TangoSpam:La Vida Con Deby

Enjoy Your Life Now...You Might Come Back As A Man...

"Horror of horrors!"  I laugh as Eva tells me this is what is printed in the bathroom of the restaurant we are having lunch in.  Today I dragged Eva out of the city.  She is one of my closest friends.  We met in Buenos Aires 7 years ago.  We were staying in the same tango house. 

We were so very different.  I was the California nerdette.  Independent.  Dancing tango all over the world in between working.  Eva...was Grandma Eva.  Scared of her own shadow.  Terrified to walk even 3 blocks alone afraid she would get lost.  I dragged her all over Buenos Aires.  It was her 3rd trip and my second.  We became great friends.

I visited her in New Orleans, she came to California.  We would meet in Buenos Aires.  We emailed.  We talked on the phone.  Our lives in 7 years changed dramatically.  I love to tease her.  She went from dumpy Grandma Eva, to Eva, single grandma and ready to party.  New hair, new figure, new clothes.  No longer afraid to walk 3 blocks.  Buenos Aires, Europe, and since hurricane Katrina - Texas.  Me?  We all know that story.  The only thing that never changed is our friendship.

She came last month to stay with me.  Susan was here from Minneapolis.  Together we looked like the Andrews sisters. What a trio!  Both women tried every way to extend their trips, but at this time of year it is impossible.  Susan introduced Eva to Skype.  She created a monster.  Besides Skyping both Susan and I in the same apartment, she began to call everyone she could find online.  We had to pry her away from her microphone to get her to come to dinner.

The apartment seems a little lonely without Susan.  I made her and Eva promise they try to come back next year together.  As she went out the door to the taxi, we called "Skype Conference November 15."  I am still not sure why this date was picked.  Eva leaves on Wednesday, so both of them will be back in the U.S. long before the 15th.

Today I demanded Eva leave her microphone so we could do something fun together.  She had never been to San Isidro.  I told her it would be a fun way to spend out of the city.  The weather was beautiful. After so many cold and rainy days, this day was well over due.

At noon, I told Eva that if she did stop Skyping I was going to trash her Mac over the balcony.  Reluctantly she put on her shoes and we headed out the door.  First was a stop at Easy and Jumbo.  I needed to look for something.  Eva was amazed.  This is our version of Home Depot (Easy) and a Super Safeway. (Jumbo)  She had no idea a place like this existed here.  I suppose if you really miss the mega-stores of the U.S. this is the place to come.

I like Easy because I don't have to talk to anyone.  Hardware stores are considered a male domain here. I have received less than enthusiastic receptions at the local hardware stores in my barrio.  The men don't appreciate Blondie asking for plumbing and electrical parts, drill bits, and industrial strength glue.  They have no desire to help me, so they don't.  They actually seem irritated I want to spend money in their store.  So I go to Easy where I don't have to talk to anyone.  I can look at everything, and usually there are lots of really cute young guys only too happy to ask me if I need any help.  (Easy is a Chilean chain and they are big on customer service.)

As Eva marveled at the rows of things to buy, I found what I was looking for.  Monday I will come back to buy.  I push Eva out the mall doors so we could walk to the subte.  I realize that she really doesn't know Belgrano.  I figure we can walk down Juramento to the train station.  That was plan A.  Eva went for plan B which was to stop in the ferria in the park before we could get to the train station.

"Stop touching stuff."  I tell her over and over again.  "You are supposed to ask."  Porteños expect you to buy when you touch and ask questions.  You are supposed to ask.  If you are not really interested you are just supposed to look. Here the vendors don't want to offend, but you can tell they don't want people touching their things.  In the fruit markets they restrain themselves from slapping your hand.

Finally I pull her away from the market and we walk to the train station.  She has never been past Martinez.  San Isidro is two more stops.  The train is packed.  I tell her many people will get off at Olivos and take the train to the coast to Tigre.  Some will ride to Tigre.  Few will get off at the other stops. It is Sunday.

We are finally at our destination.  Another world.  It is quiet.  Clean.  Beautiful.  Trees.  Houses.  I tell Eva this is where I come when I just want to get away for a few hours.  She immediately understands why.  I don't pay attention to where we are walking.  We aren't lost, we just can't get to the square where the ferria is from where we are.  I don't care.  I love looking at the houses.

We pass by a huge home gated in with a stone wall.  I sniff the air.  "Asado" I tell her.  (Barbecue) I sniff again.  I smile when I realize what the "other" smell is.  Eva comments "with really nice herbs."  "No Eva," I tell her.  "That is marijuana."  "You should move here" she tells me.  I roll my eyes.

As we walk the cobblestone streets, the San Isidro cathedral looms in front of us.  It was built in 1898 and is now undergoing a huge renovation.  It is of a majestic neo-gothic design.  There are statutes and mini-plazas flanking the church.  It was rumored that the priests came to the cathedral to plot over-throwing the military government during the dirty war.

Plaza Mitre has a small crafts fair on Sundays.  Nothing like the fairs in the capital, it is much smaller. You see much of the same things that you see everywhere, just in smaller quantities.  Less people.  We walk from stall to stall looking at jewelery.  I am proud of myself.  I am not buying anything.  I do not want to buy anything.  Thank God, there are no clothes here.

We walk the cobblestone streets.  I put out to Eva that San Isidro is the Rugby Capital of Argentina.  Go figure.  There is a modern shopping complex that houses the station for the Tren de la Costa.  This really is not our thing.  I am glad when Eva decides she too can pass on seeing the ticky tacky over priced tourist stuff.

I tell her about a restaurant that I really love to go to.  I tell her that Madeleine and I always eat her.  It is a Spanish restaurant.  I don't know exactly what street it is on, but I always seem to get there.  As we walk the cobblestone streets, we pass the oldest house in San Isidro.  It is the House of General Pueyrredón, built in 1790.  Eva begins to doubt that there is a restaurant in the middle of a residential district.  "This is Argentina."  I tell her.  "Where city planing is just a myth."

We turn the corner and there is my restaurant.  A big smile crosses Eva's face. It is a charming beautiful place.  As we walk up to the patio, the waiter recognizes me.  Eva always gets a kick out of how many people I know, and how they always seem to remember me.  I ask our waiter if we can sit outside.  "Yes, yes, of course."  He says to us.  "Anywhere you like."  Although the inside of the restaurant is beautiful, it would be a shame to sit inside on such a beautiful day.

He brings us menus.  I ask him how his English is.  "Terrible" he tells me.  "Terrible."  He asks me how I have been.  "Wonderful"  I tell him.  "Wonderful."  he laughs.  I love the food here.  Maybe because it is a little different.  They have portobello mushrooms.  I tell Eva we have to have them.  She agrees.  I order a radicheta salad.  I know they grate excellent  fresh parmesan cheese over it.   I tell Eva since I found 2 of the dishes she has to pick the main dish.  We are going to share our lunch.  Portions here are too big for one person.  We sit on the patio watching life go by.  Down the street, The Tren de la Costa roars by .  It is more like an electric trolley car than a train.

The waiter brings the mushrooms.  They are just like I remembered.  Stuffed with fresh vegetables, a little cheese, and a spectacular sauce.  While we feast on the mushrooms, the waiter mixes our salad with lemon and olive oil.Just like the mushrooms, it is so fresh and tastes wonderful.  This is wonderful food. The bread is baked by the restaurant.  They serve butter.  "Now where am I again?" 

When we finish the salad and the mushrooms, Eva is ready to ask for the check."Eva,"  I remind her, "We still have the mariscos." (Shellfish) She moans  "I forgot, this was so wonderful." We figure we can always as for the plate to be wrapped up to go.  Our waiter appears with a large white plate loaded with seafood.  Our eyes get huge. 

The seafood revuelto has everything - clams, mussels,shrimp, octopus, calamari, mixed with eggs and potatoes.  I would not have minded some hot sauce, but what the heck.  You can't have everything.  Just like everything else it is well prepared and delicious.  It has been a long time since I ate like this. Probably when Madeleine was here.

We sit in the warm sun.  This is a perfect day.  We watch the cars drive by.  People come and go.  I feel relaxed.  It is another world here.  You can almost see the river.  You can hear the sounds of the feria.  The waiter clears the table.  He brings us coffee and lemoncello.  Eva has never had lemoncello.  She loves it.

We have talked about everything women talk about.  Family, men, food, men, tango, men.   Eva goes upstairs to the bathroom.  When she comes back she has a big smile on her face.  "Did you read the signs in the bathroom?"  she asks.  I don't remember any signs.  She tells me they are sayings written and framed.  "Enjoy your life now" she smiles, "because you might come back as a man."

Calling Charles Gardel....

"You are working too much." a fan to this blog emails me.  I could not agree more.  I am.  I am in front of my computer more hours than I care to admit.  I have a real job now.  Beating up programmers in Tucuman.  Arranging diagrams, flow charts, and emails.  My old life has returned - in Spanish.

Argentine friends are proud of me.  Now I am really a part of the social fabric here.  I work just like any normal Porteño.  Although one friend told me that to work is really not very Porteño at all.  When I meet other Argentines, they always ask what it is I do here.  When I tell them "Trabajo en Informatica."  They are impressed.  They are even more impressed when they find out it is a job I got here and was not sent to do.

The impression of the Porteños of most of the foreigners who come to live here is that they are rich.  They live off of foreign bank accounts.  They don't work.  They spend their days buying things, eating, and talking English.  The concept of retiring in your 40s, 50s, is not something usual here.  So if you do retire early, then you must be rich.

Friday night.  Girl's night out.  We are going to celebrate.  Sandra has a new job.  She has a new apartment.  Hopefully soon a new boyfriend because the last one is an idiot.  He tested other waters one time to many and she hung him out to dry. 

I push my two guests Eva and Susan to come with me.  "Come on you guys. You have to go."  They take naps.  I am going on my usual 4 - 5 hours of sleep.  I load up on ibuprofen to quell the pain in my knee and hip.  It is going to rain.  I want to dance.  I have a new haircut.  Felipe and I are on the outs again. Walter is thrilled to be back in.  (My old hair cutter)

We arrive at Leonesa.  Most people call it Niño Bien.  Niño Bien is the milonga on Thursday nights.  It is actually the Lion's Club.  Yeppers, those guys that collect glasses for the poor.  The guard kisses me and tells me Sandra is upstairs.  Usually she waits for me.  Dorita must be with her.  She waits for no one.  Especially me.  Tete hugs me, he is standing at the door smoking.  "Divina"  he says to me and acknowledges Eva and Susan.

We climb the stairs and enter the lobby.  The music of DiSarli is playing.  I have not been to dance in a week.  I peek in as Eva and Susan pay.  Sandra waves to me.  She has a great table.  We are not in the provinces this week.  I look around.  I see men that I have not seen for ages.  Perhaps this will be a good night to dance - if I can forget the pain in hip and back.  I don't want to think of turning.

I introduce Eva and Susan to Sandra and Dorita.  I look up and there is Pocho.  He has not been very friendly to me lately.  But now he has a big smile.  This December he will be 84.  He is looking more frail each time.  We go to dance.  He still has wonderful posture, the best navigation skills.  His steps are faltering.  He places most of the dance on me with cinturas, quebradas, and sentadas. My body is screaming "What the hell are you doing?"  I wish the Ibuprofen would start to work.

"Siempre linda."  He says to me.  (Always pretty)  "How are you?"  I ask him.  "How can I be?"  He says to me.  "I am an old man.  Each day I am older.  I wish I could be like you.  Each time you look younger and more beautiful."  The piropos.   (Compliments)  This time when we walk off the floor, he hugs me.  Not usual for the milonguero, this legend.

All of us are dancing except for Susan and Sandra.  Susan prefers to watch and Sandra is stubborn.  Maybe not.  She will not dance with anyone unless they can dance.  I understand.  But with so few really good dancers and so many women, you may never get your turn.

Sandra and are watching the floor. Suddenly this women gets up.  She looks so absurd.  Her boobs are like two bowling balls on each side.  Her butt sticks out.  Her face is an overdone surgical nightmare.  But nothing compares to those huge bowling ball boobs.  We both burst out laughing at the same time.  She looks like a cartoon.  A man I respect takes her to dance.  We are even more shocked when he is leaving and he motions her to follow.

"Una gata"  Sandra decides.  (Prostitute) "With him?"  I question.  His rating goes down a notch. "Have you ever seen her before?  Look at how she is dressed.  And those lolas!!"  She laughs.  Everyday I learn something new.

I am dancing a lot.  Slowly the ibuprofen starts to work.  I am able to turn better.  I should have stock in that patent.  I am probably one of the world's largest consumer's of ibuprofen.  Susan sees a group of people she knows from Minnesota.  She goes to greet them.  Eva sees a man from Sweden she knows. I am always amazed at how small the world really is.

The crowd begins to thin.  The dancing will be better.  It is 1:30 am.  I can dance with the few milongueros still here.  They always wait to dance with me.  Ricardo is a dream.  I love to dance with him.  He waits for me.  He lets me make my step.  So many men do not understand my pause and rush me through it.  He is 83 I think.  Still working.  Still spry.  I am sorry when the tanda ends.

And now DiSarli.  Again.  I look around.  This must be danced with someone good.  Reuben is looking at me.  I must be lucky tonight.  I break into a big smile.  We move to the floor.  I can let myself go with the music with the milongueros.  They understand.  That passion is not for them.  It is for me, for my tango, for the letras (words) for the music.  I can push my giro and he can receive it.  He waits for my pause in the middle of the giro, my signature.  After the first song he smiles, "que lindo."  he says to me.  A real compliment.  I give him my smile and say "I have been waiting all night for you."  This is my star tanda.  The one I will remember for the night.

There are few people left.  My friend Carlos nods to me.  As I go to him he says to me "I have been waiting all night for this moment."  I laugh, "Yes, to practice your English."  "And my tango lesson too." he adds.  In between tandas we talk.  He always teases me and calls me the "milonguero extranjera." "You would not believe this"  he tells me.  "I danced with a very nice woman from Minnesota. When she asked me my name, I told her Carlos, like Gardel."  He pauses, for effect.  "She says to me, Who's that?" I laugh.  "Can you believe that?"  he says.  "She dances tango, and she doesn't know who Carlos Gardel is. That is like me not knowing who Frank Sinatra is."  He shakes his head.

You Can't Go Home Again

That is what they say.  You can never go back. Last night I wanted to dance.  I am so caught up in this stupid job I have been too tired.  It seems everyone is tired.  All my friends are working crazy long hours.  Now I am one of them, in addition to teaching English, having people in my apartment.  Even I am not sure where my energy comes from.

Sandra is too tired.  She just moved into a new place.  She is painting and getting organized.  Her work is not as close to her new place.  Katrina's daughter has something school related Saturday morning and she needs to get up early.  So it goes, no one except me wants to go out.

Where to go.  I could go to Luis, to Celia's, or to Gricel. It is too late to go to Luis.  Where to go, where to go.  I finally decide on Celia's.  It has been probably 2 years since I have been there on a Friday.  It is also easier for me to get there on the bus.  Taxis have gone up again.

As I walk to the door, there are several men on the street smoking.  I greet them.  They are pleased to see me, but I also know they are surprised.  I go up the stairs.  Mario is at the window.  He too has a look of surprise on his face.  "Hola Linda" he greets me.  "Tanto tiempo."  What can I say?  I smile and pretend to kiss him through the glass.

At the door, I am told to wait.  The young man does not know me.  He starts to lecture me.  I tell him no problem, I will wait for Dario.  I survey the crowd while I am waiting.  Dario comes and gives me a big hug.  He always tries to move his face when I kiss him.  It is a game with us.  I am sure he hopes that one day I will not be fast enough.

He aplogizes that he has to seat me in the second row.  To me it does not matter.  I know that I will dance no matter where I sit.  Johnny comes to give me a hug.  He too plays the move a face game.  He asks if I want my water, with gas.  He always remembers.  I suppose after 7 years he should.

Celia's is crowded, but not like it used to be.  I look around.  Lots of familiar faces, but not the ones I am looking for.  Most of the men who used to come are either dead, don't dance anymore, or go to other places.  Unfortunately most of them are part of the first two groups rather than the latter.  I feel a little sad.

I watch the dancers.  Of the ones I know, I know how they dance.  I need to see how the others dance. I watch the floor.  There does not seem to be anyone here I really want to dance with.  I love Dany's music, so even if I sit and listen to the music it will be OK.  I like being in a place where there is no histeria. You can see the people are having a good time.

Finally I accept a dance. The man is very nice.  Then he remembers he danced with me long ago.  "It was different here then." he tells me.  I agree.  He tells me that he remembers when they were trying to teach me to dance.  "Those milongueros did a good job."  I smile at him.  I don't think I will be dancing well tonight.  I have a little bit of pain in my hip.  It probably won't matter much here.

I dance several tandas.  Then I see a couple I know from Gricel.  I don't know their names.  They are a profesional couple.  Older, dance wonderfully, and they are always so nice to me.  At first she was kind of cool towards me.  I think when she realized I was not going to try and grab her man away from her, she calmed down.  This is always a concern, as there are so few men that dance well.

He invites me to dance.  A vals.  I am thrilled.  The dance floor is impossible.  I cannot believe how we are being banged into.  What is going on here?  It is almost impossible to dance.  This kind of dancing almost never happened before in Celia's. My partner continuously apologizes.  He cannot protect me from the maniacs on the dance floor.

I return to my table.  I sip my water content to listen to the music.  I look around the room to see if I even want to wait until later to dance.  Where are all my viejitos?  Pocho?  Tito? Alvaro? Ricardo? Orlando? They are not here.  I realize one of my earrings is gone.  I slip the other into my purse.

A man I know from the other milongas, comes to greet me.  He is a very good dancer.  He asks where I have been.  I tell him I am working a lot.  He asks about Sandra, I tell him she too is working many hours.  He tells me after the next tanda he will come to get me.  He says he was on his way home and stopped in after Luis.  If it were not for me, he would not dance.  "One tanda with you and then I go." I am honored.

The next tanda is cumbia.  I wait.  Then it is a tanda of DiSarli.  What luck.  My friend invites me to dance.  It is a dance of years before.  Except that I am being kicked and we are being banged into.  "What happened to this place?" I say to my partner.  He shrugs.  "Things change."

He takes me back to my table and says goodbye.  "Next week, you and the Morochita (Sandra) come home.°  I tell him I will pass the message.  I realize now I do not want to dance any more.  The men next to me want to play "Name that tune" with me.  I am not in the mood.

I gather my things and go to the bar to pay Jonny and to greet Dany.  I pay for my water.  At the last minute I pull out my earring to show Jonny.  I tell him I lost the other one.  I love these earrings.  I bought them in Chile last year.  It would be a shame to lose one.  He tells me to write my number down and if he finds it he will call me.  I do so without thinking.  Then he smiles and pulls my earring out of his pocket.

I shake my head.  "Boludo".  He laughes.  I´ll call you at 4 when I get off.  I tell him  not to bother, I will be sleeping.  Smiling I leave.  I say good bye to the few people I know.  At the foot of the stairs I kiss good bye the smokers.  I walk to the bus thinking about tonight.

It was not a bad time.  It was just not like before.   I guess in many ways, you cannot go home again.

Journey to the Other Side

"I've been Banglored." is the cry of many of my friends in the U.S.  Mostly tech friends, but not all.  It is the cry of people who have been outsourced.  Their jobs moved to India.  Good for India, bad for them.  It isn't just technology workers, it's records too; banking, medical, human resources and who knows what else.

It got so when we heard the Indian accented voice on the other end of the phone, our blood began to boil. American jobs going to India.  Where they could not understand us.  Where we did not even want to understand them.

Companies justified the move of jobs to foreign countries where wages were significantly lower with all kinds of seemingly plausible excuses.  My favorite was that it would make for more jobs, better jobs.  Right.

The reason they really moved?  $$$$$ and nothing else.  An American programer who is paid anywhere from $50 to $125 an  hour can be replaced in 3rd world countries for $25 an hour or less.  Add that up over a 6 month project and that is lots of bucks.  Multiply it by 10 programers and just think of how many perks the CEO can add to his paycheck.

Then there are the H1 visas.  These allow foreign workers to come into the U.S. with their special skills and work.  They are not given residency (sic) but they can work.  The excuse for that one is that there is not enough workers to fill the job vacancies. 

During the dot com era that was true of tech jobs.  But with all the people being Banglored, how can that be true now?  Economics my friend.  It isn't just tech jobs either.  A friend of mine who works in Biotech is furious with his company.  They are hiring foreign PhDs at an alarming rate.  Why?  Because they will work for $50,000 a year.  A Stanford grad wants $85,000.  My friend says there are plenty of PhDs in the U.S. who could do the job, just not for $50,000 a year.

I have students who outsource to the U.S.  Their programers are certified for several languages and software applications.  They charge their U.S. clients $25-$30USD an hour for a senior programer.  They pay the programers between $20 and $25 pesos.($6-$8 USD) Everyone is happy.  The U.S. clients bill their clients $125 an hour for the same work they pay $25 an hour for.  My client makes $18USD an hour on 20 programers who bill an average of 30 a hours a day.  That is a lot of money here.

Then it happened.  I become one of them.  Only I am not Indian.  An American company needed a business analyst.  Someone who spoke English fluently.  Paying Argentine wages.  And here I am.  About now my English students start to prepare for summer.  Weekly I lose students.  By next month I will have maybe 3 students and by January they will all be gone.  Things don't start up again until March - April. 

It kills me. For here I am making great money.  The same work in the U.S. would pay more than 10 times what I am earning.  But then that is why they came here.  The owners were thrilled to find me.  They never expected to find my skills here.  They are also unwilling to pay more for them.  The budget.

I have a team of programers.  All making great money for here.  They are paid between 18 - 22 pesos an hour.  They are thrilled. The same guys in the U.S. would be making $50 - $75 an hour.  I was brought in because the project is past deadline and there are problems.  The owners do not speak Spanish and the programers do not speak English.

When the tech team started to get attitude, the owners told me to tell them, that if they don't shape up, they are moving the project to India.  Mighty wonders never cease.

I am not sure how I feel.  I know somewhere in California is a business analyst who should be working.