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.

Poker

This morning I woke up from a nightmare where I lost three million dollars to gangsters in a single poker game. I had two days to pay it back- or else. My real life seemed a lot easier after that. Talk about perspective.

Online Dating

Those of us perusing the internet are probably on at least one networking site for social, professional, personal or romantic reasons. I'd bash the internet, but even though I've wasted hours, days, probably weeks of my life perusing the net, it also connected me with several apartments, reignited friendships, helped me get to know acquaintances, and connected me with jobs. Using the internet has even been my job, sending e-newsletters, social media consulting, internet research... the list continues.

Once, my curiosity got the best of me and I joined OkCupid for about a month. It was weird. I didn't like it. I felt like I was walking into a bar in a bathing suit and couldn't shut up the people talking to me. No bouncer to kick them out. Sure, I could delete messages but some of the stuff was really weird. I wish I'd written it all down before deleting the account. Some comments were memorable material. [Just to be clear, I was not wearing a bathing suit in my profile photo.]

For example, the following are paraphrased excerpts of messages I randomly received from strangers:

"You look way too sweet and innocent to be with a guy like me. If you ever decide to man up, give me a call and we can have some fun."

"I like you. It would be great to meet up. I'm a nice guy. Pretty interesting too. As long as you don't mind every inch of me [literally] being covered in tattoos, I think we'd hit it off."

"Hey, I'm going to be in town for a medical conference in a month. I bought concert tickets, made dinner reservations and booked a hotel. I'd love it if you could go with me and show me around town." [Do online dating sites double as escort services?]

"I want to talk to you about everything. I want to get inside your brain. I want to know your thoughts on everything in the world. I want to spend the rest of my life talking to you. "

My curiosity was satiated. I know some people have had good experiences on these things, but seriously, why would anyone want to put up with any of those messages? Spam be gone. Delete.

Another article on contraception

Right on:

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/11/opinion/the-freedom-to-choose-birth-control.html?_r=1&ref=sunday

Freedom of Religion

This blog post was inspired by the following New York Times article:

"Boehner Vows to Fight Contraception Rule" By Jennifer Steinhauer

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/09/us/politics/boehner-vows-to-fight-contraception-rule.html?_r=1

Stenhauer quotes the Speaker of the House, John Boehner:

"'In recent days, Americans of every faith and political persuasion have mobilized in objection to a rule put forth by the Obama administration that constitutes an unambiguous attack on religious freedom in our country,' said Mr. Boehner"

Not true. Notice how Boehner says "Americans of every faith and political persuasion have mobilized in objection." How dare Boehner speak for all Americans? Last time I checked, it was still legal not to be religious in the United States. No one's making anyone take contraception. What about the large portion of Americans who believe in freedom of religion, tolerance and who may not be religious themselves?

Freedom of religion includes the right not to be religious. The first amendment guarantees this. The religious right has forgotten this. Boehner, if you and your church are against something, that is fine. That is your right. But do not impose religious restrictions on those of us not of your congregation. We, as US citizens, have the freedom to choose our church or not to choose a church at all. The only laws we all must follow should be those based on the the US Constitution and not your church's mandates. Boehner, you've confused freedom of religion with freedom only to follow your religion. The constitution guarantees the former, not the latter.

Funny Things Chicago Style

1) Lincoln Park. Walking to an early morning appointment, a college girl runs by me in an ultra short, skin tight American Apparel looking mini skirt and a sheer white tank. Massive heals in hand, bare feet on the sidewalk. Maybe she figured if she ran past everyone, people would notice her less? Dodged into her apartment. Oh, college morning afters Chicago style. It must have been a cold walk of shame.

2) The next few stories are funny... but that sad, I'm uncomfortable, kind of humor.

Woman walks towards her car parked by the bus stop and tells her friend "God, I had so much whisky tonight." She progresses to enter the vehicle and turn on her car. Her friend sits in passenger seat and they drive off... good luck to them. Hope they got home safe.

3) Late night ride home on the bus. (Something unfamiliar after a few months of living in the woods). Bus isn't packed, but is relatively full. A bunch of young guys are sitting near the front. They've obviously been drinking but don't look like too much trouble. One announces that he's had fifteen shots. A third of a fifth, or something like that. The bus drives on for a while and makes the usual stops in Uptown where odd things tend to happen, not because the people getting on are bad or anything but there's a high concentration of mentally ill and homeless people around those blocks and the bus ride reflects this.

The young guys make space for a middle aged woman wearing three coats (it's not that cold).

"Would you like to sit down mam? Let me make some space for you"

"Thank you. Bless you"

"No bless you. Praise Jesus Christ..."

This led to ten minutes of banter where the youngens teased the woman. She didn't seem upset because she really thought they were praying with her. The feeling on the bus was tense. Everyone knew the guys were messing with the woman but no one seemed to be getting hurt so... she got off the bus without much more of an uproar than more phony Jesus talk. The guys were putting on an act and everyone else on the bus was a reluctant audience.

That's when the attention shifted from the woman to a man with the worst skin condition on his legs I've ever seen. Not that I'm an expert, but it was scary looking. He had a trash bag with him full of old beat up magazines and books. He took one out, some kind of fashion magazine and offered it to the drunk guys for a dollar. This led to another twenty minutes of entertainment for the young "gentlemen." They passed around the magazines. They negotiated prices and told the old man that he was in the wrong business. Instead of pulling out just any magazine from trash cans and dumpsters, he needed to look specifically for booty magazines. Porn would leave him flush with cash. They went into detail about this. I moved to the back of the bus. The man took his sales job seriously and it was sad to watch. He obviously had some kind of dementia or mental problem. Did he have family or anyone taking care of him?

4) Lovely experience at a sports bar. Sarcasm implied. Obviously.

Interaction with friend of a friend of a friend, while person I knew was in the bathroom.

"Hey if X strikes out with you, you should give me a call. I've got a king size bed and I've been staring down your shirt all night. You took your vitamins. Good job."

WHAT!? As a friend later said... "Why do the rudest apes always approach women in bars? Because the cute ones are more subtle and don't need to... "

At any rate, I almost wanted to hear more of his gibberish since it's such great material and hard to make up...

Well... that's all for now folks. Until next time.

Nomadic Life

Being a nomad is not the same as being a drifter. A nomad has a connection to a way of life that includes a sense of community and tradition even if people are not always together or on a particular piece of land. A drifter is an individual who's defined by being unattached and floating in the wind and currents.

The online Oxford Dictionary defines nomad as, "a member of a people having no permanent abode, and who travel from place to place to find fresh pasture for their livestock... a person who does not stay long in the same place; a wanderer." Its origin comes from the "late 16th century: from French nomade, via Latin from Greek nomas, nomad-'roaming in search of pasture', from the base of nemein 'to pasture'" (http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/nomad?region=us). Its definition of a drifter is "1 a person who is continually moving from place to place, without any fixed home or job. 2 a fishing boat equipped with a drift net." (http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/drifter?region=us)

A nomad travels in search of fresh pasture. A drifter floats along like a boat with a cast net. Both travel to maintain a livelihood and nourishment, but only one, by definition is "a member of a people having no permanent abode." A nomad is linked to tradition and community, even when wandering alone. What is the modern equivalent of leading sheep to fresh pastures?

Rural Escapades

Running in the woods feels amazing. Not in a park. Not on a path next to a river or a lake bordering a highway, but in the actual woods. No smog, no bus sounds, no creepy strangers, just creepy neighbors. Okay that's not fair, my neighbors aren't creepy (anymore).

So much better than running on the road. No cars and the dirt actually gives a little bit, unlike pavement. It's that non-choreographed relationship with nature that feels great. Parks don't do it justice.

The tics, mosquitoes, mud, rain and broken branches? Obstacles and necessary evils. Maybe. Are tics really necessary?

Old friends. Old friends are amazing. You know who you are. You can tell them everything, thinking it's everything, and they fill in the blanks.

Running with an old friend, thinking of a montage of the runs that came before and laughing as I struggle to keep up. Sometimes it's me. Sometimes it's her. This time it's me. Why doesn't running shape last forever? I guess that would defeat the purpose of actually having to keep up a practice and run.

Homemade pies, home cooking, neighborhood woods and staying home with a book. It's good to be back in New England.

LAUGHING AT ONESELF WHILE JOB SEARCHING

1) Wait, where's my spam folder? Maybe I got a response and gmail thought it was spam...

Oh, oops, no spam. How is that even possible?

2) I miss the days at my college library where I dared to leave my laptop unattended.

Now I'm ferociously protective of my netbook, the less expensive, prized cousin of the college laptop.

3) Believe me baristas, I've been a barista. I know what it's like to see that person who spends all her time and money in your coffee shop. But believe me, job searching is work too! Shh.. you weren't supposed to see I was on facebook and/or blogging!

4) Shoot. There's a typo there. If only I hadn't read and reread that email thirteen times, I would have noticed it!

5) Hm.. maybe my name's too long. Yes, that is definitely it. Name is too long. Lets shorten it. Wait what?

6) Yes, I will lug around a 1,000-page-novel to distract myself from job searching when I need a break from researching on the internet but don't dare to step away from my strategically chosen table near the electric socket. And if I close my computer I might lose all those windows I opened!

7) Okay, now I HAVE to walk around. What can I leave behind on my table that wouldn't be likely to be stolen? And even if it were stolen, wouldn't matter much? And it needs to suggests there is a person inhabiting said table, making it not welcome to be taken over by you or anyone else!

8) Time to move on. Until next time, decision makers somehow connected to me through the world wide web.

Cold Feet

London is in a constant state of rain. It's either raining, it might rain, it did rain, or magically it's not raining.

Like a good cold weather native, I prefer snow. My favorite solution to rain is to curl up on a cozy couch with a good book and a hot beverage. Sadly in a country where it rains four times a day, this is not a solution at all. The rain chills me. I want dry socks, and comfy shoes that don't embarrass me in public and keep me the right level of warm. In the winter this is possible. Good winter boots are more than a fashion accessory; they're trusted old friends and loyal companions. I love my all-terrain, four-wheel drive snow boots, but they fail me in the rain. Too warm.

And rain boots are such a drama to buy! The good looking ones cost a fortune. And the cheap ones never make me want to wear them so why invest the money? They break; they're uncomfortable; water gets in them anyway; they're hard to fit under or over pants. So... what do I do? Wear sneakers? Usually that works okay, unless they get soaked. Wet feet leads to suffering. Sometimes carrying extra socks is a good solution. Why is it pleasant to walk along the ocean barefoot in wet sand but wet shoes are miserable? Is this misery surrounding wet shoes the origin of the expression to get cold feet, such as cold feet before a wedding? I guess once upon a time people fell seriously ill from wet feet and a lack of scientific and medical knowledge could make the situation deadly, meaning that travelers may have interrupted errands or returned home to nurse cold feet... I'll have to research this phrase. I'm intrigued.

Nightlife

"Nightlife in London is for the rich to kill time. In New York it's an exhausting chase for the next new sensation. In Paris it's a natural extension of daily life for the rich and poor alike. People like to dance, listen to music, attend shows and look at pretty women. Parisians are surprised when the English tell them that this is immoral. What is immoral? The activities? The hour? Or that they are enjoyed?"

Paraphrased from a book illustrated by Brassaï on Parisian nightlife found at the Royal Academy in London. Not so wrong!

Soccer on AA: Arsenal vs. Udinese

Gone are the days of changing train cars three times to avoid thirty drunk, beefy men singing football songs and looking for a fight. If not gone, less frequent. Has London's hooligan situation been relocated from stadiums to history books? In the context of recent riots, maybe the need for violence has just transformed.

Watching live soccer, football, whatever you want to call it, is a completely different experience from watching sports in the USA. Coming from Red Sox and Cubs territory, I'm used to stadiums being glorified bars. Okay, I'm a baseball fan, and both Fenway and Wrigley Field have a value beyond alcohol consumption but no one who's been to either place can claim that a majority of people don't also go there to get their drink on.

So imagine my surprise when I reach the front of the line to order a cider (it was advertised on the giant menu above the cashier and it being England, cider is served everywhere) and I am informed that no alcohol is sold anywhere in the stadium during Champions League games. I had been told that you couldn't take anything back to the stadium seats, but that alcohol could be consumed in the lobby/ concession area. No biggie, I got a coffee, but talk about a different environment than Boston. Imagine if the Banknorth Garden suddenly stopped selling beer. Imagine the drunk next to you not spilling his beer on you in the bleachers at Fenway. What a different world.

Besides this being a sober event, my friend and I were seated in the Family Section. Not sure what that means... the crowd was relatively subdued but the profanity still flew freely from the kid/man behind me. His date scolded him regularly though and asked him to watch his language because of the children nearby. Maybe the scolding made it a family section. Don't know.

It was also a different experience to be a foreign fan ignorant of cheers, songs, players... and feeling impartial about the teams.

The guy behind me was about to have a heart attack at every kick. His date fed him sugar. Said it might calm his nerves. Funny logic.

Arsenal vs. Udinese

My first live soccer/football game, but probably not the last. Next one in Argentina?

Cameras are Creepy

I don't understand the English policing system. Spend tons of money on cameras so the police can solve crimes after the fact.

Politicians proudly explain how every teenager found on film is going to be hunted down and punished. Is this a good thing? How will it help people's homes un-burn, and their cars not explode, and help heal broken jaws and communities? Policing needs to happen in real time, not with a passive punishment based methodology. What's the lesson going out to future rioters? Make sure to cover your face or you will be caught and jailed.

Should police be allowed to carry guns? Maybe. The rioters should not have had a monopoly on force, that's the role of government. However, this whole situation started with an officer fatally shooting a suspect.

I'm annoyed with Prime Minister Cameron's supposedly tough talk. How will jailing twelve-year-old's, making their families lose their benefits and housing and ostracizing them further help prevent future crimes? They're twelve. He suggests he wants their involvement with riots to be something that haunts them for the rest of their lives. Fine, but what about the rest of their lives? They need to be integrated into society.

I'm not speaking against punishment. I'm speaking against only using punishments and not paying enough attention to real time policing and the rehabilitation of teens who still have decades to live as British citizens.

Also I feel for the parents who have twelve years olds who made stupid decisions and joined their friends in the streets. They may not have done anything other than shoplift a pack of gum, but they were there and because of that they are guilty. Imagine if every kid who ever robbed a stick of gum were jailed? Early adolescence is a confusing time when kids are soon to turn into little adults capable of making their own decisions, but are not quite there yet.

Yesterday on the BBC, I heard an interview of a mother who's friend gave her a stolen pair of shorts. She was not directly involved with the riots. She has two young children. She was sentenced to five months in jail because of the shorts. This sounds absurd.

Many people are confusing vengeance for justice. The courts are right to hand out some of the jail sentences. Some of the crimes committed in the riots were serious. Murder, arson, assault... but how do these jail sentences suggest a safer future in London's streets? And Prime Minister Cameron still wants to cut police funds? Cameras and jail sentences do not guarantee or even suggest long term justice and security.

Cute and Obnoxious

CUTE

Yesterday I found myself at Golders Hill Park listening to a Polish band wearing traditional costumes play string instruments. Stumbling onto the concert was an accident, and my 91-year-old granny, my aunt and I walked up close to the bandstand so that my granny could hear. We stood there awkwardly under a tree wondering whether to stay. Sitting on the ground is difficult for her. A man ran up to us and gave her his chair. He sat on the grass. How thoughtful!

A few minutes later kids started dancing in front of us in their cute, gawky, uninhibited way. A little nerdy blond girl with glasses, a little black boy with dreads, and two young Jewish orthodox children (a brother and sister).

The park was full of people of different backgrounds and religious practices. Loads of women wearing head scarves, many Jewish orthodox and Hasidic families... etc.

It was a cute moment.

OBNOXIOUS

Accompanying elderly family to hospitals and pharmacies doesn't make for the most thrilling cosmopolitan adventures, but sometimes it has to be done. What proved even more thrilling than the hospital lobby? The bus ride there and back!

Riding the bus with my grandmother is stressful. I want to sit with her so we can get off together and to offer moral support but I can't. Doing so requires scanning every person who boards the bus for gray hair, pregnant bellies and disabilities. How do you know who to get up for? Some people get offended if you offer them your seat, and some are offended if you don't. When can one relax? Not worth it. I go sit in the back of the bus and keep an eye on my grandmother so I know where to get off the bus.

WHO? Obnoxious man with a straw hat and cane. (White, English, big yellow teeth, middle aged/ elderly. It's hard to tell his age. He's either got a lot of energy for an older man or he hasn't aged gracefully and is on the younger side).

WHAT? He interviews everyone on the bus. People indulge them. He chats up all the women around him. Older and younger alike. I think a few women are flattered. He offers his seat to everyone. Most people say no. He intervenes in a situation where a mother is telling her son to sit down. The son refuses to sit or hold onto anything and claims he is a big boy. The old man keeps swinging his cane around. When he first sat down, he hit the ceiling with his cane.

The man smiles with his huge, yellow teeth and talks about how he chats up women whenever he gets the chance, but that the boy is welcome to sit next to him although he'd rather it be the mother. He swings the cane again and tells the boy to grab onto it and come sit next to him. If I were a mother, this would terrify me and I'd tell my son to sit somewhere else. Maybe this is the American in me, who distrusts strangers. Maybe it's the once upon a time New Yorker who doesn't want to talk to anyone and expects everyone on public transportation to be a wacko. Maybe it's the Porteña in me, or maybe it's just plain common sense.

The boy says he wants to sit next to the man.

The creepy yellow toothed man chats up the woman next to me. Where are you going? Where are you getting off? She answers with full details, explaining the stop and the cinema. Why? Why does she indulge him?

He exclaims, oh you're from the north of England! From New Castle.

Yes, yes I am.

See how good I am? And you're a grandmother!

Yes, yes I am.

A grandmother at 18! How did you manage?

I did very well for myself.

Yes, yes you did. Blah, blah, blah. And you have a lovely girl next to you. She thinks I didn't notice, but I did. I always notice beautiful women. And she's Persian. She's Persian, I tell you. You are definitely Middle Eastern, but are you Persian?

[I'm not Middle Eastern or Persian. I should not have answered. I should have just smiled shyly and pretended not to speak English. Situation averted.]

But instead I said, Sure. Why not?

[Shouldn't have said that. I gave myself away as American.]

Oh you grew up in the states but you're definitely Persian.

Sure.

What part of the states?

It doesn't matter.

What part of the states? I went to school in Tallahassee, Florida. What part of the states are you from?

[I don't answer]

I know there are 53 states in the US. People think there are 52, but really there are 53. I know because of Hawaii. Most people don't know that, but I know. You're from Persia but what part of the states did you grow up in?

[I don't answer. I'm also not sitting directly next to him. He's speaking over several people]

It doesn't matter where I'm from. None of your business. Leave me alone.

[Really, I could have done better than that]

Oh. She must be American. She's very unfriendly.

[What I wanted to answer, oh you must be from London, because you're such a nutter, but I didn't want all the old ladies around me to form a mob]

What should I have done? I should have flipped the question and asked him his origin, the origin of his hat, where he learned to chat up women... but no, didn't care enough to do all that.

I've got nothing against being Persian, but I'm not. And I feel no obligation to explain my ethnicity, origin, childhood and adult life to an obnoxious stranger on the bus. Loudly. Why should I be forced into being part of his performance?

Only four more buses to take today.