TangoSpam:La Vida Con Deby

Me engancho con Los Colombianos

It has been years since I have really traveled.  Before I moved to Buenos Aires, I was always on an airplane. Europe, South America, LA.  (Los Angeles to those of us that lived in the Bay Area, was another country.) I was somewhere, although mostly here.  Then  I moved here.

I wanted to travel, to see the rest of South America, to see Argentina.  I was here a year when the fateful car accident happened.  My life was never the same.  I changed physically and mentally.  I thought my body had healed, but it was a trucho - it was fooling me. 

I made small trips - to Mendoza, Bariloche, Uruguay, and Chile.  They were small trips.  Never more than 5 days.  I never traveled more than that.  Then I stopped traveling.  The pain in my back was so tremendous I could not think of going anywhere.  Only to the natural hot springs here in Argentina.  Even then, the idea of sitting on a bus for 8 hours was torture.

The day I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia was a day of liberation.  The medication has relieved me of my pain and given me back my life. It makes me a little more dingy than normal. But I can function. On Saturday morning I got up and for the first time in I don't remember how long, I put on music and danced.  I used to do that every morning.  Put on tango music and walk, do ochos.  I left the music on.  All kinds of music.  Now filling my apartment where there once was silence.  Everyday there is music.  All of my music.  What a change.

The first thing I did was email my friend Nancy.  "I am coming for Thanksgiving turkey"  I wrote her. Nancy lives in Florida.  I have not been in the US since Jan 06.  I want to go shopping.  Target, watch out this Rubia is on her way with her credit cards! 

Then I had to think, where else did I want to go.  I need a vacation.  It has been years since I have really traveled.  Somewhere exciting, where I could really see some new things.  Chile?  No, I can go there anythime.  Same with Uruguay. Venezuela?  No way, not even an option.  Colombia, obvio!  I have always wanted to go there.  I lived with a Colombian man for 4 years or so and he always talked about Colombia, it was a lastima I never got to go there.

I began to research flights.  Where did I want to go?  Bogota? Medellin? Cartagena?  So many choices.  In the end I decided to go to Bogota first and end with Medellin.  I left the middle of my trip open.  I will ask in Bogota for recommendations.  You never know what places people who live there might recommend.  I can always go to Cartagena.

I booked my flight to Bogota, then to Miami. Because I spent hours and hours surfing 9 million sites, I managed to get a great deal on my tickets.  I found what I think will be great places to stay.  Inexpensive but in great barrios.  If not, they will be interesting experiences.  I always think positive.

I want to dance salsa in Bogota.  I also want to dance tango.  I emailed the people in Bogota and Medellin for information on Tango. Both gave me their cells and told me to call. Juan in Medellin has been incredible.  They have lots of tango in Medellin and I cannot wait to go and dance there.  Juan has sent me lots of information.  Plus Colombian food..I am going to die - arepas, frijoles negros, ajiaco.  I will be in heaven.  I will have to do lots of walking and dancing.

Maximiliana will be spending her 3 weeks dentention or boot camp with her paseador Juan Carlos.  I thought about sending her to the campo and one of the chi chi doggie training camps.  But, she already has "issues" from being abandoned, I didn't want to add to them.  I figured bunking with her paseador was a better option.  Besides he will kick her ass.  I am sure her bad habits will be broken in no time.  Either that or she will have given him a nervous breakdown.  I don't call her "La Demonia" for no reason.

So here I sit, in a messy, disorganized apartment. There is stuff everywhere. I leave on Thursday.  I had a small despidida in Torquato Tasso on Sunday. Thanks to Miguel Romero.  When I tell people I am going to Colombia, they ask me if I am going there to work. They mean am I teaching.  It has been a long time since people asked me that. Not having pain is showing in my face, in my dancing. I tell them I am going to find a new "pareja".  "What is wrong with the Argentines?" they ask me.  I laugh.  "Me encanto con Los Colombianos."  I tell them. "Vas a enganchar con un Colombiano y no vas a volver."  Nadie nunca sabe.

How The Dog Park Changed My Life

If you have been reading this blog for any amount of time, then you know, that I have been suffering from pain in my back.  In 2006 I was in a bad car accident here in Buenos Aires.  I fractured my hip and damaged my knee.  I thought that I had recovered from that accident.   I am not a hypochondriac and I don't like being told no.  I pushed myself beyond what my doctors thought I could do.

I knew my body was not the same, but I pushed myself harder.  I was not going to give up.  For years after I had a nagging pain in my back.  My doctor blew it off.  It was the humidity of Buenos Aires.  It was the aftermath of the accident.  The same for my knee.  The pains got worse.

If you knew me during this time, I was a mess.  I was not me.  I was exhausted all the time.  Me, the person who could go on 4 hours of sleep.  The pain became insufferable.  I think in the last year and a half I saw probably 8 orthopedists, 2 neurosurgeons, and 2 rheumatologists.  I went to physical therapists, accupuncture, and massage therapists.  Everyone had their opinion on what was wrong with me.

The orthopedists and the neurosurgeons all wanted to carve me up for something I did not have.  Thank God for Dr. Brain my neurologist.  He read my MRIs and told me I didn't need surgery.  They were all convincing in their stupid doctor ways.  You have to wonder, were they stupid?  Or did they just want to make money?

The Internet can be a fabulous tool.  When the first doctor told me I had lumbar stenosis I went to the Internet to research it.  Hello.  I did not have one symptom.  I could write a book on the little devices they wanted to install in my back - X-Stop, Cofler, Pixus.  The funny thing was I knew more about them, than the silly doctors who wanted to shred my back and install them.

The rheumatologists?  The one with his fancy degrees sent me to GPR. (Global Postural Re-eduacation) He blew me off on to the son of his colleague.  A young man who eventually told me that there was nothing wrong with me.  The drugs he prescribed didn't help.  He told me to do sit-ups.  When I told him that sometimes the pain was so bad I wanted to die, he rolled his eyes.

The famous neurosurgeon who was dazzled by her own credentials began to grow fangs when she told me what she wanted to do my back.  It was horrifying. "You are so young." she clucked. "What a shame." The one positive thing she did was send me to a pain clinic.

They believed me when I told them I did not have stenosis.  You can't walk 30 blocks and have stenosis. They decided to take more xrays. The xrays none of the others wanted to take. Because the CAT scan showed no stenois and what it did show was that one vertebrae had moved over the other.  Very common in athletes and dancers, they told me.  That was why I had pain.  That and I had arthritis.  I had heard that before.  Except none of the drugs for arthritis helped.

About a month ago they gave me a fancy guided block.  It was supposed to make all the pain go away.  It didn't.  I still felt like a truck had driven over me every morning.  I was exhausted.  I figured it was from the chronic pain.  They told me to go swimming.  I hate swimming.

One day in the dog park with Maxi an older woman approached me.  She stopped and looked at me and asked me what was wrong.  I told her I had arthritis in my spine and that I was in pain.  She took my hands in hers and looked into my face.  She told me to call a doctor at Hospital Italiano.  It was a very strange meeting.  She made me repeat his name 3 times and to promise to call him.

I go to this dog park every Sunday with Maxi.  We are the same crowd of people.  I have never seen this woman there before.  She said she was from Tandil and her dog needed to run.  I figured that I had seen so many idiot doctors, one more didn't matter.  There was something about this woman, that made me want to call for an appointment.  It took almost 2 months to get one with him.

Two weeks ago I went to see this doctor.  I was the youngest person in the waiting area by probably 20 years.  I seemed to be the only one not in a wheelchair, using a walker, or a cane.  Talk about feeling out of place.  I clutched my millions of xrays waiting to see him.

I walked into a small room.  There was a doctor sitting behind a computer and a young woman doctor off to the side.  I offered my xrays but he waved them away.  "Sit down." he barked at me.  I did.  I don't think I had much choice.  The other idiot doctors all asked me to tell my life story.  This guy didn't want to hear it.  He started asking me questions. "How do you feel in the morning?"  "How do you feel 2 hours after you get up?"  I could not believe it.  It was like school.  He didn't miss a beat.  He just kept asking me question after question.

Finally he told me to stand up and touch my toes.  I did.  Then they asked me to do a bunch of tests for flexibility.  I wowed them.  I don't think I had much competition, considering the waiting room.  At some point I think they were having fun with me. Then they asked me to lay on the table.  The woman associate began to press points on my body.  I thought I was going to die.  It was horrible.  When she got to my back I wanted to slap her.  I didn't think that was a good idea.

When she was done and I got down, the doctor looked at me and said "Señora, you have fibromyalgia." "Huh?"  That never entered my mind.  He explained that it was very difficult to diagnose, but I had a classic case.  There are 18 points in the body to test.  Usually 11 are inflamed.  I had all 18.  My back was worse because of my dancing.  He told me he felt badly for me.  My arthritis is not that bad nor is the problem with the vertebrae.  This was my problem all along and none of the drugs that I was taking were the right ones.  He gave me a prescription for two more.  "Don't worry." he said to me.  "There are many drugs we can try until we get the right ones. Come back when you can get an appointment, in a month or 6 weeks."

Could it be this simple?  I rushed to fill the prescription.  I am pain free.  It is weird.  For the first time in a long time I have no pain.  I am also sleeping.  What a trip.  I always thought the pain in my shoulders and neck were from using the computer.  The pain in my arms from bad dancers.  I justified everything.

Weather changes still bother me.  Now all I need is tylenol and darvocett instead of an army of drugs.  I am still tired at times, but not like before.  They say this can be corrected.  I am just happy  to be pain free.  I am happy to have my life back.  I can dance again.

The doctor says I have to be monitored.  The drugs sometimes have to change.  Whatever.  He says all the exercise that I do along with the Alexander Technique is great.  I have been reading up on this syndrome as they call it.  Some doctors refuse to believe that it exists.

I always knew throughout this whole ordeal that there would be an answer.  I never gave up.  I just kept going to doctors.  I figured sooner or later I would find one that would know what was really wrong with me.  I finally did and in the oddest way.  In the dog park.

I looked at a couple of forums on fibromyalgia but those places are not for me.  I never wallowed in self pity.  I just kept pushing on.  It was not easy. But it was better than being carved up for something that I didn't have.  I am lucky that in the Argentine medical system I can go to a doctor without a referral. I could have seen every doctor in my book if I wanted. (Now that is a scary thought.) I just had to do it in Spanish and with doctors who hated a patient who knew more than they did at times.  I know my body.

They do not know what causes fibromyalgia.  It can be a tragic event such as my accident was. They say it is the nerve endings gone wild. I know for me, that I will not let it dominate my life.  I am thrilled to death that I do not have pain.  I know now that if it comes back, then there are other drug options.  For the time being it is two pills in the morning and 1 at night, the gym, walking, and of course tango.

Medio Vaga

I feel like I waste  a lot of time since I started living here.  I spend too much time on Facebook, emails, and hanging out with friends, when I should be working or looking for work.  Before I moved to Buenos Aires I was a classic type A personality.  I worked all the time.  I made every minute count.  I was always looking to be more efficient. Now I don't care.

My Argentine friends think that I am "muy trabajadora."  A hard worker.  I rent the rooms in my apartment, I teach English, I translate, and I write.  I took two contract jobs in IT, which was the career I had before I moved here.   It made me realize why I moved here.  They were too stressful and I had less free time.  I was always working.

When I started my search for an apartment to buy I devised a spreadsheet and a system to look at as many apartments as possible.  Real estate agents here are worthless.  They don't really do much to help you.   I was on a mission.  I had a spreadsheet of all the places I visited.  I could sort it in a any number of ways.

Every weekend I would get the paper and reference all the apartments that had open houses on a copy of a street map.    I would arrange things so I could see 10 - 15 apartments in a day.  I had a separate sheet for comments.  Everything would be transferred to the spreadsheet.  My Argentine friends were in awe.  "You act like this is work!" they would say to me.

When I started to look for things to buy I did the same thing.  I made lists.  I used to be a great one for lists. I would go from store to store comparing prices.  Then I discovered that prices are basically the same everywhere in Buenos Aires. In the US fair competition is the ability to sell things at competitive prices.  Here that does not exist.  Stores sell things at more or less the same price regardless if it is Wal-Mart or a mom and pop.

Since I moved here in 2004 I have stopped making lists and I no longer wear a watch.   When I lived in the US I had a clock in every room.  Even the bathroom.  Now, somehow, I get where I need to go without the time obsession.  I remember what I need to do or buy without lists or spreadsheets.  I still have an agenda but only to keep the appointments I make, not to plan my life months in advance, like before.

I gave up much materially to move to Buenos Aires.  My friends still talk about the "things" that I had. I know that while I gave up many things, I gained a lot more by moving here.  I never saw myself as a laid back person, but compared to how I was, I certainly am now.  I have lost the need to plan every minute of my life.  I take things as they come.  If they don't get done today, no big deal.  I can always do it tomorrow.  Or next week.

This post was originally written for Affordable Calling Cards

Fiesta De Las Empanadas

This weekend is the beginning of spring.  Argentines never need an excuse to celebrate.  Spring is as good as an excuse as any.  This year we have had an unbearable winter.  It was terribly cold (for us) and the Swine Flu epidemic made it a winter you wanted to stay in more than normal.

My friend Aidana and her husband Steve have invited me to their empanada party on Saturday night.  Empanadas are an Argentine turnover.  They can be fried or baked.  I love them fried, but considering the health aspects, I mostly eat them baked.  The pastry is called a tapa and depending on how it is folded, will give you a clue as to what the filling inside is.  Traditional empanadas are filled with chicken, ham and cheese, beef, and spicy beef.  Spicy for the Argentines, but not for anyone else.  Argentines do not like spicy food.  Usually you can also find corn, swiss chard, Roqueforte, Roqueforte and ham, and cheese and onion.  Many places are now experimenting with eggplant, mozzarella, tomato sauce, tuna, and even dessert empanadas with apples and strawberries.

Empanadas are an Argentine fast food.  Mostly they are made in pizzarias or at home.  There are specialty stores that sell only empanadas.  I don't understand why any Argentine would want to eat McDonalds when they could have an empanada.

I am running late and have decided to buy the empanadas from next door at the pasta shop.  The husband and wife who run the store make home made pasta and empanadas.  They usually only have two kinds; meat and/or ham and cheese.  These are the fillings in their pastas. The empanadas are a little more money but they are larger and excellent.

After waiting for the bus longer than I wanted to, I opt for the subte.  Me, the empanadas, and a bottle of wine.  The subte is actually better because it will leave me a block from their house.  I just didn't feel like changing lines.  The key is to get there.

Aidana is an artist who makes jewelry and handbags from trash.  Her stuff is great.  Very creative.  She makes things from old tires, milk cartons, you name it. Trash-Fashions is the name of her site. You should check it out. It is really cool.  Steve is a writer.

When I get to their place there are lots of people and empanadas already there.  Steve takes me up to the terrace.   They have a parrilla going to heat the empanadas.  I don't know anyone here, or so I thought.  I introduce myself to a group of women seated in front of me.  They ask me where I am from.  The eternal question.  They are not sure whether to try and speak in English with me or not.  I start in Spanish.  They are delighted.

Within seconds someone puts a glass of wine in my hand.  I had confided in Steve that I bought the wine I did because it was A) cheap, and B) had a really great label.  He told me that they buy it all the time and that it is excellent. I taste it.  I am not sure I would call it excellent, but it is a good value at 6.50 pesos.

I go over to the empanadas.  What a selection!  It is dark so trying to figure out what something is, will be impossible.  I take one and bite into it.  Eggplant and mozzarella.  Que rico!  As I turn, a German couple introduce themselves to me.  We chat for a bit when I hear my name.  I turn to see a woman I had met at another party.  I thought that she had gone back to the U.S.  She tells me she did, but collected her dog and came back.

Aidana has salsa music blaring.  A man is teasing the young woman sitting next to me.  She just started dancing salsa and he is quizzing her.  She is frustrated because she does not know the answers.  I do.   He asks her where to dance salsa on Corrientes.  I whisper "Azucar and maybe better is La Salsera on Yatay."  She tells him.  He is dumbfounded.  Each time he asks a question, I give her the answer until he gets bored and walks away.  She introduces herself to me.  She is a teaching assistant at the University.  She gets my number and email "Now we have to go dance salsa." she tells me.

I decide to try another empanada.  Yum.  This one is chicken and cheese.  It is delicious.  Most likely because it had been fried.  They really are good that way, but so bad for you.  I try another wine.  I don't drink much so I have to be careful.  I don't want to be drunk on the bus going home.

I run into Beatrice.  This was a complete surprise.  Her husband is a pyromaniac with the fire.  He tells me how he likes to kill mosquitoes.  I tell Beatrice I hope she has lots of insurance. We catch up on our lives.  As I turn around I see an old friend I have not seen for awhile, my friend Victoria.  She looks wonderful. It is amazing what a small city Buenos Aires can be.

After consuming too many empanadas, wine, and even a chocolate chip cookie, I decide it is time to leave.  I say good bye to my old friends and the new friends I have made.  Now it is officially spring.

This post was originally written and posted on Affordable Calling Cards September 20, 2009

Roxie..At Peace, Here Comes La Demonia.

Today, one year ago, on September 16, my Roxie died.  When people ask me about her, or when I think about her, I still choke back the tears.  She was my Roxie.  The bravest, sweetest, most loving pit bull doggie.  I still cannot believe she left me.  I could write a whole blog, or two, or three about Roxie.  But I don’t want to write about her death.  I want to write about life.

I believe that when Roxie died, somewhere in Moron a litter of puppies was born.  Or maybe it was before she died.  The sad thing was, who ever owned the mama dog, abandoned the litter of pups.  That is not uncommon here.  As much as Argentines love animals, there are many people here who do not care for their pets.  They abandon them when they go on vacation.  They abandon them when they don’t want them anymore.  Spaying pets is not common here, so you can only imagine the quantity of unwanted puppies and kittens.  There are no subsidized shelters here.  There are kind individuals who have started their own shelters, but there is nothing well organized.

I have this fantasy that Roxie who always looked after me, sent me Maxi.  (Oh and did she ever) I made Roxie promise to never leave me.  She had to.  Her cancer finally got the better of her.  So in her place, she sent me Maximiliana.  I do not know if Maxi is the reincarnation of Roxie or if Roxie sent her to me, but I don’t believe it was an accident that we found each other.

Juan was Roxie’s paseador – dog walker.  In a way he is family.  He was with me when I had to put Roxie to sleep.  In January last year, he and his brother were walking in Moron when heard squeaks.  They were walking under bridge.  At first they they thought it was a rat when it moved.  But when it squeaked again, Juan was sure it was a puppy hidden in the filth and trash.  When he got closer it ran away.  He and his brother chased it until they finally caught it.  She was filthy, undernourished, but adorable. At least she appeared to be adorable.

His brother took the puppy and named her Brenda.  (A totally stupid name) They figured she was about 4 – 5 months old. When Juan came back to the capital he found me walking in the barrio.  “Encontre una perrita re-dulce” he told me.  I wanted nothing to do with it.  I told him so.  I never wanted another dog.  I could not imagine having another dog after the Roxinator.  He kept insisting that when he looked into the face of this puppy he knew this puppy was for me. Every time he told me this I told him “NO”. Famous last words.

Two days later he rang my doorbell and asked me to come downstairs.  Like a fool I did.  He opened his car door and there she was, sitting on the seat.  When I went to look at her she barked at me.  I mean really barked.  When I told her to shut up, she jumped into my arms.  That was it.  She was to become “Maximiliana, the most spoiled dog in Palermo.”

In the beginning I wanted to kill her.  La Demonia.  “Me traijiste una demonia”  I would tell Juan.  I forgot what it was like to have a puppy, let alone one that had been running wild for who knows how long.   It didn’t matter she had a face only Disney could perfect.  Those huge big brown eyes and that wrinkled brow, along with the mouse squeaks.  She was a dog with “issues.”  A polite way to say she was the puppy from hell.

She is a total street dog.  A fighter.  She shunned affection. A leash was not for her.  Sit maybe.  The rest of the commands forget it.  Jumping on the table to eat with me, sure why not?  Try to housebreak a puppy when you live on the 17th floor.  I wanted to drop kick her.  Thank God I still had the shipping crate I brought Roxie in. 

If she didn’t like what I wanted her to do she would sit there and defiantly bark at me.  Once in a party I had, she jumped on the table and began to help herself to the food.  Another day the woman who cleaned my apartment started screaming.  Maximiliana had jumped on the dining room table and started gnawing at one of the chairs.  I mean why use one of the many kongs or bones you have when you can have a dining room chair?

Sometimes walking her was impossible.  She was so afraid of not having anything to eat she would try to eat the gum off the sidewalk.  She was like a vacuum cleaner.  Anything that resembled food went down before I could stop her.  Juan told me he never saw a dog inhale garbage as fast she did.

Obviously she wasn’t all bad.  She was learning to accept affection.  The defiant barking was down to a minimum.  My guests loved her.  Even the ones who didn’t really like dogs.  One look into that little face was all it took.  I would remember the 22 pair of shoes that Roxie ate along with the wood window sills and the remodeling of my kitchen floor.  No one would believe me that Roxie had been worse than Maximiliana.  But she was.

Unfortunately Wendell the dog trainer lives in Emeryville.  I seriously contemplated paying him to fly here to whip this dog into shape.  He did the best job with Roxie.  I needed to find someone like him for La Demonia. I found Mariela the dog trainer.  Twice a week.  Now Maximiliana walks on a leash, she sits, stays, and goes down.  She will come in the dog park, but only with a cookie in the house.  Mariela says she is “vivo”.  She is a pretty smart little dog, after all she survived the streets.

 

When I fall asleep on the couch, more often than not I wake up to a puppy who has wrapped herself around me.  In the mornings when I let her out of her crate, she licks my face.  When I look into those big brown eyes I wonder, “Will I ever have the connection with her I did with Roxie.”  But then, I remember looking at Roxie and wondering the same about her with Sophie. I like to think that Roxie’s spirit is here with us.  I know that she sent me this Demonia, and although I complain, I adore her.

Living In Buenos Aires: The Identity Crisis That Isn’t

This was first published on Blogcritics.org 8/31/09

I am not Argentine. I am an American. I live in Argentina. I have lived here for almost 5 years. I feel disconnected from American life, and in many ways from Americans. I feel much closer to Argentines, but I am not Argentine, and culturally we are very different. In most ways I have adapted. There are some things I cannot change about me. Those things can make it a challenge to live here at times.

Yesterday I had lunch with an Argentine male friend. He recently came back to Buenos Aires to live after being gone 40 years. During the course of our lunch he said to me “I am Argentine, but I haven´t lived here for 40 years. I don’t feel like I really fit in here. Yet I am from here. I lived in the US 30 years, but I never felt like I fit in there either. I guess I am just weird.” I looked at him and said, “Entiendo, yo también.” (I understand, me too)

It’s not easy to change your country. With all the times I had come here, it still was not the same as living here. I was a business analyst. I was used to planning everything down to the last detail. There are just some things that don’t go on a spreadsheet. Adapting to a new culture is one of them.

I was lucky, when I came here; I had a foundation in Spanish. However, not Porteño (Porteño is what the people of Buenos Aires are called) Spanish, which is a completely different language. The Spanish language is difficult enough with its 14 tenses and irregular verbs, not to mention nouns that have to be masculine and feminine. Now all of a sudden the tu form goes out the window and I am saying vos. Mujer is no longer woman, that is the wife, and women are minas. Chicos are pibes. The future tense is not used, most likely because Argentines figure they have no future.

Don’t even start on the accent. In the entire Spanish speaking world the LL and the Y are pronounced the same. Not here in the Capital Federal. While every country has a unique accent, none comes close to the Porteño accent. As soon as a Porteño speaks, every Spanish speaker in the world knows exactly where they are from. What I soon found out is that if you don’t sound like them, they don’t listen. Patience is not high on the list of Porteño priorities.

I was naïve. I never thought to think about prejudice. I am embarrassed to admit this. Me, who lived in Oakland, California, next to the People’s Republic of Berkley. I am blond with green eyes. Silly me. Prejudice runs in many shades. I was “una norteamericana” and for some that was more than enough reason for people to hate me. I came from that imperialistic country up north. The one where Bush was president. There was usually a whole list of grievances thrown at me. It was like I was personally responsible for the screwed up foreign and domestic policies of the USA.

I am not talking about the overcharging that sometimes happens to foreigners. I am talking about prejudice, plain and simple. Discrimination. Once in a taxi with a friend on the way to dance tango, we picked up another of her friends. Introductions were made. The friend started to make comments about Americans. I kept my mouth closed. I wanted to hear what she had to say. My friend stopped her and told her that I understood Spanish. Her friend responded with “But not our Spanish.” To which my friend responded back “Oh yes she does, because I taught her, and I am a very good teacher.” This did not daunt the woman. She continued embarrassing herself and my friend. She asked my friend if I had to sit with them. She didn’t want me at the table. She was very surprised when my friend told her yes, because the table in the milonga (what we call where we go to dance tango) is mine. (Having your own reserved table in the milonga is an honor. This is unheard of for foreigners. I have my own table in several milongas.) She was shocked and had no choice but to sit with this “Yanqui”.

Americans are positive. Argentines are amargo – dark, negative, some say. Americans work in teams, they look for solutions. Argentines fly solo. It is always about them. When I think about the U.S., I think about this old Mickey Rooney movie where he gets the kids together and he says “Come on kids, let’s put on a show.” Next thing you know they have a huge musical production that is flawless. That usually doesn’t happen here. Everyone would have to present their opinion and demand to do it their way. They would just do it their way anyway, and in the end there would be no solution, no play, and lots of expenses. Or there would be a play but it would be difficult to follow. The big difference is that the Americans would work 24/7 and be stressed out to get it right. The Argentines would work in between arguing and enjoy themselves. Getting it right might not always be the main goal.

Americans are goal oriented and Argentines live for the moment. Americans until recently have always gone forward. Argentines live from crisis to crisis. They don’t think of the future or the past, they think of now, because that is what they have. Americans always look to make things better, faster, and easier. Argentines use what they have and just keep piecing it together to keep it running. They have procedures that used to frustrate me no end. Now I just accept that making things complicated and difficult is just the way it is. So much, that many times when you ask an Argentine a question he will begin with “Es muy complicado” before giving you the answer.

To an American, there has to be a system. The system has to be followed, or you are punished. Here, well, mas o menos. Usually menos. I love crossing the street on a red light in the middle of the street. I still feel like a kid getting away with something. In California that was a nice big fat ticket for jay walking and walking against the light. Here the cops just stare at you. The cars ignore the lights half the time anyway, so do the cops, remember this is Buenos Aires.

People here always adapt. Maybe that is the problem. In many ways I admire my Argentine friends. High inflation is killing us. The government’s numbers are a joke. Instead of loud protests, people make do. They eat less meat, they buy fewer clothes, they go out less, but they still make time to enjoy life and their friends in any way that they can. Friendships and family are very important. I love that I am never alone. I always have somewhere to go on holidays, and my birthday is a three day celebration.  Whenever I need something or someone there is always somebody I can call to help me out.  People make time for each other.  They don’t make appointments 2 months in advance.

In the beginning it was fun for me to meet other people coming here from the U.S. Now I am a little wary. You try to explain life here and they always have the answer, even though they do not live here, or they are only here for a short time. They don’t believe me or they think I am lying to them when I tell them how it really is. After all, they are armed with the Internet and Lonely Planet and 5 friends who were here before. It doesn’t matter that I live here.

When I first came to live here, not meaning to, I would insult Argentines. I didn’t understand the cultural differences as well as I thought I did. Now after living here almost 5 years, I am starting to insult Americans. This is mostly because my “Argentine side” feels insulted by them. These are supposedly well traveled, educated people. In the end, they don’t understand why the “Paris of South America” is more like South America than Paris, and of course, it must change.

The changes of course need to be for the Americans, and the American way of life. I get so tired of hearing what “Argentines need to do” and how “Argentines need to change”. It can be something as ridiculous as not understanding why people still do something “stupid” like clean their sidewalks with a bucket and a mop when they should be buying steamer machines or insulting on how tango should be danced here to accommodate the foreigners. After all if the Argentines want to make more money….as if earning more money should be the end result to anything one does.

My dance partner once said about me “Este gringa esta muy brava.” More or less that I have balls. This is not something all that complimentary to say about a woman. Here women are supposed to be more deferent. It is how I am. I stand up for myself. That is not going to change. I am not Argentine. I am an American. I love my adopted country with all its quirks, things that don’t work, and the machista men. I feel the need to defend it like I defend myself, even when things drive me crazy.

Life in Buenos Aires: Gripe "A" more than a week in isolation

I feel like the prisoner of Zenda.  Well maybe not.  Maybe more like the Birdman of Alcatraz, but instead of a bird I have a demonic dog named Maximiliana to keep me company.  Last Monday I got the flu.  It hit me all of a sudden.  I went to have coffee with Amy.  Everything was great.  Then suddenly around midnight, everything changed.

My hair didn't turn green.  (That was in 1987 I think, or was it purple?)My stomach went into reverse flip flop and my body temperature did an amazing somersault.  That was when I knew I wasn't feeling very well.  I kept hoping it would reverse itself, but oh no, that was not to be.  Once or twice the thought crossed my mind I should probably go to the doctor, but when you feel like a truck has driven over your body, the thought leaves really quickly.

Had they not suspended home visits I would have called for the doctor to come.  I just could not get myself motivated to get dressed and go sit with a group of sick people, just to hear that I had the flu.  I mean what would they tell me?  "Drink plenty of liquids and get plenty of rest."  They should have also added "And turn off your television."

Every 1.5 minutes in full color digital graphics all the news stations were presenting mini-epics on "Gripe A", "Gripe Porcina".  If you weren't sick, it was enough to make you sick.  The minister of health resigned right after the elections.  She had been telling everyone for weeks she was going to do it and she did.  La Presidenta installed a new minister of health and in the middle of the worst flu epidemic she took of to circle the airport in Honduras with her new pal the Ex-sort of president of Honduras, Zelaya.  The only South American president to do so. Go Christina.  Even Hugo only sent his pilots.

Life is pretty boring on the couch. I didn't answer my phone until Thursday.  Actually I didn't hear it.  I was kind of surprised when I looked over and saw the little light blinking. My cell phone gave me no choice. You can always answer text messages with "OK". Friends would text me in both languages telling me that they had either called or emailed and that I hadn't answered.  Was I OK?  So I would text back "tengo gripe, estoy mejorando."  Which would then elicit more furious text messages.  So I would text back "OK".  It is a little late to play the language game with friends.  I just did not have the strength to type long text messages on my stupid cell phone and I really didn't want to talk to anyone.

Sandra was a little frantic.  So I went to send her an email.  You can only imagine how much email I had.  I pretended I didn't see it.I didn't even want to check my FaceBook.  I sent her a message and told her I had the flu.  I told her I didn't hear the phone when it rang and I just now got my messages.

This flu has been very boring.  I do not like being bored.  The news media made it sound like the hospitals are overflowing with people sneezing and coughing.  My friends keep telling me I need to go get something for my cough.  The thought of being locked into a place with 100s of other sick people sneezing and coughing is not very attractive.  I decide to take my chances.

On Saturday I decide to venture out. THE STREETS ARE CLEAN.  This is the first thing I notice.  The streets are never clean in Buenos Aires at 10 in the morning.  This is weird.  There is no one out.  I know I should take a taxi.  I decide to take the subte.  I cough my way down the street.  I still can't believe how clean it is.  Scary.

I get to Swiss Medical.  I am really going to see my favorite doctor, Dr. Brain, to get a prescription refill.  I brace myself for the deluge of people I assume are going to be in the guardia sneezing and coughing and full of the flu.  I open the door.  The place is like a tomb.  Wait a second.  The news media said thousands were descending upon the hospitals with this modern day plague.  I must be in the wrong place.

I look around.  Yep.  I am inside my HMO.  A guard comes up to me and asks if she can help.  I can barely understand her with the mask.  Everyone is wearing surgical masks to keep out or in the germs. I tell her why I am there.  I walk down the hall.  In the elevator there is a nurse.  I say to her "There is no one here."  She says "Yes, we are working."  I wonder if she misunderstands me.  I say to her "I was afraid to come because I thought that there would be so many people here. There is no one."  She tells me it has been like this all week.  Maybe people have been afraid to come out.  Like me.  Maybe all those people are in the public hospitals.

I go see my doctor who gives me my prescription.  He doesn't really want to take time to see me.  He says better for me to go home and rest.  "Don't forget to drink lots of fluids."  He says to me.  He tells me to make sure to come back here if I get a fever again.  "Rest and fluids."  he says.

I go back down to the guardia.  In the hour I was upstairs, it is still dead down here.  I am still amazed. I go back to the street.  It is still clean.  There are more people on the street.  It is July.  July and January in Buenos Aires are dead.  July has less people on the street because it is cold.  The flu is not helping the situation.  I take the subte home.

Today is Tuesday.  I have had enough of this cough.  The government is urging people to go to the doctor.  He says 90% of the flu is Gripe A. Our new minister of health is now doing the things the old minister of health wanted to do but the president wouldn't let her.  She thought it would screw up the elections.

I go back to Swiss Medical.  Not only is there almost no one working, there is almost no one there. Usually there are 4 people who work in the guardia.  Today there is 1.  I tell her my problem.  She asks me a few questions and gives me a mask.  I am total klutz when it comes to putting on.  She takes pity on me and leans over to help me.  The mask is made for a big face.  I don't have a big face.  We have to make it fit.

I go downstairs and wait for them to call my name.  There are only 4 other people down there.  Usually there would be at least 10.  Finally it is my turn.  I get a sour doctor.  I don't know what is happening to Swiss Medical but lately the doctors I have had from them have been pretty disagreeable.  She asks me what my problem is.  I wonder if she wants to know about how Maximiliana ate one of my dining room chairs.  I am sitting in front of her coughing like a chain smoker on Camel non-filters and she wants to know what my problem is. OK.  I giver her the run down.

She takes my temperature and then demands to know why I didn't come in last week.  "Because I couldn't move."  What I wanted to tell her is and "I didn't want to have someone like you examine me when I felt even worse."  She tells me that the worst is over and continues to lecture me. In the end she gives me a drug for my lungs and cough.  She makes sure I understand it is not the anti-viral nor is it an antibiotic.  It's a steroid.  Whatever.  She says I should feel better tomorrow. "And if I don't?  I ask.  I get the feeling she doesn't like being asked this question.

Itake a taxi home.  It was good to be outside for a bit.  Brande calls.  We talk a bit.  A few more friends call. Ani, Jorge, Jose.  I am going crazy.  No one wants to visit me.  The government is trying to close everything.  I think this is a bit excessive.  People will go crazy with nothing to do.  The holiday is on Thursday.  I am supposed to teach with Brande if I feel better then go to a milonga.  They say the milongas may be closed.

The government is giving people Friday off as well.  A least the Birdman of Alcatraz got to see the people who brought him his food.

Life in Buenos Aires: Girls in the beauty parlor

I am in a terrible mood.  I have been worried about my visa status.  Up until May I didn't think about it.  Then the government changed all of its policies.  My visa was supposed to become permanent under the program I was in.  Now I was not sure.  I was making myself crazy thinking about what might or might not happen.  Tomorrow was V-day.  My day in Migraciones.

I needed to do something to make myself feel better.  Eating chocolate was out.  I already ate the whole big box of chocolate Peter and Kathy gave me for my birthday.  I didn't dare touch the 4 gourmet chocolate bars my friend Donald brought me from NY.  Last weekend's birthday binge was enough.  I want to keep those 10 kilos off.

I tried going clothes shopping, nail polish shopping, and lipstick shopping. I looked at boots and shoes.  None of them did anything to twist my mood.  I looked in the mirror.  I want to do something with my hair.  I am growing it but it looks so choppy and unstylish and it needs to be straightened again.  What to do....

They have this straightening method here that is something that girls like me only dreamed of when we were teens.  All my life I had this horrible wavy curly hair.  I hated it.  If my hair wasn't short I was a candidate for clown college.  Humongous hair in all directions.  Medusa hair.  Frizz ball Medusa hair. I was a real charmer as a teem.  Frizz ball Medusa hair, glasses, and braces.  Eventually the glasses gave way to contacts and the braces came off.  I was still stuck with the Frizz ball Medusa hair.

Until I moved here.  For 300 pesos more or less (depending on how long your hair is) you can have your hair made straight and beautiful.  Really straight.  Like Alice in Wonderland. It NEVER frizzes. It stays that way, and only the new hair is ugly.  So you only have to have it straightened when you have enough new hair to turn you back into a frizz ball.

Walter was the first person to straighten my hair.  I was never so happy in my life.  My last hairdresser did it too.  But I wanted changes in my life.  So I wanted to find someone new.  I wanted new hair. Felipe doesn't do this kind of straightening.  At least he never used to.  Plus I don't want him touching me.  It doesn't matter if I can have "free haircuts for life."  He blew it.

This kind of straightening is not done in salons.  The fumes it creates are horrible.  It will probably kill us all early.  I don't care.  At least I will die with beautiful straight hair.  You have to hunt for hairdressers who do this.  Most of them buy the product and do it after hours at your house or theirs. Argggh....

Then one day I was walking down Thames past the salon where these two queens work.  One of them was outside with the blow dryer, his client was wearing a mask, and there was the unmistakable smell of those acrid fumes. I filed it away for future reference.

I could not imagine myself in this salon. When I first moved here their clientele seemed to be mostly Jewish and Italian grandmother types.  I didn't see much in the way of creative design touches coming out of there.  Then suddenly last summer things began to change.  They started opening late, like around 5 in the afternoon and were working until sometimes 3 in the morning.  Those clients, mostly worked in the Palermo Parks....at night.

Finally I decided, what could these guys do to my hair?  I didn´t want to think about it.  The straightening part didn´t really bother me.  I knew they probably couldn´t screw that up.  I watched them do that one woman with Barbie hair.  It was the haircut.  Besides Walter and Felipe, my experience with Argentine hairstylists has not been 100% and one was the absolute haircut from hell.

I get up the nerve and walk myself down there to find out at least how much it costs.  When I ring the doorbell their two toy canisches fall all over me.  (How cliche, right?)  I have been waving hello to these guys for 4 years.  They probably think I am a mirage.

I ask them about the straightening and how much it costs. They tell me.  They are proud of their product, it is imported.  All of them are imported.  They tell me theirs is better because it has more silicone.  Whatever.  They give me a price.  I take a deep breath...."Does this include a haircut?" I think they are really excited "You want me to cut your hair? Yes, of course."  I feel a minor freakout attack coming on.  I ask when they can do it and they ask if I can come back later at 10 tonight. I say yes before I chicken out.  "What am I doing?"  Maybe going to Felipe wouldn't be so bad....NO!!

I go home and work on some documentation for work.  At 10 I say good bye to Maxi and head down the block.  I hope I know what I am doing.  I get to the salon.  Only now instead of the two queens there are two more... people.

Rudi welcomes me and Dani says hello.  I look at the two other people. They are transvestites.  They are a little nervous about me.  No big deal.  I used to live in San Francisco.  These are South of Market type girls or Tenderloin.  One is getting these hugh extensions put on her hair.  They are like a brassy florescent yellow blond.  The other girl is more demure.  She leaves shortly after I get there.

Rudi starts to comb through my hair.  "You are going to look great." he tells me.  I am thinking I will kill him if he screws up my hair.  "What are you thinking for a cut?" he asks eagerly.  I tell him "Just a little bit, I am growing it. Do you understand?" He continues to comb through it and starts to pin it up. I am a little nervous. "I am growing it out, ok?" I tell him again.  He tells me "I understand, but it needs to be cut, it is all different lengths, there is no style to it."  "Yes, yes, I know," I say to him, "but I am growing it."  "Seguro," he agrees, "but you can have a nice style to it."  I always thought the same thing, but somehow it never happened.  I guess that is why I am here.  He starts clipping.  I try not to have a nervous breakdown.

While Rudi is cutting my hair he says to me "I always loved looking at your hair.  I always wanted to work on your hair." I think to myself "Funny, I never wanted you to touch my hair.  But now look where I am. Doesn't life have its funny twists?"  He is still clipping and cutting.  It is starting to look good. I actually like it.  "Do you like it?" he asks.  I smile "Que lindo corte."  Then he blows it dry. Hmmm, now I am not so sure. He tells me "Wait until I straighten it, you are going to look wonderful."  I sure hope so.

Now comes the straightening part. I am informed we are going to do this outside. "Estas loco?" I say to Rudi.  "Hace 2 centigrados. Voy a morir." He tells me I can put on my jacket.  We go outside.  He starts sectioning my hair and puts the straightening gook on it.  He works it into my hair. I am freezing to death.  He tells me that the cold weather is actually good for this process.  Que felicito.  People walk by and stare at us.  I am not exactly thrilled to be on display.  I recognize some of my neighbors.

Then comes the drying part.  I have to use this ventilator mini-gas mask.  Don´t I look cute?  I don´t think so... The smell and the fumes are horrible.  Before we start Rudi gives me an anti-histamine. "Just in case you are allergic." he says to me.  He starts to blow dry my hair.  In the middle this guy comes up to talk to him.  He turns out to be another stylist who works at a top salon. (Or so he says)  He is young.

So here I am getting my hair processed and these two are having this conversation.  They talk shop.  Actually it is kind of interesting.  I find out Rudi has had his shop here for 24 years.  He has really seen the barrio change.  He started the shop alone and then Dani came in.  The young guy talks about starting his own shop.  Rudi is very supportive and gives him lots of advice.  It is interesting, the young guy feels encouraged and thanks Rudi for taking the time to talk to him.

Finally my hair is dry.  We get to go inside.  I can't wait.  We say good bye to Young Mr. Hair Dude and go inside.  I am thrilled.  Rudi is heating up the straightener. I am watching Dani finish up the blondie transvestite.  I say to him "I always thought that those were extensions." He tells me "No, we call them hair curtains."  The dark hair girl returns in a taxi.  She is a transvestite too, but very sweet and subdued looking.  She has a grace about her.  She reminds me of transvestite I knew years ago in my disco days in San Francisco - Frankie.

While Dani is getting her ready for hair curtains, Rudi comes back with the straightener.  This is the worst part. By now I have been here for almost 2 hours.  This part takes forever.  Rudi starts ironing my hair, section by section.  I can't fall asleep because I am sitting up.  Instead I watch Dani through the mirror apply hair curtains to the other girl.  She actually looks like she could be his sister. (brother?) The "girls" finally relax around me.  I complement them on their jewelry.  They tell me they buy it in Once. 

Rudi in the meantime is into my hair.  He is a master at work.  I am watching him transform my hair. He is talking about some shampoo I should buy.  I am too tired.  I tell him about my visa problems. "Don't worry," he tells me. "You will be so beautifull tomorrow, they will give you a visa."  I wish it was that easy.  My hair is looking incredible.  I almost cannot believe my reflection. I continue to watch the transformation of the girl with the dark hair.  She now has hair to her waist like the girl with blond hair.  Those hair curtains look natural. I tell Dani that.  He tells me "I only use good quality human hair."

Now my hair is done.  It is stunning. It is a little bit Veronica Lake.  But I like it.  I know once I can play with it, it will be fun.  "Planchita, planchita, planchita."  Rudi tells me.  He wants me to use my straightener everyday until Saturday when I can finally wash my hair.  They take pictures of me.  This one is pure Veronica Lake.  I feel much better.  I like my hair. Actually I love it. The "girls" like my hair too.  It is  almost 2:00 am.  I cannot believe I am in the beauty salon at 2:00 in the morning.  I have to go home. What a night.  Only in Buenos AIres.  They have to let me stay here.  Where else would I get my hair done at 2:00 am with transvestites?

Feliz Cumple a mi...

Birthdays.  I never really celebrated my birthday much in the U.S.  They had too much emotional baggage attached to them I guess.  My mother used to forget mine.  Once when I was ten  she put my new 10 speed bike in the living room so I would see it when I woke up.  Only it was the day before my birthday. She was furious with me when I told her.  She didn’t believe me my birthday was the 24^th not the 23^rd, so she went and looked it up.  I wasn’t allowed to touch the bike until the 24^th.  Birthdays were a little traumatic for me.

Then I grew up. Birthdays took on a new sort of trauma.  Who would I spend them with?  The older I got the more difficult this question became. Mostly I just left the country.  It was easier than finding an answer.  I spent many birthdays in foreign countries.  One year in Paris I had a horrible lunch of raw seafood.  Not sushi. Raw gross seafood.  My French was not as good as I thought it was.  Another year I spent in Barcelona dancing tango and having a wonderful dinner of tapas with new friends.  When I worked in Mexico, my Mexican amigas threw me a wonderful bash at a salsa club.  We drank a whole bottle of tequila.  I am not sure I remember that night.

After I started coming to Buenos Aires, and eventually moved here, I discovered how much people love to celebrate birthdays here.   It has nothing to do with age, everyone celebrates.  Birthdays are a great reason to get together, to be with friends and family.

On Saturday we went to dinner, Sunday I opened the doors of my apartment to friends.  I invited friends to come at 4:00 pm.  It is always difficult to figure out what time on Sunday.  Sunday is a day people usually spend with their family.  I have lots of single friends, but most of them are out late on Saturday.  Late here is 6:00 am Sunday. 

My super guests Kathy and Peter decide to go exploring at Jumbo. Before they left they gave me a huge box of chocolates they brought from Canada.  I am touched.  I love chocolate. Anyone who knows me knows that.  This box has all the good stuff you can’t get here like molasses chips, caramels, fudge.  I can’t stop eating them. Chocolate for breakfast.  Chocolate and Peets Coffee. I break out the Peets for my birthday.

Maximiliana knows something is up.  Her crate is being moved into the bedroom.  She jumps on top of it.  I am not sure if she wants a ride or she is protecting her territory.  She is a pretty funny dog.  She would have to be.  Look at who her owner is.

My phones begin to ring at 10:00 am.  “Feliz Cumple Deby!”  my friends are calling.  The ones who cannot come are calling.  Sharon texts me; my Australian sister.  It is impossible to feel forgotten here.  Even on a low day.  When my back hurts, when things are not going well, I always have days like today to remember.

In between phone calls, text messages, and emails, I am getting things ready for this afternoon.  I run to the store several times.  People keep asking what to bring.  My long lost “brother” Gustavo calls.  He tells me he will come this afternoon.  I think we see each other every three years.  He was one of my first friends in Argentina.  I almost never see him in the milongas any more.  We dance in different places.  I probably saw more of him when I didn’t live here.

Kathy and Peter come home with many bags from Jumbo.  I laugh at them “You liked that place?”  They look a little guilty.  Jumbo is more like a big North American supermarket.  Foreigners love to shop there.  I hardly ever go there.  It is more expensive and there is nothing there I really want that I can’t get here in my barrio.  I think shopping there is more of a “shopping experience” for some people rather than the Chinese markets.

Kathy pulls out a big bag that has a box in it.  "We bought a blender to make smoothies," Peter says. "When we leave, we would like to give it to you, if that is OK."  I am overwhelmed.  A blender is something I have thought about buying and never got around to it.  I cannot believe how generous these two are.  I have had guests who have demanded I buy them bottled water or special soap and these guys buy me a blender.  I give them both big hugs.

Peter goes to the kitchen with their bags.  He asks me for a platter.  He begins to arrange the most artistisc cheese and ham plate.  I tell him he missed his calling. "If IT doesn't work out, you can always be a caterer."  I tell him.  I stuff more chocolate into my mouth.

I told people to come at 4. It is 4:15. Where are they?  What if no one comes?  How embarrassing.  What if I gave a party an no one came?  Well, we could eat cheese and crackers, pasta salad and chocolates.  At least I know Gina will be here with her famous chocolate cake.

At 4:30 the door buzzes.  Soon my apartment is filled with accents; Americans, Canadians, Australians, French, and of course Argentines.  Everyone finds someone they can speak to.  My Argentine friends are always amazed at foreigners who have learned to speak their language.

The table is filling with foods.  Tons of sandwichitos - miga sandwiches.  I love them.  Jorge always brings them from a wonderful bakery in Boedo.  Amanda brought hers from Casero.  She looks lovely, elegant.  She has a circle of people around her.  When she isn't dispensing advice she is telling tales of the milonga and tango.

People keep asking me about the cake.  I tell them that Gina has made me the best chocolate cake in Argentina.  Chocolate cakes here are not that good. One day when I was sick, Gina brought me a slice of her chocolate cake.  I told her if Javier would not marry her, I would, for her chocolate cake.  He is going to marry her, so I had to settle for a birthday cake. (Joke...) I tell them Gina's chocolate cake is worth the wait.

At 6:30 Gina and the cake make a grand entrance.  She apologizes.  She got the time mixed up.  When she uncovers the cake everyone's eyes get huge.  I put candles that are a 2 and a 9.  Everyone laughs. My friends insist I make 3 wishes.  I close my eyes.  I wish.  I blow out the candles.  Gina cuts her wonderful cake.  I am dying...you do not get chocolate cake like this in Argentina.  I feel honored to have this cake for my birthday.

The buzzer rings again and it is Samy.  He has cupcakes baked by his friend Maddie.  They are beautiful.  They look like they came from a magazine.  I cut one open and am treated to a rainbow of colors.  Argentines who are usually conservative about food cannot wait to try them.  My friend Sharon admits that she cannot stop eating them.

My friends want to know how I know each of them. I guess that is because they are such a diverse group.  It is interesting how many friends I have from my blog.  We either met because they read my blog or they are fellow bloggers.  Some friends I met from tango, some were friends of friends.  Gustavo is my oldest friend and Rosa is my newest.  It doesn't matter.  I value all my friends.

Soon my tango friends are talking about going to either Canning or El Beso.  I would love to go to El Beso but I still have guests and I am undoubtedly in a sugar haze.  I cannot wait to stop eating.  They all take off including Katey who has never been to a milonga.

The doorbell rings again and it is Gustavo.  He is coming from work. Other than a freak instance outside Canning one night I have not seen him in two years or so.  I give him a big hug.  I have always adored him.  He was the first Argentine man I got into a car with.  I remember giving him a big lecture.  He gave me his club to hold.  We are both geminis.

I bring him into the party and get him sandwiches.  I don't have to worry about him.  He speaks Spanish and English and will find plenty to talk about.  Maxie in the meantime is not happy about spending her time in the bedroom.  She had planned on being the life of the party.  Unfortunately her and my definition of life of the party were not the same.  Since I am bigger, I won.  With fewer people I let her out.

Maxie comes into the kitchen to charm her way into getting food.  My dog the canine garbage disposal. Her angelic face defies her tough street dog disposition.  I don't think she will ever get over being abandoned.

Soon we are just Jorge, Amanda, Gustavo, Samy, and me.  The discussion is lively.  No milonga for me. It is already 2:30 in the morning.  I look at my friends.  I look at my messy apartment, full of half eaten food, dirty dishes.  I think of how lucky I am to have such great friends. Happy Birthday to me.

Birthday countdown...how many pieces of sushi can you eat?

I love my birthday in Buenos Aires.  It is so special.  About 2 months ago my friends starting asking me what I was going to do for my birthday.  How could I think about my birthday in March?  Then all of a sudden it was May, and the the week before.  Then my friends really started to bug me.  What happened to Argentine spontaneity? 

The real problem was my desk top computer was dying a slow painful death.  Or maybe it was sick.  I was choosing to ignore it.  I hate hardware.  I always have.  I deal with it because it is a vehicle to software. Finally the power supply sounded like it was going to go out the kitchen window.  Time to replace it.  That I could do.  Only that did not solve the major problem, and finally my computer decided not to boot anymore.  Sob.

I knew it wasn't the hard drive.  It was something stupid like the memory or the video card.  I just hate dealing with technical people here.  It is so annoying.  I have to listen to everything they don't know about computers.  I called one guy, and 5 minutes on the phone with him was enough to make me want to kill him.  I ended up going to the place where I bought my power supply.

Things don't move fast in Argentina.  I had my laptop.  I had backups of all my data.  But I didn't have copies of the my mailing list or all my software.  Bad Deby.  How many years did I have in computers.  So that has been my excuse.  I hate using my laptop to write or to do much with.  So no blog posts. 

"IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!" my friends were screaming at me.  "OK, OK, soy medio vaga." I tell them.  Finally I got it together.  We celebrate 3 days.  Saturday today a bunch of my friends and I are going to the Korean barrio to a great sushi restaurant.  Tomorrow we are having a big bash in my apartment, and Monday in the milonga.  Last night when I told Lucy it was my birthday and to please come on Monday, she wanted to know why I didn't celebrate on Friday with them and insisted I do it on Wednesday.  I remember the year I celebrated in 7 milongas.  I can't eat that much cake anymore.

People accuse me of not eating much of anything these days but it is not true.  I eat. It cracks me up. The men used to tease me about being "rellenita", now they are concerned about me.  Am I sick, am I ok.  I lost 10 kilos.  I am back to my California weight, before the accident.  Last night one old guy in the milonga told me I looked better fat.  It seems you are never right.  Whatever....

This must be my ethnic food day.  Sharon came by and we went to lunch with Kathy and Peter.  My two wonderful guests from Canada.  California Burrito opened up a branch on Godoy Cruz.  I felt like I had to have Mexican food.  I knew it was not going to be like Tacqueria San Jose on International Blvd in Oakland, but maybe it would be close.  A girl can dream.  At least there would be no lady behind the counter trying to fix me up with the cook.

It was a beautiful day. Hot.  I don't remember a May like this since 2002.  Kathy and Peter had not walked this way before.  I told them how this used to be the red zone.  I remember coming down this street late at night or early in the morning coming home from a milonga and the street would be filled with transvestites parading and looking for work.  Definitely not the scene now.

We finally land in California Burrito.  You get to pick what you want inside your burrito.  There is a really cute guy behind the counter who speaks perfect English.  Everyone who works there is very friendly.  The service is excellent.  The cute guy is from Puerto Rico. 

I get a burrito with chicken, rice, beans,vegetables, cheese, guacamole,and the hottest sauce they have.  I get taco chips and more sauce and a drink.  My eyes are bigger than my stomach. We go up on the roof to eat.  It is so pleasant.

I bite into my burrito.  It is not Tacqueria San Jose.  But for Buenos Aires, it is good.  I am happy.  I eat the whole thing.  It is better than anything else I have eaten that passes for Mexican food here. Plus the service is so good and the place is so nice, comfortable. I am happy. I can even walk there.

Now I am waiting for my friends so we can go to Barrio Coreano. The bell rings.  Maximiliana as usual goes psycho.  She thinks every door bell is Juan waiting to take her out.  It is nearly impossible to get her to stop doing the NASCAR race around the apartment with the fire bell bark.  Sometimes I want to send her over the balcony, but she runs too fast.

I am expecting Katie, but it is Deirdre.  I met Deirdre from Patrick.  Patrick and I share the same birthday.  He couldn't  come to BA to celebrate so he sent Deirdre, another crazy gemini.  We connected right away.  She has a big beautiful boquet of the most gorgeous flowers for me.  Maxie wants to eat them.  What can you say about a dog who wants to eat gum off the sidewalk?

Finally Katie comes. She is living in Neocochea.  I met  her through her blog.  She came to live there after meeting her future husband online in a language exchange site.  Neocochea is a small town on the beach south of Mar del Plata.  We had lunch on Friday and I loved listening to her story.

I don't have many ex-pat friends, but when I meet people, it is always interesting to hear their stories, to find what brings them to Argentina, to Buenos Aires.  Something more than "It was cheap" or "To dance tango"  Love stories are always the best.

We hop in a taxi.  Our driver is very entertaining.  I tell him where we want to go.  He is immediately grossed out.  "You are going to eat in that barrio?"  He ask.  I tell him "Yes, Barrio Correano is my favorite place to eat."  This begins a spirited diatribe with him telling us that he Koreans eat dog and cat, and he cannot believe we will be eating there.  He goes into great detail about it.  It is hysterically funny.  At one point he tells us that are only two things in life that scare him "Gays and Koreans".  We hope he never meets a Gay Korean or the poor guy will die of a heart attack.

We enter the restaurant.  Greg, Fred, and Karina are already there.  They give us one of the little rooms.  Us ethnically culturally deprived Americans are thrilled.  Once seated the waitress begins to bring the food.  Many plates of different food.  I tell my friends "I hope you are hungry." I explain to them how David my Korean friend once told me that Koreans believe you should concentrate on eating and not on the food.  That is why there is no menu and they just bring you food.  Each restaurant has a specialty and people just know that.  Everyone agrees that it is so much nicer.  More relaxed.

Dinner conversation is interesting.  Everyone has a story to tell.  Fred tells us how he paid off his first cop.  His Spanish isn't good enough so he had to call his wife and have her talk to the cop.  She negotiated and then told him how much to give.  Deirdre also dances Flamenco, she gives us the story behind flamenco. 

Then the sushi comes. The room is silent.  I know Deirdre must think we are crazy.  A whole boat of sushi that isn't cream cheese and salmon.  My friends are in awe.  There is an absolute huge gob of wasabi.  Greg remarks "That is something you never see."  I can't stop eating it.  Once we finish the sushi boat the waitress brings in a gas stove.  Next she brings in a huge bowl of udon noodles, fresh vegetables, and seafood.  It cooks.  We are all drinking Korean saki.  I love it.  It is much milder than Japanese sake.

Once dinner is finished we decide to go for ice cream. In the remise I thank my friends.  I am amazed. Mexican food and sushi in one day.  What a start to my birthday weekend.