Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Friends from the Interior

Why does my toilet always shut down when I'm about to receive company? Which leads me to one of my favorite expressions in Castellano: "voy despedir mis amigos del interior." Or in literal English, "I'm going to say goodbye to my friends from the Interior" and in real English, "I'm going to take a dump."

Considering all of my friends here in Argentina are from the Interior, I'm not too sure what that says about them or me for the matter. And why have my last two blog entries been about excretion?

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Dating in Buenos Aires


It was my first date in Buenos Aires. Actually, I wasn't sure it was a date at first. I'd met the guy because he was renting a room and I was looking for a place to stay. So when he invited me back to his apartment, I thought it might be to see where I would live when his current tenant moved out.

Our idea of personal space was different, or was he coming on to me? I wasn't sure, but one thing I was sure of was that something smelled downright awful. As we stood in the kitchen eating strawberries and sipping vodka, I thought "geez, this kitchen reeks." At least I hoped it was his kitchen since he was moving closer and closer, although I didn't think I would want to rent a room from him anymore.

Then we moved to the living room. But the smell followed and now I was sure he was going to kiss me. He'd shown me the entire apartment and there really wasn't much left to do but kiss or leave. So I left.

When I got home, wouldn't you know the smell followed me. I'd stepped in dog poop, traipsed it all over his house and blamed him. Moral of the story, when in Buenos Aires, watch where you step.

In my neighborhood there's a campaign to keep the streets clean. The streets are still filled with every type of dog poop you can imagine, and on the wall that says "This is our neighborhood, let's all work together to keep it clean," graffiti will soon overwrite the message. Oh well.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Language Lessons on the Road


Taxi drivers are often the best language teachers around. They love to talk and don't seem to mind if you don't understand what they're saying, they have plenty of time on their hands, and they're willing to share their opinions on everything. Eventually you do begin to understand, whether it's because you have practically the same conversation with each taxi driver or because they're sort of like bartenders--mobile shrinks who don't offer booze or meds, instead, their services come with a healthy load of exhaust and fear.

I'm used to crazy driving. After all, I lived in Cairo for three years. When friends visit me in Buenos Aires from the States, I watch them search for the seatbelt, pull it across their chests, and spend the next five minutes or so trying to insert it. All the while the driver is yacking away, speeding in and out of lanes, on the rear of the guy in front of him, smoking, and laughing.

Some friends were visiting a while back. I'd taken a cab out to the airport to pick them up. A nice 40-minute Spanish lesson out there. On our way back into town I was having a hard time carrying on two conversations: one with my friends whom I hadn't seen in about a year and the other with the taxi driver. I didn't want to be rude, but my friends and I had a lot of catching up to do.

"Fucking cops!" yelled the driver as we raced down the highway. We looked around; in front all seemed normal; there was nothing happening behind us. "Donde?" I asked. He was giggling so hard his shoulders were shaking.

"No, it's just that's the only thing I know how to say in English. You know, I learned it from the movies and TV," he laughed. And we joined him. "Fucking cops!"