Mission

I’m in a small dusty town in Northeastern Patagonia – in between a lot of places but not much of a destination in itself. After four days of artisanal chocolate, coupled with ascents to other-worldly vistas and a dorm room where I dreamt to an orchestra of sleep apnea and the scent of unwashed bodies, I am grateful for a couple days of solitude off the traveler circuit. . . not that I didn’t enjoy it. I did. I ended my stay in Bariloche, just on the other side of Patagonia, with a 40-mile bike ride on Saturday with one of my roommates – all five of them boys, by the way – and a couple from another hostel. I figured I should get myself nice and tired out for the long bus ride – which began with yet more breath-taking scenery that defied my photographic skills and is better left to the postcard-makers.

Traveling has become the kind of thing that people put on their resumes as a skill, and the rest of the world has a bit of a leg up on us North Americans. Staying in hostels is fun because you meet an international crowd, cook in a communal kitchen and hear reviews on places you’re thinking about going next. If you’re lucky, you also get to have discussions about the Israeli-Palestinean conflict over dinner cooked for you by your Irish dorm-mate, who’s contrite because he came home drunk the night before and kept you awake while making out in the bunk below you with some girl he met at the pub. You might also get to play Russian card games that seem esoteric to us because of the host of complicated rules and regulations and exceptions and secrets but which are actually known by every Russian over about age ten. You also might have your mandolin repaired, drink mate and ‘charlar’ the afternoon away with a world-famous luthier -- interspersed with philosophical conversations in Spanish about human nature and said luthier’s performance on any one of dozens of different instruments from throughout the history of music. I would include his url here, but it seems it expired the day after I saw him. Those of you who are interested in having a handmade instrument that is a true work of art and which will make you want to be worthy of playing it (you know who you are), I will gladly hook you up with Raul Perez of Bariloche.

After all of this, you might enjoy a couple of days in the Gran Choele Choel, making things with bits of paper, writing and playing a little music, eating your meals at the truck stop across Route 22 and enlisting people in town to help you search for the relatives of a friend – all with little more than charm and heartfelt, if rudimentary, Spanish language skills.

Más

It takes time to know something deeply – a language, a city, a person. I explained this to a cab driver the other night as he tried to tell me that my Spanish was great and that I should get on with having some affairs in Argentina. To my practical response that I need to be able to speak the language a little better, he posed the question, ‘How much do you need to talk to have an affair?’ I relate easily to cab drivers -- maybe because their job is to move, or maybe because they’re always strategizing the best route to their destination.

Yesterday was the end of holy week, and today was the last day of summer. Today was also an important day in Argentine history. On March 24, 1976, a military coup took control of the country and thus began the systematic abduction and murder of somewhere around 30,000 Argentine ‘dissidents,’ which basically meant anyone who overtly or indirectly questioned the military government – blue collar workers, artists, journalists, teachers. . . or even people whose names simply appeared in the address books of such people.

I caught the beginning and the end of the march –by accident or providence, -- like bookends around my afternoon journey across town to Palermo in search of a music store called Miles, recommended to me by an Argentine friend who designs some pretty fantastic laptop covers http://eloverol.com.ar/. (I bought two Juana Molina cds, and they are awesome.)

The appeal of our apartment notwithstanding, the Argentines we know have informed us that Palermo is really the hip and happening place in Buenos Aires. San Telmo used to be the ‘plata’ (rich) neighborhood but everyone left around the turn of the century because of a plague. It’s been having a renaissance but I’ve been told that it’s stopped and started several times and has never really achieved total coolness. The thing about coolness is that as soon as too many people know it’s cool, it’s sort of not cool anymore anyway – so trying to master it all seems kind of pointless.

Like other tourists from around the world, we’ve been charmed by San Telmo’s ornate turn-of-the-century architecture, in various stages of disrepair. The extremes in San Telmo are weird, though – there are artists and art galleries. There are tourists from Europe, Israel, and the U.S., eating a delicious $5 steak for the fourth or fifth time in a week – incredulous at the luxury they can enjoy on such a modest budget. There are families who come out after 10pm and dig through the garbage on the sidewalks, collecting cardboard for money.

I suppose all of this is a long way of saying that it would be naïve of me to think I could have a handle on a complicated city with a turbulent history and an unstable economy in a couple of weeks – especially one to whom democracy is less than 30 years old. It doesn’t mean I haven’t tried.

Con Plata

(photos of me by Josh Sanchez)

Last week we crossed the iron-rich waters of the Rio de la Plata to Montevideo, Uruguay. We continued by bus to Punta del Este, a resort town popular among wealthy Argentines. Although we missed another Bob Dylan concert – this one was in a casino parking lot, -- we enjoyed our hours on beaches covered with international sunbathers and nascent surfers -- and managed to stay in the oldest, weirdest and most atmospheric hotel in town, The Palace Hotel, -- thus dodging the most elite members of Argentina’s Semana Santa delegation to the point in the east. I bought a lovely yellow bracelet from some enterprising young girls selling their creations by the roadside.

Slow Dance

I've been staying up way past my bedtime, and my bedtime is always late. In Buenos Aires, the night begins around 2am -- just after dinner, which is around midnight. We went to a party of a bunch of ex-pats and a few pan-Latin children-of-diplomat types the other night and -- among other things -- found out about a 'happening' near the planetarium the following evening. Apparently there are groups of strangers who connect through the internet and all converge in a location for some kind of event on a regular basis -- last week it was a pillow fight. Am I retarded or is this new and unusual? So Thursday night's event was a slow dance. In keeping with the tradition of dances, there was bad American pop from the '80's and not a lot of dancing, but teen spirit in abundance.

Once buzzed on second-hand smoke, we continued on to a popular tango milonga at Nino Bien -- a huge old-fashioned ballroom playing recordings of old tango orchestras -- and had our first experience of the tango scene, though only as observers. I wore flip-flops so as to not mistakenly lead anyone to believe that I would know what to do if they asked me to dance. It's a little hard to get inside of the tango; salsa and cumbia are easy to understand because they're all about a pretty overt rhythm, but tango is full of affect and mystery. I still want to try it out, if for no other reason than the shoes are hot. In the course of the two hours we were there, the room filled up completely and the women draped their arms over the mens' shoulders, leaning into them and closing their eyes.

Buenos Aires and the Importance of Inhaling

There is something prophetic about cab drivers that transcends cultural boundaries. Tomás Bernardo Rodriguez told me when he drove me 'home' this morning -- barely before sunrise -- that the winds of Buenos Aires were like music, sweeping through your soul -- clearing out the dust and bringing something refreshing and fragrant. He told me that he doesn't wish people 'suerte,' or luck, because luck comes and goes; instead, he wishes for people to go in love, because love is always in your heart.

I met this guy in the airport in Mexico City the other night -- a Chilean who just moved to Mexico City from Miami, on his way to London. He asked me how I got my muscles, then promptly took out his Blackberry and emailed his Chilean friends in Buenos Aires, bought my dinner, and went to catch his flight. Next thing I know, I have a whole crew of Chilean friends in Buenos Aires -- a 25 year-old named Mula who looks like a character from Russian literature and works as an art director for Satchi and Satchi, another who is a sky diver who has jumped more than 2000 times. Then there was the Chilean Charlie Chaplin, who was just returning to South America with his girlfriend after having traveled in Asia for three months. Argentines aren't known for being big drinkers, but the Chileans are another story. . . hence, my early-morning cab ride home while they continued to rage. The Chileans had taken me to an 'asado' (a barbeque) earlier in the day -- where we ate at least five different kinds of meat, passed the maté and a few other bits of greenery, so I had reached my socializing capacity by around 5am.

The night before, I discovered a club of traditional Argentine music and saw an amazing band from Tucuman (in the North of Argentina) -- which later evolved into a full-on hootenanny. . . people passing guitars around the room, drumming on chairs, etc. They were all pretty amused by the tall skinny white girl Mexican/Italian Spanish, so I got a personal serenade. Most of the songs are about loss and love and longing. If sadness is a breeze that sweeps through us, it's best put to music.

Map of Silver Veins

I travel in silver country. Guanajuato sits on land rich in silver mines, where rivers used to flow through tunnels which now carry cars and trucks and brave carbon monoxide huffers. I lived here last winter, and now I'm here again -- a visit on my way to Argentina.

Artists and pensioners from around the world have discovered Guanajuato by the bus load in recent years; some gringos in town have mixed feelings about their status as pioneers being compromised by the increasing number of foreigners taking up residence in rambling haciendas and opening businesses that cater to the professional consumers of the North. Others feel the outsiders who are attracted to this place are a more conscientious sort; not here to conquer as much as to blend in, contribute and elevate.

It’s interesting that our culture is so inhospitable to its elders and that the barriers for entry for creative types tend to be so high. I suppose sometimes you have to make your world smaller to feel your own agency, which I guess is why people come to towns like this one.

Rodolfo and Domingo serenaded us at sunset the other day, singing through their remaining teeth and sipping espresso ala Veronique (a restaurateur from Montepelier). Among the audience were a Spanish animator who showed me his diary full of drawings and the Spaniard’s wife – a Mexican fashion designer who lives in Barcelona. The musicians were without their other bandmates, who were recovering from the tequila flu.

I celebrated my birthday last week. I think I still have some good years left in me but I also feel like it's important to live completely when I still have all my teeth. . . and so I shall.