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Published: June 30th 2006
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As I disembarked from my plane, I did not realize two things. 1. How long the bus ride from the airport was, and 2. How great it is to ride the bus in a foreign land.
I was a bit concerned as I was cornered by an older gentleman. Anti-american sentiment is literally plastered to the walls as I drove in between goats and horses and overwhelming squalor. But what ensued was both magical and totally impossible in the cold culture we call Americano.
Dan Garcia talked to me in beautiful broken english about his long held
philosophical views on the state of the world. His greatest diatribe centered on the metaphor of the almighty, all-powerful, money-grubbing puppeteers which controlled the minds and bodies of nearly all of mankind. But he made his staunch stance against this stupefication clear, and his will was enrapturing.
We exchanged words about atheism, Plato, nationalism, symbolism, and
loneliness for an hour. He would often reach into his pocket and show me notes of his life. His eyes gleamed and his body rocked slowly as he looked to me for answers. The youth he spoke, that is all I have left of hope.
They are free and futuristic and beyond the strings of the damned. I agreed, and relayed my stories as a teacher, my passion to work with those who have not lost hope, and the free will to not only choose, but to question reality.
These ideas are a bit disjointed, but it is shows how our conversation went- In starts and stops as he searched for the right words, and I searched for anything which would keep him proselytizing. It was grand. I’m glad to report there are outlaws and innocents scattered throughout the world. they are there for the seeking.
After he showed us to the door of the hostel, we unloaded our baggage, both literally and figuratively, and distressed on the roof as the streets whirled below. We slept early and awoke with the sun shining brightly between the slots of the balcony shutters.
In the early morning light, we were thrust into a free tour of a revered
cemetery (Recoleta). The guide was distant as thoughts of the soccer game danced through his head. But it was a decent tour, especially those moments I stole from the group to commune on my own terms.
Later I would later realize I relished this reverent time amongst the dead, but for the moment my mind was still elsewhere. I was groping along in the dark as I tried to sort this land so foreign from my own.
But then a hand was offered from above. We were given a guide like some present from the gods. She was the perfect transition, an apparition really. A full fledged Wisconsinite nestled amongst the 12 million city dwellers stuck in this soupy smog. Over the week, she showed us the back streets of Buenos Aires and a place to get a good meal. She recommended we see San Telmo. A district dominated by colorful houses and quaint shops. We strolled through parks and alleys, onward to the channel of dykes brown with the waste of a million lost dreams, flushed down the toilet and sent to the sea forever.
After hopping the Subte to Palermo, we found cheap beds nestled near leaking ceilings, and drank a delicious beer. It provoked the feeling of mountain ale after a long day of skiing with my dad. That body buzz, and milky memories which gives me a dry smile and parched
lips. Contented, we awaited the evening.
Steaks were wrapped in pairs, encircled by foil, and bubbling with fat and salt. You would undress them and chew softly as though they were the long lost areolas of our youth. I imbued mine with a keen satisfaction, as conversation, and bygones flowed freely with the wine.
But this night was just a precursor, a build up of what was to come.
In the interim, I slothed amongst the streets and shook the alcohol from my head as well as the rain from my shirt. I took in the game at a local bar, where songs were sung with each goal. The victory sent the once deserted streets into pandemonium as the populace exploded with celebration. Fireworks rang in the distance and streamers were strewn from balconies.
After some simple revelry in the streets, we sought out some comrades for conversation. We discussed America as only ex-pats can, with shrewd insight and a sad longing for familiarity. We discussed the things we remembered and those we would like to forget. We went to some disco bar, til 4AM, and slept soundly for the remainder of a lost day.
Like all
days but different, Saturday built upon the past. Again I was knee deep in conversation as I tried to pin down my own thoughts of the smoke screen American dream. Eyes were locked as we took a journey through the past, present, and future of humanity. Gayel, an artist from France, enticed us with stories of sex and loneliness and jungle life. He crushed ice, limes, and lumps of sugar into his glass of vodka. It was only 3, and the night was young.
We made it to Club Konex, an abandoned warehouse with a propensity of druggies and flashing lights. Water, not drugs, sustained me as I slipped onto another plane. The pulsing beat, rattled my head as I repeated, "I am a man, not a machine", over and over and over. Some laughed at my demonic dance. But it was cathartic. The sweat poured from me like words do now, and I drank it all in. The fog machine only augmented my feelings of a fractured self. I felt I was in communion with the whole world, yet wholly alone. But the smoke cleared and so did my mind. The sun was spreading its wings into the heart of the city as I hailed a cab and rested my head on Alison´s shoulder. The buildings blew by and my mind raced with thoughts of nothing at all.
I slept, and awoke groggy, confused with what transpired, yet content for taking it all in. I held our guide close as we parted ways and thanked her for showing me a sliver of her life. It is not my own, and I am not me, but who knows who you really are until fog and music roll over you at 5 AM in some seedy club along the back streets of Buenos Aires.
-About 5 minutes later. As I ended my prose from the perch on the stoop, a fight broke out between two stray cats and a 3 legged dog 10 yards away. There was screaming and crying, and again I thought, Who am I, and where am I.
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johnny anonymous
non-member comment
the kid has done it again
I tried to pin down my own thoughts of the smoke screen American dream. mos def couldn't have put it any better himself.