La Vida Con Deby

Fat in Argentina

On my first trip to Argentina I didn't know whether to be fascinated or horrified by how thin the women were.  It was amazing.  To be honest it wasn't only the women, men were slim as well.  Large bellies were not the norm. 

I was from California, a place where people work out and watch what they eat.  It wasn't like I was from a state where there was a lot of obesity.  San Francisco has more gyms per capita than anywhere else in the U.S.  The thinness in Buenos Aires was something else.

The first years in Buenos Aires were an eye opener.  Argentina vied with Japan for the highest rate of anorexia.  It wasn't just girls, it was women as well.  That was unusual.  I remember once reading how a 50 year old woman had died of anorexia.  Women wanted to be fashion model slim.

Buying clothes was almost impossible.  Where in the U.S. they ramped the sizes up.  A size 8 was the new size 4, here it was the opposite.  Sizes were made smaller so women thought they had to lose more weight.  Body image was insane.

I remember once showing a copy of my Self magaine to one of my English students.  He thought the models all looked fat rather than healthy. My female students said they would never look like the models in my Shape or Fitness magazines.  The image here was to starve yourself to death.

In 2005 I made my first trip to Santiago del Chile.  I remember looking in the window of a store and admiring their clothes.  I went inside to see if they might have my size.  The saleswoman asked me what size my "daughter" was.  My perception of clothing had become so warped, I had gone inside a children's and teens store.  In Chile they did not have the same problem with body types.

Then it changed.  Drastically.  All one has to do is look on the streets.  Young girls who once had very slim figures, now have love handles hanging over their jeans along with bellies.  You rarely see the super slim teenagers that before were very much part of the Buenos Aires scene.

Women are now generally overweight.  Men too.  Large bellies on men and boys are standard.  It is amazing.  The population is said to be more than 50% obese.  The last WHO study says 74% of Argentines have a BMI over 25 and puts Argentina # 12 in the fattest countries. (The USA is #8 and 79% have a BMI over 25) I find it mildly humorous when Argentines talk about how fat Americans are.  They might look in the mirror.

When I first started dancing here the men would tell me that I was beautiful but gordita o rellenita.  Now they tell me I am flaca.  I am still the same weight I was 12 years ago.  I still wear the same size.  I have not changed.  They have.

The flat bellies have pooched out over the skirts, love handles have appeared. Large bellies replaced once flat stomachs.  It is amazing the difference.  Some people like to say that now they are more comfortable with themselves.  Either extreme is not healthy.

What changed? Food.  The way people eat.  When I first came, people drank water or wine.  We would go to dinner and people would order a bottle of wine and bottles of water. Big marketing campaigns of soft drinks and beer have changed that.  More often than not you see liters of beer and Coke on the tables.  Both of those bring lots of empty calories.

People walked more. There has been a grand explosion of cars. People do not walk like they used to.  More junk food.  The alfajore, cookie, and juice companies have been bought by international companies.  Where before they were made with better quality ingredients they now have more preservatives and fillers in them.

The proliferation of bad junk food.  The Argentine brands are disappearing and in their place are the international brands made with bad fats and sugars.  The kioscos (convenience stores) are loaded with diet horrors and I don't mean slurpies.  Standard before was an empanada or a slice of pizza with a bottle of water.  Now you see people grabbing several candy bars or worse these horrible cereal bars and a coke.

I used to love to watch in the summer all the families.  Most people did not have air conditioning.  So at 3 in the morning people would be out on the streets with their kids going for ice cream.  It was a marvel for me to see.  Now you see kids on the street corners with liters of beer, and few families.

Two things changed.  More people have air conditioning.  Of course this is a good thing.  The other is insecurity.  People are afraid to go out with their kids at 3 or 4 in the morning and walk around.  Less walking.  Less exercise.  At least the ice cream is still good.  Expensive..but good.

It is a shame.  People do not always realize what a toll the added weight and the bad food habits are for their health.  It is an educational process.  Not everyone is prepared to accept it.  My friends will ask me from time to time how I manage to stay slim.  I tell them I go to the gym 3 - 4 times a week and how I eat.  More often than not they tell me it is too much work.  I suppose it is easier to die...because eventually all that bad food will kill you.

 

 

Elefante Blanco

Ricardo Darrin in my favorite actor in Argentina.  He is amazing.  He can play any role and play it well.  Whenever he has a new movie I go to see it.  When Elefante Blanco came out, it was almost impossible for me to find someone to go see it with.

My Argentine friends fell into two categories; A) The cost of movies is too high.  Most movies are now 42 pesos. B) They heard that it was a very sad movie and did not want to see it.  The theater Gaumont on Rivadavia is subsidized.  They show movies for 8 pesos, 6 if you are retired.  When Elefante Blanco finally made its way there, I once again started to ask my friends if they would go with me.  I got a myriad of excuses.

I was thrilled when my little sister Amy moved back to Buenos AIres.  She is my movie and theater buddy.  Because she is bi-lingual, we can go to any movie.  I ask her to go see Elefante Blanco with me.  She is excited.  She likes Darrin too.

This movie is about a priest who works in the villa.  A villa or properly called villa misere are the slums.  The villas here make Watts look like Beverly Hills.  The movie is filmed exclusively in a villa.  The one thing I like about Argentine cinema is that it does not depend on special effects and animation like American cinema. 

The name Elefante Blanco describes the construction of a public housing project that was never finished.  Huge white buildings that were to be the jewels of an administration.  Now they are taken over by the impoverished, drug addicted, drug lords. They lack plumbing, electricity, walls.  They are supposedly administered by the Mothers of the Plaza del Mayo.

Unfortunately this is a song that is sung over many public works here in Argentina.  Works that are announced and never consumated, works that are begun and never finished, works that are terminated poorly.  The end result of political corruption.

The movie shows the conditions of how these people live. The homes, if you want to call them that in the villas are built by the people who live there.  They are built with concrete and cinder blocks.  They have electricity, water, which they do not pay for.  The 3 priests and the social worker in the movie try to better conditions for the people who live there.  A losing battle.

There is no surprise to see the drug labs, the drug wars, and the police brutalitly. As a North American, this type of police brutality stopped long ago.  Here it still exists. Another culture, another world.  What you do realize, is that there is no hope.  These people have no way out.  I suppose this is why my Argentine friends did not want to see this movie.  Too depressing.

The next morning after I saw the movie the headlines in the papers were how the Super Minister of Economy had increased his wealth 91.5% in one year and 30 times in 8 years.  I have no problem with politicians being wealthy.  But there is something wrong when politicians increase their wealth significantly in a year and the people they supposedly serve are suffering as a result of flawed policies.

The 5 Stages of Tango

The other day after seeing yet another tango blog on Facebook that whined about a man who had done this dancer wrong, I clicked and asked not to see any more posts from this blogger.  I couldn't take it anymore.  After awhile, all these blogs begin to look alike.  They either whine about someone who did or did not dance with them. Hero worship. The absolute correct way one must or must not dance tango..in their world. The best music.

I have a warped sense of humor sometimes. I thought about the 5 stages of grief.  Is there a 5 stages of tango?  The more I thought about it, the more warped I got.  Finally I decided I had to write a blog post about it.  Probably tomorrow I'll be flamed on the other's blogs. It's OK, at this point I really don't care. Hmmm, which stage is that? The I don't care stage?

So here you go, my 5 stages of tango, and you don't have to like them, love them, or even agree. I don't care, but it's not a stage. It's an attitude.  We all know, I have plenty of that.

SHYNESS or SHAME take your pick. You get this crazy idea you want to learn to dance tango.  For whatever reason.  You have friends who are gaa gaa over it.  You're sick of dancing (fill in the blank) swing, salsa, ballroom. You saw Forever Tango or Scent of a Woman.  If you are a man you think it would be a good way to meet women.  If you are a woman you think it might be a good way to meet men, although you are skeptical of having them that close to you.

If you live somewhere where there is a large tango community you can pick and choose where you might want to start lessons.  If you live somewhere where there is a small community, you have almost no choice.  You wonder if you have to dance with a rose in your mouth.  Fresh roses could get expensive.

Once you start classes you realize that your body has become Gumby. Walking becomes an impossible task.  While your teacher (hopefully because not all do) walks like a graceful cat moving forward.  You feel more like a construction worker wading in wet cement.  Backward ochos standing up without bending your knees seems like an Argentine torture left over from one of their wars. You watch yourself in a mirror and feel hopeless. If you are a man trying to lead a woman feels like trying to move a refrigerator on the dance floor, worse is you have no idea where you are going with that refrigerator or how to move it.  If you are a woman you feel like a pile of dirt being bulldozed.  Just like dirt, you feel like you are falling apart and you don't know how to stop it. Let the finger pointing begin. This is not the fantasy you had about dancing tango. That and the music.  You like it..maybe. It definitely is not AC/DC or Manchester Orchestra. Or even Adele.  There is so much to learn.  You hear people talking about codes.  That is all you need.  Codes.

At this point you either drop out because you are so miserable being so bad at something that should be fun.  Or you are determined to make this happen...you just don't want anyone to see you.

EUPHORIA You get it!  One day it just sort of happens. Your body makes that ocho flawlessly. You start humming a song in the supermarket and you realize it is Bahia Blanca. If you are able to, you go to tango as many days a week as you can.  Now that you think you can do the moves you want to get better. If there are not many classes in your area you watch YouTube.  You order DVDs. You start to travel to communities near yours.  Even if there are lots of classes in your area you still do all those things.  You can never get too much tango.

You start to wear black.  All the time.  Of course if you live in San Francisco, this is no big deal, because everyone wears black there anyway.  If you are a woman you start looking at clothes in a new way.  Before, they were just "clothes."  Now they take on this whole new dimension.  You are in (Take a pick) Nordstroms, Target, HSM, and you see a skirt, or top, or dress, and you think "Wow, this would be great for tango."  I don't think guys have the clothes epiphany like women do.  They are more like listening to music and think "I could dance tango to this..." You fantasize who would be dancing with you. 

Visiting teachers, especially those from Argentina are like the word of Gospel.  Trying to soak up as much as possible.  Having been the worst of dancers the goal is to be the best dancer in your community. 

Once you were this person who liked (Take a pick) Jazz, rock, salsa, and now all you listen to is tango.  Every CD in your car is tango.  Too bad there is not a tango radio station.  Your cell phone has a tango song for its ringer.  You find yourself doing ochos when you are waiting in lines.  You explain yourself to people "I dance tango."

You feel like you have finally joined the elite club of people who dance tango. You listen to the people who have gone to Buenos Aires and all the festivals.  You start reading the online forums to learn as much as you can.

Your friends begin to change.  The friends you had for years seem boring.  Or maybe not boring, it is just that they don't dance tango and they don't understand your passion.  You can spend hours talking about tango and they are just not interested.  Better to be with your new friends who share your passion online or otherwise.  You are obsessed with tango.  You work so that you can feed your new passion.

ARROGANCE This is the point where most people begin to blog, teach, travel. (Yours truly inclusive.) When I came to Buenos Aires my first time I had been dancing a little more than 2 years.  In my community I was considered an intermmediate-advanced dancer.  In Buenos Aires they considered me a beginner.  It was a humbling experience.  I kept coming back for more.  In those first few years, if you didn't dance well, you didn't dance.  I learned on the floor from milongueros and then from my milonguero partner. 

I thought that made me better than all the people who threw hundreds and in some cases 1000s of dollars at teachers.  People in this stage post in forums, write blogs. It is not that they do it, it is the form that they take. 

While some can be entertaining (I like to think that at least some of my blog posts were entertaining) the majority sound like country western songs. He done me wrong - she walked out on me, or he is always on my mind to I will give her my endless love.  I have read some blog posts that are so mean that it amazes me.  The writer will shred, and I mean shred, people in their community, teachers, dancers, milongas, all while making themself look like the second coming of tango.  While the Argentines themselves may be competitive, I have never seen or heard them be as mean as the foreign community  (Unless they are throwing punches..)

There is something about tango in the exterior (as it is called here) where everyone wants to be famous or important or a star. You usually find it in this stage. Women bragging about how many pair of shoes they have.  When you stop to think about it?  How stupid is it to be the Imelda Marcos of tango shoes? Shoes that for the most part are not well made, are made of cardboard and leather and plastic, and cost a fortune.  That and where else can you wear them?  Can you imagine yourself in your Neo Tango shoes at the gym?  Men brag about how many songs they have. I meet men that talk about having 500, 600, 700 or more mp3 files. The new baseball card.  Everyone wants their little piece of fame.

The there are the Facebook posts.  Besides the hundreds of ads for classes, shoes, and clothes, there are the threads about life in tango.  If you agree with the commenter then you are OK.  Disagree and the machete comes out.  The arrogant stage wants recognition whether the person recognizes it or not. 

I spent my time saying I didn't want to dance or teach all while I was doing it and dispensing advice....I see the same now.  Funny how history continues to repeat itself in this dance.  I said I didn't want to be famous all while photographers and journalists came from all over to write stories about me and I loved every minute.  Sigh..

HUMILITY I knew Carlos Gavito before he became ill.  He was very arrogant.  I never understood that attitude that so many dancers had.  He never danced with me.  The same with Nestor Ray.  Then both became terminally ill.  I would see Gavito in the milongas. He went from being a robust man to a mere shadow of himself.  In the process he became humble.

He would always be at Porteño Bailarin at a table with friends.  I would always greet him. He was warm and friendly. One night he invited me to dance.  After the tanda I asked him if he was going to cut off my leg.  He laughed.  It was something he had threathened to do to me a long time a go in a class.  In front of everyone, in a not so nice way.

Nestor Ray was never known for being Mr. Nice Guy, but he was the consumate milonguero and an incredible dancer.  I knew him from Buenos Aires as well as his times in California.  I never took classes from him and he didn't like that.  He either ignored me or was rude to me.

Several months before his death he surprised me by asking to dance my birthday vals with me.  I never forgot that dance.  I am only sorry I didn't have a videotape of it. After the dance he looked at me and said one word "Bien."  That was a lot from him.

I suppose the thought of death can bring humility to some people.  I was in a bad car accident with my partner.  It brought me down to earth.  The longer I was here, the more I danced, the more I learned.  Then one day, all the things that had seemed so important were not.

Humility in tango are the people who dance well and don't need to talk about it.  They just go to dance.  That's it.  Sometimes they dance many tandas, sometimes they don't dance at all.  People watch them and enjoy watching them because they have style to their dancing.  They have life.

DEATH This could be literally or figuratively.  Why do people stop dancing?  Especially when something has been such a major part of their life. Obviously some people die.  For some people the tango dies.

One of the women I most admire in tango has been dancing more than 60 years.  To this day for me, she is still one of the best dancers.  She almost never goes to dance.  When we talk about the milonga she almost always says to me "For me the tango is dead." Until 10 years ago in her opinion (or maybe 7) there were good dancers in the milonga.  Now she sees almost none and the few that there are, are busy chasing the foreign women.  "Why would they dance with me? she says.  "I am just an old woman who can dance."  She would rather not go than to watch a dance that was so much a part of her life danced poorly.

A couple of months ago on a Sunday when I was walking my dog, I ran into a woman I had met at Lo de Celia's 10 years ago.  She was always in the milongas, every night and in the late afternoons.  In the last year or so, I hadn't seen her around. We hugged.  She told me her son had just moved to this barrio and she was helping him.

She asked me if I was still in the milongas. "Not like before." I told her. She told me she stopped going.  She felt the quality of the dancing was just not there anymore.  The few good dancers left..well, they look for the tourists.  She got tired of paying her entrada and sitting.  I always loved to watch this woman dance.  She told me now and then she goes to Roberto Canelo's advanced class.  She says this is better than a milonga, because the dancing is better.  We both laugh.  I haven't seen her since.

There are other women in my barrio who went to the milonga.  I see them from time to time in the bakery, the chicken man, and the pet store.  It is always the same.  They ask if I am still in the milonga.  They after many years have stopped dancing. For many it is now the cost.  A night of tango is 100 pesos. (35 pesos to enter, 12 for water, and a taxi home..it isn't safe to wait for the bus in most barrios late at night) Many people can't dance more than once a week now.  Men and women.  With inflation rising and expenses being what they are, food, insurance, and other things become more important. Slowly the tango works its way out of their life.

The tango isn't dead for me.  It just is not the most important thing in my life any more. One day I found myself in a milonga watching all the people.  I saw people I had known for 12 years. Women who were dressed in clothes that would have been better for their granddaughters.  I was seated a little further back and so I watched.  I watched the Argentine women dressed age inappropriately, in clothes a little too tight vying for the attention of the men.  On the other side of the room were the foreign women.  Wearing much more expensive clothes, that fit better, although maybe not always age appropriate. Some of them would hike their skirts up a little or bend forward to show more clevage.  Smiling widely. There were about 75 women competiting for the attention of about 35 men.  The men were clearly shopping. Ability to dance was not in the equation for most of them.

I realized in that moment, in 10 years I didn't want to be in that same chair hoping some man would invite me to dance.  It made me feel sad.  12 years ago when I first came to Buenos Aires, there were more men than women dancing tango.  The emphasis was on the dancing.  Every night was like a show. You could see Ricardo Vidort, Omar Vega, Either or both of the Zottos, Nestor Ray, Gavito, (If he was in town) Pupy Castello, Graciela Gonzales, and many others too numerous to name, and they all danced well.  They didn't come to sit, they came to dance.

After 14 years of dancing tango..12 of them here, I needed to expand my horizons. For me the tango is not dead.  They say that in the final stage of grief is when you let go, and let other things into your life and move on.  Perhaps this is where some of us are now.

 

The Sears Man Doesn't Live Here

The first time I had something break, it was my new refrigerator in 2005.  It was only 6 months old.  A GE.  It was under warranty and the store had given me an extended warranty.  My Argentine friends had told me that warranties were worthless in Argentina.

"You will see."  They told me.  "No one wants to do warranty work. It is better to just buy a new one."  That made no sense to me coming from consumer oriented California.  How could that be?  You have a product from a big company,bought from a big store.  Famous last words.  It took 2 weeks to replace the fan on my new refrigerator.

I would call to find out the disposition of my refrigerator part in my bad Porteño Spanish and they would either tell me A) Soon B) They would call C) Hang up on me. It didn't matter what I said or how I said it, the customer was the least important part of this equation.

When the repair man finally came to install the new fan, he told me that the company does not like to do warranty work.  They don't pay us well.  I didn't really understand that either until now.  Although I am still happy to report, that my refrigerator is still working.

I was used to calling Sears and having the Sears guy come with his truck loaded with parts. In an hour so whatever needed fixing, was fixed.  If it wasn't fixed properly you could call them back.  Here they hang up on you.  Customer service is not a strong suit.

My most recent dalliance in appliance hell has been with my clothes dryer.  My dryer worked great until last year.  Then it stopped rotating.  It blew hot air, but it didn't tumble. I didn't have a warranty.  Iasked all my friends if they could recommend someone.  No one had a good story to tell.  The encargado of my building said the guy they used to recommend retired. Time to let my fingers do the walking...

You have no idea how much fun this can be.  You see in the U.S. the repair services have a set labor rate.  So at least you can have an idea of how much you might be charged. They also will tell you how much the parts are.  Here you get none of that.  They offer to come out for free and give you a quote.

Now I completely understand why the companies who do warranty work don't like it.  They can't rob the customer.  Seriously. The manufaturer sets the price they pay for the warranty work, not the repair company.  I googled the make of my dryer and set out to call companies to see if they could repair my dryer.

You don't make appointments here.  The appliance repairmen in Buenos Aires make the cable companies in the U.S. look like military time precise.  I made appointments with 3 places.  No one would give me an idea over the phone of costs.  No one has an hourly rate.  Everyone comes out to give you a "free estimate."

I had to stay home on the days the repair companies said they would come just in case they decided to show up when they said they would show up.  One of the 3 never showed up, never called.

The first candidate came the day after they said they would come.  These guys always travel in pairs.  Maybe they are afraid of housewives?  Doubtful.  It is how they work their intimidation tactics.  I am amazed at how stupid they think the average person is just because they can fix a dryer.  I should challenge them to a race in fixing a computer...blow their little macho minds there.

An Argentine male friend of mine told me I was going to have a problem. "Estas re-mal amiga." he told me. Not only was I a woman, I was foreign, and I lived in Palermo. "Van a estafarte." He told me. (They are going to screw me over) Yeah, Yeah, I know, the foreign import tax as we call it.  I never pay it.

Anyway..these guys enter my apartment.  They look around. One asks me if I live alone. I ask him if this is an important question to fix my dryer.  He stares at me. I wonder if he thinks I am intimidated. I grew up in Detroit. This guy is small crackers in the intimidating looks department.  I ask him if he would like me to call my husband.  He says no.  I take him to my dryer.  He looks at it.  Asks me what is wrong.  Opens the door.  Tells me that it will cost $1200 pesos to fix.  I ask him how he knows this without looking at it.  He doesn't like this question.  He tells me with Chinese parts it will cost $900 pesos.  The guarantee is for 3 months.  I ask him to write it all down.  He gives me a card that he writes $1200 pesos on it. 

Then he starts to explain inflation to me and how this is not France. Really this is not France? Could have fooled me. He obviously thinks I am from France.  I am escorting him and his sidekick to the door while he vigoursly explains to me why I should do this soon. This is the strong arm sales tactic. Chau, bye bye.  I almost have to push them out the door.  I would have rather pushed them off the balcony.

The next day brings candidate #2.  Another couple.  I just love how they travel in pairs.  They size me up as they walk in the door. I take them to my dryer.  I explain what is going on. They also do not look at it. "$1500 pesos."  "Muy caro."  I tell them.  The taller and meaner looking one asks me where I am from.  "Here."  I tell him. "Do you want to see my documento." "No, where were you born?"  "Where were you born?"  I ask.  He looks confused.  "Why do you want to know?"  He asks.  "Exactly."  I tell him.  Then he starts to tell me in Germany things are different.  I tell him I wouldn't know how things are in Germany, because I have never been there.  ¨So," I ask him, "How are things in Germany?" This confuses him even more. "I hear they have good beer."  Now he is really confused. "No sos Alemana?" No, I am not German, and even if I was, so what?  He says something to the other guy.

"OK, esta bien."  he tells me.  It will still cost $1500 pesos.  He writes it on an invoice pad. Seccaropa Ariston $1500 propuesta.  Nothing more.  Not the labor, not the parts, not what is wrong.  Bye Bye you have to go now.  These guys really need to take a short cut off the balcony.

Frustrated I talk to the encargado of my building.  He comes upstairs to look at it.  It is the belt.  He can't replace it because of how it is hung inside.  Ariston must have secret tools to open and fix their dryers.  He tells me to get some names of service places and he will call for me.

First we do an experiment.  I call a place and ask them how much to replace a belt in my dryer.  They ask where I am at, model number etc.  They tell me $750 pesos.  Well, this is better than $1500 and $1200 pesos.  Next I have the encargdado call.  He tells them everything I have told them.  They quote him $520 pesos.  I guess I was quoted the same with the woman/foreigner tax included.

He calls several other places before we decide on which place to come out and fix it. He makes an appointment and the guys show up on time.  In fact the repairman has the same name as my dog - Maxie.  He and the other guy think it is funny.  They give me a written estimate for my dryer of course no details.  They cannot fix it in my apartment.  They take it with them. They never have the parts with them.  No one ever stocks parts. A belt for a dryer is not exactly an exotic part.  Please explain this to me. 

In any event, in two weeks they return and it works.  Only they want to charge me more than the estimate.  $200 pesos more.  I start to get mad. I call the encargado and he comes upstairs to defend me.  I cannot believe that after all these years I now have to ask a man to defend me.  It is so maddening.  WHERE IS THE SEARS MAN WHEN YOU NEED HIM?  Not here.  Finally after lots of yelling (Yes, yelling, this is Argentina, nothing is discussed calmly.) I didn't have to pay the extra.

So here I am 8 months later and my dryer breaks again.  A friend recommends a repairman to me who works in the hotels.  He comes right out.  Checks out my dryer and says to me "Throw it out.  It will cost to much to fix.  I will never get the part for it. It is a shame, but that is how it is. The imported parts just don't exist."  He tells me it really is not a major thing, but unless the manufacturer has the part, there is no way.  He said someone would try to fix it, and in the end it will just break again. "Just throw it out."

I call the manufacturer for the part.  I can feel the girl on the phone getting ready to be attacked.  No they don't have the part.  She apologizes and says they are very short on most parts.

Where is the Sears Man when you need him most? Not here.

 

 

 

 

There Ain't No Mountain High Enough..

Why are you living here?  Why did you come here?  Did you come here for a man?  These are the questions Argentines ask me 50 times a day.  I get so sick of these question I think I should just print the answers on a card, not answer, and hand them the card just like the children in the subte begging.  I would be begging too, I suppose. Begging not to be asked. Or at least not barked at.

Yes, I understand..I am a foreigner.  I might have an interesting story about why I moved to Argentina.  It is just the way it is is asked. For example, I am in a store, I want to buy something.  I ask for it.  The person doesn't answer me about the product I want to buy, they blurt in my face "Why did you come here?"  Before I can answer, they answer for me, "Did you come for a man?"  Of course this has to be the logical reason.  Why else would a woman move to Argentina?  It would have to be for those hunky Argentine men. (eyes rolling...drum roll please.)

I suppose the "Why did you come here?" are a little better than the "I don't understand you because you are a foreigner." responses. "Como? Como?" gets screeched in your face like mynah birds who have eaten some bad seeds.  Some days it is better not to go outside.  Unfortunately Argentina is not like the U.S. where you can do just about everything on the Internet.  At some point you must interface with people and try to get something done.  Right. Getting something done.  Another blog topic.

There are times I think that I am here because it is not boring here.  If there is one thing I really don't like, it is to be bored.  I do not like being bored.  I have never liked being bored. Argentina is anything but boring.  Just when you think you have things figured out, or when you have finally accepted or gotten used to something..it changes.

Take today.  There has been a garbage strike for 72 hours. The collectors are not on strike.  It is the people who work in the processing plant.  Sort of.  No one is quite sure. The only sure thing is that the garbage is not being picked up in the city or in the province. Two places where the President is not exactly thrilled with the two guys who govern...Macri and Scioli. (Macri is Mauricio, the mayor of Buenos Aires, and Scioli is Daniel the battered governor of the province of Buenos Aires.)

Bueno. The Mayor's office has been asking people since Sunday to not take their garbage out to the street.  Does anyone listen? Nooooo.  Sigh.  It is part of the Me, Me, Me, syndrome that permeates society here.  It is like "I don't want my garbage in my house and I don't care about anyone else."  Of course since people do this in the dead of night, there is no one around to see them.  Even if there were, who would stop them?  People just look the other way.

Great.  This morning I went out with Maxi for her walk.  Garbage piled 2 - 3 feet high in the street on the corners.  People don't want it piled in front of their buildings so they just take to the corners.  We are building sacrificial alters to the rats and bugs who will come to inhabit them, not to mention the stray dogs who like to make environmental art work with some of the garbage.  I am just glad it isn't summer or we could add a new scent; Au de Peron or something.

The department head for the city says he believes that this has been a political maneuver. Probably.  This is the only place where the federal government wants local governments to fail and look bad so they look better.  I still have a difficult time understanding this logic. 

You would think the federal government would want the local and state governments to excel so that they excel.  But no, it doesn't work that way here.  It's every man for himself and to hell with the rest of you.  The only problem is..the rest of us are stuck with the garbage.  Politicians..you gotta love them.

 

 

Walking the Barrio of Life

When I first came to Buenos Aires in 2000, it was to dance tango.  I was overcome by the faded elegance, the beauty, and the seemingly simple life of the Porteños.  Everything appeared to be in slow motion comparted to my life in the Bay Area.

Here people had time to have coffee and chat for 2 hours, to sit all day reading the newspaper.  Waiters in dapper little jackets and bow ties brought you not only coffee, but a little glass of orange juice, water, and a plate of cookies - all for the price of your coffee.  The cafes themselves were museum pieces from another time.  Wooden tables and chairs, lineoleum or tile floors.  It was intoxicating.

I would walk the streets of Buenos Aires and look at the beautiful old buildings.  They say that there is architecture here in Buenos Aires that you can no longer find in Europe.  I was mesmerized by the French, Italian, and Spanish architecture.  There were times I had to remind myself I was in Argentina, not Paris, or Madrid, or Florence. The similarity was amazing.  It was like being in Europe with a South American flair.

Of course there was the tango. My main reason, at first for coming to Buenos Aires.  You could dance in the milongas starting at 3 in the afternoon until 6 in the morning everyday.  In my first years in Buenos Aires, there were many more men dancers than women.  I remember going to milongas and being surprised at how many men there were.  There were few tourists.  Those of us that came were exotic.  The Argentines could never figure out why someone would want to travel to Buenos Aires to dance tango.

It was before tango became a business.  There were maybe 4 places to buy shoes. Finding a teacher was not easy.  It was word of mouth mostly.  The idea was to learn the music, to walk, to practice, and then eventually come to the milongas to dance.  It was a different world. 

If you didn't dance well, if you created problems on the dance floor, you were asked to leave the floor.  If you were not dressed appropriately, you were not allowed to enter.  The tango had its codes and they were followed.  I was in love with all of it.  It was like going back in time.

I spoke Spanish, but not like now.  8 years of living here in Buenos Aires has given me fluency.  Before I had a Mexican based Spanish that was good for living in California and traveling in Mexico.  I thought I spoke Spanish, I learned quickly after I moved here, that I sort of spoke Spanish.

I came to Argentina when they were on the brink of financial default.  In 2000 the people I connected with talked about the inflation, politics, and the corruption.  As an American I couldn't really understand all the negativity.  I understood, the situation, but not the depth. The politics of Argentina are nothing like the politics of the U.S. or even like any of the other South American countries.

I danced my way through all of it. In 2001 I came for 3 weeks and ended staying almost 2 months.  It was the time of the correlitos.  When the country defaulted on its loans. It was a terrible time for the people. Yet I saw something different.

I saw people pulling together. Trying to help each other.  I saw people giving food to the poor.  I saw people trying to shop at Argentine owned businesses. There was lots I didn't see, because I didn't understand.  I didn't know what was really going on.  I was a tourist.

I never stopped dancing.  The milongas were full.  It was 4 pesos to enter the afternoon milongas and 6 pesos for the evening milongas.  I danced everyday until 6 in the morning.  I would leave with friends and then go to find a place to have cafe con leche with medialunas.  There were lots of places open.  It didn't matter what time I left the milonga, one could go have coffee, take the bus home.  Taxis were cheap.  The meter started at 1.10.

Life could not have been better.  I was so in love with the tango, the lifestyle of Buenos Aires.  Or what I thought was the lifestyle... When Argentines tried to explain to me how it really was, I would blow it off and describe what it was like to live in the USA.  "You have no idea", I would tell them, "what it is like there. You think Hollywood is the life we all have."

Every Sunday I walk my barrio with Maximiliana my dog.  We take a long walk.  I used to walk the same route.  The last few Sundays I started to walk different blocks.  There are many empty buildings.  Stores, restaurants, service businesses are now gone, and the stores have not been rented.  The streets are dirtier than ever.  One Sunday I took my camera and shot pictures of all the garbage and griffiti in a 3 block radius from my apartment and loaded it on my Facebook.My Beautiful Barrio Photos on Facebook

I live in Palermo, a supposedly upscale barrio.  Guests and friends who had stayed at my apartment were shocked. "What happened?"  they wrote to me or posted on my wall. Others didn't understand why a no-graffiti law had not been enacted.  How do you explain that if one were, who would enforce it?

Locals can no longer buy dollars. Real estate after October will not be sold in dollars. Last week it was announced that foreigners - tourists who want to buy pesos must use their credit cards or debit cards to do so.  They can not use cash.  They can try the banks, but banks

I never used to understand the attitude of living for the moment.  It was once explained to me by an Argentine friend. "You only have this moment.  You know what it is.  So you must take it."  At the time I tried to explain the concept of the future to him.  "But that is an American concept." he said to me.  "You Americans always live in the future.  We have no future."  I thought that was so fatalistic. 

After living here 8 years, I have adapted.  I too live for the moment.  Things are so crazy you never know what is going to happen, so you must live for now.  Still, I am sad.  To see the city I love lose its elegance and my barrio become something it never was.

 

El Dia del Tango - The Day of Tango - 11 de Diciembre Tourists and All

I enter into my favorite Sunday milonga. The staff of the organizer greets me. They wave me off to my table.  As I walk there I greet the various people I know.  It is a holiday weekend so there are many people who are not here.  I note that there are many tourists here.  You can see it in the floorcraft.

When I get to my table my chair is taken.  I look at the next table.  Sometimes I sit there as well.  I always have a front seat.  For over a year the two Barbies and I have been the "Esquina de Las Rubias."  If they are there I sit one seat over.  If they are not, I sit one seat the other way.  Only today there is no seat.  I try to say something to the two foreign women, but both of them snipe at me.  I go to talk to one of the staff.

In this milonga I usually dance with the same people.  Maybe it is that way in most of the milongas. Almost all of them note the amount of tourists.  This was always a barrio milonga with few tourists.  People do not like to see it change. 

I tell the staff person I have no seat.  That there are women in my seat, and where am I to sit.  The issue with the tables is sensitive.  Regulars have their tables.  He comes to see what the problem is.  Essentially he sat the two foreign women behind and they decided to move up.  He asks one of the women to move back and she tells him no she will not.  He leaves. 

I am upset. I do not want to sit behind this woman. When you have your place the men know where to find you. The woman turns around and  says to me "I am sorry you have to look at my back."  I am shocked.  Does she think this is the issue?  I say to her, "I don't care about your back."  I try to explain the reserved tables to her.  She says the chairs were empty when she came so they sat there."  The woman who is sitting next to me always sits in back cannot believe the attitude even if she doesn't understand the English.  I translate.  Probably I would not be so mad if this woman were not so unbelievably arrogant.

The Organizer now comes and explains to her the situation.  The woman does not speak Spanish.  I translate nicely and explain to her again that these tables are all reserved every week for regulars.  That her seat is my seat.  That she and her friend were seated behind because the front seats are reserved.  She tells the organizer she needs to put names on the seats and in her opinon they were empty.  The organizer is shocked.  Not just by what was said to her, but in the obviously nasty and condescending tone.  They refused to move.

When the organizer left I said the to woman, "You know, you make me embarrassed to be from the USA.  You are a prime example of why the locals do not like foreigners.  You come here and you have no respect. "  This overweight sausage stuffed into her tango clothes looks at me and tells me that the Argentines need to learn how to do things better.  They should put names on the chairs instead of on their sheets of paper.  She completely misses the point.  I am furious.  She and her horsey looking friend have been nothing but rude. I tell her I hope she learns to dance during her stay along with learning some manners.  That shuts her up and she turns around.

The organizer comes back and moves me to another table. I am in front.  I say hello to the woman at the table.  She is Argentine but lives in Italy.  She is one of those Ex-Pat Argentines that becomes Argentine when she comes to visit, otherwise she hates Argentina.  I know those types.  All they do is complain about Argentina and Argentines, but when they come back to Argentina, it is a different story, especially they talk to a foreigner.  Only at this juncture I am more Argentine than she is.  She left 30 years ago.

She asks me if I went to the coronation of Christina.  I tell her no.  I did not go.  I don't like crowds.  She goes on and on about how great this government is.  I ask her how she would know this, she doesn't live here.  She doesn't experience the inflation.  I tell her how the inflation is killing people.  She thinks I live in dollars.  I set her straight on that one.  I tell her if things are so great how come we have 45% more villas (slums).  I love this answer, "Oh those are people from Bolivia or Paraguay or Peru."  I say to her, so they don't count as poor people?"  "What about the drugs?"  I ask her.  "The insecurity?"  She tries to change the subject and talk about the U.S.  I tell her I don't care about the U.S. because I live here.  "No me escuchaste?  Vivo aca 8 años."

I dance. I dance with my friends.  I get relief from this Italian disaster I am sitting with.  Why am I having this kind of night?  Couldn't it have rained?  I go back to the table.  The Italian disaster is not dancing but she wants to know if I learned to dance tango here.  I tell her my story encapsulated.  I really do not want to talk to her.  She tries to tell me that since I am from the US I didn't learn to dance the real tango.  OK fine me and my fake tango are dancing almost every tanda and she the Italian Disaster who is Argentine and learned to dance the real tango is sitting through every tanda.  Muchas gracias.  Shut up.

After dancing tango in Buenos Aires for 11 years you see things differently.  Milongas are where I go to see my friends and hear the music. The people I call my friends are not people I see outside of the milonga.  They are people I have known for years.  I don't feel the need to dance 12 hours a day or to talk about tango incessantly.  Tango still holds a very special place for me.  I cannot live without it. Yet, there is more in my life now.

When I first started dancing the men would ask me where I was going to dance.  Now they ask me how my clothing business is going.  If I am going on vacation.  Of course there are always the pirpopos, but I like them.  They come in a different spirit.  I don't have to wonder if I will dance.  I do.  I wait for the music I like and a man I want to dance with.  I am not frenetic about dancing every tanda or dissecting my dances.  I know my tango.

 It was 11 years ago I first came to Buenos Aires to dance tango.  Things were so different then.  There were fewer tourists.  Tango was not as popular in the world.  There were maybe 4 shoe stores and 2 places to buy music.  The milongas had strict codes.  Men had to wear a jacket.  Women dressed up.

On weekends men wore suits, women wore beautiful dresses.  Everyone was elegant.  If you were not dressed well, you were not allowed to enter.  I look at the floor today.  Jeans, shirts hanging out.  Women wearing clothes meant for their pre-teen daughters.  Not just the tourists but the Argentines as well.  The elegance is gone.

The dancers.  When I came 11 years ago, I was astounded to see everyone move in the line of dance and to the music.  It was wonderful to just sit and watch the dancers in Ideal, Lo de Celia, El Arranque, Niño Bien, and other places. Elegant, smooth, and to the music.  Maybe not everyone was a stellar dancer, but there were many.  People learned to walk before they learned anything else.  Tango was and is a caminata.  I look out at the dance floor.  It looks like dodge cars.  I know, I got stepped on and kicked, and had an elbow in my head of all places out there.

The Italian Disaster brings me back to reality.  We are watching two young couples in an exhibition.  They dance nicely, but they are boring.  The same step over and over.  She says to me "It is nice to see young people dance."  I tell her they are boring.  She tells me they are young.  I tell her being young has nothing to do with it.  I remember the first time I saw Geraldine.  She was 23.  She was amazing.  Being a young dancer does not mean you have to be boring.

During the cortina they play Frank Sinatra.  The Italian Disaster starts to wax poetic over how this is "my" music. "Not really."  I tell her.  She acts shocked.  "How can this not be your music?"  She demands. I look her in the eye.  "The same way if you ask 1000 Argentines about tango, they will tell you that was the music of their abuelos.  Frank Sinatra was the music of my parents."  She gets it.  I like Frank Sinatra, but please, I am not going to sit and listen to him. 

The nasty tourist and her horse face friend leave.  They were not dancing.  I guess sitting in my chair cursed them.  They were not blond.  Everyone who sits in those chairs on Sunday are blond.  Don't they know, blonds have more fun? 

I need new shoes.  All of my shoes are wearing out.  Leo has a new pair for me but she is perfecting them. I need, need, need.  I need a new bank account full of money.  I need to sell more of my clothes so I can buy more tango shoes.  Unfortunately life does not always work this way.

I think back again to my first trip 11 years ago.  Who would have thought a trip to experience tango in Buenos Aires would have had the profound effect on my life it did.  Impresionante.

 

 

 

An Honest Conversation: You Were Not Born Here

After a day of running all over the city, dealing with the tallers who make my clothes, buying fabrics, and figuring out costs, I was on my way home.  I decided to stop off and by a roll of white paper and some tape so I could take pictures of my clothes.  Sheets were not cutting it.  The wrinkles were showing,  and I just don't have the time for lots of Photoshop.

On Santa Fe in my barrio is a large office supply store.  They usually have everything.  I remembered when I first discovered the place, I was elated.  Somewhere where I go could in and find everything I needed and just buy it without talking to anyone.  That was 5 or more years ago when my Spanish was not so great.  Now language is not the issue.  Finding what I need is.  With Argentina all but banning imports, the issues with foreign currency, and inflation, goods are disappearing from the shelves.

I make it to the store and go upstairs to where the art supplies are.  I see they no longer have the rolls of paper jammed together in buckets.  They are in cubbyholes neatly labeled.  I decide to look at the tape first.

A young man with rolls paper under his arm approaches me and asks if I need any help.  I ask his advice. I tell him I am going to be hanging paper on the wall and which tape does he recommend.  He eyes me and then rather than speak clearly as he did before, he starts to run his words together.  Rather than ask me what kind of paper, he asks me what I am doing.  I tell him I am going to use roll paper like he has under his arm as a backdrop for photographs. He says he doesn't understand me.  So I repeat myself.  Then he asks me why.  Again he says he doesn't understand me.  This is annoying.  All I want to do is buy some tape.  He insists on knowing what I am doing.  I don't understand why this is so important.

I decide to ignore him and ask him again to please recommend a tape for me.  "You don't live here." he says to me.  "So why are you doing this?  I wonder if I have to show my DNI (Documento Nacional) to buy tape. "First of all I do live here,"  I tell him. "I design clothing. Now can  you please tell me which tape to buy?"  He tells me he doesn't understand me.  I shoot him a look. 

He then tells me the paper tape is the best. "Which?"  I ask him.  There are 2 with brands and a non-branded.  I already know the non-branded is worthless.  I tried it last time.  He mumbles.  We both know what he is doing.  He is trying to make this difficult for me.

Finally he recommends one of the brands.  As an afterthought he asks me if I need the tape hidden.  I tell him no, it is not important.  I figure he wants to recommend the double stick but the one he has is too narrow.  He then starts to lecture me that if I am taking pictures, it is important.  I look at him and say one word "Photoshop."  He looks at me and says he doesn't understand. "Voy usar Photoshop."  He insists he still doesn't understand. "No importa."  I tell him and I walk towards the paper.  He follows me.

Now you would think this would be easy.  Shelves all with tags describing the paper and with prices.  I pick up a roll that is priced at 59 pesos.  My new friend tells me that paper is not the paper that goes in that shelf.  It actually belongs 1 shelf up at 249 pesos.  There is another roll on the same shelf. "This one?"  I ask.  He shakes his head.  "No, that goes here."  "Do you have this paper?"  I ask.  He tells me no.  "OK," I ask him, "What do you have that comes in a roll that does not cost a fortune?" I am forced to buy paper that is 67 pesos a roll.  Not a big difference.  But still..

I go to the checkout.  Empty.  The two cashiers, young kids are hanging out talking.  Finally one comes over to check me out.  First he tries to sell me everything on his checkout stand.  I keep telling him I am not interested.  He ignores me.  Then he tells me cannot understand me.

So I ask him, "Why is it I have no problems communicating anywhere else today?  I was in 2 tallers, buying materials for my business.  Yet I come here and you all cannot understand me."  His response "Well you are a foreigner.  Maybe you had someone with you to translate and now you are alone."  I want to slap him.  I decide to pursue this. 

"In the 7 years I have lived here," I tell him, "I have never had a translator."  He doesn't believe me.  "Maybe you should," he tells me. "It would be easier for you."  I tell him that I don't find things all that difficult except when I meet people like him.  "But really," he says to me.  "You don't understand what people say to you."

I reach in my bag and pull out the book I am reading.  It is Cien Años de Soledad by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. His eyes open wide.  "Do you think a person who doesn't understand Spanish could read this book?"  I ask him.  He changes the subject.  "What are you doing with all this paper?  Drawing?  You need pencils."

It will be the backdrop for the photos I am taking.  I design clothing and I need to take pictures, I tell him.  He thinks about this.  "For there."  I tell him I don't understand.  "You work there."  I tell him "I work here.  I live here."  I think I am a l ittle crazy to have this conversation, but I am.  He laughs at me.  "No."  "Yes, more than 7 years.  I pay taxes, I have a driver's license, a business, and an Argentine dog and cat." (We cannot forget them.)

And now the truth comes out. "It's not the same." "Excuse me?"  I say to him.  "You are not the same. You were not born here.."  "I see,"  I say to him.  "and what is the significance of this?"  I ask him. "You are a foreigner.  You will never be the same."  I look at his face, he is proud of what he has just said.

"Tell me," I ask him, "Where were your grandparents from, Italy or Spain?" His eyes open alertly at the question. "How do you think they would feel if they heard you say what you just said to me?"  I pick up my packages and walk away.  As I walk down the stairs I hear him call to me "Hablas muy bien in Castellano, Señora, disculpame." (You speak very well in Spanish, I am sorry.)

 

How Do You Spell Boludo? TELECOM... Arguing With the Phone Company AGAIN

They say the measure of being fluent in a foreign language is when you can tell jokes and be funny.  I don't agree.  I was funny in Spanish a long time ago.  I think it is when you can argue successfully with the phone company.

Being a foreigner is a challenge.  When you move to your new home you need to learn how to speak all over again.  Everything you know in one language needs to be transposed to a new language.  The older you are the more difficult it is.

Even if the language is the same, it still can pose problems.  I remember once talking to a friend of mine who moved from London to the USA.  She told me although it was English, it was American English.  She said she had a difficult time understanding people and they at times could not understand her.  "Americans yell." she told me. "People would always tell me to speak up."  Her first few years were a cultural nightmare.

"I had a hard time asking for things." she said.  "Who knew that cling was Saran wrap, that chips were those things that came in bags and not freshly fried and salted.  We called those crisps, and no one knew what the hell I was talking about.  People wanted to know where I was from, did I know the Beatles.  It was crazy."

Now imagine, a completely different language.  I had learned Spanish in high school.  I loved the sound of Spanish from the first time I heard it in 4th grade.  All the girls wanted to learn French.  Not me.  I wanted to learn Spanish.  I couldn't wait until 8th grade when I could finally take Spanish 1.  I took Spanish all throughout high school and 1 semester in college.  I learned Spanish from Spain.

When I moved to California, my Spanish became Mexican with pieces from other countries.  Although I could carry a conversation I was never really fluent.  I thought I was, but really I was not.  I worked in Mexico.  I installed systems for manufacturers in Spanish.  I trained people how to use them.  There was always someone on site who spoke enough English so if I got stuck with the Spanish they could help me out.

Then I moved to Argentina with my Mexican, Colombian, whatever mixture of Spanish.  That was when I learned I was not fluent.   At least not in Argentine Spanish.  Here in the Capital Federal they have their own version of Spanish - Rio Platense. The accent is completely different.  Yes, accents are different everywhere, but not like here.  The Argentine accent is ledgendary.  They use vos instead of tu.  The Spanish is mixed with Lunfardo.  The difference is stunning.  Even native speakers from other countries have problems.

 My language skills have taught me all about discrimination. While many people are kind, considerate, and interested in why I moved to Argentina, there are many more, that are resentful and do not want foreigners here.  It was something I never figured on before my move. 

When I stop to think about it, my speaking and comprehension abilities came in 3 waves.  The first wave I could speak, but not like an Argentine.  I used words from Mexico - like platicar instead of charlar. (to chat)  One Argentine told me I made up the word platicar, that it did not exist.  This was in the middle of her chastising my Spanish.  I had to get my dictionary to show her, yes, indeed, this word did exist.  She still refused to accept it.  The typical arrogant Porteño response.

At times people would walk away from me, not willing to hear my accent or wait for me to stumble through what I needed to say.  The phone was a horror story.  They would just hang up.  No explanation necessary.  There were the people who would talk about me as though I was invisible.  Hello, Pelotudo, I am standing right here, I can understand every nasty thing you are saying about me.  I just could not defend myself all that well.

The next phase of my Spanish was better.  It was the Sandra phase.  By then I was friends with Sandra and she had a big influence of my Spanish.  She was teaching me lunfardo.  I am also fast at learning.  I had also made the decision to stop reading in English.  I started with children's books and moved up slowly.  My vocabulary and grammar improved.

Unlike many foreigners who come to a new country, I did not insulate myself.  I made mostly Argentine friends.  My foreign friends were people who spoke almost no English so the only common language we had between us was Spanish.  I immersed myself in my new culture.  I needed to learn who was who.  Actors, actresses, music groups.  The only thing I did in English was the Internet.

In this wave I could actually use the phone.  I could make appointments without people hanging up on me.  People began to compliment me on my Spanish.  I was reading on the level of a 14 year old.  I could swear like a drunken sailor, compliments of Sandra and a few other friends.

Now I am in the third wave.  I find this the most interesting.  I begin to speak and before I finish I am interrupted "De donde sos vos?"  Usually I answer with my barrio, Palermo.  This usually puts the person off balance.  "No, but where are you from?" they insist.  If I am in the middle of a business transaction and/or in a mood, I might answer many different things like "Is this important?"  or "From the dark side of the moon."

Don't get me wrong.  I have no problem telling my story to someone who is polite and interested.  It is the boors, who get under my skin at times.  I get told things like "You speak weird."  or "Your Spanish is good but you sound funny when you talk."  or "I knew you were foreign because your skin is so white."  Then there are the idiots who want to know if sex is better with Argentines or Americans.   I ask them if they really want to know.  That usually shuts them up.

I think in Spanish now.  I open my mouth and Spanish comes out.  Even when I speak English mostly Spanish comes out.  I am forgetting my English.  I now read on the same level in Spanish as I do in English.  My grammar is far from perfect, but many times it is better than some of the people I speak to who are born here.  I get complimented all the time.

The funny thing is I get asked more now where I am from than ever.  People say it is because it is weird to hear Argentine Spanish coming out of a foreigner's mouth.  One woman told me she thought I had Argentine parents but was brought up in another country.  Others just cannot figure me out.  I just wish they were a little less aggressive about it.

This brings us back to the begining. Am I funny in Spanish. Oh yes.  I was with some local big wigs a few weeks ago.  They thought I was hysterical and want to get me a radio show.  I said to them "With this Spanish?"  They said "YES! That is part of your charm."  I guess I would be like a female Ricky Ricardo or something.  I told them I wanted my own TV show.  I could compete with Susana Gimenez.  DEBY!!!!  They told me I had to start with radio.  Vamos a ver.  Being funny is easy for me.

Arguing with the phone company is another thing.  In any language.  Today I got my phone bill.  Those boludos at Telecom charged me AGAIN for Arnet.  After 90 minutes on the phone last month and promises and 5 million numbers that it would not happen again.  The suckers lied.  I did get a notice they would be turning off the service I never ordered.

So I called them.  Again.  Person #1 tried to play the I-don't-understand-you-game.  I made her understand so of course she transferred me.  Person #2 once she had my 5 million numbers from last month transferred me again.  This person tried to tell me, everything was OK from last month and would be OK NEXT month, BUT I had to pay for this month. ¿COMO? Are you out of your mind?  I am not going to pay for a service I never ordered.  She started tell me that I had to pay for August.  I shut her right down.  I told her I was going to call and go down to the Defensa del Consumidor and make a denuncia against them for charging me for a service I never asked for and for continuing to charge me after I asked not to be.  That shut her up.  She asked for my codigo de gestion.  Within moments I had another reclamada.  This call took 22 minutes.

Of course, there is next month's bill to look forward to.

 

The Men, The Men, Those Argentine Men...

Today at lunch my friend Trish told me I should write about my dating experiences in my blog.  I told her that I am tired of talking about my dating experiences. "But they are so funny." she said.  "You would make a lot of people laugh."  "I don't know, maybe. I will think about it."  I told her.

It has been a long time since I wrote about the men in my blog.  My two posts The Men The Men and The Men The Men What About The Men Revisted are my two most hit blog posts in Google.  Everyone wants to know about Argentine men.  I wrote those posts in 2006 about 2 years after I came to live here.  I wrote another post about a year later.

Now that I have been living here 7 years, I understand the culture, I speak the local dialect and understand it, things really have not changed too much.  I appreciate more my life in the Bay Area with regards to male female relationships.  I never realized how much back then I was treated as a person, than as an object.  Still today it is difficult to explain this to both Argentine men and to women.

The sexual revolution happened over a period of years in the states.  It was intellectual.  Here it happened via the Internet and it happened in a short period.  As an outsider I watched things change from the year 2000 until now. Most of the transformation was starting from 2006 until now.

If you think men in the states didn't cope with the changes of women in the workforce, women becoming independent, women earning their own money.  Come here.  It is a whole new ball game.  The sexuality gets mixed up.  It is very interesting as an outsider to this culture to watch it all and still try to date and be a part of it.  While I have adapted, there are still parts of me, that cannot adapt and probably never will.  It is what being an immigrant is all about.

Today in the restaurant there was a table of 3 men having a meeting behind us.  One man was overtly flirting with me.  Trish and I both noticed it.  He was nice looking.  He would turn around and smile at me.  He would get up walk around and smile at me.  He reminded me of Rafael Ferro who plays Victor Grande in the novela Un Año Para Recordar. 

He heard us speaking English and asked us where we were from.  I smiled at him and told him in Spanish I was from 8 blocks away and asked him where he was from.  He said close by.  So Argentine. To interrupt a business meeting to flirt with a woman.  Then I noticed his ring.  His wedding ring.  Game over.  On my side.

Trish and I continued our lunch.  I told her about some of my dates.  When men could care less about conversation.  They go on and on about how beautiful I am, my eyes, my lips.  I told her I find it so boring.  They don't want to make conversation with me.  After they hear "MY STORY" they only want to tell me how beautiful I am, because they figure the more times I hear it the faster they can push me into bed.  Only it doesn't work with me.  It bores me to death.  I know they would say this to any woman regardless of how she looks.  I am not special.

My American men friends or the other foreign men I know say that if they don't tell the Argentine woman at least 20 times during the date how great she looks she won't sleep with them.  Different cultures to be sure.

I want dialog.  To talk. Politics. Cinema, books, theater. I give her some examples of some conversations I have had with some men "Do you like movies?"  "Yeah, yeah, I like movies."  "What was the last movie you saw?"  "I don't don't remember, que hermoso ojos tenes."  When one man told me for the 10th time how beautiful I was, I told "I am beautiful inside."  He told me "I don't know that.  I could know you 20 years and not know that.  But I look at you now and I know you are beautiful." Sometimes I feel I am a clear example of women should be seen and not heard.  I never felt that way in the Bay Area.

Perhaps if I was from this culture I would find it charming and wonderful to always be told about the superficial.  But I am not.  I am from a culture that values different things.  That values intelligence, kindness, loyalty, sense of humor.  I spent too much time with geeks.

If you look around the restaurants women are not talking.  They are looking adoringly with vacant eyes at some guy while he talks.  OR no one is talking.  How boring.  I would rather be dancing.  A relationship is two people.  A least in tango I can interact.  I am not that desperate to have someone.  It is probably why I don't. 

The business meeting breaks up.  Mr. Victor Grande look alike comes to our table.  "I would like to have your phone number." he says to me.  I look him in the eye. "Señor, you are wearing a ring. you are married."  He looks at me. "No," he says, "I am not married."  "You are wearing a gold ring." I say to him as I point to his hand.  He looks at his hand as though he has never seen it before.

"This?" he says.  "This is not a ring." I look at Trish.  She speaks Spanish, and she is blown away, listening. "No?  Ahh, it's your mother's correct.?" He nods.  "Mejor, tu abuelo's" With that he rushes away, without even saying good bye.

Trish is appalled. "I can't believe it.  You are so fast." she says to me.  "I live here."  I tell her.  "I have to be.  Sometimes they don't even wear a ring.  You have to make sure they take you out on a Saturday night.  That you meet their friends, their family.  You have to go to their apartment.  Sometimes that isn't enough.  It can be hard work."

Trishe's eyes are wide.  "Wow!" she says, "You have taught me a lot."  She is still blown away by the Victor Grande look alike.  I am sure that there are some really nice guys here.  Somewhere.  I am still looking.