The Last Train

New York City always gives me a stiff uppercut upon re-entry, as if to say, ‘You think you can just leave? Oh yeah? Who the hell do you think you are?’ There’s nothing graceful or warm or harmonious about it; in fact, it’s kind of an abusive relationship – I get beaten up and bruised but I keep going back. . . and why? That’s the part I can’t figure out. It’s not like going home to my parents’ house and finding all kinds of newspaper clippings and cute little bottles of sweet smelling soap and lotion in my bedroom. . . no, no -- not at all. From JFK to Brooklyn is a labyrinth of freeways, a montage of taxi-television, and at the end of the ride is a bill equal to what it would cost to live for four or five days in Mexico.

Being away and traveling always makes me realize the ways that living in New York has enriched my life, but returning always makes me wonder why I stay here. One obvious reason is the ease with which one can travel to all parts of the globe – so many direct flights out of JFK! I also love the people -- I love smart people. I love creative people. I love walking around in my neighborhood and hearing more non-English languages than I hear English spoken. I love having long conversations in Spanish about global economics with my landlord, out on the stoop. I love the fresh scents and bare shoulders of spring, the drummers and soccer players and bicyclists and lunatics and ninjas who roam the verdant pathways of Prospect Park. I love Sahadi’s. I love late dinners. I love that my friends open for Snoop Dogg or have impromptu jams at St. Nick’s Pub with Roy Hargrove on a Wednesday night. What scares me is that New York is everyday becoming more and more owned and operated by corporate America – every time I blink, I see another Bank of America or Chase replacing a locally-owned business, another Staples or another Starbucks – promising to remake your drink until it’s ‘perfect,’ because they love their customers so much.

I will admit there were times in Argentina I felt frustrated – scheduling my days around the four-hour siesta from 1-5pm, waiting forever for a menu, a second forever to place an order, and a third forever. . . you get the picture – service is not a big priority to waiters who make a decent hourly wage. That said, there’s something disturbing about the lies that consumer capitalism proffers – that the acquisition of the right eyeliner or SUV or Ipod will make you happy and beautiful, or that ‘perfection’ is something achievable in the form of a Frappucino. It just doesn’t ring true. Wandering around Brooklyn on a Saturday also made me see how much I – we – exercise our purchasing power to soften the edges of a hard environment: designer jeans in exchange for a 70-hour work week or a Friday night conference call. All of this makes me wonder about quality of life and who's really enjoying it -- the North Americans with our infinite closets and graveyards of 'outdated' electronic gadgets, or South Americans who eat meals at a table with their families and go to college for free.

Here’s my question, guys: where else can we go? Despite what New York may or may not be becoming (perhaps you disagree with my observations of change), there are a decreasing number of places left in the good old USA where one isn’t bludgeoned with patriotism, paranoia and ethnocentrism on a daily basis, made dull by endless miles of strip malls and chain food purveyors. Maybe the question isn’t where else we can go, but how we can make this place better – how we can de-Ikea-fy Brooklyn and see that Corbonics is only spoken in whispers.

I’m happy to be back – there is still a lot to do, a lot to learn. Talk to me about Utopia. Show me the green door, tell me where it leads.

Spun Yarns

One of the great lessons I've learned in my wanderings around Latin America is from my friend Wicho, who is all of 21 years old but seems to hold the key to happiness in the world as we know it. His response to any variety of situations or circumstances is simply 'asì es,' or 'that's just the way it is.' His capacity for acceptance is both foreign and fascinating. I, on the other hand, am plagued with an overly-developed love of justice, or my idea of it. My impulse is to beat my head against whatever walls happen to surround me – sometimes to positive effect but often I just end up with a headache -- which leads me to my yarn metaphor. . .

I carry knitting projects around with me but take my time to finish anything. These projects usually take on an epic level of meaning (real or imagined) – sometimes just by virtue of how many borders they’ve crossed. The last one was some orange socks; many of you have seen them in one state of completion or another. The current project is a delicate lacy scarf – far different from the gigantic plastic needles and rope-like yarn that are normally found in my knitting basket. I feel like I’m not the kind of person who should even own baskets -- or knitting needles, for that matter -- but I do. I guess we all have our contradictions. Anyway, the pattern and needles and yarn were a gift I received for being a bridesmaid in a wedding. The yarn wasn’t quite right for the scarf but I bought some yarn in Salta and started the project on the bus from Mexico City to Guanajuato. Without heeding any rules about the rolling and organizing of the yarn, I set off on my scarf-making extravaganza. I hate rules. I threw caution to the wind. And hence, you can see the several hundred grams of totally entangled chaotic mess that lie between me and a wearable creation. Hugo and I have made progress on it over the last few days – the project has become a metaphor for life: throw caution to the wind as long as you (and your friends) are prepared to spend a lot of time and energy disentangling.

A domestic vibe often reigns when I’m in Guanajuato. I make an occasional appearance at Las Damas de las Camelias, one of the local dens of sin – owned by Hugo’s cousin Chato. Chato is a legend in Guanajuato – a dancer who can supposedly make any woman look and feel like Ginger Rogers or Jennifer Lopez, depending on the song. . . okay, maybe not J.Lo, but someone close. After plying me with too many bottles of beer and regaling me with tales of Chato’s greatness, Hugo gave me the words to invite Chato onto the dance floor. Hugo usually doesn’t let accuracy get in the way of a good story. Chato is one of those ageless fellows who sits behind the bar with his head down as his more youthful employees work the floor. He wears a hat, sends drinks out to family members and chooses his partners selectively.

All that said, I was feeling confident – I’ve been doing my homework – so off I went. Chato accepted my invitation and chose what I thought was not the best song for me to really shine, but ASÌ ES, ASÌ ES. Hear my resounding cry of acceptance! In short, I have to say that I think Chato has lost the love of his art form. Hugo says that I danced well but that I was following the music rather than Chato’s direction. Was he testing me? What the hiz, Chato? I guess I had higher expectations of being transported into a magical world of mambo, but in the end Chato was just an image -- and maybe I was to him, too: Another dumb gringa who watched too many episodes of “Dance Fever” in her youth. I had way more fun with Hugo – dance legend or not.

I will leave you with one last bit of wisdom – something I learned this weekend while making pastry dough and stuffing dates with toasted almonds and goat cheese and wrapping them in strips of bacon: add enough butter or salt to almost anything and it will taste good. Asì es.

Where There is Smoke

(photos of me by Diane Schutz)

There's an age-old philosophical debate that is near and dear to my heart – does meaning exist or do we create it? Is it part of the innate nature of things, or is it something we imagine? Or maybe what we imagine IS part of the innate nature of things? And what’s more, do our thoughts then determine what we end up experiencing, for better or for worse? There may be questions of greater import that I could be working on. . . but then, who’s to say what’s important? My preoccupation with these existential dilemmas could be the result of my upbringing, or maybe my ‘alternative’ education, or is maybe is just an effect of my nature. Who’s to say, and does it really matter? No. So what does matter? To be discussed over cocktails. . .

I feel like there’s been a particular kismet that has framed and fueled my entire trip. I've been enjoying these subtle and not-so-subtle signs along the way that seem to be directing my inner and outer journey, and have also been trying to understand their source. I’m not sure who should be receiving a lovely little thank you note on Crane’s stationary. God? The wind? The employees of Andesmar bus company?

On my first weekend in Argentina, there was a windstorm, coupled with a prophetic commentary from a cab driver about how the winds of Buenos Aires sweep through you, cleansing your spirit and bringing new things into your life. Perhaps you remember. I left Argentina on what was allegedly the worst day of smoke that engulfed the city of Buenos Aires and various parts of the province, owing to the northerly winds that carried the smoke into the city. News reports and the government have chalked it up to negligence on the part of the farmers, who burn the fields routinely in order to renew the soil. I can’t help but wonder – reader of the spaces between the lines that I am – if there might be some connection between the on-going conflict between the farmers and the government, and this unusual occurrence of field fires going so grossly out of control. Basically – and you should consult a real news source if you’re interested – the Argentine government imposes taxes on the farmers for exporting their goods, supposedly in order to control the price of goods. The farmers are pissed about paying such high taxes, so they put up some road blocks and prevented the transportation of several agricultural products – including the one that is by far most important to most Argentines – meat.

I like the fact that Argentines take to the streets and start banging on pots and pans when they feel their government is doing them wrong. Whether or not the field fires were an act of protest is unclear. Either way, there’s something about being uncomfortable that is distinctly motivating, and that kind of discomfort is distinctly lacking in our culture in these days of plenty. I think it’s too bad.

Being a little uncomfortable is also what’s so interesting about traveling – where things like going to the grocery store, doing laundry and finding a place to sleep go from being banal inevitabilities to exciting adventures. The discomfort has an awakening effect.

I have to report that I did not end up having my show with Jorge in Salta; he stayed out too late gambling the night of our impromptu jam session to rehearse the following day. He did ask me to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for his 90 year-old father (the owner of the Hotel Colonial) – and of course I did. What I didn’t tell Jorge is that Dorothy’s tune, made famous by Judy Garland, was in fact one I sang in my high school drama class for a performance test. Perhaps you also recall the film and the tornado that initiated Dorothy’s adventure? All things come full-circle. Anyway, we tried to reschedule but missed each other a couple more times – I was riding around the countryside on a motorcycle and Jorge was placing bets on our birthday (27) and the sum of our birthdays (27+27). The winning numbers, he told me when we finally did meet up before my departure, were the numbers of my room, backward and forward – 210, 012. There’s no place like home.

Small Towns, Red Roads

I'm a few cities behind on blog entries -- not that this is meant to be a geographically comprehensive report as much as an entertaining one, but still. . . Mendoza just had too many glasses of wine -- it was drowsy, crossing its eyes and slurring its words. It forgot what happened last night. As much as I love a lush, Mendoza just didn't speak to me. So up into the mountains I went to Barreal -- into a land where tourism and the concept of service in general are relatively new phenomena. Along with the warmth and genuine nature of so many of the people I have met along the way, these unspoiled places have made me think a lot about how jaded we are, how we've seen it all and done it all and what a shame that is. It's refreshing to be impressed by something or someone without worrying that they might be better than you, to allow yourself to be effusive and exuberant, to be poorly-acessorized and all-around uncool. Despite my longstanding relationship with dorkiness, these are the kinds of places that make me realize the effects that big-city life has had on me.

Morillo, my trusty thoroughbred, carried me on a lovely tour through iron-infused hillsides nestled between the pre-Cordillera and the Andes. I hadn't ridden a horse since my Girl Scout days, but Morillo was kind of like the Ford Falcon of the equine universe, so wasn't at all intimidating. My guide and I sat on top of a hillside and ate apples he'd picked that morning and he pointed out to me the highest peak in the Americas. Back in town, I rubbed shoulders with the local teens in the Internet cafe, drank beer at the service station (where else?) and stared at the hills and the sky for hours. I also got a wicked tan sitting by the pool and luxuriated in the 500 thread-count sheets of La Querencia.

I Wish I Knew

So I was sitting here tonight, wondering why it is that old guys seem to like me so much -- like this drunk Frenchman at dinner who´s lived in Buenos Aires for 25 years and asked me if I need a companion tomorrow, or the Argentine guy who sat next to me on my 22 hour bus ride, practically bursting out of his wedding ring -- and I was wondering how the hell to connect my laptop to the Internet. I was searching on the Internet on the hotel computer -- you know, for information -- when the night manager of the Hotel Colonial here in Salta came into the parlour and started playing piano. We got to talking and within a few minutes, he was playing and I was singing. So, we have a show on Sunday night. He said he needed a couple of days for his secretary to make flyers. He insists that we play ¨New York, New York,¨and of course I will oblige him. How could I not?

Have you missed me? I have more to tell you but must first resolve my technological difficulties. Here comes more scotch. Stay tuned.

Suerte, Amor y Radio Prisma

This isn’t as easy as it looks.

For some reason, the server in the Hotel Colonial keeps timing out before my photos are uploaded to BLOGGER. . . Firewalls? Proxies? Fascist conspiracies? Anyone who can offer some tech support (in English) will be generously rewarded.

I wrote this for you all a few days ago – now it feels a bit outdated, as I have since ridden up and down the winding hills of the traveler’s vicissitudes. I have slayed cockroaches, I have sought relief from my own company, I have tired of ham sandwiches. We should all have such problems. I’m back on top of the world again, and the story will continue as the firewalls permit.

***

Some people say that solitude is a fearsome freedom. Maybe they’re right, but I reckon those people haven’t sat under the night sky in Barreal – so vast and clear and full of stars, it makes you want to stay awake so as to not miss even a moment of its grandeur or the perspective it offers.

There’s a radio playing softly in the distance, and the cool Andean air embraces this stark adobe ranch house in the cradle of the Cordillera. I fished a tumbleweed out of the swimming pool this afternoon – errant plant life in otherwise unpopulated waters. I made friends with gigantic spiders – are there tarantulas in South America? – who found their way out of the grass and into the blue.

The distance one can travel in a week is significant – and I’m not talking about miles or kilometers, endless winding roads and boundless stretches of pampa. Last week around this time, I had an appointment with a locally famous radio personality – Omar ‘Potro’ Galvan, who, the residents of Choele Choel (pop. 4000) told me, was most likely able to help me in my search for the long-lost relatives of a friend in New York. Due to name changes, deaths, geographical distance, language barriers and other circumstantial misfortune, my friend had been estranged from his family for close to 15 years. Given my proximity to his late mother’s hometown – about 500 miles, -- and my desire to help find a missing peace in this man’s heart, I sallied forth with my cowboy boots and bad Spanish. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed woman is queen.

The scene that one 17-minute radio broadcast yielded can scarcely be done justice in the space of a blog entry. Suffice it to say, the family has been reunited, and my belief in the profound connection we can experience when we are open to it has been confirmed.

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.