In the Light of the Never Dying Spirit of Discovery...

In Light of the Never Dying Spirit of Discovery, I present the following three anecdotes:

Cancion

The bar was only five blocks away, but the transformation of the neighborhood took on a rapidly increasing pace. From the semi-suburban nature of my tree lined street, lined with cafes and apartment towers, to houses of a more modest height. The paved streets were replaced by the hodgepodge of cobblestone streets always five years from being improved by the city.

It was tucked tidily on a street corner, taking up a space hardly larger than the apartment I was staying in. The walls were lined on all sides, up to the ceiling, with pennants for soccer teams around the world, showing some truly amusing illustrations from some of the teams from the early 1900s.

Besides my friend and I and the owner, a waitress, and what seemed like the owner’s friend; the bar was occupied by a party of about 20 men ranging from middle age to pensioner. I don’t know what they were celebrating, perhaps someone’s birthday, but it involved a nonstop stream of wine, whiskey, and deli platters.

While sipping on my own whiskey, a cheap local made affair, I listened to a singer that the party had hired. An old man, flanked by two dapper dressed guitarists, sang powerfully. I caught snippets of the songs, and from the steady guffaws of the old men, guessed that the songs were of a dirtier nature.

At times the singer transitioned to slower ballads, one which sang of the very streets we were now on and was named after the neighborhood, Almagro. Tears trickled from a few eyes.

Politica en accion

I was sitting at a café on the elegant Avenida de Mayo, a wide boulevard in the Parisian style that stretches from the Congress building to the Casa Rosada. I munched on the sandwich in front of me, an open-faced, toasted sandwich with ham and cheese, and sipped on the bubbly, carbonated mineral water (a new favorite of mine since coming down here). The whole atmosphere evoked an elegant charm, tourists, well dressed men, and I sat, soaked the sun, served on by bow tied waiters.

Suddenly, a blast shook the serenity of the street scene. I looked down the street and saw a mass of blue and white banners, flags, drums, and people clogging the street. Two men at the front kept running ahead, launching some kind of mortar, and then running back to the crowd in an almost pixyish manner.

I knew that there was a Political demonstration today; organized by the President’s party, in favor of a controversial law she was pushing through congress. Marching toward me was the face of populism, stirred up in a demonstration to support their beleaguered leader.

They made their way down the street to the steady drum beat, matter of factly staring at the cafes, filled with their perceived enemies. The bourgeois bureaucrats that their leader defended them from. Waving banners of Evita, Che, and Juan under titles such as the Peronist Youth, the New Socialists, and a score of other loosely associated Political groups.

They came in streams, almost as if they were timed to make their march last as long as possible. Vans topped off by megaphones and emblazoned with images of the President and her husband (the ex-President) displayed in front of the masses spread their message up the urban valley.

The political cynics/realists such as me, while excited over what was displayed, surely see it for what it really is. An organized political stunt, funded by labor dollars and Political favors. The middle class derides the President and her husband of Hugo Chavezesque tactics, and witnessing the exercise in staged populism, it was clear.

I made my way back down the line of protestors, marching the same route taken throughout the twentieth century under more revolutionary and sincere means, crossing the Avenida de 9 de Julio, the main artery of the city’s heart. There, garbage trucks emblazoned in favor of the President drove in circles, disrupting traffic, turning the world’s widest avenue into the world’s widest parking lot. The government buildings lining the avenue were covered in slogans against the President. “Es verdad que esta es democracia” Is it true that this is democracy was a common refrain.

In front of the Casa Rosada, a number of groups, almost cued progressively made their way down Mayo to their own drum beats.

I made my way down to the other end, to the Congress building, where a carnival like atmosphere was on display. All of the groups had their banners unfurled in front of the congress. Fliers blanketed the ground like a fresh flurry of snow. People on platforms sang protest songs and railed against the perceived enemies in the building in front of them.

Families congregated, vendors sold ice cream and beer, and people generally milled about in the social atmosphere around them.

An almost imitation of presenting the people’s will. Democracy works without the protests. Healthy republics aren’t impacted by staged stunts, only by the ballot box.

But when the day comes and democracy is fading, the marches, protests, and demonstrations will thrive in relevance and impact again. After all, what’s an election? Just an organized version of what I saw that day.

Una Calle Linda

In the heart of blue collar Almagro, a block north of the famous mall Albasto, is a small pedestrian street. Its lined with benches, trees, and walking down the street’s stones gives one the image of the prototypical South American city street. The first time I walked down it, at sunset, a lone cat was strolling down it. The iconic grin of the tango singer Carlos Gardel smiles down from various pop art murals (he grew up a block away).

Walking down it this night, I saw a group of schoolchildren watching something on a projector.

Families and other people walking by stopped to join in. The kids laughed and clapped along to the cartoon playing and when I stopped to watch, I smiled.

It was an Argentine claymation about a kid who dreams of Mars, is taken there by his grandfather in a pickup truck, eventually doubts the wonder of this childhood memory, but rediscovers his passion for adventure later as an adult.

I had seen it twice in college Spanish class, and it always makes me smile at the stunning array of emotions it can provoke.

Here, flanked by the soft light on the street, munching on a cookie offered by what I assumed was the children’s teacher, I felt a spirit of community unity pulsating down the tidy yet semi-archaic street.

Zelaya

What is Foreign?

I have a habit of only writing about exciting things. As a sensationalist and junkie of all things new and exciting and fan of over the top action movies and epic stories, of course I would shape my writing to reflect my sensibilities. When I set out to write a novel about college, it quickly morphed into a political thriller set in a college atmosphere with typical college scenes placed on its frame.

My blog posts have for the most part reflected this mentality with the emphasis placed on my weekend adventures. But this does a huge disservice to you my readers and this city that I’m in.

I’m in the downhill part now, less time left than time I’ve been here, and my mentality reflects it. I’ve settled into an insane amount of comfort (for being in a city on the other side of the world), I know my way around numerous neighborhoods, I have favorite places to go all over the city, I have people that I can call to see, I’m beginning to settle into a comfortable routine here. A normal life.

It’s funny, you would think to yourself that traveling to the other side of the world would ensure a life full of constant excitement but then you forget, millions of people are living a comfortable routine life in that city. This city isn’t exciting or exotic to the people who live here. Frequently I’m asked seriously by Argentines why on earth would I want to spend this much time in Buenos Aires.

Of course the flip side is that down here, I’m exotic. My accent is something interesting, my grasp of Spanish amusing, and the stories I have to tell truly foreign. Sharing stories about college life with four Argentines at a late night bar leaves them enraptured. Just like we travel to other places to see if they’re just like the movies, so do they want to travel to the States and see if it’s just like the movies.

It is a truly difficult concept to grasp that my descriptions of Boston and Amherst are equivalent to a native of Bangkok describing their daily life.

To make sure that this city doesn’t dwindle down into familiarity, at this point I have begun to push myself harder, to seize every moment down here greater. I have a list of 54 cafes in all parts of the city compiled by the city of Buenos Aires as notable and I am trying to move through the list before I leave. It takes me to street corners and alleys in the city that I would have never seen otherwise. It keeps the spirit of discovery persistent.

To be fair to whomever is still keeping up with the blog; I am going to try to make my new entries reflect this new appreciation of daily Porteno life. Just like how they find our daily life exotic, I know that the details I have to supply about daily life down here, the otherwise normal, should prove to be interesting.

So, sorry for the hiatus, and more will be coming out soon. And maybe I’ll still have a few stories of adventure.