country of Argentina.<br /><br />This means a return to form in many ways, there will be a grand detailing of my adventures and misadventures, boring report of my success, hilarious recounting of my failure. There will be many awkward sentences that are born of a Spanish thought straying into my author´s consciousness and gumming up the flow as I awkwardly latinize words into existence that ought not to exist or throw phrasal verbs into the path of oncoming formal sentence structures, terminating in a little self-reference that hopes to excuse what is otherwise an unforgivable run-on?<br /><br />But what is different? Will it be different? Or will it be just more of the same DrugstoreGaucho, that dark-hatted figure, silhouetted in the doorway of adventure? The same guy that threw himself to the rapacious lions (first writing, loins) of the gay argentine dance club? That stalwart fellow that walked countless kilometers, trombone in hand, to return and give legend of the night´s travails?<br /><br />The truth is that it may or may not be. I am still who I am but I´m not who I was. No doubt my battles with public transportation will still hilariously continue, but I am no longer the college junior who happily frittered away his time in Argentina, putting every experience under the language-learning column in his mental budget. I have bathed in the unchartable waters of introspection that lap against the shores of college-land and emerged wet. Very wet. Downright soggy. I know that if I don´t focus my efforts on something that instead I will do nothing. There´s not even a course catalog to help me fill out my schedule anymore. I am both the guy in the desk and at the chalkboard.<br /><br />Overblown imagery aside, I´m not here to learn Spanish anymore, I´m here to play music and live the dream. Obliterate dichotomy, I couldn´t decide if what I wanted to do was to skip through the world like a good Taoist or make something of myself like a good ambitious twenty two year old, so I´m doing both. I´m here in a foreign land, living a life unknown to some, with strange food and custom (well kind of, anyway) satisfying my itch to see the unfamiliar. But I´m not sitting in a grass hut counting the beetles on my laptop keyboard, I´m in Buenos Fucking Aires. I have one of the greatest city´s in the world at my disposal. If you can make it here, you can probably make it New York!<br /><br />Here there are the resources I need for any project I undertake. If I write a chart, I can find a studio and the musicians to record it, if I make a comic, there are people to read it. For whatever reason, I´ve fallen in with a wonderfully strange and strangely wonderful group of whackos and creatives who also seem to feel a need to make something worthwhile while living the life bizarre. I feel like this is a good place for me to be right now.<br /><br />Of course, this is somewhat of an explanation drawn from events that have already happened. I´m not sure if I offered this to the me from a few months ago, the guy twiddling his thumbs in dough, that he would be convinced enough to choose to go to Argentina. But this self is contented in the explanation.<br /><br />Now this self will find a job and a place to stay so that he can go about being un bicho raro.Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-83351030100901530252010-12-04T09:54:00.000-08:002010-12-04T18:03:26.899-08:00Consumption vs. Production Part ILike I've said before, I've been at home lately--for more time than I have been since high school. I still consider myself an adventurer (and the real adventure will resume at the end of the month, Argentina bound) but I think I've been adventuring in new territory still, territory unused to the inquisitive stomp of my jackboots (purely figurative, I still wear flip flops everywhere).<br /><br />That territory is American society. Honestly, I would be skeptical of anyone that claims to be "adventuring" in their own society, but frankly my own interactions with nearly everyone and everything I come into contact to have such a sense of novelty and unfamiliarity it makes me recall vividly the experience of being in another country. On top of that, I am most definitely isolated from the bulk of society by my current living situation. I live by myself and can claim no strong connections to any of the social fixtures of society. I go to a jam session once a week where the other participants have usually forgotten my name in the intervening week and play table top games with a host of nerds whose names I have difficulty remembering at the local gaming store. I don't watch TV, another massive way in which it seems Americans can relate to each other, except for Univision, the hispanic channel, which I don't really pay attention to anyway, and I meet precious few Latinos with whom I can chat about the happenings in that day's telenovela.<br /><br />Hell, the video games I play are at least five years old (check out my other blog/project www.bigboxofgames.blogspot.com) adding to my feeling that the last time I was truly interlocked with society around me, I was in high school.<br /><br />Furthermore, I am leaving in a month for overseas (over the Gulf of Mexico anyway) and this seems to cause many people's interest in me to be cut short. I am a temporary fixture for them. It could be coincidence or an observation born of isolation and paranoia, but the new social connections I have made are ones to whom I avoided mentioning that I was leaving the country.<br /><br />So, hopefully, I can claim some of the authority I usually wield as an outsider in issuing claims about the world around me. The claim I'd like to make in this writing is something that has been on my mind since graduating from college.<br /><br />When I went to college, I had hoped that I would end the part of my life where I was absorbing, or preparing (those being the terms I described it to myself). I felt this way through and about my writing in particular. In school, we were learning tools and things to improve our writing; we discussed why the techniques of some writers seemed to work and why some didn't. Our own writings were primarily written explorations of these discussions. I had hoped that at college, we would be encouraged to produce our own ideas and writings rather than continue to dissect the existing ideas of dead or tenured men. Needless to say, this was one of the many disappointments of college. It was, as I thought of it, to be another period of absorption. Ultimately, I was dissatisfied. When was the period of time that I would be "emitting"?<br /><br />I was assured, at the end of college, like I was at the end of high school, like I was at the end of middle school, that this was something that would occur at the next stage of education. As you can imagine, I was somewhat skeptical of this claim at this point. And viewing my age-mates move through grad school, I feel like my skepticism was justified. (Too be sure, they are being given the reins, but slowly, bit-by-bit and only after those who would guide the cart elsewhere have been weeded out).<br /><br />As my latest explorations have revealed to me, this tendency to absorb rather than emit reaches beyond the confines of academia. Every where I look around me, I see people caught up in particular varities of absorption and rarely involved in the making of what they are using. We go to the theater, but we don't act, we watch the movies, but we don't know how to work a camera, we love to read, but can't write, love music but don't sing, or can't even pluck a guitar. We love to eat, but we can't cook, we love chase scenes and action movies but can't do skid turns or know how to fire a gun. We watch sports but we don't play them. The list goes on and on.<br /><br />I realized at some point in my meditiations that my battle with absorption would be better be described with one of hoary grandfather words used by the dissedents of American society: consumerism.Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-40666758570433474962010-09-30T19:56:00.000-07:002010-09-30T22:45:34.769-07:00The Direct Excercise of PowerThis post won't be about travel, I think, which would make it somewhat of a diversion from my standard. But the real goal of all the traveling that I d0, aside from eat and peruse the local fauna, is provoke thought.<br /><br />My thoughts have been provoked a lot here in Kansas City. Over the last four years, I have picked up and set down many, many times. Finish high school, move all my things to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wisconsin</span> get upset about leaving home, spend 8 weeks there, come down for Thanksgiving, two more in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wisco</span>, then Christmas, three weeks at home, then 10, 1 week in Kansas City, 10 at school. Come back for the summer, get upset about leaving school. Go back to school, skip Thanksgiving, spend time at school, come home for winter break, wonder where all the people have gone, go back to school, get confused about where home is, go back to school go to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">California</span> for spring break. 10 weeks at school, one week in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Kansas</span> City. 6 months in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Argentina</span>, 4 with one host family, 2 with another. Get upset about leaving <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Argentina</span>. Come back to Kansas City, spend <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Christmas</span> plus some at home go back to school in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Wisconsin</span>, no longer feels like home. Spend time at school, come home for the summer. Go back to school for 10 weeks there, 3 weeks for <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Christmas</span>, 21 weeks for school spending spring break at school again. Graduate, come home, go to camp, travel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Minneasota</span>, visit mom in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Pennsylvania</span>, is that home? Go to Kansas City.<br /><br />Reflecting while I write, I can still keep track of why I was upset to leave a certain place and see how friends and girlfriends stretch across certain changes in geography and time and other times they don't.<br /><br />I tried to explain to someone the other day why everything around me seemed so worthy of intense observation even though it was so familiar to me. Hell, I grew up here, I used to say I was sick of being in the Midwest and in being in Kansas City. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Pre</span>-sensing the reflection I am having now, I justified my interest in my surroundings by pointing out that I hadn't been in the same place for more than nine months in the last four years, thinking of the usual length of the scholastic calendar. Now I can see that A) my scholastic calendar is punctuated by abrupt and lengthy breaks that require me to relocate and B) that actually, my stay in Argentina exceeds any stint at home or at school for the last four years. Small wonder I feel drawn to return.<br /><br />So, the part of me that craves novelty is slightly fascinated in the prospect of something it hasn't seen in years (albeit, only four, but at 22 years old that still seems like quite the length of time). This novelty--so exotic, so alluring--is routine.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was working in the garden of a very generous friend who <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">compensated</span> me far beyond what my skill level would require and I noticed that it was no longer hot. In fact, I needed a light jacket. The changing of seasons. With the exception of Argentina, where I would not have fixated on something as subtle as the changing of the seasons, I haven't been in one place long enough to really observe a shift in season. Fluctuating between Kansas City and Wisconsin, the Lower Midwest (I prefer Southern Midwest, actually) and the Upper, changes in the environment were magical and relatively instantaneous. I'm magically transported from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">zephyrous</span> early summer/late spring of Wisconsin to the angry heat of Kansas summer. Or worse yet, the variety in location obscured any reason or schedule motivating changes of temperature around me. Such as when I go from Kansas City's winter to Wisconsin, from a light winter to the dead of winter. All I had to do was sit down in an aluminum tube for a few hours and then walk out of the tube into refrigerator turned many degree's lower than the other refrigerator I was in.<br /><br />So, on one hand this emerging routine (or prospect of a routine, I should say. I really would need to get a job before I can really begin to say anything about a routine) is novel and therefore delights the part of me that believes new experience is the best experience and promotes the most enjoyment and growth. On the other hand, I vaguely recall dire warnings and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">fail-safes</span> I set within myself at the end of high school, a time which marked the end of a lifetime of routine and academic regimentation. I can hear echoes of my 17-year old self returning from Japan, flush with the sense of power that only a credit card and a train station full of possibility can instill, as he stares dumbly at a person who berates him for showing up late to class, a class that he himself didn't really select.<br /><br />But these cries are distant, I do not <span style="font-style: italic;">feel </span>them in the way that I once did. I remember them. Now the question is, is it wiser to heed remembered warnings or to satisfy the urges that I now feel instead of worshipping at the altar of my past ideals?<br /><br />I'm tempted to "make my way in the world". I don't mean get a job, I mean make a job, make a difference. On some level I think that I feel a desire to carve out a little something of this world for myself, instead of bouncing from lily pad to lily pad. I want to create something that I can stand on and say look at me and my perch that I raised with my own two hands, my website, or my animation or my band or my compositions, my papers, my theories. Incredibly, there is something satisfying about sinking a year of my life into making something where there used to be nothing.<br /><br />But the Buddhist in me cries against these desires. It seems to me that the sensation of pride of ownership one gets from creating their own business, putting forth their own theory or forming their own band is a close cousin of the well-known consumer sins of loving a fancy house, car or plasma screen TV.<br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">foucauldian</span> in me sees that the similarity between these two things is power. Possessions are a symbol of wealth which is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">synonymous</span> with power. The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">exercise</span> of academic muscle, the creation of a website or a band are also ways of demonstrating or creating power. I think to myself, "With a website I could..." or "If I had a successful <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">youtube</span> series then people would..."<br /><br />I guess, in part, I reject these pursuits of power because of Master Yoda, an independent study in Taoism and a Buddhist sixth grade teacher. A Jedi doesn't crave adventure or excitement, or wealth or power, either, if I remember the extended universe correctly. What would I do with power anyway? Power can't do anything about life that is really important. It can't turn back the clock, stop death or make you happy. Mo' money, mo' problems--the refrain of the guitarist from my hip hop band that never made a dime.<br /><br />I should admit that I've never been at a loss for power in my life. Being a 6'4" white two-hundred pound male from a supportive upper middle class family in America, I have rarely in my life experienced actual powerlessness. Maybe saying I don't think I need power is like being a fish that says he doesn't really need water. I may not have any clue just how much I would miss the power I'm not even aware that I already have.<br /><br />Two days ago, my sense of my own power became the focus of my observations. A girl struck my head in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">capoeira</span> in order to demonstrate that I was not guarding my face. Physical violence is the most direct exercise of power. I realized that no one had challenged my power in such a way before. Normally I shrug off the indirect displays of power--wealth, prestige. It's a game I can always say I'm not interested in playing. Psychologists might say that that growing up bigger than everyone else never made cars and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">possessions</span> very attractive to me. My power is manifest, I don't need to do anything to feel powerful.<br /><br />But here was this girl who hit me in the head. I decided to ignore it just the same as when my 14 year old cousin used to hit me when she was little, but for some reason, in the moment of this encounter, this decision stuck in my mental throat like an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">unchewed</span> tortilla chip and I bobbled the next steps of the drill. Then, I mulled over my decision not to strike back for a day and some. Was this a display of power that mattered? Was this actual <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">exercise</span> of power somehow more real than the power I simply felt that I had manifest? Did this girl think that her level of power somehow exceeded or equalled mine?<br /><br />I fear that my thoughts on the topic mean that I'm actually only unconcerned about power as long as its clear that I am the most powerful.<br /><br />If that's true, it's my instinct to crush this impulse. A Jedi desires not these things. Maybe the key to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">happiness</span> is to flee the things that entice us because deep down we know that their promises are false.<br /><br />I don't have any answers. I just have a really long post on my travel blog, not about travel. But it impacts my decision to travel. Do I want power? What about desiring power? Will it bring me ruin, satisfaction? A creative mixture? One thing seems to clear to me, though. (I'd actually like to be wrong on this point) Travelling will not give me a website, a band, an animation, or least of all, power.<br /><br />What's a 22 year old to do?Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-90501747173458418402010-08-18T09:44:00.000-07:002010-08-18T12:28:00.536-07:00Word LimitSo, I failed to report on the last leg of my journey. So I shall make a brief description of the events that transpired. This description will be aided by photos, as I took them and took the time to plug in my camera. And Yulie complained that my few posts are far too long. Therefore, I will provide a narrative of my trip using the grammatical/pictorial style of a little Japanese women whose first language isn't exactly English.<br /><br />I went to Rhode Island and I was excited cause they have lots of<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbC-eXZiOP7Gll2ItXe6st-3hbwHF_SYfPcfz0m0NhLv4mKg3t64WfZA6qw1ZAeEbh8Lpeyz4zY-lgcc-nHMilwFgKnL21DjXXEIZXeYlQl5zYvEp1YYwAyaORH4ParKOE1oqo29f4C9L/s1600/IMAG0085.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCbC-eXZiOP7Gll2ItXe6st-3hbwHF_SYfPcfz0m0NhLv4mKg3t64WfZA6qw1ZAeEbh8Lpeyz4zY-lgcc-nHMilwFgKnL21DjXXEIZXeYlQl5zYvEp1YYwAyaORH4ParKOE1oqo29f4C9L/s320/IMAG0085.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506795641234747954" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And I wanted to eat some:<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYgT2FOE2U3Ri1J-1nvzcSomEBqWsQzaHTrxwelraezr1Ol7olJ2chjbGejGTQ_qeXjBSCnbc1i26KShtuO8YswD8nTnFggmp5wzbidrhHqbxj1rm-BFU63PQY0G5bBCN29buV1PuA1gL/s1600/IMAG0106.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYgT2FOE2U3Ri1J-1nvzcSomEBqWsQzaHTrxwelraezr1Ol7olJ2chjbGejGTQ_qeXjBSCnbc1i26KShtuO8YswD8nTnFggmp5wzbidrhHqbxj1rm-BFU63PQY0G5bBCN29buV1PuA1gL/s320/IMAG0106.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506795657897658066" border="0" />As well as<br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRCkcBAChJmCwZcAi9vgqKaMMD6dsSRpUbB4laFyPthgJ90HaRqHB3YOiUD-6yBq1RzNnc5xWqStodIozdO2_q8C9L4NbRVR8q1qXIO1EWz3kGZ5kXA5kxHalgAeL4Q8S8n3enk13Sg-s/s1600/IMAG0102.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRCkcBAChJmCwZcAi9vgqKaMMD6dsSRpUbB4laFyPthgJ90HaRqHB3YOiUD-6yBq1RzNnc5xWqStodIozdO2_q8C9L4NbRVR8q1qXIO1EWz3kGZ5kXA5kxHalgAeL4Q8S8n3enk13Sg-s/s320/IMAG0102.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506795649578167522" border="0" /><br />All Thanks to:<br /><br /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOHbpiDDLhJltY79w2PJD__2wXWUWkgZCX3mc2fVB9WmpdCVTV1zY3jQKPtQe2U8LivViXggCBGETGxEJA6C44mJHb03Ba5m5ydILRKctSkroLBLFMi0dcFAqKB6OOodPW0EMDcOI0omC/s1600/IMAG0097.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOHbpiDDLhJltY79w2PJD__2wXWUWkgZCX3mc2fVB9WmpdCVTV1zY3jQKPtQe2U8LivViXggCBGETGxEJA6C44mJHb03Ba5m5ydILRKctSkroLBLFMi0dcFAqKB6OOodPW0EMDcOI0omC/s320/IMAG0097.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506795663567095810" border="0" /></a><br />And, also, I didn't:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiloX0DSq80_ZcKyoWmN1ynwBbSxncPLBSAf_ZzgZlbtdSPmeqHwSfm6oWX4z1cBSOkX-rDgvWvCiPOdB1z_i9Gw4dDssVHJ0Ghyy3LX67R-r5mS3BKp8zyYfovZBkR_iRsjtYb_Kq_XuR4/s1600/IMAG0103.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiloX0DSq80_ZcKyoWmN1ynwBbSxncPLBSAf_ZzgZlbtdSPmeqHwSfm6oWX4z1cBSOkX-rDgvWvCiPOdB1z_i9Gw4dDssVHJ0Ghyy3LX67R-r5mS3BKp8zyYfovZBkR_iRsjtYb_Kq_XuR4/s320/IMAG0103.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506832577525298578" border="0" /></a><br />Cause when you're raised in Kansas when you think of:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRCkcBAChJmCwZcAi9vgqKaMMD6dsSRpUbB4laFyPthgJ90HaRqHB3YOiUD-6yBq1RzNnc5xWqStodIozdO2_q8C9L4NbRVR8q1qXIO1EWz3kGZ5kXA5kxHalgAeL4Q8S8n3enk13Sg-s/s1600/IMAG0102.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglRCkcBAChJmCwZcAi9vgqKaMMD6dsSRpUbB4laFyPthgJ90HaRqHB3YOiUD-6yBq1RzNnc5xWqStodIozdO2_q8C9L4NbRVR8q1qXIO1EWz3kGZ5kXA5kxHalgAeL4Q8S8n3enk13Sg-s/s320/IMAG0102.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506795649578167522" border="0" /></a>You think of:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mFvv_NpdchSmp2isdlw1pDyR0Sea0bFy8koCtY86JO68iRvS6p4qJOBgbzDJUXKIigB4-OJyfd3gCb8XcssoqY6oLdfokNPOrI7m4p8UFcSUCGmNFF1w3wBQe8KMqVLUxRqs4pvldei6/s1600/IMAG0108.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mFvv_NpdchSmp2isdlw1pDyR0Sea0bFy8koCtY86JO68iRvS6p4qJOBgbzDJUXKIigB4-OJyfd3gCb8XcssoqY6oLdfokNPOrI7m4p8UFcSUCGmNFF1w3wBQe8KMqVLUxRqs4pvldei6/s320/IMAG0108.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506832588005111106" border="0" /></a><br />Which makes you wanna:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiloX0DSq80_ZcKyoWmN1ynwBbSxncPLBSAf_ZzgZlbtdSPmeqHwSfm6oWX4z1cBSOkX-rDgvWvCiPOdB1z_i9Gw4dDssVHJ0Ghyy3LX67R-r5mS3BKp8zyYfovZBkR_iRsjtYb_Kq_XuR4/s1600/IMAG0103.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiloX0DSq80_ZcKyoWmN1ynwBbSxncPLBSAf_ZzgZlbtdSPmeqHwSfm6oWX4z1cBSOkX-rDgvWvCiPOdB1z_i9Gw4dDssVHJ0Ghyy3LX67R-r5mS3BKp8zyYfovZBkR_iRsjtYb_Kq_XuR4/s320/IMAG0103.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506832577525298578" border="0" /></a>Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-19016050494635053662010-08-08T13:38:00.000-07:002010-08-11T07:57:40.199-07:00PeruviansSo, I've been in Jersey for some time now. I'm doing the leg of my trip where I go visit my mom's arm of the country and I go back and forth between her residence in Clinton, NJ, her place of work in Allentown, PA and whatever adventure may be had in those parts.<br /><br />I'll talk a little more about Allentown once I have some real adventure there. If you can't wait, check out another post on this blog, here: <br /><br />This weekend, I was afforded the opportunity to go New York and make the acquaintance of the Gabriel Alegria Afro-Peruvian Jazz Sextet via seeing them play in their club on Friday and then, on Saturday morning, go with them on a trip to the Litchfield jazz festival in Connecticut. <br /><br />This, seems like a pretty slick plan, and credit where its due, thanks mom, for putting that one together.<br /><br />Howwwwwever, there was a little glitch. You see, I was supposed to go hear them play in NYC Friday at 8 in Tutuma, their club, and then Saturday at 7:30 AM, at that club, I would join them on their bus. <br /><br />Problem being what to do between 8 pm and 7:30 am. Ideally, I would get a lodging somewhere cheap and in the area. However, the swanky jazz club is of course located in a nice part of Manhattan, meaning that there is nowhere cheap nearby at all. And even willing to travel a great distance, cheap places were often straight impossible; it is New York in the summer, the few hostel environments (ahyuck)were certainly probably checked out. <br /><br />I mean, if they weren't normally, they certainly were when I decided to start wondering where I would stay around 5:00 pm on the way to the club to hear the band. <br /><br />And of course, I pretty much needed to be in Manhattan so that I could actually make it to the club in the morning. And forget crashing at a friends place, who on earth would I know, So, I'm in a pretty tight spot.<br /><br />But then, epiphany strikes me like me a girlish slap to the face. I remembered that one of my friends had recently moved to New York and, my some whimsy of a humor-loving god, in Manhattan. <br /><br />The good lord does smile upon me and I may stay in her gentrified harlem lodging. <br /><br />Which is some 80 blocks from the place I need to be at 7:30 in the morning, but hey, at least I'm in the borough. <br /><br />PAUSE<br /><br />Okay, some shit has has happened between this post and my present, therefore I must give you a truncated edition cause we all need to move on with our lives.<br /><br />Suffice to say, despite my bonehead move, going to New York without a place to stay, and the fact that I was supposed to spend 7:30 am to 12:30 am with some reputedly hard-drinking Peruvians at the Litchfield Jazz Festival, I had a great time. <br /><br />I met a dude named Huevito (literally "Eggy") who could make the most sweet music by banging on a box. That's the short story anyway. Despite seeming like a wild-man intuitive musician, he could stop carrying on like a hyper eight year old long enough to shoot off about the Andalucian roots of a particularly variety of Peruvian <br />tap dance. <br /><br />And blah blah, my brother's going to India, I'm gonna hang out.<br /><br />PeaceBigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-13523527382527241312010-08-04T14:10:00.000-07:002010-08-04T17:26:46.915-07:00Playing Catch-UpWe're not in Minneapolis anymore Toto.<br /><br />But before I go into my latest travels, I should probably finish that chapter of the saga.<br /><br />I happily spent the rest of my day in the Burton residence, where a number of cool things happened.<br /><br />I went to the zoo! The Minneapolis zoo with MB my home G. MB loves zoo's! That was his terminology "I love zoo's". This struck me as funny and maybe it would too if you know Michael. Imagine a person you know with the dryest, most non-sequitorial humor you can imagine. His mother asks him "Why are you going to the zoo?" and he responds in abounding sincerity "I love zoo's". He loves zoo's. There you have it. A simple man.<br /><br />As it turns out, I think zoo's are pretty cool too, but unfortunately the salient aspect of the zoo is not so much the animals that make the bulk of the advertised zoo experience, but the screaming children that have been fooled into thinking that a trip to the zoo is an acceptable substitute for going to the amusement park. <br /><br />I also saw my friend's dad's shop where he makes... MOTHERFUCKING MEDIEVAL WEAPONRY AND ARMOR. FUCK MCFUCKING MASCULINE YEAH! SSSSSWWWWWOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRDDDDDDDSSSSSS AND SHIT!<br /><br />That was, to say the least, pretty cool. Though I must admit that I had some preconceptions as to what a shop of this kind should look like. <br /><br />I'll admit that my vision involved a great deal more wood, stonework and leather pumping bellows, like the large version of the strange bag-like artifact that lives in my grandfather's house. This guy, Christopher Poor of <a href="http://www.armor.com/index.html"></a>, uses a host of ancient techniques in the making of his stuff, but has discarded the large oaken tables and stone floors in favor of metal workbenches and cement.<br /><br />But don't be dissuaded of how epicly cool this place was. I mean, there were literally shelves of beautiful hand-crafted rapiers, broadswords, flails, maces, daggers and hand axes. And that's just how he listed them off, too, a rapid fire inventory-like list that seemed to indicate that he was just a little bored with the manufacture of the stuff of a twelve-year-old boy's dreams. I suppose I would be too if it were my job to get up in the morning and make A FULL SUIT OF PLATE ARMOR!!!<br /><br />He also showed me the church he owns and inside he runs something called the "Oakenshotte Institute" which can be most succinctly described as knight camp for kids. Kids today...<br /><br />And on Saturday, the Burton family put on a recital in their home. MB sings, so does his mom, his attractive cousin plays harp, some piano/math/physics genius from Stanford plays piano. All, it was a pretty swanky affair. This idea of throwing one's own recital is intriguing to the out-of-school musician in me...<br /><br />And I went to the Dakota Jazz Club and caught a whole bunch of Lawrentians there. That account will have to wait for another time.<br /><br />NathanBigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-55546647897688794002010-07-31T10:15:00.000-07:002010-08-01T18:03:26.501-07:00Palmer'sAn interesting spread of days.<br /><br />As we pick up the tale from the last leavings, we find myself having hung out with my female doppleganger and not having seen her dad's shop.<br /><br />Later that night, MB and I go to see a friend's band perform at a nearby bar called Palmer's. This was slightly funny. I shall reprint a portion of some reviews of this Palmer's establishment: <br /><br />-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />Palmer's Bar<br />4 star rating<br />27 reviews Rating Details<br /><br />Category: Dive Bars <br /><br />Wandered into this awesome dive bar...<br /><br />Palmer's is one of my favorite dive bars...<br /><br />Seems like a place for junkies and lowlifes to go...<br /><br />I was surprised to see the clientele switch gears at about 10:00 pm the last time I was here. It went from die hard locals to hipster college students...<br /><br />If you're looking for an unpretentious, awesome, eclectic dive bar...<br /><br />-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />I would like just like to offer a view thoughts on the nature of the dive bar.<br /><br />1. Let's just recall that a "dive" is shitty place. I don't mean to pass judgment on Palmer's, or indeed, the dive bar phenomenon itself, but if a place is a dive, that means nothing more than it is a dirty, ill-lit, possibly cheap place. Therefore, the phrase "an awesome dive X" is illogical on the first glance.<br /><br />I suppose it could mean that X (in this case bar) is awesome in its efforts to be shitty, but something about the notion doesn't sit well with me. The third excerpt seems to accurately describe a dive. What's surprising is that this person gave Palmer's a one star rating! I'm sorry sir, this place is clearly Category: Dive Bar! If it didn't have junkies and lowlifes in it, it couldn't qualify for that! And yet...<br /><br />2. I direct your attention to the fourth excerpt regarding the switching of gears. At 10, the hipsters roll in. Here, perhaps is the reason that this person gave it a low rating. He is dissatisfied with the presence of lowlifes, here's my theory. Hipsters want to go to a dive, but they don't want an actual dive experience. They want to go a place that looks like an actual dive, that will give them the impression of being in a poor man's bar without having to encounter actual dive denizens (lowlifes).<br /><br />What's so attractive to hipsters about dive bars? I think the last comment is telling. It's their lack of pretension. But what the fuck does this really mean? Pretension for dictionary means "laying claim to something". Ladies and Gentleman, I submit to you that Palmer's lays claim to being a dive bar, but in fact is not, because no dive bar would sell PBR at three dollars a pop and on special at that!<br /><br />What the hipsters are looking for here is just bulletproof pretension protection. By going to bar that has the occasional crackhead and lowlife and unmopped floors, hipsters are trying to assure themselves that they are "real."<br /><br />Hipsters, chill the fuck out. It's okay to be interested in "pretentious" "not real" things. Read your beatnik literature and wear your silly fashions. We love you anyway. Lose the pretension of unpretensiousness. Falling for Palmer's unpretensious veneer is only setting you up to fall for the "authenticity" pretension when you take your kids to some sort of Mayan exploration tour in Mexico 20 years from now.<br /><br />Go find some real crackheads, hipsters, or get out of the kitchen.Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-81464630491555234532010-07-29T15:51:00.000-07:002010-07-29T15:55:57.072-07:00Today was pretty coolI got up early this morning. Yes I did. At 9:30. For opera. Yes, that's right. Opera.<br /><br />Whoa. <br /><br />Me and my best bud MB ran off to the cinema to see a broadcast of Carmen. I was amazed at how many tunes from that work have penetrated popular culture. Blows my mind. Opera. Influential. <br /><br />Well. <br /><br />THEN I MET MY FEMALE SELF FROM COLLEGE THERE! AND WE WENT TO HER HOUSE! AND ATE DELICIOUS FOODS!<br /><br />I was hoping to see her dad's arms and armor producing workshop. I bet there's nothing quite like the sight of molten metal becoming a most awesome medieval weapon of destruction! LIKE A SWORD!<br /><br />But it didn't happen, maybe later this week. <br /><br />The weekend comes, what do I do?Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-68236320340951084962010-07-28T16:57:00.001-07:002010-07-28T17:05:50.228-07:00Livin' the DreamMany many many thanks to my gracias host, L.K. for housing me far past the amount of time that I originally imagined I would have to take up space in her charming apartment. I will forever miss that playful shower of hers that tends to squirt me in the face when I thought I was giving in the final twist to turn off.<br /><br />Now I am quartered in my trombone bosom buddy M.B.'s house and the delicious scent of spaghetti wafts up my nostrils.<br /><br />Tomorrow, I will be visiting someone who I think must be living the dream. The foremost blacksmith of medieval arms and armor in my immediate circle, in Minneasota, the country, and possibly the world. That, at least, is the version of events told to me by his daughter, the only person in college that seemed to be as weird as me in college and therefore a kindred spirit. So, a double delight tomorrow.<br /><br />I was going to eat half a guinea pig today, but we failed to reserve that 24 hours in advance, so it can no longer be. <br /><br />What adventure waits?<br /><br />Follow my blog, so I can know you're out there. Follow, or leave comments. But follow first!Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-87304498449307735172010-07-26T10:44:00.001-07:002010-07-26T10:53:44.239-07:00The Smell of AdventureI sit in an apartment in uptown Minneapolis.<br /><br />From here, I have two plans. <br /><br />1. Minneapolis --> Allentown --> Assorted East Coast Adventure --> The South --> Costa Rica --> Argentina/Brazil/Something like that<br />Features: Mom, new friends and college friends, unseen parts of america, cumbia, trombone playing, reconnect with study abroad life<br /><br />Cons: Feels kind of old hat compared to option 2<br /><br />OR<br /><br />2. Minneapolis --> California --> Assorted West Coast Adventure --> Alaska? --> Japan? --> Silk Road --> Indian --> Turkey --> Europe/France?<br />Features: sister, cousins, the unfamiliar west coast, effing alaska, motherfucking asia and great adventure, and exchange student friends.<br />Cons: Likely to break the bank<br /><br />I ain't got much money in my bank account and I might be able to make a little money and learn a shit ton about Latin music on the first option. The second option would be awesome, but might be more of a see the world, get nothing but thoughts out of it experience.<br /><br />And I'll need to stop in Kansas City somewhere along the way there. If indeed someone really wants to visit me in late august and I wanna catch that wedding...Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-3532952397491226312010-07-25T14:04:00.000-07:002010-07-25T20:25:29.197-07:00The Past Four WeeksYo,<br /><br />I'm in a coffee shop in Minnesota and planning the next phase of the adventure.<br /><br />To recap where I've been and what I've done since the last time I was writing in this blog, I returned to college and finished it. Graduated with a degree in Spanish I don't really care for, from an institution that I'm not really sure was right fore. Playground's where I spend most of my days, chillin out max, relaxin' all cool and wondering what on earth I need to be doing with my life now that I'm at the end the to-do list I received at the beginning of my education. <br /><br />I forestalled existential crisis by signing up to work at a summer camp to teach Spanish while I was still at school. I went pretty much directly from college to summer camp and found things to hilariously the same and others to be frighteningly reminiscent of my own camping experiences. <br /><br />Before my eyes played out the familiar drama of adolescence, far-removed in time but not in memory. It was strange to see creatures who seemed to be going through the same time that produced my identity but were so vastly different than I was at that age. Whereas I was interested in abstruse humor and being weird in a manageable way, these kids had no trouble fitting in, only trouble understanding anything in the world around them. In short, they were dumbasses.<br /><br />But I didn't realize that at the time, I just saw them as different, it wasn't until weeks later when one camper crossed the eerie line between aldeano and staff that I realized that these characters were familiar players from my high school stage, they were just the ones that paid me no attention. Now they just thought I was the shit cause I was six years older then them. That was fine for me. I gave them a house cheer that featured manliness and a 300 reference. Fair.<br /><br />Second session was a bunch of middle-schoolers severely affected by ADD. This experience was trying beyond comparison. Every minute I was telling them to shut up during announcements, to quit eating with their hands, quit hitting each other, don't call the kid that talks funny Urkle. In all-too-common moments of meditation and evaluation of those mystical things called goals and growth, I would comment privately that my greatest achievement and camp was not ending the irritating existence of one of my campers.<br /><br />Through a certain turn of events I turned to push-ups and other isometric exercise to keep them in line. This was a great turning point for the experience. During this exercise regime (haha)they started listening to the things I told them the first time and if they ever hesitated to participate in an activity, I or another counselor would just give them a little push-up gesture to jog their little memories.Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-87041906885736788502008-12-27T22:07:00.000-08:002009-05-05T15:24:16.334-07:00The End?<span style="font-style:italic;"></span><br />Long ago, I tried to write some kind of conclusion to my blog. I wrote this, sitting at home on a late night and have tried to touch it up a few times since then. It'll never really be finished, so I foist it upon you, warts and all.<br /><br />Oh, and I don't mention it, but I think I'll be back. I hope I'll be back, after college to study music there and be a trombonist and make enough money to live. <br /><br />Anyway...<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"></span><br /><br /><br />I've always appreciated "The End" with a question mark. Just who or what does it question? Am I, the writer, challenging you the reader to guess whether or not this is the conclusion of things? Is the phrase itself an admission of the uncertainty of endings and the future? Is it the sound of incredulous disappointment, "The end? Is this all there is to it?" Maybe it's simple ambition, the man in charge of the credits trying to wedge an opening for a sequel. In this case, it's a little of all but especially this: It is a confession of ignorance, colored with a little hope. I could not bear to put an unadorned "The End" on any chapter of my life, much less one describing my time in Argentina.<br /><br />Home, now that I am, I am waiting for someone to catch me while I am by myself at some social event, or sitting at my kitchen table late at night while I'm feeling reflective and I am waiting for them to ask "Nathan, how was Argentina?" I've been abroad a few times and I know that no one really wants the answer you want to give to that question. I know that I might not be able to give the answer I want to give to that question. But I want that person to hear my series of glib replies and short<br />but hopefully enticing responses and nod and say "Man, Nathan, that all sounds really great, but tell me: What is the heart of Argentina? What beats inside its chest? What moves its blood from the tops of the Andes, across desolate plains, through forests and rivers and swells the bleachers of its soccer stadiums? What is the gory psychic center of this forgotten arm of South America?"<br /><br />And I want this person to listen patiently while I find the right words that make them see the faces of the people in Salta and hear the power of the Iguazú Falls and feel the mythic sadness of Buenos Aires. I want to elate them and I want to bring them to tears. More than that, I want to them to let me run out of words and have them nod again as they set down their cup and say to me "Nathan, wow. I really get it. That's so beautiful. It's great that you went" <br /><br />So what is this heart? Who is this dark and hatted figure, the Argentino?<br /><br />The Argentino, near as I know, is a farmer. Yes, the Argentino is more than that, and something besides that, he(she) is a fisherman, indigenous, cosmopolitan, oligarch vagrant, too, but truly at the core, the Argentino is a farmer.<br /><br />Every last one of them, even the most urbane, electronica-listening city punk. The first time my spider-sense tingled to the rural nature of the Argentino, I was in the heart of Buenos Aires, in one of the parks of Palermo, speaking to a new acquaintance, Sef (short for Serefim). We were talking about Sef's new marijuana plant and his plans for it. I was asking Sef about the difficulty of growing such a thing when Sef did something that hardly blipped on my cultural radar. Sef took his hand out of his lap and patted the earth next to him and said:<br /><br />"No. Don't you know about the earth here. It's amazing. You drop a seed in it and stand back. You can't stop things from growing in it" <br /><br />There was something interesting about the whole scene. I didn't know what it was at the time, so I mentally earmarked it for decompression. And here's what I can tell you about it. Sef is the farthest thing from a farmer I can imagine, he was introduced to me through my friend Silia as the only porteño member of her goth and/or weird kid friend group. For my poor untrained ears, his vocabulary and pronunciation were a punishment of colloquialisms and Buenos Aires-isms. His summary reference to chicks, chunky urban fashion and vast knowledge of hallucinogens had me convinced of his urban, and therefore Buenos Aires, credentials. <br /><br />But here was this skater punk, petting the earth like a dog and bragging about it. He spoke of it reverently, preciously, like a great treasure. That, I've realized since then, is something that I have never seen an American of any stripe do. No American that I've met (I've not met any farmers) has ever expressed to me anything approaching knowledge, familiarity or I daresay intimacy with the ground under his feet. There are farmers in America, but if we once were farmers, I don't believe we are any longer.<br /><br />Sef's attitude echoed through the streets of the city. Encounters with people of a variety of backgrounds yielded the same attitude. My friend Niko, carpenter and total urbanite, also speaking of his forays into narcotic production, praised his earth and literally scoffed at the notion of hydroponics. What need? <br /><br />I believe that a farmer is more than a person that inculcates earth and draws a harvest from it, a farmer can draw a richness less tangible that wheat or corn. He sees the earth and truly appreciates it. He looks at the earth like a conductor looks at a score. He can read it, he can see where there will be problems and plenty. He can appreciate the beauty of its design. The way the wind blows down from the north and the color of plant growing in the field is as meaningful to him as the fermata over the penultimate note is to the conductor. <br /><br />This attitude permeates Buenos Aires and doubly the rest of Argentina. The doorman to the first building I lived in was from the province of Córdoba and spoke to me a few times of the beautiful countryside there, but he didn't just talk about sunsets and lake-views. There's always a certain knowing, slightly technical way of talking about the land, that I like to think is powered by the Argentine drive to make richness out of the earth. <br /><br />This is why porteños always seem like they need a few hours more sleep. They're missing something and they don't even know what it is. They're in a long-distance relationship and they think that their supposed to be single.<br /><br />And that's why everyone else in Argentina is... what they are. I think that living in the countryside as an Argentino would be like majoring in art even if you think an MBA is what you ought to go to college for. Yes it's easy, yes, but as a friend once told me, para que sufrir?Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-91075469260997006322008-11-17T11:08:00.000-08:002008-11-17T14:37:05.101-08:00Buenos Aires' Latests Attempts to Tempt Me to StayChe, boludos!<br /><br />It's been a really action-packed week. I explain you now.<br /><br />I'M GONNA BE ON A REAL LIVE CD!!!<br /><br />Roommate of friend Brad is an accordion-playing israeli musician composer. He's been working on a record for the last year. And lately on a track called, Take Five Bulgarians, a crazy little version of Brubeck's "Take Five" in a crazy little mixed meter with a weird middle eastern key signature.<br /><br />So on Thursday, I went to a studio and recorded my bit which will be mixed into the bunch. And it was a lot harder than I thought would be, go figure.<br /><br />But I've had my first studio recording experience and the best part. It seems that this is a disc that will be sold in stores and everything. So, not having graduated yet or even being a music major, I'm on a real CD. <br /><br />And come saturday, some friends of distant conntection through my tango teacher invited me to ¨zapar¨with them on saturday in Provincia. For me, provincia means dirt roads, noncity-dwelling, good-spirited Latin American folk. In the past, it has been a welcome relieve from the relentless city and citified denizens of buenos aires. Less arrogance, more acceptance, less money, etc.<br /><br />Well, this place was not that. It was in a "Country" prounced "CAHntry". Which is short for country club, which is actually a mega gated community where the rich have fled from buenos aires. It is actually remarkably similar to hometown suburb in there, or some nearby. I now look suspiciously at Overland park, etc. Even more suspiciously anyway. <br /><br />Curiously, the party was held in a house owned by an organization whose sole function is to throw parties in that house. There is a difference between america and argentina. Homeowners associations would never ever allow that house to exist. <br /><br />Furthermore, the entire appeal of the party was its similarity to American house parties, things that dont really exist in Buenos Aires. According to a guy I talked to, the idea of a bunch of people in a house with alcohol in buckets of ice with a band formed of whoever is an american concept. I might be proud.<br /><br />In anycase, these people pay 15 pesos to enter the place and there is an open bar (buckets of booze) and everything. Its similarity to parties in the united states is somewhat uncanny. The reality is that I would have never elected to go to such an event in high school which is where parties like this went down. So a few years later, in Buenos Aires, doing some odd frankenstein facsimilie of the same.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfX_XsKgGzpL1rZ2JAC4lqkMtlWpn_LqRUKmYomtbuBqMg1ZuEb6rb22NQMumphrcYNpWWqx7X6URKIXB99WUIoryxb2KtEvImijnRMyfAhLa_sY_DJTWKC8TnjVzMk2VwFDz74mwZ8hu6/s1600-h/DSCN1691.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfX_XsKgGzpL1rZ2JAC4lqkMtlWpn_LqRUKmYomtbuBqMg1ZuEb6rb22NQMumphrcYNpWWqx7X6URKIXB99WUIoryxb2KtEvImijnRMyfAhLa_sY_DJTWKC8TnjVzMk2VwFDz74mwZ8hu6/s320/DSCN1691.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269711854127375874" /></a><br />Here we are eating outside some place that was eerily similar to the village back home, standard outdoor mall sort of thing.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigumB1MD1o9R9OaGlhuCrTCmvTNpfA_cAPMlhFZyVslF6G6hNQzUqnpJof9Pz7Qw6INCI5sHbQQLB3rwnhzTd6jICsNN9uXPK5YPZWTqsvxSLtKxb6SJQ-hmpoXIgpo_bugnz8Mjpxemjd/s1600-h/DSCN1695.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigumB1MD1o9R9OaGlhuCrTCmvTNpfA_cAPMlhFZyVslF6G6hNQzUqnpJof9Pz7Qw6INCI5sHbQQLB3rwnhzTd6jICsNN9uXPK5YPZWTqsvxSLtKxb6SJQ-hmpoXIgpo_bugnz8Mjpxemjd/s320/DSCN1695.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269711858797721314" /></a><br />Not us, but alot like us. Except we had a trombone, and we´re better.<br /><br /><br />What does zapar mean? In this case, it means show up to a house full of people with musicians you don´t know and make up something on the spot. Francisco, my main man, would say "Funky en D menor" and away we'd go. I think we did a damn good job actually. People really seemed to like it, met some cool musicians, etc.<br /><br />And the rest of these pictures I need to explain, but I´ve lost interest and I know how happy cora gets when I post, so I´ll leave ´em up to tantalize.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWG1mCU7MTBP_yChFQqaq52acJm0ytObKQ57mirkBhz9aqtE3gG4B8cQA4tSFqIqkC-fiKt7rylgTKtZdSSKmZeNDLlywYAyw9hnXAba9mR5gcXXUZ82ww-c7LXfsddiQ07lKcAEUpnnX/s1600-h/DSCN1699.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWG1mCU7MTBP_yChFQqaq52acJm0ytObKQ57mirkBhz9aqtE3gG4B8cQA4tSFqIqkC-fiKt7rylgTKtZdSSKmZeNDLlywYAyw9hnXAba9mR5gcXXUZ82ww-c7LXfsddiQ07lKcAEUpnnX/s320/DSCN1699.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269711863609692642" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2eUqZfeJ8RMouedy84SIYLgiOpFkQxMgHnwPFIQfs1ScxgS1j9aca4zLsbdUjvEQdTmuCtD1j_P5Qsas1N_8qXlpEJA7WSSa2fF5yANz_ssFMAu-5aVJY0VwnAOm4SLojG13pYi7oAON/s1600-h/DSCN1760.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2eUqZfeJ8RMouedy84SIYLgiOpFkQxMgHnwPFIQfs1ScxgS1j9aca4zLsbdUjvEQdTmuCtD1j_P5Qsas1N_8qXlpEJA7WSSa2fF5yANz_ssFMAu-5aVJY0VwnAOm4SLojG13pYi7oAON/s320/DSCN1760.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269711872932248466" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIiqISCRb-QDKqIjj_kiOkSdOOOuXtwQgZhhklxuaIHutjxexi48_k7gK-P62UMRPz3ANHuLtHuKX6UJ29MQG8Isfz_DnJyGTW7GsJikCkCNHZhbl0VSzU4nkoxzIlr32kbfohjA9XZ5E/s1600-h/DSCN1739.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRIiqISCRb-QDKqIjj_kiOkSdOOOuXtwQgZhhklxuaIHutjxexi48_k7gK-P62UMRPz3ANHuLtHuKX6UJ29MQG8Isfz_DnJyGTW7GsJikCkCNHZhbl0VSzU4nkoxzIlr32kbfohjA9XZ5E/s320/DSCN1739.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269711868430626898" /></a>Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-32292155248496956992008-11-07T11:37:00.000-08:002008-11-13T08:04:24.598-08:00Cumbia Villera Part III: Brad's TaleCora wakes me from my slumber.<br /><br />There occurred an episode in the club which I am unsure that I want to/lack the creative energy to describe right now. I may return to the theme.<br /><br />In any case, directly after the episode, I was motivated to leave the club very quickly. However, I did not leave with my friend, Brad.<br /><br />This is his story.<br /><br />While I was sitting on a bus, reflecting on my life-changing experience, Brad thought that I was still in the club and commenced to search for me. <br /><br />I was not to be found. Brad, apparently not terribly concerned about my disappearance, decided to stick around inside the club to hear the band play. <br /><br />I should take a minute to explain that cumbia villera is really pretty bad, all things considered. Musically speaking, it is about as complex as a ham sandwhich, which is to say, easy enough to make, but capable of killing Mama Cass.<br /><br />Yeah.<br /><br />The band begins and the people in the club just started freaking out. For all of you interested in the absurd schedule of the place, the badn began around 5 in the morning. <br /><br />Brad reported to me that literally every song began with a little keytar solo (cumbia villera must have keytar) but it was the lamest, dorkiest little solo you can imagine. Dat datdat Dat datdat Dat datdat Daaaah sort of thing.<br /><br />But the audience would cheer, jump and shout for these two measures of 5th grade piano skills. Brad reported fear and disgust at this point. <br /><br />The band played on, disgustingly bad music evoking totally disproportionate response all the night, until the show closed. At the end, Brad stood by the door as the audience filed out, in search of me his headband that was lifted by a weird old lady.<br /><br />Sighting the lady, he danced with her briefly to the shitty music they play to make everyone leave. Using this contrived distraction, he grabbed the headband and bolted out the door.<br /><br />Good work, Brad.<br /><br />06:30, Barrio Once, Calle Rivadavia, Brad opens his bus schedule to look for a ride home.<br /><br />A "drunk dude" approaches Brad and ask for change. After Brad (who's spanish is not stellar, I must admit) denies him twice, he grabs Brad around the neck in a manner that Brad assiduously avoids describing as a headlock and offers to let him meet some friends.<br /><br />The man's friends form a circle around Brad whilst the "drunk dude" hurls racial slurs at Brad.<br /><br />I'd like to take a minute to pause the story and contemplate this cultural mix-up that is the modern world:<br /><br />Brad Babinsky is the great-grandson of Japanese immigrants to America who maintained a purely Asiatic appearance by marrying within the Japanese population of California until the generation of his mother, who married one Mr. Babinsky, a man with a thing for Japanese girls. Now, this grandson, encouraged by experiences with Colombian musician-friends, is in Argentina trying to learn Spanish, but at in this point in the narrative is being ridiculed by a group of punks who, according to Argentines, are probably from Paraguay or Peru, refer to him as Chino, as they would anyone who happens to have slanty eyes.<br /><br />On with the story.<br /> <br /> Brad's less-than-stellar Spanish isn't quite capable of deciphering rainstorm of colloquialisms he found himself in, but he attests that he other members of the group reacted with considerable surprise to what one would assume was the viciousness of the barrage. <br /><br />I must sincerely salute Brad's unshakable cool; he said that he wanted to keep the situation cool so he cracked jokes. <br /><br />"Hey watch out man, I'm a chino so I know karate and stuff" <br /><br />His efforts, which he said made him feel like an Uncle Tom (another cultural mixup that I won't go into), couldn't stop the robbery in progress. But thanks to the advice of my host mom, they didn't come away with more than one of two pesos brad had in change, his bus schedule and his shitty digital watch.<br /><br />A majority of the thieves left, two remained with Brad. Brad said that they looked a little guilty, as if they wouldn't have robbed so much as they just went along with their drunken ringleader. <br /><br />They began to interrogate in true villero style.<br /><br />"Chino! What the fuck are you doing here man!"<br />"Oh, I was, uh, at the show."<br />"LOCO! Chino, what show!"<br />"Las Damas Gratis"<br />"Chino, WHAT! Cumbia villera!? You're loco, chino."<br /><br />Brad says that they were as fascinated with him as he was with them. <br /><br />They stayed and chatted for awhile in that fashion. Until Brad decided that he had better go home. However, having mentally prepared himself to waling home when the robbery began, he hatched a plan.<br /><br />He stuck his hand in his pocket, palmed his last 1 peso coin and said "Me llamo Brad" and proffered his hand in introduction. The punk shook his hand and found the coin.<br /><br />"Man! What the fuck is this, chino?"<br /><br />"No, go ahead, take it, you said you needed change for the bus ride"<br /><br />"No, man! We can't take this, its yours! God, Chino"<br /><br />"No, c'mon. Take it. Please"<br /><br />Or something like that. Ultimately they accepted it. Totally willing to rob some poor-bastard, lost-immigrant Chinese guy, but unwilling to accept his peso.<br /><br />Brad walked home. Nobody robbed him again.Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5464397951309832498.post-80580988587151708752008-10-31T16:34:00.000-07:002008-11-01T11:02:04.187-07:00Cumbia Villera Part IHey Kiddies, I’m back, connecting local pizzeria el continental, which I’m told is a pizzeria buena buena buena.<br /><br />I’ve ordered a pizza fugazzetta rellena con queso cremoso, two pieces of fainá and a glass of moscato, a sweet wine which usually accompanies such things.<br /><br />There’ve been some major changes in my life. I cut my hair, for instance. I got a mullet. Soon this will be a dread mullet. I think that you’ve all had sufficient warning. It will be a dreadmullet, once I’ve accumulated the sufficient length.<br /><br />I’m almost done with all my papers and finals and crap, meaning that here comes the part of supplying my own diversion in or out of Buenos Aires. I’m planning on mostly out. The only thing keeping me in town is my bands performances on Sundays of every week. I’ve had better luck with las chicas outside of town anyway. I guess my reputation gets around. ;-)<br /><br />And finally, the achievement of the hour, my first ridiculous story accumulated in Spanish and told in Spanish. It’s a little something called Nathan goes to a cumbia villera club at 2 o’clock in a very shitty part of town.<br /><br />For my anthropology class, Traditions and Cultures of Argentina, I had elected to study cumbia villera, the music of the marginalized poor of Buenos Aires. It was the weekend before the Tuesday in which I would turn in a paper and I had yet to have been to one of the notorious clubs where such music is played. I had had great difficulty in finding a place to go to. <br /><br />The problem was really a function of a little systematic hiccup in being here in Buenos Aires. As an American exchange student who attends a wealthy private school in a very particular sector of Buenos Aires, I was unlikely to know, of the few Argentines of whom I had managed to make an acquaintance, somebody who listened to such music and certainly would not know someone who had the interest, (or the stones) to go.<br /><br />It was Friday night and I had become desperate. In response to my suggestion that we go to a cumbia villera club together, my two porteño friends responded with “no fucking way” and outright laughter. I was sitting in the pizza joint six blocks from my house trying to wrangle the great force of the internet into solving my problem. I was coming up with nothing, less than nothing. <br /><br />In desperation, I ordered another pastry.<br /><br />And used this opportunity to ask my waitress where I could hear cumbia villera and cut off her next words so I could explain why I was doing this.<br />You see, there is a little process that I had become familiar with in my search. Namely, I ask a porteño where I should go to see cumbia villera, they take in my white foreign Americanness, calculate that we must not actually have poverty or danger in America, and patiently explain to me what poor people are like and how they will rape, rob and murder when I try to set foot inside their club. <br /><br />I had heard the speech many times before. There is really no variety. It usually begins with the phrase “don’t go” and finishes with the phrase “It’s not recommendable.” In between is a vast series of generalizations made by uninformed yuppies who, though Argentine, actually know as little as or less about the music and culture than me. Having pretty quickly discarded the ideas that form the basis of this thought process (Bolivians are drug dealers, Peruvians are literally insane, etc) this speech really only reinforces the motivations that had encouraged me to select this topic anyway, makes me a little mad and wastes my time. <br /><br />I hate the hypocrisy enacted by these people that dance to cumbia villera whilst deriding the music and creators. I hate the idiotic notion that there is a sector of society that lives to rob and terrorize people with more money or lighter skin. <br />What I told my waitress, however, was that it was assignment for class and it was due Tuesday and I couldn’t find anywhere to go. She asked me what kind of teacher would do such a thing to one of his students. I contemplated the reply of “anthropology” before explaining to here that I was the one who had elected to do this to myself. <br /><br />She called over a friend that might know more, being that she herself did not dance, listen or otherwise put up with cumbia villera. Her friend, however, reportedly went to clubs that were *quite* dangerous. <br /><br />Her friend came over and suggested to me a couple that were out of town and much safer than legendarily dangerous barrio of Once, where should walk no foreigner. In summary her advice was, never go to Once under any circumstances, you may go to boliche #1 with someone who knows it and you may attend sterile boliche #2 alone, probably. Barrio Once could potentially not be a lethal deathtrap if you had a friend who was a regular that could take you. Don’t even think of going alone.<br />The two waitresses, though ultimately useless, were the most help I’d gotten thus far. They even made some vague promise to call me should they go to one of the boliches in the boonies. I checked it out online, one of them seemed perhaps almost <br />as dangerous as Once. <br /><br />It would have proved satisfactory had I that kind of time. I went home and contemplated my situation. Due to distance and unfamiliarity, these boliches on the outskirts of town were out of the question. I was left with finding a club in Once. Figuring that I was already breaking all the rules , I said why not call a guy named Brad Babinsky.<br /><br />Brad had at one point told me he was afraid of nothing and that sure he’d go to such a club. I didn’t really want to take him before as I thought I would be able to find a Spanish speaker and make it more educational, but no. Since then, he’d been receiving some of the steam from my blunted efforts to get to this club and therefore gotten wind of the nasty reputations involved. This time, when I asked him, he was not so eager to go. Actually what he told me was “Man. Honestly. I don’t wanna go. I really don’t like the music, and honestly, I don’t wanna die, man.”<br /><br /> But, my home boy, for reasons not totally understood, reversed his opinion and agreed to go. We were to rendezvous at a friend’s who lived near the area.<br /><br />I arm to leave and my host mother, upon hearing my plan, laughs and gives me some advice. Don’t wear anything any fancier than what you’ve got now, take little money and keep half of it in your socks. If they ask for it, just give it to them. Seemed reasonable. I grabbed a hoodie and asked her, does this make me look richer or poorer? She laughs and asks me if it’s cold out. I tell her I want to cover as much of my skin and hair as possible. She laughs and tells me its fine. Chalk one up for the host mother versus negative three million for the city of Buenos Aires.<br /><br />Finally, I leave and arrive at the rendezvous, late. Brad and friend Kevin are chilling outside taking pictures of Brad failing to get a taxi for his anthropology project. Ya’see, I forgot to mention that Brad is half-Asian. Sort of. He’s fourth generation Japanese-Californian and his dad’s Polish white guy with a thing for Japanese women. In any case, here in Latin America where race sensitivity is a term more likely used to describe nascar, he’s as Chinese as bok choy. So, ultimately, one o’clock in the morning, headed to reputedly narsty sector of Buenos Aires is a six foot three white guy as accompanied by an apparent member of an immigrant community known more for its highly-competitive supermarkets than its badassedness. <br /><br />Still can’t get a cab at night, though. <br /><br />We begin our walk down ominous Avenida Rivadavia, artery of barrio Once. At first, the district appears to be no worse than any other. It’s no more poorly lit or unkempt as any other road in the city. There are some people finishing dinner and leaving restaurants, couples walking hand-in-hand looking for diversion or a cheap motel, what have you, groups of whorishly-dressed girls chatting on the street corner no doubt deciding what club to go…<br /><br />Oh wait.<br /><br />In total defiance of the Bonaerense norm of avoiding male female eye-contact, these chicas were giving me a persistent stare. Initially confounded by the total discard of this irritating detail of porteño conduct, I confoundedly returned it. Then, realizing my error, I lowered my head and continued intensely my conversation with Brad. Those weren’t just whorish club go-ers, they were straight-up whores. <br /><br />My earlier description of them as whorishly-dressed girls was doubly inaccurate as only a certain percentage of them were , in fact, female. The one giving me the look most vigorously was at least as tall as I was and had a brow ridge like the continental divide.<br /><br />We hurried past, having had our first interaction with the Once of legend and arrived at the Plaza Once. If you’ve ever seen the fantastic Eddie Murphy film Meteorman or another movie from the early 90s about reclaiming the streets of New York City, you may be able to imagine the crumbling scene of the plaza.<br />I make it out much worse than it was, but it was pretty bad non-withstanding. Little traffic, construction on a monument in the center of the plaza littered the sidewalk with detritus. But, in direct objection to the reputation of the neighborhood, the plaza was also littered with open stands that sold food, presumably to departing clubbers. If the Peruvians were really raging on drug-frenzies, then these guys wouldn’t be out here hawking sandwiches, right?<br /><br />And so , generally it wasn’t that bad. There was one guy passed out on the sidewalk. Like, literally stretched-out between two food-stands with a liter bottle of… something next to him. We left him alone.<br /><br />We made a circuit of the plaza and headed back down Rivadavia. Fortuitously, we’d spotted a club that had a crowd outside and near as we could tell it seemed that the Damas Gratis were to play that night. In a city with a schedule like Buenos Aires, it’s a little hard to tell if “Saturday at four” means during the night of Saturday past midnight at four or actually at four in the morning on Sunday. In any case, the Damas Gratis were alleged to be playing “11-6.”<br /><br />Don’t be fooled, all propositions of time in Buenos Aires are super tentative. It is entirely possible that within the suggested “11-6” framework, that the Damas Gratis would actually play at seven. Not that I said this to Brad. I told him that we’d be home in bed at four o’clock.<br /><br />And, yes, the Damas Gratis is a band of cumbia villera. So well known, in fact, that though I can name you only three bands of cumbia villera, I had already heard of them. Their name is a pun on the term for Ladies Night, which could also mean free women. We were truly working with the finest in cumbia.<br /><br />We pay a twenty peso cover and line up to enter. I was subjected to an extremely thorough frisking before being admitted to the club. I was made to remove my hat and unzip my hoodie which was then felt to see if there were something concealed in the lining. The hoodie has no lining. <br /><br />With that, I replaced my hat as I stepped through the metal detector and took in the scene. The place was surprisingly well lit and not totally packed as I had expected it to be. And unsurprisingly contrary to porteño expectations, not full of raging, poor gangsters. As Brad and I ascended to the second level to survey the scene, it became clear that the place was actually populated by an enormous variety of people. <br />There were people ranging from late teens to early 40s, judging from a visual estimation, an equal mix of men and women from a apparently large range of economic backgrounds. Styles of clothing ranged from the more typically “villero” tracksuit to conservative short-sleeve, button-downs. It seems that a majority of the club-goers had followed the advice I had received in dressing down for the event; unlike the high standard of dress found at many Buenos Aires clubs, jeans and t-shirts predominated. The environment was calm, the music at a tolerable volume level and the sound of conversation actually competed with the music. <br /><br />Dancing was decidedly less pornographic than what was to be found in your average Reggaeton-playing boliche. Most couples danced face-to-face and joined hands in a pseudo-meringue/salsa style. <br /><br />Alcohol consumption was also contrary to porteño expectation. It did not appear, from cursory examination that the infamous “wine in a box” was sold at this location. And to my great joy, they didn’t even sell Quilmes, truly the worst achievement in alcohol, though it’s the beer de facto in nearly every liquering establishment.<br /><br />It seemed that at this juncture, the only thing that Brad and I were going to suffer from was going to be boredom. That turned out to be incorrect, but I’ll have to leave you on a cliff-hanger cause I need to go leave to get dinner now.Bigfoothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03799906584762409205noreply@blogger.com10