I have been thoroughly enjoying Mercedes Sosa's album "Mujeres Argentinas." So much so that I looked it up online to share the album with a friend. Sadly googling "Mujeres Argentinas" didn't lead to Merceds Sosa. It led to a list of porn videos and sites. It reminds me of when I tried to look up some travel plans while in Argentina with my USA computer and all the top results were for sexual tourism. Not links for articles protesting human trafficking, but advertisements for sexual tourism. Ergh.

Just a daily dose of BsAs's morning tango.

Dear lady solving her family angst on the phone in a tiny cafe. Why did you come here to do it? "The problem with Carlos is that he doesn't talk, he suffers, he plays golf but he suffers, and it fills me with angst... wait can you hear me? Oh, ok. Wait do you hear me? Oh, ok. I'm suffering I'm in pain. The girl... the boy... well her I'll talk to again, but.... OH the pain. Wait do you hear me? Okay." And then she whispers. Screams then whispers. Screams then whispers. "But HE DOESN'T WANT TO TALK TO THE GIRL, he talks to me, mama, papa, mama, papa."  Screams, whispers, screams whispers. "It's her I worry about not me. I do it for her not me. Oh no she doesn't care about people. But how could I be mad at her, she's my daughter. I don't care about her. But Carlos is weird. And it hurts me for him not to be happy..."

Okay, hope she's okay. Most of the other people in the cafe left and stared at her on their way out. Time to put on headphones. Oh wait she's leaving! She seems like she's doing fine. But apparently everything that happens to her twenty-nine-year-old daughter needs to be public knowledge.
Oh no she changes her mind. Sits back down.
Deep sighs. "Oh, please." She hangs up.
Orders another coffee. Makes another phone call.

"Hola, Carlos...."

Great.
Just a daily dose of BsAs's morning tango.

Wrong Numbers

Who likes being woken up by a recording with a ferry ship whistle? Not me. 6:30 AM, Chicago, 2011. Who's brilliant marketing idea was that? Lets try to sell cruises at 6AM.

Or how about the New Hampshire Primary Robo-calls? 

The first thing I hear when I pick up the phone, "Do you own a gun?"

Who needs small talk. "Hello, and thank you for your time. I'm calling from --- insert think tank/ campaign name here--- if you have a few minutes I'd like to ask you a few questions to better serve our community." 

Nope. None of that. 

"Do you own a gun?"

Robo-calls aside, a truly confused caller can leave behind stories worth remembering for years to come. 

College dorm, Maine, 2003. 

My roommate and I experimented with our voicemail. Back then we still used landlines. Cell phone plans were more expensive. Facebook was a printed book handed out to first-years and was coveted by senior guys (or at least that's what I was told). We left a recording of us laughing. That's it. No "Hi, please leave us a message." We thought it would be funny. I guess in the end it was...

Some poor old lady got really confused. She called our dorm-room landline, heard the laughter and was convinced it was her daughter ignoring her. She left a really long message.

"I hear you Darlene. I know that's you. Why won't you answer me? You're a cruel woman, Darlene, treading your mother like this. I'm going to get back at you. You just wait. You'll see. You'll get what you deserve. What's so funny? WHAT is so funny? You should be ashamed at yourself. ASHAMED."

This went on for a good seven minutes.

Poor, Darlene. I wonder if her mom ever did get back at her. Poor ladies. We would have tried to call the and explain but we had no idea where the call came from... 

High School, 2000. 

I had a full five minute conversation with a guy I thought was my high school boyfriend. I'd called and left a message on his voicemail about meeting up that day. He called back. I was riding in a car full of friends. 

Me: Hi

Guy: Hey, how's it going?

Me: Pretty good. You?

Guy: Yah, me too.

Me: So do you want to meet up tonight?

Guy: Sure. What d'you have in mind?

Me: We were thinking of going to a movie or something. Or maybe the beach. Wanna join?

Guy: Yah sure. 

Me: When works for you? What are you up to now?

Guy: Just leaving the football field. 

Me: What? The football field? 

Guy: Yah, just got out of practice.

Me: What? You play football? Wait, who is this?

Guy: I got a voicemail from your number and called back. 

Me: Wait never mind. I must have called the wrong number. I don't know you. I thought you were my boyfriend. Sorry about that. 

Guy: Are you sure?

Me: Yah, you were going to meet up with someone random? It was a mistake, sorry.

Guy: Okay, yah, don't worry about it. Have a good night.

I hang up. 

Other Friends in the Car: What the Hell was that? Who was that?

Me: A wrong number? I just totally had a five minute conversation and almost met up with some guy I've never met before.

Friends: You didn't notice?

Me: He sounded the same age as me, and his number was almost the same as my bf's. 

Friends: You should have met up with him anyway.

Me: Yah....

I wonder who he was. 

Parents' house. High School.

"Hi, is Donna there?"

"No, there's no Donna here. Wrong number."

This happened a few times a week. If I answered the phone, he thought I was one of Donna's friends and that I was lying. We didn't have caller ID yet. I stopped answering the phone for a while. It was annoying. Who was that guy? And who was Donna?

 Buenos Aires. [Conversation happened in Spanish]

Guy: Hola

Me: Hola

Guy: That's all you're going to say to me? 

Me: Who's speaking?

Guy: I know it's been a while since I've called but I thought you'd treat me better than that..

Me: I think you've got the wrong number. Who are you trying to talk to?

Guy: You know who I am. You must recognize my voice.

Me: I think you've got me mixed up with someone else. 

Guy: You're hurting me. You're really going act like you don't remember me? You must still be mad.

Me: You've got the wrong number. You won't tell me who you want to talk to, so I'm going to hang up. Happy holidays. 

Click. 

Sometimes when silly things happen they're annoying. Often times. But I'm grateful for some of the quirky experiences. A good excuse to chuckle years down the road. I wonder who those people were. Well, some of them. No desire to meet up with the guy from the last conversation. Creep. 

Asses

I've never seen so many asses together in one place. 

My recent beach experience may be limited to New Hampshire, so it’s likely I’m not up on the latest racy bathing suit fashions but the standard bikini (and in general female bathing suit) here in this relatively remote family oriented beach in Argentina, is nothing like what you’d see in New Hampshire. Asses Asses Asses. I attempted to go speed bathing suit shopping in Buenos Aires (as in 20 minutes before the stores closed) before leaving for the beach but gave up, happier with the bikini I already owned and had with me, bought from a JCrew outlet maybe seven years ago. Maybe more. Granted I didn’t try many on this time around.  If I’d fallen in love with how one looked, I would have bought it, but twenty minutes before closing time was not long enough for me to wrap my mind around wearing an almost thong on a family vacation. Now that I’m here at the beach I see this trendy minuscule bottom is everywhere. Even kids wear them. 

I’m not particularly conservative in my dress. However, I’d probably rather go topless down a beach then in an assless bathing suit, though I admire the women brave enough to walk around with a little more than a string in their butt. They’re hardly perfect, in Sports Illustrated standards. Lots of cellulite. Lots of young mothers. Good for them for marching their asses down the beach feeling all sexy. Or just feeling normal. No biggie. Here's my ass. 

My biggest critique was the idea of sitting in the sand in those suits. Who wants sand in their ass crack? Then a yogi lady about my age started doing yoga in the best bathing suit I’d seen that day.  It was again in the almost thong style but glamorous and bohemian chic at the same time. The kind I thought was totally impractical and affected comfortable mobility. She proved me wrong. She sat directly in the sand and progressed to do a yoga and meditation practice. Go her. Who knows? Maybe if I stayed here long enough I’d be prancing around in assless bathing suits too. But I doubt it. Especially if I keep hanging out with my grandmother. 

Buenos Aires Sidewalks

Walking down the street is an adventure in any not so familiar city. 

Considering the sidewalks are ridden with holes and incomplete patch-up jobs, what I saw this morning showed a particularly adventurous spirit. No I’m not referring to the motorcycles that pseudo-suicidally weave in and out of traffic, or the brave pizza deliverer who roller blades between the yellow lines in the middle of the street, but simply a man walking on the sidewalk, reading. Maybe he was late for an exam or class and was cramming last minute; maybe he’s an aloof intellectual who prefers the printed page to the live, in-color show that surrounds everyone in the streets. Whoever he is, I applaud his bravery. 

I used to do this in school. Waiting in the lunch line, walking in the halls. The walk and read was usually due to needing to cram more than a passion for literature. Only twice, or maybe three times, do I remember bumping into a wall or a pole. It hurt. But nothing serious happened.

My dad one-upped me. He used to study riding his bike to school. God knows how.

This man had sensors in his feet. I saw him approaching. Cars were coming and going from the driveways as he crossed and passed them. A significant hole was in front of him. Oh no, I thought. Don't fall. Just last week I watched my mom collapse onto the street from a stumble on a similar hole. She sat against a storefront unable to stand. Lots of people stopped to help. An old lady told us it had happened to her a few days earlier. Somebody else suggested suing the mayor. The sidewalks have always been full of dog poop, pick-pockets, and other obstacles to avoid, but the effort to maintain cobblestone or brick-like surfaces instead of cement seems like a failing battle considering all the missing pieces.

He stopped just in time, lowered the book for a moment, and crossed the street. I bet he could walk the path with his eyes closed. Muscle memory. Periphery vision. A local.

Buenos Aires and Comfort Food

In the States I snacked on humus, crackers and ginger snaps. In Buenos Aires I snack on bacon and oranges fresh from our tree. Hm..

Adjusting to new comfort food when traveling or after a big move is an adventurous and comical affair.
The trick is to enjoy the local foods without gaining a hundred pounds or too much suffering. This includes a grieving process for what is no longer available.

Leaving Chicago.... left me craving lots of foods I didn't even know I liked before living there. Mexican and Middle Eastern food in general, two-dollar delicious non-fast food burgers, cheap organic pizza, fried mac and cheese, mini corn dogs, pulled pork sandwiches in a challah bread roll, micro-brewery beer on tap for only two dollars, cafes that sell organic juices, wine, liquor, coffee, and vegan cafe food all at the same time. I never ate a gyro sandwich before Chi. Fortunately they didn't become a habit.

New York... I miss your worldly collection of deliciousness available at any time of night. And bagels. Deliciousness.

New Hampshire and Maine: I miss your lobster and seafood in general. Your easy access to super markets fully stocked with all my favorite goods at a not so expensive price. Especially ginger snaps.

Maggie Smith did an excellent job playing her part in "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel." For anyone who hasn't seen the film and has a heart, an interest in traveling, aging, and/or.... (for lack of a better description) feel-good dry humor, go see this film. Maggie Smith's character begrudgingly adapts to moving from England to India. She gets used to almost everything but mourns her English biscuits. In her defense, English biscuits, otherwise known as digestives, are delicious. I mourn them too. Judi Dench's character, in the same movie, describes dunking a biscuit in tea with such perfection that I'm ready to book the next flight to London.

Speaking of London, the incredible access to Indian, Turkish and Persian food, not to mention fish and chips... Ok. Deep breath.

Buenos Aires is a place to feast on many things, especially meat. There are delicious thin toasted sandwiches called tostados available everywhere and I miss them when I'm away from Argentina. I have access to fruit fresh from our trees, family cooking, empanadas, milanesas and dulce de leche. Pastry shops are everywhere. There's a lot to be loved, but the problem with loving food and growing enamored and accustomed to foreign and local cuisine and living in all different kinds of places... is comfort food. That routine that you know leaves you feeling just right. That cookie. That beer. That glass of wine. That take-out restaurant. That home cooked meal. That favorite anything changes because it's not always available.

Traveling not only introduces new experiences, it also requires new habits and flexibility. And maybe some craftiness in the kitchen to try to recreate some of those far away comforting favorites, or many trips to many stores and cafes until they're recreated somewhere else, or enough time that they're forgotten and replaced.  

Food, unlike friends and family cannot be talked to on the phone. A photograph doesn't do a favorite dish justice. Tastes. Smells. Perhaps it's time to take my cooking ability to the next level and avoid this food/ home nostalgia. I bet I could create my own urban nomad cookbook. Any takers?

Life

Missing city living. If only mountains, ocean views, museums, shows, comedy, restaurants, old friends, new friends, and interesting work could happen all at once.