Travelogue

Or should I say travel-logged? On my way down to Argentina I wrote excitedly on how amazing my traveling experience was. My way back was no less fun, but it seemed frustratingly prolonged.

I got to Ezeiza International Airport at 17:00 (13:00 PDT), hung out with Sus, got her situated and checked into the American terminal, and then began my search for United. They didn’t exist quite yet. I searched over the entirety of the terminal until upon asking a lady at the info desk, I found that their terminal didn’t open until 5:30. I found the United kiosk (one where American had 6) checked in for my flight a good 3 hours early (Sus’s flight was two hours before mine) and paid my airport tax. Yes, you have to pay to leave the country, no matter who you are. This, along with the 21% sales tax on goods and a few other taxes make for a means of supporting the leftist social programs throughout the country at the expense of the middle class. Security was minimal, customs was a joke. (Though the tones to let one know where to go next played the first three notes of the Sesame Street theme, which of course got me whistling the entire rest of the evening.) This led me to the best part of International Airports: Duty Free shopping.

I was walking through all the chocolate, cigarettes, expensive clothes and wine when I got to the Scotch. I’ve had an… unhealthy relationship with whiskey for a while. I love it and hate it at the same time. I’m infatuated with Scotch, but I couldn’t tell you why. I had promised myself some Johnny Walker Blue upon my retirement as HRM with Unitrans, but my partner in crime, the Operations Manager decided to go sober as soon as he gave up the position and I couldn’t justify buying a 750ml bottle of Blue by myself.

I walked past bottles of Red, Black, Green and Gold, and didn’t see a single bottle of Blue. That is, until I picked up a bottle of Gold and behind it was the smallest most adorable thing I’d ever seen: a 250 ml bottle of Blue, priced Duty Free at $55. I scooped it up and strutted over to the check out, settling in behind a gentleman who seemed to be the sole reason for the lack of any Blue in the whole shop. He was walking out with several bottles, more than 10 times in volume what I was planning to purchse. He was debating in Castellano with a friend or acquaintance, equally well dressed and advanced in years, about the merits of single malt vs blended scotch. This acquaintance was wondering why he was throwing all his money away on expensive blended scotch, when he should be drinking single malt. They traded insults and laughs for a while, until I was noticed with my tiny bottle. Apparently nobody drinks scotch in their early twenties because they seemed rather surprised. They laughed at my miniature portion, comparing it to the dragons hoard of scotch already on the conveyor belt, and naming mine el hijo pequeño. I asked the gentleman not standing in line if he had a recommendation for single malt scotch, having spent the last few minutes piecing together what Spanish I knew and concentrating furiously to ask the question. He pointed to my lapel pin and asked me which language I preferred, I answered with Ingles and he led me around giving me a dissertation on the merits of different scotches in perfect English.

I walked out with a bottle of The Glenlivet 18 year for only slightly more than I had planned on spending on my tiny bottle of Blue, though this was much to the disappointment of the other Caballero.

I met up with Sus in the Airport and I fretted on how I was going to find the BART station in SFO, she responded with “ask someone.” I almost fell back in my chair. I had been so used to planning and plotting and thinking ahead because, though I could comprehend about 45% of what everyone said and generally get the gist of what I as being told, I had a much harder time speaking than listening comprehension. I had forgotten that I could talk to people I didn’t know in English once again. Granted, I found that once back in the States I was still responding to waiters or other people with things like “si” or “esta bien.”

My flight to Washington was incredibly interesting. I was seated in the very back row, between the window and a 250 pound marine sergeant. We met as I was idly complaining to myself that airlines should load from the back to the front, as everyone stops and loads their carry-ons in the overhead bins and slows the whole loading process down. He wholeheartedly agreed with me and then we followed each other to the back of the plane serendipitously sitting next to each other. I learned he was the senior staff sergeant of his platoon. (so, senior NCO that rides around with his LT in a nifty Hummer while keeping tabs on the 8 or so squads). He’d been down in Argentina teaching their marines how to swim. I laughed, starting with, “well if any branch needs to know how to swim outside of the…” he cut me off with “don’t say navy.” I was actually going to mention the PJs or SEALs, but I guess any special forces needs to be in the best condition. Anyways, we talked about deployment, active duty, military families, the Argentinean military and its history, and then he was bumped up to business class. He mentioned he knew the flight crew from the way down there, they had chatted and some of them knew he was a serviceman. I’d like to think they bumped him into an empty seat because of that.

I had plenty of room to stretch out until about an hour or so into the flight. An elderly gentleman complained to the stewardess that some punk in front of him was jamming the seat into his legs, and wouldn’t compromise or stop. She seated him next to me and we started empathizing about being tall (he was 6’4). This gentleman was very opinionated and very ready to debate. I was reading a four week old copy of the Economist (it was either that or skymall) and he started talking to me about all sorts of issues. My favorites were music and Islam.

I told him I had been studying music in Argentina, and had just graduated with a music degree. He was curious of the music that I listened to, being a youngster and all that jazz. I told him I was open to al sorts of music, that on my ipod I had everything from classical, to jazz, to punk, classic rock, Funk, techno, broadway music, Irish traditional music, Mexican hip-hop...

He scoffed a bit.

I asked him what he listened to, and he mumbled a bit and then returned with what my favorite bit of music I saw in Argentina was. I told him I couldn’t decide, I saw a few concerts, an avant garde opera, contemporary music accompanying a modern dance show, and of course tons of street musicians and tango everywhere. Oh yeah, and the musical Rent in Spanish, which I had never seen in English.

He responded “I bet you like that one, Rent.” He spat out the name of the play, as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. I responded that I did and he chuckled, content that he had sized me up correctly. I asked him why he didn’t, he said the musical style was terrible and that it was the beginning of the end for Broadway. I could only respond that my interpretation of music is that its purpose is to evoke emotion, and I’ve never really found an other form that is so successful at this task than Broadway musicals. The combination of a story and the style of music, interweaving lines, layering different songs on top of each other and all the harmony just draws something out of me that other music is unable to do. I asked him if he liked the show Man of La Mancha, my favorite musical, and he responded that he did. I argued that there was little to no difference in style between the music of the two shows, only in the story and instrumentation. He decided he had had enough and left me to my ipod while he dragged out a book; a treatise on Islamic Jihad.

The cover claimed it to be an unbiased study done by an Islamic center, but when the gentleman showed it to me, it seemed rather anti-Islamic to me. I was told that he had read a good ten books on the religion and this was by far the best one. He asked me if I had studied Islam, I told him that outside of a comparative religion class in high school, I hadn’t really devoted too much time to it. He made the claim that I shouldn’t believe anyone who would tell me that Islam is a religion of peace. That Islamist apologists were full of bull. He said that the basis of the religion was absolute faith, fundamentalist devotion. Without devoting yourself completely to Allah you were nothing. He told me that our Jeffersonian principles of debate and reason had made us weak, (apparently American and Christian were synonymous terms in his eyes) and that there was no compromise with the unyielding faith of Islam.

I was taken aback but he proceeded to find passages in his book, to illustrate his point. Each chapter started with a passage from the Koran, and then its interpretation and the implementation of this interpretation by fundamentalist Muslims throughout history. There was a trend that the interpretations of the Prophet's words became less and less tolerant of other religions or people, but it was like taking passages from the old testament and applying them to Christianity today. The last pages of the book looked at the death toll taken by Islam on every continent throughout the ages. I shook my head in disgust, as a study like this taken without context seemed only to be hate propaganda, especially when put in the hands of a christian who was already convinced that Islam was the enemy. After reading things to me about buying the protection of Islam, the right for Muslims to take Jews as slaves and destroy Christian art, he told me that he "could only admire Mohammed, certainly a clever man to be the architect of the greatest sham in history."

That’s where I lost it.

I asked him where I could find a comparable study of Christianity, because now I was thoroughly interested in what that had to say. The death tolls taken by Christians on every continent. How many lives destroyed by slavery by citing that these men were created inferior. How much greed and corruption in his church, buying salvation throughout the dark ages, repression of women, Crusades, Inquisition, Witch Hunts, Bookburnings, Willful ignorance, repression of science, using Latin to keep the lower classes illiterate and away from all forms of learning.

I only stopped when I realized he was watching the in flight movie. I smiled and plugged my headphones in and watched Flawless. He was asleep when the movie was over.

In the morning we discussed coffee, skiing in Patagonia and the humidity of the east coast before he shook my hand and left the airplane.

My flight from Dulles to SFO was uneventful. I gave up my seat so a married couple could sit next to each other and sat again in the last row of the plane, though by myself this time. I watched Definitely Maybe and Be Kind Rewind and napped a bit before stepping off the plane at 11:00 am Pacific time, 22 hours since I set foot in the airport in Buenos Aires. I got my luggage, climbed the escalator to the top to a monorail to BART and got on the Pittsburg / Bay point train.

I overheard two women from New York confused over where they needed to go to get to Powell Street; they were worried they were on the wrong line (there’s only one that goes to the Airport). I thought that people from New York would be accustomed to trains and subways and the like, but I just took one over to the map and pointed out Powell Street, at which every line that goes through SF stops. I got off at the Embarcadero station, walked up and out, and down the street for some cool air. It was colder in San Francisco than it had been in Buenos Aires when I left. I then got on the Richmond train, took it to Amtrak, Amtrak to Davis, walked to Campus, caught the G line and walked the final half a block to my house. I traveled thousands of miles and right to my door without using an automobile and without relying on anyone else. It was a good feeling, though it was overpowered eventually by the grody feeling of not having showered in over 40 hours, after lugging about 70lbs around the city of Davis in July. By 16:00 PDT I was home, 27 hours after I left Buenos Aires.

This is our lives on Holiday

Ok, so I titled the post after a Green Day song. Sorry. When I was 12 or 13, my buddy James introduced me to the band with the album Dookie. I traded ipods with my little cousin (she's 8 years younger, my cousin's daughter, so second cousin) over 4th of July a year or two ago, and was surprised her 'top 25 most played' playlist included a whole bunch of Green Day, but I guess that's just what you do when you're 14. She was confused to find the band on my ipod as well, especially cause she didn't know any of the songs from Dookie, Nimrod or even Warning (which was popular when my little brother was 14).

People criticize the band as sell outs and whatnot, but you have to admire them: I couldn't play the same chords for over ten years. Somehow, somewhere in my brain it seemed appropriate to listen to the album American Idiot while going through all the pictures on my computer and soaking up the last of the cold weather by hiding in a cafe drinking café con leche and reminiscing about everything with Sus.

Anyhoo, I'm headed home today, and have to spend the next 4 hours in the airport writing a paper for my independent study portion of the course instead of blogging, but I put up my favorites of the pictures I stole from everyone on the trip.

4 albums worth: The Many Colors of Buenos Aires (one at a time)
Food Friends Fun... and Wine
Food Friends Fun... and Wine (Dos)
La Argentinidad

I have so much to write about, so many stories, inside jokes, specific memories, but they'll all have to wait 'til this damned paper's done. It's funny, the entire month felt like a vacation, even though I attended class 4 days a week. The courses held my interest, I was excited to go to class, and I was never bothered with the workload. Now, the vacation's over and I have a paper hanging over my head, made even harder to write knowing it's the last thing between me and the end of the shortest month of my life.

Making Jesus Mad and Bubbling Liquids

I knew there were reasons for my desire to be a scientist, I just didn't know what they were. 

I wrote a while back about my cousins and I've found something that may not be worth your while, but the internet is about wasting time, right? My cousin Tad (Edward) is an actor, legitimately I'd say, having graduated from the Boston Conservatory. Anyways, between shows and working theatre camps he spends his time doing improv comedy. This may not be his best work, but it made me laugh and it's available on Youtube. The improv bit is rather important, as otherwise you'll note that the following video is less than scripted. Armed with a labcoat and a rather snide soundtrack, the Landed Gentry put out a PSA about safety, For SCIENCE.

Absolutely Nothing.

It's rare you find someone writing about the things war is good for. Today though, I was pointed to an article from 1999 that suggested the merits of war, or at least letting small wars burn themselves out.

An unpleasant truth often overlooked is that although war is a great evil, it does have a great virtue: it can resolve political conflicts and lead to peace. This can happen when all belligerents become exhausted or when one wins decisively. Either way the key is that the fighting must continue until a resolution is reached. War brings peace only after passing a culminating phase of violence. Hopes of military success must fade for accommodation to become more attractive than further combat.

This is all in conversation over the war in Iraq, and the fools dancing around each other claiming their strategies are different from their rivals, or the incumbent. The big hooplah is that Obama won't attribute the decreased violence in Iraq to the surge. His stance being that throwing more troops and money at the problem didn't solve it. Of course this is turned around on his lack of patriotism (ugh, see below). McCain made a big deal of this, taking his chance to tout the merits of our military, though making himself out to be even less of a student of history. 

The point of the discussion is that because of some Sunni uprising which predated, but coincided with our attempt to smother the problems in Iraq with American lives, there's been enough ethnic cleansing in the region that the violence is subsiding, and we want to take credit for it. This coming the same week the EU is celebrating the capture (over 10 years late) of the wonderful fellow who organized the crimes against humanity and ethnic cleansing of muslims in Serbia back in 1995.

Patriotism: Ur doing it wrong

I mentioned a while back that on my way down here I read an article on Patriotism in a Time magazine I picked up in the Airport. The cover of the magazine was simple, white with the standard, red, time border and a flag pin sitting in the middle of the cover. The article was an expository argument on the differing views of Patriotism between the two parties and how they're both valid. 

This coupled with Obama's speech on Patriotism the following week got me thinking about the subject and how absurd it is. Specifically, the side of patriotism that many see as a true love of their country strikes me as absurd, the "Republican" version in the Times article, the unwavering faith that our country is the greates on the planet. I'm going to take a quote from Thomas J. Scheff's theory of Runaway Nationalism, it's a little more current than Orwell:

The infatuation-trance of blind patriotism is like the naked trust that small children have for their parents. After 911, some of my colleagues were asking "Why do they hate us?" But if I answered by pointing to the machinations of our government over the last fifty years in the Middle East and the slaughter and mayhem that resulted, they rapidly lost interest. They didn’t want to hear, with no concern even with whether what I said was true or not.

I bought a flag pin the other day, and I'm wearing it on the lapel of my jacket. It might just stay there through the rest of winter, er... summer and into our winter. It's an Argentine flag crossed with Ireland's. I take it as an indication of my liberal form of patriotism: how much I  believe in what our government could achieve, what it stands for, and the countries to which I plan to emigrate as an expatriate when it falls apart from corruption.

Something Majestic

I've been pirating internet wherever I can find it recently, and it's worked out quite well. Sus and I found our way into the network at UADE, which we weren't supposed to, and although access is never guaranteed, we've found internet in our hotel's lounge from time to time. Combined with cafes sporting wi-fi connections, it really makes my post about the closed Locutorios slightly disingenuous.

Now that that's out of the way, I spent my weekend at Iguazu Falls. 

We took a bus with seats comparable to Business class on an airplane, fully reclining and plenty of space. This was a good thing as the bus ride was 17 hours each way. Upon our arrival, we were whisked away to a native village for a tour and then spent the evening on a catamaran on the river. Saturday we walked all over the national park, seeing waterfall after waterfall, then taking a boat and riding into them. I don't think I've ever been more wet, even when swimming or bathing. As we approached the spray, it was like being tortured by someone who is tickling you: you can't do anything about it but laugh. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.

Saturday night we went into town for helado and drinking. Several went to a club, but I already stank of cigarette smoke (I thoroughly appreciate California now) and was exhausted from all that walking. Sus, Ryan and Rae and a few others all agreed with me, heading back in a couple of cabs. After a brief bout of snuggling, Ryan and I were kicked out of the girls' room, the twin beds conducive to snuggling but not for sleeping two. Ryan (who had enjoyed some absinthe) went and passed out while I went down to the pool area and stared at the stars.

Buenos Aires has a light dome probably the size of L.A. The light pollution is horrible, even though many of the old lamps point down instead of up. This hotel was in the middle of no where and it showed. Stars filled the sky, each one twinkling in the humid jungle air. Every one of them was unfamiliar though; I'm in a completely different hemisphere. I had planned to study star charts before I left, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I had a conversation with a friend a while back about astronomy. I told her I loved sharing the sky with people, pointing out constellations and enjoying the stars with someone else as company. She told me it was the most humbling thing to walk out to the ocean on a clear night and sit silently in conversation with the stars. I'd never tried it, so I sat on one of those long beach chairs and stared out at the unfamiliar face of the universe.

I'd never felt farther from home, but it was an experience I hope I'll never forget.

On the way home the bus played an "in-flight" movie, The Bucket List subtitled in Spanish. Two things stuck with me from the movie (besides reaffirming my love for movies with Morgan Freeman in them): First was the Egyptian mythology bit about finding joy in your life and bringing joy to others. The second was the idea of witnessing Something Majestic.

Out of Africa

So, I've recently reconnected with a friend of mine who's been in the peace corps for the last two years. She's coming home by thanksgiving, but since she was in South Africa I prompted her for some news on Zimbabwe. The news got bored with Mugabe rather quickly after the election and I haven't been able to keep up. Here was her incisive political analysis:

Mugabe is still being a jerk-face, and people are still getting eaten by crocodiles and lions trying to bail (no joke, one of the borders SA and Zimbabwe share is in Kruger park -- people are really getting eaten). Last I heard the UN tried to pass sanctions, but China and Russia vetoed, SA also voted no, because Mbeki (SA's president) is sort of a weenie. But Tutu recently said knock it off, and Zuma (the next president of SA) is getting pissed. And the president of, um, Liberia, who happens to be a harvard educated woman, is also getting in on the action. Mostly it's a lot of "the western world must stand up to tyrrany! (but, you know, not too much because they're still just African and they don't have anything terribly useful)" vs. "We want to come up with an African solution, let us talk it out you imperialist bastards! (and by talking we mean sitting around not offending anyone while Zimbabwe turns into an orwellian crap-hole.)" So, you know, standard.

La Presidente vs. La gente

 Last Tuesday I wrote about the huge demonstrations leading up to a congressional vote on Wednesday. All day on Wednesday los Senadores sat in session.  When I checked, somewhere around 7:30 pm, they'd been sitting around for 9 hours, many abstaining, leaving a 36-35 vote in favor of the Peronists, with one fellow left over deliberating, being lobbied on all sides. When he cast his vote, it lent its weight to the farmers, leaving the senate tied, locked 36-36 and the vice president having to break it. People were sitting around televisions everywhere we could find one, it was like the Superbowl was on. Every shop we passed, every cafe, even the TV in our lounge attracted everyone wandering the hotel. I didn't know how it turned out until Thursday morning when we attacked Pablo for the answer. It's really fun how even though our class is about music, we spend half our time talking about Argentine politics and history, catching up on the news every morning before settling into our routine of lecture, discussing our readings while waiting for Youtube videos to load, listening to tons of music and then discussing it.

The economist finally picked up on the vote and the chaos down here. I'd been waiting for a while, but I finally found the article.

Here's one from the Chronicle as well

It's really nice to see democracy functioning so clearly in a country that hasn't actually had a democratic government in years and is faced with a dynasty of presidential power. The judiciary, while packed with Peronists by the previous president, struck down the taxes and tariffs in spite of political affiliation. The legislature now has power, instead of being controlled by funding from the executive branch. Democracy is coming back, the authoritarian executive branch is being neutered and everyone is participating, watching it happen, and doing so with more passion than I've ever seen in my own country.

The interwebs are closed? Oh Noes!

If someone told me a year ago I'd be writing in a blog, I'd have scoffed at them. I don't enjoy writing, or so I thought. I never kept a journal, never developed a taste for writing poetry, or descriptive or creative writing. In High school I wrote what I was told. In college, I wrote a whole slough of dry, boring research papers, followed by a whole bunch of equally dry and boring analyses of music; reducing wonderful works of art to numbers and symbols.

Now I just write. Persuasive or expository arguments, narratives of my adventures, (they're more fun when you call them that, try it). I've even tried my hand at descriptive writing, once properly motivated. It's interesting how addicting this has become. There's something significant differentiating writing here than just writing into a word document. Something about being plugged in.

If someone reads this, it means they have internet access. Something I've taken for granted since I started college. It's frustrating having my computer with me and not being able to call up video or reference when talking with my friends. I've become so dependent on having so much information at my fingertips, it's frustrating when I can't just open up my macbook and find out what I want to know. 

I'm addicted to the internet. 

Here, the Locutorios hold varying hours and there are times when they just close. That's it. The internet is closed. That's a thought that's just incomprehensible. "So?" you say, "What are you whining about, you're in another ephing country, go out and enjoy it!" I am and I do. The problem is, there's nowhere to go at some times. The whole city freezes at some points, and everything opens much later than I can work around. My afternoons are spent doing homework and trying to connect to life back at home, while waiting for dinner (10:00) or to head out with the gang (try 12:00 or later). I usually open my computer for music while I'm reading or doing homework, in the afternoons when everyone else is asleep (they're planning on being out til 4:00 or even 6:00 am). Grappling with my internet addiction has been a larger ordeal than kicking my caffeine habit. Actually, that hasn't happened either, soda down here is made with sugar instead of corn syrup and the coffee is just plain amazing.

Just think about how much effort you put into maintaing a persona on the internet. Between Facebook (or myspace), instant messaging, email, and, for me, now this blog; it's become something more than just an idle hobby or strictly a means of communication. 

Now imagine what happens if you are severed from this connection, your only connection to everything comfortable and familiar, by a stupid sign that says "Cerrado."

It's everywhere. Listen. Listen. Here come the drums... here come... the drums...

So every so often, we've awoken in the morning to another demonstration marching from the Casa Rosada, down Avenida de Mayo to the Congresso. We're lucky enough to live on the street that connects the executive and legislative branches of Argentina. Today however, was the march to end all marches. Avenida Nueve de Julio, the biggest street in the city was closed, clogged with tour busses that brought in demonstrators from all over the country. Tomorrow the senate is voting on a bill that would tax the brains out of farmers and their increasingly profitable crops of soy, which are bringing a ton of wealth (relatively) into the country. The leftist Peronista dominated government is planning on reallocating the wealth through a variety of social programs. 

All month the farmers have been marching in protest, and today they are holding a Rally on plaza Italia. The government has sponsored a rally of its own and it seems like half the population of the country has come to the city to participate in one or the other. Hopefully I can grab some pictures or a video or two an put them up here. It's amazing how intense people feel about the issue, and how involved everyone is. It's down to something like a 50.5 percent majority of the Peronists in the senate vote tomorrow and the demonstrations are supposedly going to determine how some of los senadores will vote.

By the way the title of the post is from a particular episode of Dr. Who, chosen specifically because some of the drummers were beating out the same cadence that motivates the Master. Creepy.

Tango skillz: I has them

Well, that may be an exaggeration. I did however spend two hours dancing today, in an antiquated building that seemed to be a shrine to Carlos Gardel. Four of use decided to go try and learn while the majority of the group went out for Mexican food. According to my experiences, burritos get less and less tasty the further you get from Mexico. Maybe that only works going North, but I wouldn’t count on that. I plan on waiting til I’m at least in California again.

Lets see… oh yeah! Tango. It’s awesome, the music is amazing, and the dancing is even more fun than just listening. The steps are simple enough, the hard part is leading. She gets to do all the fancy stuff, all you have to do is worry about getting her to do what you’re hoping you can pull off – that and not sending her home with broken toes. I’m pretty sure I need pointier shoes like the fancy old folks have, mine can only be described as “clompy.” After spending the evening dancing with Rae, and trading off with Daniela a few times to make sure I was doing things correctly, I got paired with my old room-mate, Derek. He had spent some time learning the ladies’ part (while I spent time teaching Daniela the guys’ part) so I got to be re-united with my Panda Bear again.

Hmm… maybe I better explain that. Derek is quiet and indecisive, the type of fellow who upon meeting, forces you to question how he ever survived his freshman year away from home. He’s a wonderful guy and we became fast friends, but it seemed I had to take care of him at almost every turn because he didn’t know how to fend for himself. He’s the youngest of his siblings and I’m the oldest of mine, so it worked out to big-brother him a bit. The first week or so, I did everything I could to get him to a place where he could figure things out on his own, and he’s getting there. Due to some drama in another room, he had to change places with my new roomie, Joel. Anyway due to his quiet, contemplative and gentle nature, we all agreed he reminded of us of a Panda somehow, that and he’s just plain adorable.

The videos are up on my last two posts, finally. Music abounds.

Musicos de la Calle

Warning: This post is even more Media Heavy

[Which means the video will come later when I'm on a hard line and have lots of time to waste]

I’m aware that every major cosmopolitan city has amazing street musicians, but I’m taking a course in which we’re studying the music and culture of Latin America so it’s hard not to go out and look for music to capture. This music however, is relatively easy to find. Because we’re in Buenos Aires, there’s always someone singing tango in the streets where they think they can find tourists. There are entire street Orchestras, rather Orquestras Típicas. The biggest I found was comprised of a (string) cuartetto, 4 bandoneones, double bass and a piano; one they roll down the cobblestone streets and tune on the spot. There’s a huge reggae movement down here, I’ve seen dreadlocks in every color of hair. But as far as music: Sunday walking down Defensa street in San Telmo, we caught a whole bunch of different groups, all playing something different. An amazing Klezmer Trio, a small mestizo group, including a charango, that Tango Orchestra, a jazz combo, and even a drunken Samba Parade bright and early on Sunday morning.

Tango y Rock Chabón

I’ve seen three live performances in actual venues in the last two weeks. The first was a band called ¡Los Fabulosos Cadillacs! A Latin rock group that does whatever it wants and doesn’t really fit into a single genre. They had horns, Latin percussion, electric guitars… you know, the same old stuff. The concert was free, in the giant park in Palermo. It was a teaser for a “comeback tour” that would return to Buenos Aires in December. The second group I saw was called the Babasonicos, a group which was further out there than I could appreciate. They had the standard garage band set-up lead, rhythm, bass, keys, drums, and a singer who pranced around and didn’t do his job all that well. What was more exciting was the venue, Luna Park. It was an indoor stadium with “Prohibido Fumar” written all over the walls, but the smoke was so thick inside you’d think we were at a Tom Petty concert. Pablo, who got his doctorate at Columbia and spent a good chunk of his life in New York, told us it was the equivalent to Madison Square Garden but I couldn’t make the comparison. I didn’t bother recording the Babsonicos, but here’s a bit of Los Cadillacs. You can’t see it but their tenor player has the most amazing crazy hair ever. I thought it’d be important to mention that.

The best show I’ve seen yet was this last Friday; a sextet of Tango musicians playing in a discreet club, hiding deep in San Telmo. The place looked like it just ignored the rest of the world since the forties. From the outside it looked like another brick building, but inside the doors were two sets of purple velvet curtains, between which sat a ticket booth. Yeah, a ticket booth. We were worried because we were told that without reservations they couldn’t seat 11 of us, but it turned out they couldn’t turn down 550 pesos. We got dropped at the bar in the back, looking around aimlessly until someone marched us upstairs to our own private balcony. The place wasn’t a restaurant with a show, it was a club with a kitchen. Art decorated the grey blue walls, each painting with its own lighting that dimmed just enough when the house lights went down. Each table had candles and all faced the stage. The club was about the size of your standard elementary school cafeteria cut in half lengthwise, or I guess in this context it would be safe to return to your memories of fourth grade and say “hot dog style.” We were seated at a long table with high-backed armchairs and had an unobstructed view of the show. Granted, a few of us were shorted chairs and had to sit on the floor. When Ryan ordered some food though, the waiter placed a candle right next to him so he could eat his meal seated on the concrete in style. The table was meant for the performers to sit at before the show, we figured this out because we were separated from the “green room” by only a curtain.

I can’t describe the music and do it justice, but I have plenty of it stored on my computer when I get back (a few of us bought Cds). Until I do, here’s something to hold you over:

Hopeless...

I'm waiting on some media for my next few posts, about my trips to see the most amazing Tango music, the street musicians on Avenida Florida and Defensa Street and Colonia, Uruguay. This is just something I wrote in my head walking home from a concert in Luna Park on Thursday (yes, I haven't seen the internet for three days. Amazing, no?):

Hopeless.

In the evenings, walking down the street with her, I found that I drift in and out of reality, our conversations only taking up a thin film of my conscious thought. The rest of me only dreams of holding her…

…Standing on the antiquated sidewalks under the once gas-lit lamps, surrounded by the old facades of European architecture and a fine, coiling mist. Her arms wrapped around me underneath my coat, her face buried into my scarf, my cap tipped back on my head as my own face is enveloped by her hair - shining bright copper in the lamplight, my cold glasses slightly fogging as my breath is reflected upwards.

That’s it, that’s all I can think about. No careful plots or intrigue, no schemata for building a closer friendship that has so often been my course in these matters. I can’t think when I’m around her, let alone try to impress her or hold an intelligent conversation; all that comes to mind is the scene above…

It’s been long enough since I’ve felt trapped and hopeless like this, so long that I’ve forgotten how miserable this sort of existence is, and how much I love it all the same.

Oh Reginald… I disagree!

I enjoy the idea of the blogosphere being a series of drive-by arguments. I can read something, then write a post on it. Someone can read that, it can inform their post, people comment and discussion starts to happen.

Shane’s blog has lain dormant for the past week or so, but the comments keep flowing in on his post questioning Catholicism. The last poster brought up something that sent me off in its complete hypocrisy:

“But be careful you don’t pick and choose what you want in your religion”

I’m sorry, what? Isn’t that exactly what Christianity is? Throughout the ages, right from its founding that’s been the basis of the entire religion. To Paraphrase a bit…

“Hey, Jesus, this Judaism thing isn’t working out for us, how about a new covenant?”

“You know what, pork’s pretty tasty, and our dietary habits are causing a bit of trouble with the Gentiles, I bet it’s not that unclean, go ahead and eat anything from the meat market.” – Paul

“Hey guys, lets all get together and decide what’s going to be in the Bible and what to throw out” - The Council of Nicea

“Just hang on a minute, (Ein minuten, bitte) you know what, we don’t need all these sacraments, the Church is pretty corrupt. Also, mass in the vernacular would be a good idea, here’s a few other theses and I’ll just nail them up here” – Martin Luther

“Hey you know what, that guy has some good points, we should evaluate ourselves a bit” – The counter-reformation

And so on.

A previous poster mentioned Papal infallibility. Just cause he’s got the biggest hat and a suped up golf cart doesn’t mean the Pope is a conduit to God. The church can be wrong. Remember, the church is made of men, all of whom are human, and therefore imperfect. Dissent is part of the free will that was mentioned earlier as divinely given, and should be encouraged, not looked upon with disdain and fear. Defending arguments with “Because it’s God’s will” means you’re not thinking for yourself, or maybe even at all. You’re taking what one person said as gospel. Something that’s not written in any gospel you can read to verify (written gospels that may have been “divinely inspired” were later edited by men).

Who are you to tell anyone that they can’t support the rights of people to have an abortion, or the freedom to love each other regardless of gender and call themselves Catholic? By trying to litigate these things based on religion, making them illegal in the eyes of a secular government you are suppressing their religious freedom, the free will given to these people by your God and imposing your own. How can anyone do that and call themselves Christian?

Cutest. Movie. Ever.

If I was to see a movie that was dubbed entirely in Spanish, it was good that I saw one where the main protagonist had a vocabulary only slightly larger than mine; that is, one that included the word Directivo but not much more. Down here, they held off on the release of WALL-E until their independence day (July 9). I have to repeat the title of this post, it was the cutest and probably best movie I’ve seen in a long while. An adorable love story with adorable characters - it had to be though, as it was stuffing warning after warning down the viewer’s throat through allegory. Don’t get me wrong; it was refreshing to see something enter the mainstream media offering warnings against the current path America has taken. Warning against consumerism, complacency and apathy, corporate interests overshadowing individual, or even government interests, even against being so wired in that you don’t even notice your real life around you.

The problem is, I think people either missed them entirely or if they saw them, got turned off by sheer volume. I certainly appreciated the allusion to 2001, and HAL in the glowing red eye of the autopilot. Just remember, artificial intelligence wasn’t the antagonizing force in the plot, it was the blind following of the directives of a Corporatocracy and the apathy of the obese and complacent consumers (read: Americans), allowing machines to run their world. I have to hand it to my buddy Roy for jumping on the bandwagon before everyone else. With a college degree and such, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of stock in B&L before it takes over the world.

Best part of the movie though was Apple’s subtle product placement. I went home and immediately turned my laptop off, just so I could turn it back on. From now on, every time I hear that sound I’ll smile.

See you again yesterday...

Two years ago at Christmas, I was curled up in a cabin in Arnold, California (think Sonora) celebrating with my father’s family. I have six cousins living on the west coast, all are siblings and together they comprise some of the smartest, wittiest and most talented people I know. My generation of my Aunt’s family includes, from oldest to youngest, a master sommelier, a blues guitarist, a writer, an actor, a geologist (this is considered somewhat of a genetic disease in the Cargile clan) and finally a singer. Sitting around their table for any holiday brings about a profound sense of family that I’ve never had growing up. With dinner, wit flows like wine, and the wine flows well… like wine, bottle after bottle. It was a mistake I now realize to put off reading the copy of Barrel Fever, given to me by one of my cousins that year.

Here in Buenos Aires, I’m surrounded by David Sedaris’ books. My room-mate has two, Sus has one, one which I’m currently reading, Me Talk Pretty One Day. I think my current situation provides an extra emphasis on the hilarity of the second half of this book. Part one is a collection of stories surrounding Sedaris’ life growing up in South Carolina, Chicago and New York. Part Deux (Two) is dominated (so far) by the author’s experiences surviving in France without really knowing the language. From the broken and useless vocabulary he acquires in his trips to Normandy, to his French classes where he only understands about thirty percent of what is said, I’ve found myself laughing at myself, imposing this lens on my own experiences here.

I spend the majority of my time carefully crafting sentences with correct grammar, and precise nouns gleaned from my friends, only to have the Porteños come back at me with strings of words that zip past me without any recognition. As long as the response to my query or order is “machina diez y ses” or “bueno” I walk away feeling some sense of accomplishment surviving in a country where I honesty can’t speak the language.

I do much better with written Spanish, as I’m a word nerd and can figure things out from Latin roots. Most of the time I’m ok, but plenty often I translate things completely wrong. My survival Spanish class is in Spanish, I think I mentioned that, but I really mean it. It’s in Spanish, a language I don’t speak, and I have to learn by interacting with someone who only speaks a language that I can barely comprehend. I now have much more empathy for ESL students. I’m motivated and can figure enough out in context so I only need my friends to translate a few words, but to ask any complicated questions, I end up having to talk through someone else.

Also, google.com.ar is celebrating Nueve de julio like everyone else here. That makes me happy.

Only in Buenos Aires…

My expectations of Irish pubs were lowered a bit after this weekend. We went to a Pub titled Mathias’ which advertised live Irish music on Fridays, squished between Highland Pipes on Thursdays and Karaoke on Saturdays. I went in expecting a Session, based on my previous experiences in Irish pubs in the states. However, we walked in and there was no sign of a fiddle, nor flute, bohdrahn, or tin whistle. The corner was set up with electric guitars, bass and drums.

Here in Buenos Aires, “live Irish music” means a U2 cover band. At least that’s what it looks like now, we plan on trying again next week. However, live music was pretty damn awesome to drink to, and it was English, with lyrics we new. Some of us got more excited than others. Sus captured some of Ryan’s antics.



We had dinner tonight at a restaurant titled Estilo Criollo which translates roughly to “Fucking Fantastic.” Regardless of the truth of that last statement in a linguistic sense, the meaning remains. It was probably the best food, wine and desert I’ve eaten yet. Sus and I split a bottle of Malbec, a red wine made from grapes grown down here. I can’t describe it and do it justice, but it was dark, and thick and rich. I had Medallones de lomo con pancetta, beef medallions wrapped in Italian bacon, there were potatoes, but I didn’t notice them. Then there was mousse. We all agreed that had this been a milkshake, regardless of who you were or your sexual orientation, this would have brought you to the yard. The desserts went flying around the table, thirteen people sharing and critiquing each, there was bread pudding, flan, some sort of chocolate volcano was popular, though it was more of a chocolate caldera. This was a meal that has surpassed my fading memories of the dinner I had on top of the Stratosphere in Las Vegas in 2005.

Good Grief

I don’t know how many people read Peanuts anymore, seeing as the strip is just reprinted weekly from ages long past, but that right there is a testament to the strip and Charles Schultz. I hold a certain empathy for Charlie Brown - growing up it was really easy to identify with the character. No uncoordinated adolescent can deny ties to a character who can never for the life of him kick the damn football (though maybe to no fault of his own). More importantly I’ve found that the two of us share something more significant than athletic skill, that being taste in women. One of the prevalent story arcs in Peanuts is Charlie Brown’s inability to cope with his adoration of the Little Red Haired Girl. She’s never shown in the strip, and only worshiped from afar - reminding me of Quixote’s Dulcinea. The problem is, there are certain girls that I’ve found, and fallen for, that completely strip me of my ability to cope and flirt, around them I almost feel stripped of myself. If I catch ones eye across the room I can’t even smile to dissolve the tension, only bashfully look at my feet, caught red handed doing something I know I shouldn’t have done. What’s worse? They’ve all been amazing, fun, intelligent and gorgeous red-heads.

Two things started this post – first I found a document on my computer dated from October of 2004, it was a depository of quotes. Between quotes from H.L. Mencken, Benjamin Disraeli and Douglas Adams, I found a scene from a Peanuts movie or strip, I forget which:

It's stupid to just sit here and admire that little red haired girl from a
distance. It's stupid not to get up and go over and talk to her.
[stands up]
It's really stupid! It's just plain stupid; so why I don't I go over and
talk to her?!
[sits down]
Because I'm stupid.
~Charlie Brown

This ailment plagued me my freshman year and my sophomore year, with two different women, and thus the quote made it into my depository. I thought I had kicked the habit when I moved on to brunettes and the like, but I was wrong: she’s studying here in Buenos Aires with me, regretfully strawberry blonde. Yup, that’s reason number two.

I’m being good. I have to be mindful of how much attention I pay to her, purposefully ignoring her so as not to fawn. The fact that when I talk to her I feel witless and slow helps. Sometimes my thought process just freezes around her, sometimes this is a little less helpful... but something happened that threw me for a loop. Something frustratingly meaningless, but it sent me flying nonetheless.

Last night a group of us went to go see Rent in Spanish. The show was amazing, and the music was the same and as awesome as ever. Whoever translated did an amazing job keeping the lyrics in line, and relevant. For me it was an exercise in figuring out what was going on, but it was much like watching an italian opera (la Bohéme) with a loose idea of the plot and just going aloing for the ride. The fun part was watching them try and fit 525,600 minutos into the same space of time. Regardless, the girls I went with decided it’d be nice to dress up and I threw on a tie.

After the show we were trying to flag down a cab and walking to a bigger intersection for better results. Standing on the corner, she began to yawn and I hit her with my program in admonishment, telling her she couldn’t be tired as she had a long night of clubbing ahead of her. Our conversation fell into inanity and slowly died away as the others tried to grab a cab. This one has a bit of ADD and she absent-mindedly grabbed my tie to better inspect it for the better part of 15 seconds (Jerry Garcia = shiny). When she looked up at me she saw a dopey smile behind which raged a battle between elation and sheer terror. I don’t know if she realized it, but she certainly realized how close she had drawn herself towards me and had to awkwardly take a step back.

This sort of vignette is reserved for some romantic comedy and I’ve had to distance myself from it and come back to reality. I don’t need to be keeping a checklist to determine whether my life is comedy or tragedy as I’m not living in a narrative. My problem however, is that my brain is still buzzing about it behind my conscious thoughts, especially when it comes across other quotes from that repository. Specifically this one from Joseph Heller’s Catch 22 (and aptly so, considering how trapped I feel in this situation):

"His response to women was one of worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening manifestations of the miraculous... too powerful to be measured, too keen to be endured, and too exquisite for employment by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their presence in his hands only as a cosmic oversight destined to be rectified speedily."

¡Deferred-ed!

Sus, Rae and I were sitting in a Café tonight, around 7:30 sipping on coffee con leche when Sus asked me what my application to UOP entailed and I realized I hadn’t provided an update here as to what my plans were: I’m deferring my enrollment for a year. I drove to Stockton the day before I left and searched for answers to all my questions. I didn’t really find many. The director of my department was available but nobody from the conservatory was even in Stockton. I got enough information to get me decided but not the information that was important: what was required of me as a music student and how I could pay for school. By deferring I can continue with my life as I had planned before June 25^th and still have the security of some future in a master’s program when I finally figure everything out. Please pay no mind to the fact that it’ll be nine years between my graduation from high school and my graduation from a masters program…

It was really difficult to answer the question “what do you play” to the people at the conservatory. I was sitting in an extremely competitive music school, swelled with money and prestige and I had to dance around the fact that I don’t consider myself an accomplished musician. When faced with a direct question, I had to answer directly:

Well, I played the violin for 8 years, but haven’t touched one in six. I’ve had a few years of lessons on the classical guitar. I’ve played the trombone, and am learning the trumpet. I’m self-taught on Saxophone, but haven’t really played it in 2 years. I played with the Cal Aggie Marching Band-uh and the University Wind Ensemble, but finshed my performance units with Javanese Gamelan Ensemble and special study on the Viola de Gamba. I rounded off my education with a few quarters of lessons with the department’s Harpsichord teacher...

My degree is in Musicology - I’m a music scholar not a musician.

It’s hard to describe the look of disdain on the lady’s face as she said, “well… I’m sure you’ll need to audition before you can pursue a credential in music education…” That’s the main reason for my attendance at CSUS this next year, not only to get a hand on some music education courses, but to bone up on my performance that I slacked off on the past two years, focusing instead on working at Unitrans and my geology coursework… or at least using them as an excuse to neglect my performance units.

When I sat outlining my application process for UOP, I detailed that I needed to write a 500 word essay to accompany my application. When applying to the UC it was something like 3000 words, and for Grad school it was 500... seems a little backwards. This got me thinking however, and I dug the essay out of my computer and re-read it. Despite my apprehension concerning my abilities, reading this certainly reignited my desire to pursue this path. I’m going to included it to end this post:

There have been two moments over the last calendar year in which my passion for music became completely focused, making clear the direction I should pursue with my career. The first of these moments came during my final exam for a conducting course. I was to conduct a chamber orchestra in the first two movement of Copeland’s ‘Appalachian Spring.’ I had done everything expected of me in preparation for the performance, but had never gotten to rehearse with the ensemble. I was conducting fellow students, all performance majors and essentially professionals and standing at the podium before the first movement I realized that this was my first experience conducting a live performance. I was fighting the feeling in the pit of my stomach and determined to stop my baton from quivering in my hand as I prepared for the first beat, drawing in a deep breath… and then the music began. All of my preparation for this moment then came to the forefront of my thoughts as the first note sounded, I didn’t have time to be nervous. It may have helped that the music was calm and serene, but there was something else to it. When I looked over at the first violinist to cue him for his solo, I found him staring at me waiting to make eye contact. Something clicked and I felt the music wash over me. I don’t really know how to describe the feeling, it was like a wave of relief, but more than that, I had let go of everything else and was only aware of the music. This performance was no longer my conducting final, it was unearthing a passion for music I didn’t know existed. Although this was a defining experience in my musical development, it pales when compared to my first concert conducting a youth ensemble.

My conducting final was a concert without a single rehearsal with the chamber orchestra: all the effort (both mine and theirs) was put in before I ever had the chance to work with them. I had missed out on what I would find to be the more rewarding side of a performance: rehearsing and watching the improvement of the musicians with whom I work. This past December I was fortunate enough to conduct a high school band in a concert after rehearsing with them for the ten weeks previous. The result at the concert seemed to be an extension of our rehearsals - but there was something else present. There was a sense of excitement and enthusiasm buzzing behind the students black and white exterior and it made itself known through their music. My experience in conducting this concert was similar to conducting Appalachian Spring, but the time I spent with the students put a filter on the feeling, sharpening a sense of pride as I watched the students perform exactly as I expected from rehearsal, but with a new sense of energy. This experience, more than anything has directed me towards my goal of becoming a music educator. I am at a disadvantage, however as the music department at UC Davis does not include a music education program. To develop the tools I will need to continue growing as a music educator, I need to find my way into graduate studies (as well as earn a California teaching credential) and I feel the best place to provide me with the education and tools I will need is the University of the Pacific.

Subways and Wine

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I can get anywhere in the city through Buenos Aire’s extensive subway system for the cost of 90 centavos, equivalent to 30 cents. We played around after class today navigating the system and it’s wonderfully simple. A bunch of us went up to see a free concert in Palermo, a neighborhood Pablo compared to Manhattan, with its own version of Central Park, what the locals call “the forest of Palermo.” The concert was a teaser concert for a band called Los Fabulosos Cadillacs who are acting like any other older rock band and getting back together. Their tour starts in December but they held a free concert last night to get everyone excited and publicize their return. Pablo left early to pick up his daughters and he left us with the direction back to the subway being “follow everyone else.” When we got down to the platform the place was packed with people, and when the first train came, these Argentines put the students of Davis to shame. That car was packed so full of people I don’t think there was room for many to even breathe. We wisely waited for the next train, but watched as two men fought with the doors trying to push their way into the mass of people, they were barely successful.

I also discovered the awesome wine available here. Sus and I split a bottle of a white wine, I forget the vineyard, but the grape was Torrontes I think. It was really light and barely sweet and probably the best wine I’ve tasted outside of the few glasses poured for me in my cousins’ cabin (one of whom is a master sommelier, the director of wine of the Bellagio in Las Vegas, and our family’s hook-up for amazing wines). The best part is after splitting a 3/4 liter bottle (four glasses), a glass of this amazing stuff costs the same a bottle of soda.

I ran into a post that a buddy of mine made a while ago in response to mine, figures he´d wait til I was out of the country, starving for high-speed internet. Shane raises some good questions about religion and I think it´s worth thinking about them.

Stranger in a Strange Land

So, I’ve been in Buenos Aires for four days and haven’t written anything about the city yet. This is mostly because I’ve been too busy/exhausted to do so. This city is absolutely amazing. I don’t know where to start besides that it feels like I’m in Europe, but looks like I’m in the 1920s. The architecture of the buildings surrounding my hotel and in most of the Centro is old and seems artisan in some ways. My hotel is a fine example, the ground floor is only the front desk and a stairwell which spirals up around an elevator. The staircase is marble and beautiful. The rooms are small and the furniture is as antique as the buildings - but worn and used to the point where I’m sure it’s not part of a gimmick but actually has been here longer than I’ve been alive.

The café culture is amazing here too. In a country where the middle class seems to have been decimated in an economic crisis, the city’s center and upscale districts still feel otherworldly in their food service. The dress and actions of waiters here is reminiscent of that which I’ve only seen in black and white movies.

Oh yeah, one small problem: I don’t speak Spanish! Even the “survival Spanish” class offered with my program is taught completely in Spanish, and the instructor only speaks Spanish and Portuguese. (The music and culture course is taught by Pablo and in English). Susanna and I are the only ones in the program who have never taken Spanish before. We’re treading water when it comes to the class but out on the streets we’re having a blast. Though I am slowly learning the language - very slowly - the majority of interaction I have with the portenos is me recognizing the prices they quote and doling out cash. There’s plenty of non-verbal communication too, and it seems they’re used to American idiots like myself expecting them to deal with me without speaking their language. I sometimes feel really stupid, and apologetic, but most of the time it’s exciting at the least.

One of the native Spanish speakers in the program had a pen pal in Buenos Aires growing up and she looked him up about six months ago. Esteban has been showing us around the city like a mother hen followed by 12 little chicks. This guy is awesome. I got to sit across from him at dinner and had a conversation that was all Spanish on his end and all English on mine, and it worked out just fine, we both ended up understanding each other (once we slowed our speech patterns down a bit). The places he’s taken us to were in the Recoleta, (our hotel is in the Centro) and the subway was closed last night (on strike). The distances I’ve been walking around the city remind me of the “Walking distances” cited in John Green’s Gatorade and Gasoline essay.

The strikes have something to do with the government trying to tax soy products coming out of the hinterlands. Apparently la presidente is trying to redistribute wealth amongst the country by means of an export tax on soy products and there’s a huge permanent demonstration on the plaza de Congresso between a pro and con camp (they had a futbol match a while a go and it drew quite a crowd. Our walk downtown last night ran parallel to a huge march in demonstration from the plaza de Mayo to the Congresso.

We’re studying at UADE, el Universidad Argentina de la Empressa, a private university smack dab in the middle of town. It’s on Avenida Neuve de Julio, about nine blocks from the hotel. The place is pretty nifty, it’s a vertical campus. They have 5 or six buildings all that go deep into the ground (3 floors or so) and about 9 floors up. It’s a bit of a contrast to Davis where everything is so spread out.