38-Year-Old Memory

Whether it was denial or just plain fear, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to my 20th reunion two weeks ago. I mean, I remember my parents going to their 20th reunion and that’s scary. Could I really be old enough for such an event? What will I say to all of those middle-aged people? When I see them, will it make me realize that I am actually 38? Will I feel like a failure because I am still single and not a mother? I nearly skipped it thinking I’d prefer living in denial just a bit longer.

One thing is certain my memory is 38 years old. There were people I can’t remember ever seeing before, names I don’t think I’ve ever heard, faces that ring no bells. Very embarrassing. And their memories were all topnotch. Everyone knew who I was. Even more embarrassing.

After calling a few very nice people by the wrong name, I decided I’d just stop using names and act like I knew and remembered everyone. It’s not that hard. Most conversations begin with, “so where are you these days?” Then, “what are you doing now?” And if you don’t remember who they are you can ask, “and how’s your family doing?” That one often brings up some names and stories that trigger at least a bit of a recollection. If you still don’t have a clue who they are, find someone standing nearby that you do remember and try to bring them into the conversation: “you remember so-and-so?”

In my defense, I didn’t remember people because just about everyone looked better than they did in high school. “What a relief,” I thought, until I realized they all remembered me. Did that mean I still looked like that 16-year-old girl with braces, horrendous hairstyles, pudgy cheeks, and fashion-disaster clothes that scream out “I’m trying to define myself, give me a break”?

Then I overheard a conversation in the bathroom. I couldn’t make out the voices, but three classmates of mine revealed their secret weapon: the yearbook. Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Study the yearbook before your reunion, at least that way you’ll have some names and faces regardless of whether those names and faces still match.

More Tango at Ideal

Accidental Peep Shows

My workday begins when I log on to Skype. It's sort of like walking down the corridor of an office with windows. Everyone who is already in their office sees you walk by (or log on) and knows you're in. I also like that my friends and family pop up now and again. Even if we don't chat or call, it's just nice to see them online.

The other day, however, I saw a bit more than I was supposed to. I had just finished a call with a colleague when Skype said she was calling once again. I assumed she'd forgotten some bit of information. We'd been using our webcams and hers is set to launch the webcam automatically when the call begins.

The webcam started but there was no one there. I called out but clearly the headset was still connected, so she couldn't hear me. Then I heard the television turn on. She changed channels a few times and walked in front of the camera to her bathroom. She took off her shirt, walked back out of the view of the camera, changed channels again, and moved in front of the camera again where she took off the rest of her clothes. I watched for a while hoping she'd come back to the computer so I could send her some crazy emoticon. I wondered if I've ever done this to someone who didn't know me well enough to laugh with me.

What a way to greet your contacts. I used to walk down the hall waving and mouthing "good morning" to each person I passed. They'd wave back and we'd catch up later in the coffee room. It makes for a much more cheerful day at the office.

No Cash

Does anyone remember the days when traveling overseas meant you needed to take traveler's checks and a wad of cash that you would hide in various places throughout your luggage? Back then, when you wanted to exchange money, you'd have to go to several banks to find out who had the best exchange rate and the lowest commission.

Well, if you're coming to Argentina, you might want to pack those traveler's checks and that wad of cash. ATMs here work (according to my rigorous data collection) about 7 out of 10 times. And when one isn't working, you can't simply head down the street to the next bank. Oh no. It seems the banks here all run out of money at the same time.

Now how is a tourist supposed to spend any money if the banks don't have any money to give? Once Cristina (the current president's wife) is elected president, she should make this her first task. Talk about a boost to the economy!

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?

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.

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!"