"You have to understand, I've been all over the world and not even the herdsmen of Turkmenistan dared pull these shenanigans. And the protestant lord knows they wanted what I had on me."
That's how my personal friend Kelsy Nelsonson, norwegian-new yorker royalty introduced herself after a year of almost inexistant contact with her extradited friend.
"Kelsy, you must be careful. These twelve year olds here... they don't fuck around. They'll put a bullet in you if you're not grateful enough to be able to pay back on the imperialist ways of your race."
She quickly forgot about her barely missed and hastily replaced belongings and shifted her attention to more pressing matters. "Oh, dear. Forget those ugly things. They were last season's anyways. Wouldn't be caught dead on Main (that's East Hamptons) sporting those. Tell me about your troubles. But first, let's get a bottle of champagne. I'm parched."
So we called up the waiter whom dressed like a buccaneer carried all the hopes and dreams of the working class on those skinny but overworked shoulders. "Happy hour Cristal, dear sir. Make it snappy." The waiter of course knew not what she meant so I explained in Spanish what the lady wanted. There was no such thing as happy hour Cristal, so he just brought out full priced Mumm.
"It is terrible. I've been stranded in this country for six months. Nothing goes on here and the embassy keeps ignoring my calls. I was hoping your political connections..." She interrupted my desperate plight and said. "Oh, dear. Let's get a second round for that. It is truly tragic, what you have been suffering. It is nigh impossible to withstand it on just one bottle." So we ordered a second round. My happiness to finally be in the presence of someone from the inner circle who had arrived to help me out was unsurpassed.
The waiter/pirate was hacking at a fourth bottle of Mumm and Kelsy was possitively trashed. When I finally got through my story and my request for help getting back home she could only muster the words "Darling, I seem to have left my purse behind at the hotel. Would you be a dear and get this tab. Please, don't you ever think not to remind me to get you next time." With which she got up and stumbled away, stopped a cab and mumbled "Four Seasons."
I lived among the Argentinians long enough to know this called for the skipping of a tab. That is how it would be done.
Showing posts with label Buenos Aires. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Buenos Aires. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Hot Wheels~
I recently befriended this Argentine who has become my urban sherpa so I keep him around. His name is Nicanor "El Lagarto" Fletas. Much like the Himalayan variety he's not a talker. This helps him exudes an aura of wisdom which is really no more than familiarity with the place in which he's been stranded for life.
Just as when I was trekking the Himalayas, sometimes keeping up with these folks in their natural habitat can be perilous. But here it is way more dangerous. There is no Base Camp to fuck around here, you'd get pick pocketed in a minute. Traversing this city should be illegal. Maybe that is why anything can be delivered: ice cream, booze, cigarettes, and the local favorites: strippers and pizza. Of course the army of delivery scooters is more hazardous than the Grand Duke of Baden's feldjägerkorps and equally mean spirited.
Jaywalking maneuvers that normally kill your average DCite are easily performed by Porteños. These people are like ninjas of pedestrian infraction. But Darwin said it, other lifeforms adapt as well or perish. In order to catch up with Porteño pedestrians, Porteño drivers have developed astounding assasination skills, sometimes a driver will divert three or four blocks from destiny to take down one of these street lynxes.
This in in part why Argentines never really converted to automatic transmission. You gotta have that quick acceleration to run over grandma trying to cross on yellow. But grandma is not that easily caught. These people are like Emperor Penguins, the ones that made it past 18 are probably gonna push it to 90. Imagine if Oprah Winfrey's Katie Holmes debacle Tom Cruise had played Maverick in TopGun. Now add more hand gestures and a burgee of their soccer team, voila, your average Porteño driver.
A serious problem compounds on this: the car park is what some might call full of "classics." Between the Ford Falcons, Renault 12, Fiat 600 and IES (which is a ripoff of the shittiest Citroen) one really comes to understand what it is to be among people of faith. Faith makes your 1940's-60's piece of shit car perform like a Ferrari Enzo (in your mind, of course). The 1960's Fiat 600 outperforms every Ferrari in the local form of abstract pavement anyways. I keep telling them to no avail that the similarities between the Enzo and the 600 really end at four wheels and Italian. Their ego is writing checks their car body shop can't cash.
But one might ask, how does grandma survive thus far when her speed is severely diminished by arthritis, high cholesterol and 50 years of psychoanalysis? Well, abuela is no longer an ordinary human.
When you're crossing an avenue there is no calculation, cars are coming too fast, their course is too erratic (they side swipe to maximize contact), too many new objects are popping into the picture. You just got to do, and she does. That is how one learns to let an out of control bus flash inches front of one's face at 60 mph. It's all about reacting to the environment, it doesn't matter if it's one inch or ten meters. Apparently the more you do it the better you get at it.
A major cause of death is "loss of conentration due to Porteñas wearing a jean miniskirt and high heels at a busy intersection." I've been told it's an actual line in the statistics ministry's records. The same ministry which claims claims inflation is 0.7%.
But these Porteñas are just one more trap this city lays for you.
Just as when I was trekking the Himalayas, sometimes keeping up with these folks in their natural habitat can be perilous. But here it is way more dangerous. There is no Base Camp to fuck around here, you'd get pick pocketed in a minute. Traversing this city should be illegal. Maybe that is why anything can be delivered: ice cream, booze, cigarettes, and the local favorites: strippers and pizza. Of course the army of delivery scooters is more hazardous than the Grand Duke of Baden's feldjägerkorps and equally mean spirited.
Jaywalking maneuvers that normally kill your average DCite are easily performed by Porteños. These people are like ninjas of pedestrian infraction. But Darwin said it, other lifeforms adapt as well or perish. In order to catch up with Porteño pedestrians, Porteño drivers have developed astounding assasination skills, sometimes a driver will divert three or four blocks from destiny to take down one of these street lynxes.
This in in part why Argentines never really converted to automatic transmission. You gotta have that quick acceleration to run over grandma trying to cross on yellow. But grandma is not that easily caught. These people are like Emperor Penguins, the ones that made it past 18 are probably gonna push it to 90. Imagine if Oprah Winfrey's Katie Holmes debacle Tom Cruise had played Maverick in TopGun. Now add more hand gestures and a burgee of their soccer team, voila, your average Porteño driver.
A serious problem compounds on this: the car park is what some might call full of "classics." Between the Ford Falcons, Renault 12, Fiat 600 and IES (which is a ripoff of the shittiest Citroen) one really comes to understand what it is to be among people of faith. Faith makes your 1940's-60's piece of shit car perform like a Ferrari Enzo (in your mind, of course). The 1960's Fiat 600 outperforms every Ferrari in the local form of abstract pavement anyways. I keep telling them to no avail that the similarities between the Enzo and the 600 really end at four wheels and Italian. Their ego is writing checks their car body shop can't cash.
But one might ask, how does grandma survive thus far when her speed is severely diminished by arthritis, high cholesterol and 50 years of psychoanalysis? Well, abuela is no longer an ordinary human.
When you're crossing an avenue there is no calculation, cars are coming too fast, their course is too erratic (they side swipe to maximize contact), too many new objects are popping into the picture. You just got to do, and she does. That is how one learns to let an out of control bus flash inches front of one's face at 60 mph. It's all about reacting to the environment, it doesn't matter if it's one inch or ten meters. Apparently the more you do it the better you get at it.
A major cause of death is "loss of conentration due to Porteñas wearing a jean miniskirt and high heels at a busy intersection." I've been told it's an actual line in the statistics ministry's records. The same ministry which claims claims inflation is 0.7%.
But these Porteñas are just one more trap this city lays for you.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Weekend at Berno's
The other day one of the locals I befriended named Berno invited me to celebrate his child's birth.
The child in it's early developmental stage seemed hardly capable of contributing much worth noting, yet I thought older people would provide insights into the Argentine condition.
My first impression of Argentina infant birthdays was rather positive. The father was cranking Jimmy Hendrix full volume and the baby was playing with an Argentine edition Winny the Pooh (it was a Peronista street protester the Pooh). There was an assortment of party food such as chips, cheetos, guacamole and tortillas, Coca-Cola, Sprite and Heineken. Until then these Argentines seemed to be accepting global hegemony. Everyone was getting along and the conversation was amenable.
But then the troubles started.
The mother rolled out the local food: peceto, arrollado dulce, and what really seemed to tip the scale: Russian Salad. From that moment on everyone got a little louder. Controversies started to erupt. River vs. Boca, City vs. Country, Capitalist vs. Communist, etc. The mounting tension was palpable. We seemed to drift closer, with every byte of these local flavors, to a full out fist fight.
"Marn', ween ya see them trybl' peepls goin et'it, doncha take naw sydes. Das how ma papa went. Arraw to da hed tryn' to fix'em up Cherokee cheevs." Charley, I tried to follow your advice... but then, the grandmother in a fit of fury after losing face in an argument about pasta vs. potato gnocchi confronted me.
She considered herself grieved because I came to her country, was invited to her granddaughter's birthday and had the spunk not to talk to or play with the child.
What did she want me to say? "Congratulations on successfully circumnavigating the sun, through no merit of your own despite your caretakers best attempts to die of red meat ingestion and 70's rock overexposure."
And as far as playing with the child, frankly, I only came because of the father. As far as the child goes, I wasn't sold. When we could have a basic conversation then we could agree to spend some time at parties. I'm not going to sign any papers with someone who could turn out to be a Khmer Rouge sympathizer.
These completely reasonable arguments only seemed to enrage the abuela even more. My attempts at reasoning were thus exhausted.
For the old woman's sake I did what Niels Bohr would have done and tried to unify our theories. This was a poor assessment. It turns out that if there is something Argentines love more than complaining it's staunchly defending a position solely to contradict others. Reaching accords is a major faux pas.
My friend kindly asked me to apologize for this, but I thought he meant to apologize about my original statements. The woman was pushing ninety and did not look good. She already had enough of a stoop story without the trip to the ER. When I was about to retract for the sake of peace Berno's face twitched, he stopped me to say under his voice "don't you dare apologize for your opinions in my house! This is a free country..."
After that I played with the baby, which was the appropriate way to reach a truce. Everyone including the grandma seemed satisfied. The baby turned out to be a lot more sophisticated than I anticipated being fully dexterous in kissing on the cheek, high-fiving, knocking heads on command and displaying her index finger when asked about her age. She also discarded most gifts while primal-dancing to "All Along The Watchtower." With that nascent being I already found some points of agreement.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Double Whammy
Dear friends and allies,
As it is widely known in social circles of the District, albeit the less well connected do not, I remain banished in the land of Argentina. Here the soil soaks in the blood of cattle and good intentions of men; while beef eating Argentinos and Argentinas roast the flesh of a Hereford for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tea time is reserved for facturas and mostly mate.
It is hard for a corn bred, red blooded American like me to live in a land so wild teeming with tricksy people who abuse my kindheartedness at every turn. It's like good ole Charley E, a real redneck from Kansas told me once
Them Argies, they ain't got no decorum. They tell me that lady called Cristina is the president of the land, but no, sir, it is sarcasm which presides over the executive, no doubt.
The real antic down here seems to be telling foreigners that really they're Argies. Even the good boys at the American Embassy seem to be in on it. Maybe they've caught on to the locals and are merely trying to extort some money out of me.
Visa? I'm from McLean, VA! Be it as it may, I can't get back home. My passport gone I've managed to move in with some people who lost a son some time ago who had an uncanny resemblance with me. It is spooky, my word on it.
In good American fashion, I refuse to surrender to this situation. Something about a wild thing, one of our great poets said. Not as eloquent myself. I'm on my feet, getting out on the streets and spreadn' the good word about democracy, the free markets and, yes, Baseball (the oxidizing element of democracy, if one might). I feel confident that in no time this will be a fledgling republic full of honest hard working people. No time, I tell you.
My stories will be recorded here, on this world wide web log in hopes that some kindhearted border officer, maybe my congressman or even the President himself might see it to it that the tribal leaders of Argentina secure my passage back home. Until then, my job is to unleash the American inside every one of these South Americans who crosses my path.
Sadly, you may never know, Charley, unless my return occurs, since
as you used to say.
How long will it be? That is for time to decide.
I've taken the liberty to elucidate for the city folk through foot-notes what that voice from the heartland so illuminatingly preached:
*"What will you do in the Sudlands of the sub-continent, Martin, my lad. There is nothing for you to do in South America! Have you not been following The Economist (r) ? You are as American as a Coolidge or a Lodge! Even more so, in fact."
**"There is no Wi-Fi coverage in the corn fields. This I sternly, and a little agitatedly, point out."
http://www.economist.com/countries/Argentina/ For those of you unfamiliar with the terrain and in need of a refresher from an irreproachable source. Charley has in fact never read The Economist (r), but his remark implies a truth so widely known and correct that the only way to express it was through referencing something which might have been read in The newspaper.
As it is widely known in social circles of the District, albeit the less well connected do not, I remain banished in the land of Argentina. Here the soil soaks in the blood of cattle and good intentions of men; while beef eating Argentinos and Argentinas roast the flesh of a Hereford for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tea time is reserved for facturas and mostly mate.
It is hard for a corn bred, red blooded American like me to live in a land so wild teeming with tricksy people who abuse my kindheartedness at every turn. It's like good ole Charley E, a real redneck from Kansas told me once
"Whut yoo gonna ghaw doo dawn dere, Mahrn, buoy? Yoo ain't goa no bidness in them Soudamerica! Yoo Amrkn' as apple pah! Mo'even."*
Sure wish I'd followed your advice, ole Charly boy. Never will forget those red cheeks and shoulders, after a full day's labor, when you said it. What truth you spoke! Even in your limited intelligible ways.Them Argies, they ain't got no decorum. They tell me that lady called Cristina is the president of the land, but no, sir, it is sarcasm which presides over the executive, no doubt.
The real antic down here seems to be telling foreigners that really they're Argies. Even the good boys at the American Embassy seem to be in on it. Maybe they've caught on to the locals and are merely trying to extort some money out of me.
Visa? I'm from McLean, VA! Be it as it may, I can't get back home. My passport gone I've managed to move in with some people who lost a son some time ago who had an uncanny resemblance with me. It is spooky, my word on it.
In good American fashion, I refuse to surrender to this situation. Something about a wild thing, one of our great poets said. Not as eloquent myself. I'm on my feet, getting out on the streets and spreadn' the good word about democracy, the free markets and, yes, Baseball (the oxidizing element of democracy, if one might). I feel confident that in no time this will be a fledgling republic full of honest hard working people. No time, I tell you.
My stories will be recorded here, on this world wide web log in hopes that some kindhearted border officer, maybe my congressman or even the President himself might see it to it that the tribal leaders of Argentina secure my passage back home. Until then, my job is to unleash the American inside every one of these South Americans who crosses my path.
Sadly, you may never know, Charley, unless my return occurs, since
"Der ain't no 'wah-fah' in Kansas, bwah! Nah git da heck outta hir befaw yoo catch'a beat'n!"**
as you used to say.
How long will it be? That is for time to decide.
--------------------------
Idiomatic clarifications and footnotes:I've taken the liberty to elucidate for the city folk through foot-notes what that voice from the heartland so illuminatingly preached:
*"What will you do in the Sudlands of the sub-continent, Martin, my lad. There is nothing for you to do in South America! Have you not been following The Economist (r) ? You are as American as a Coolidge or a Lodge! Even more so, in fact."
**"There is no Wi-Fi coverage in the corn fields. This I sternly, and a little agitatedly, point out."
http://www.economist.com/countries/Argentina/ For those of you unfamiliar with the terrain and in need of a refresher from an irreproachable source. Charley has in fact never read The Economist (r), but his remark implies a truth so widely known and correct that the only way to express it was through referencing something which might have been read in The newspaper.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)