buenos Aires - part 2a

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The Theatre

On my second night in Buenos Aires I found a pearl - an entire neighborhood devoted to live theatre! As so often happens when we take the time to float around and ride the current, I came across this section somewhat by chance. I had ventured out to take a late afternoon stroll, seeking the well-known section of town in which dozens of independent book stores dominate the urban landscape. It was raining, but only mildly. Still, as I left my house to head for the metro, I took with me an umbrella and a thick coat with a hood. Some twenty minutes later I was regurgitated by the throat of the underground train, and I joined the light pedestrian traffic on the dingy streets. It’s not that the streets are overrun by trash, but simply the age and disrepair give them a feeling of constant grime. When you walk these streets, you don’t saunter, you navigate with intention. It’s the difference between khakis and a sailboat vs. rolled-up jeans and an outboard motor.

The sidewalks mostly are constructed in small slabs -- eighteen inches by eighteen inches. And they are thin. When a slab cracks, it is removed entirely, leaving a spot that is one inch deep and happily collects water during these drizzly days. But it’s not a problem for ankle twisting because everyone is alert and manning an outboard motor. You end up seeing in more dimensions on these streets, because while navigating the wet gaps in the sidewalk, you remember there are more pick-pockets in these parts than in a Tijuana brothel. So you look up; you scan your environment; and then you go on marching, intent on getting to your destination, still noticing the names of the cross streets and the numbers on the facades, but molding yourself to the surroundings more and more. You become aware of your walking speed and style relative to others, but it’s sub-conscious. One day you are hesitant and making every effort to appear effortless, and the next you are in the groove, moving as if you were on a belt-driven walkway at the airport, smooth, blending in, but with a destination in mind.

So amazing to find an independent book store. I ducked in and removed my hood immediately when I saw the name and address I was looking for - Galeria Gandhi. Once inside I went upstairs, only to discover I was now in a small theatrical section, with staged events nightly. One end was a full bar, and at the end of the bar were six or seven small tables. Beyond the tables was a raised platform - a simple stage, no more than eight feet deep by 20 feet wide. I asked for a playbill and discovered they are running two shows here five nights a week. And on Friday and Saturday nights the comedy called La Pulga en la Oreja (The Flea in My Ear) plays at 15 minutes past midnight. I walked back downstairs and started a conversation with the girls at the café. When I asked them which play is good, they said The Flea in My Ear is always well-attended. I can’t wait to go - surely this weekend. There’s something that feels sinful in sitting down in the dark among strangers at 15 past midnight to watch a live performance. It feels slightly voyeuristic, even if there are no serpents involved. After tea and a sandwich at the small café—literally a counter, espresso machine, and two stools, I walked to the book section. They offered some best-selling titles in English, along with the classics translated into Spanish (Catcher in the Rye, for example), but I was primarily interested in original titles in Spanish. It feels good to get your hands on an original, plus I’m in Latin America now, why would I read in English!? I strolled the aisles with their wooden book cases and hard wood floors, listening to the solid tap of my rubber-soled shoes, and I inquired about an author who is positively riveting. His name is Pinol and he writes neither in English nor in Spanish. He is from the Northern region of Spain called Catalunya, close to France, but he doesn’t write in French either. His mother tongue is Catalan, indigenous to his region, and his work has been translated into the languages of the former colonizers. I find that to be a beautiful reversal of the trend of globalization, where native languages, local entrepreneurism, neighborhoods and ways of life are being lost. I bought a copy in Spanish of Pinol’s latest book; I tucked it into my very Argentine plastic grocery bag (people in Latin America are notorious for carrying ordinary, plastic grocery bags), where I keep the rough guide to Buenos Aires, and I headed out into the drizzle. Armed with the playbills and the works of this Catalan author, I feel I may have found some community in this city where I once had no friends.

I might have starved my first week in Argentina had it not been for La Tia Elsa (Auntie Elsa), who lives in the same housing complex I do. She is in her late 70s and very alive. Her presence of mind and her ability to multi-task are way beyond that of most people half her age. To some degree that’s cultural, as the pace of life in Latin America is not friendly to khakis and sailboats. Therefore, only the most astute can strive, and Tia Elsa is certainly in that category. She was an obstetrician before 90% of us were born - in the 1950s. That was cutting edge even in Argentina, which embraced advanced education for both sexes before it became popular in the United States. More recently she nursed her octogenarian husband back to health after he fractured his hip in four places. That was four years ago, and the old man (Horacio) is walking without so much as a cane. He’s not breaking any speed records, but he’s done something few elderly people can. No way he would have so much as left the hospital without his wife of 55 years at his bedside every day. She explained that she took the subway plus two different buses every single day, just to go visit him. She went alone, and it took a big toll on her own health. One night coming home she was mugged by a couple of the low-lives from whom no one is safe. She wasn’t harmed, and she’s got the presence of mind to deal with things plainly and with little drama. This woman’s character is a shining example of why females outlive males. Horacio, to his credit, endured what must have been agonizing pain to learn to walk again. I remember my old friend Jacques, who had less severe injuries in an automobile accident, and he succumbed. Both men had amazing, strong partners who will surely go on to outlive them both. Old Horacio was the headmaster at a boy’s school until 13 years ago—when he was 71 years old! Not a career for the faint of heart.

Back to the reason I didn’t starve: on my first day in Buenos Aires, I called Tia Elsa at around eleven a.m. She had me walk back to see her, where I met the whole clan—Elsa, Horacio, and the pretty grand-daughter of 17 (Melissa), plus the grand-son named Emiliano (10 years old and with Down’s Syndrome). I will speak more about him later, but for now I will merely say Emiliano might just be the happiest, most intuitive creature I ever met.

In part because I’m not attending to clients full-time, and in part because I’m in Latin America, everything takes longer. My ten minute visit to Tia Elsa reflected that, lasting three and a half hours, with few moments of dead space. The speeds are just different, and it’s mostly by design. I’ve been told, for instance, that Home Depot made an effort to gain a foothold here, but people rejected it in favor of the smaller, local providers. Back in the States, mom buys two gallons of milk at a time, and they last her a week. Here the standard purchase is a liter (slightly more than a quart); grains are bought in bulk. That is, the grocer attends to your request by packing up the number of grams you desire. I bought, for example, 50 grams of pepper and 200 grams of salt last week. Very quickly you get a sense of measurements and what your needs are.

Alas, during my first visit to Tia Elsa’s house, she invited me to stay for lunch, an offer I promptly accepted! I’m no good at feigning disinterest in home-cooked meals, so I declined to even try. Somehow meals taste better when they’re eaten in good company. As a single and staunchly independent person, I have gotten used to eating alone, but with people like Elsa and Horacio, plus the curious 10 year old at my side, it’s hard not to settle in and relax.

The next day I asked Tia Elsa if she didn’t mind lending me some silverware and a tea pot. This seemingly innocuous request placed me in the middle of a wonderfully complex psychological maze in which I walked on a bed of nails between Tia Elsa and another elderly woman, one with a severe eye for order and 82 years of experience sharpening her critic’s sword. In that time period she has also earned a black belt in squabbling.

Enter Adriana Regati (names have been changed to protect the guilty). My first phone conversation with her made me more nervous than the late night cab ride through the poor barrios, my computer at my side and cash money concealed in places mom would not approve of. Adriana is the type who doesn’t just give orders, she waits for a response, as if to cement her superior position in the relationship. Just five minutes on the phone with her, and I was horrified. I wondered how many armed assailants would have to corner me in the metro to achieve the same over-production of adrenaline in my being. Two? Perhaps three? Yes, it would have to be three, or an assailant with a firearm. The fact is against a couple of unarmed assailants I’d have relatively more tools than against Adriana Regati. After all, I have entered the ring with black belts stronger and bigger than me, but never have I been forced to square off with an octogenarian who had this woman’s spirit! She would wipe the canvas with me!

After that frightful phone conversation, I was not looking forward to our meeting in person. Nevertheless, I kept my appointment and the next day I went to her house. Right away my fears vanished. She was tiny, hesitant, happy to meet someone new. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and decided this woman needed somebody like me, and I needed somebody like her. That chat began like this:
“Would you like some hot tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Not, thank you. Would you like some hot tea? Yes or no?”

The next episode of her abrasive nature was when I presented her with the gifts I had brought her from California - two bottles of Vitamin B12 vegan capsules. She looked at the bottles and told me “Wonderful. Do I say ‘thank you’ or do I owe you something”?
“No, just thank you.”

The courtship went on this way for some time, perhaps half an hour. At one point she determined things were going well enough to give me a tour of her house. Soon we were standing before a small, framed photograph of a couple in their early 40s. She told me it was a photo she took with her departed husband. At this point the safe bet would have been to nod reverently and then pause before moving onto other areas of the house. Instead, not being one for safety, I saw an opportunity to go double or nothing. I saw the two of them in that picture and I had a strong feeling, so I took a gamble: “He appears to have been a good man.”

“What’s so risky about that?” you might ask.
Well, I was standing in a country where a good, faithful husband is harder to find than a pacifist taxi driver.
Adriana now looked directly at me.
I sighed, accepting defeat in this game where I was way over my head, only to hear her say “You have a gift don’t you?”

I accepted her comment in silence. Then she said “So do I.” Later that afternoon I learned Adriana Regati and I were born in different years but only one day apart. I think things will go well with my new friend. She came to my house the following morning and turned on the second heater for me. I had been living there five days and had arrived to the big empty house during a cold front. She was frustrated by this news, probably because she had tried so hard to leave the house ready to occupy. She turned on the heater in 10 seconds flat, turned to me and said haughtily “How’s that?”
I said “Well, it’s a little late now - the cold front has passed.”
Tomorrow I’ll take her a box of chocolates.

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