Buenos Aires (part 1)

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2008- South America

As I landed in Panama City, travel-weary and sleepy-eyed, but with still half of my journey ahead of me, I was slightly disoriented as I stepped out of the plane and into the lounge where other passengers were awaiting their next flight. It was then that I received a sudden sense of warmth when I saw the placard revealing the city where they would all be traveling -- “Habana.” A sense of solace came over me—something I cannot explain. Was it because I had just departed from L.A. not eight hours ago, after my mother dropped me off at LAX? Maybe Cuba represents something in me which lights up from the inside out. That includes mom, my heritage, our music, and the name of the island itself.

Still groggy but now enthusiastic, the stimulation turned from visual to auditory, as I overheard the tell-tale accents of the five Cuban men in their fifties sitting in the lounge. I had a flight to catch, but not for another 45 minutes, and for now I decided I wanted to absorb the sounds of these men. For so long I had eschewed my own, natural accent, the one I had picked up since I was in utero. Also, my father was always known as having a stereo-typical, strong Cuban accent. Over the years, I had changed mine for various reasons —polishing the sharp edges and taking out some of the Caribbean zing. The first reason, quite honestly, was that after a while I did not like it. Was it the frustrations of adolescence and young adulthood, rebelling against my family? Perhaps. But also there were pragmatic reasons. During my years as an actor, I frequently auditioned for parts in Spanish-speaking commercials. Being in the Los Angeles market, our primary Latin demographic was Central American and Mexican - not the Caribbean. My next career was as an interpreter in the judicial system, where again my Spanish-speaking audience consisted primarily of Mexicans and Central Americans.

Now I’m in this far-away place where I’ve never been -- in an airport waiting lounge in the tropical location of Panama City -- and I’m listening to men who speak exactly the way my father did -- and the way I did until my late 20s. This time, instead of thinking about my career or sounding right for the camera, I decided to sit down and absorb.

While I listened softly to the guys who sounded like older versions of myself, I watched in wonderment at the decked out feminine beauties that abounded. Why would anyone dress so seductively just to catch a flight? This type of excess is never seen in the United States. Alas, we were in Latin America now, where pragmatism takes a back seat to sex appeal. One beauty after another went past me, with elegant skirts, heels, make-up applied liberally and seductively, and low-cut blouses. Incredible. I could almost see them taking their time in front of the bathroom mirror, delicately applying just the right amount of paints along the proper contours, methodically and dispassionately, as a mechanic turns a socket wrench.

The men’s talk shifted now to a new subject:

“It’s so inexpensive in Cuba.”
“What is?”
“The Viagra we bought over there. Willie got himself quite a supply. It’s gonna be a paaah-ty when he gets home.”
“Yeah,” another chimed in, “and it’s time-release too! So look out!”

The arrival in Buenos Aires was excellent. I slept nearly 80% of the seven-hour flight, which was exactly what I did on the six-hour leg from L.A. to Panama City. I marvel at how easy it is for me to sleep in new places. Like a happy cat I am. I think it’s mostly genetic, because my mother’s the same way. Then again, Dad was a big insomniac, so I guess it’s something I’ve chosen. Hmm….

I had heard so much about Buenos Aires, and yet the adjective that most frequently emerged was “dangerous.” “It’s not as bad as Rio,” they would say, “but watch your back just the same.” Wide-spread drug abuse has come to Buenos Aires, and it has affected the youth most. The combination of narcotics, adolescent hormones, and poverty makes for a sometimes-violent combination. Of course, there is always a bit of sensationalizing with these predictions, but when you’re new in town, you expect the worst and you tend to freak out at first. As I looked in my travel guide’s index under “safety,” I found a section discussing “Express kidnappings,” a technique in which a pedestrian is huddled into a car and then driven to different ATMs, where he is forced to withdraw cash! One local has told me even some taxis are not safe, reminding me of Mexico City, which in the last 15 years has earned a reputation for cab drivers who steer their patrons to streets where criminals lie in wait. Although this is an extreme case, and it’s mostly a Mexico City phenomenon, it’s easy to get spooked when you have just landed at night carrying cash, credit cards, and two bags of clothing and computer equipment. Hardly a position in which one has a lot of options to fight or protect his belongings if danger should strike.

Needless to say, the 10pm taxi ride from the airport to my house (a place I had never seen in my life) was less than relaxing. The driver was a pleasant guy, though - about my age—and we chatted mostly about his semi-professional soccer league and his new wife. He said he’s only been robbed twice, but that was over a period of several years, and he’s on the streets constantly, which means statistically it’s not too bad. He told me on one occasion the bandits took everything but his underwear, leaving him standing in the street bearing his legs! Hey, at least if you’re gonna have your pants taken in the middle of the city, you can be grateful to have a soccer player’s legs! The scoundrels could have chosen a bowling champion or judge as their target. And then what?!

At this point in the conversation I gingerly reached forward and locked the doors on all four corners of our little vehicle. Happily, I arrived at my house without incident. And thus far I have been here seven whole days and have not been a victim of crime. Cool, right?! In truth, I am taking more precautions than necessary, such as avoiding some parts of the city at night, being aware of my physical positioning relative to other young men (especially after dark), being cognizant of my blind spots as I walk the streets, and dressing as much like a local as possible. The truth is I don’t want to find myself in a position where anybody has to be hurt, whether it’s me or the person threatening me. So I choose to avoid it to the degree possible. “An ounce of prevention,” the saying goes…..

Speaking of blending in… never in my life have I fit into a place as much as I do here. Physically speaking, I’m just a little above average height, and my coloring is only slightly darker than the norm. Also, a full 30% of the men have longish hair, and so as long as I don’t open my mouth, nobody knows my roots are Caribbean and not Argentine. Today I really felt welcome when a young guy on the metro asked me where he needed to transfer, and I actually knew what to tell him! A double coup!

On my first morning in Buenos Aires I awakened bright and early—6am L.A. time and 10am Buenos Aires time. That’s a good sign, because on other occasions the stress of traveling has gotten me down.

Something else for which I will always be grateful is the amazing house in which I’m staying. It belongs to my friend Amaranta and her husband and family. Thanks a million to you guys! The place is not only clean, spacious, and well-lit, but it’s centrally located. And that’s not all: it has a copious amount of natural light, as fully one-half of the ceiling in the kitchen and dining room is made of plexi-glass. As the Southern winter gives way to Spring, I look forward to enjoying a bright living space.

Saturday I experienced many “firsts.” First time taking a bus in Buenos Aires and discovering it’s not impolite for the driver to hit the gas before you are fully through the door. First time walking over a kilometer in Buenos Aires and realizing that I blend in here more than anywhere else on earth. First time riding the metro and realizing it’s just like Europe - except the trains are much older and here the people speaking French are called tourists. First time in a large grocery store in Buenos Aires, where I discovered the local policy which says “3 is not a crowd” and check-out lines can have you crawling for up to 60 minutes.

It was in the “Jumbo Supermarket” that my impatience got the better of me. An hour earlier I had been scanning the aisles in frustration as I realized there was not an organic fruit, vegetable, or milk product anywhere. This store was fully the size of a large supermarket in the United States, and yet nothing that can be considered up to the standard to which I’m accustomed. Time to become more flexible? Yes. So I grabbed a few essentials, accepting the defeat of brushing with Colgate and wiping my ass with bleached toilet paper - just like 95% of the industrialized population of the planet is forced to do.

Then I continued perusing, deciding among the various choices of antibiotic-laden cheese - affectionately called Monsanto Juice by a good friend in California. I strolled and I shopped, one expectation after another being shattered like a large bottle of mayo. My only solace was to graze on the baguette I picked up in the bakery section. I headed for the check-out line feeling a bit defeated with Jumbo Inc. -- my cart only one-quarter full.

Some ten minutes later the line hadn’t moved and a guy got in line behind me (most likely Peruvian or even Bolivian). He had nothing in his cart except 48 large bottles of beer—I counted them. I asked “How many guys are drinking? Just you?” He happily responded “No, six of us.” As I stood there I pondered the global phenomenon by which domestic economies dry up and their inhabitants are forced to emigrate to countries that are relatively more prosperous. Generally these are the guys who are the brick-layers, rail-yard workers, and dish-washers. Sometimes they’re the criminal class. You don’t even see them, not until you are in the check-out lane at 8 pm on Friday night counting his 48 bottles of beer.

Standing there for over 40 minutes was too much for my brain, too accustomed to the efficiencies of the Northern Hemisphere, and I thought nothing of abandoning my cart containing the half-eaten baguette and heading home. Of course, before leaving I made sure my cart was not blocking the path of my fellow shoppers. That would have been unethical.

Next update soon ….

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