Wandering the streets I find myself happy to be back in civilization because it is familiar and offers a degree of anonymity but then I get this creeping feeling up my spine. Looking around I see responsible people hustling to work, buying groceries for the family and driving nice cars. In a nutshell, sensible and the opposite of me. Being in a dusty backpacker town in Ecuador or Colombia you have the weak pretense of ´exploring´, but here in a real city you are long haired loafer.
Maggi is one of these responsible city dwellers and absorbs me effortlessly into her life´s routine. She houses me and goes to work with regular hours leaving me this strange isolated life outside the hostel world. I soak up the solitude and immerse myself in reading, writing emails and dancing naked in front of mirrors. It´s nice to have a home on the road and take a break from the meet and greet sessions and the unsettling electric bustle of the hostel circuit.
South of the equator and it is a humid summertime Christmas and New Year. The first round of socializing is with the family for the ever-so-delicate and awkward traveler´s Christmas Story, in Spanish. The family is cautiously happy to see me revisit their daughter and sister. Lets say there was less gusto seen in their faces than the first time I blew through town. Obviously they know the story will be much like the last time I was here- a friendly visit and a departure leaving their loved one sadder than before I was there.
At least I can speak with them in Spanish on this visit and get to know them on a different level. The father translates for a living and is fluent in English so we indulge in side conversations. The younger gay brother knows 4 words in English- funny enough they happen to be ¨blow job¨ and ¨cum shot¨- so we were able to get to know each other on this trip much better than before. Most of Christmas Eve I spent nursing a glass of Sprite attentively listening to a 6 way conversation about people I have never met and trying to wrap my head around this new Argentinian accent. Maggi would reach out to touch my knee, check on me and ask if I was bored because I was not speaking. I was fine, but completely lost. I did what I always do in these situations- find the outcast of the group, someone who is equally as lost as I am, and start a conversation with them. You can always count on Grandma.
Caption, ¨Brother with 4 word English vocabulary, on the right. Other brother with his Penelope Cruz looking girlfriend. Damn you Argentina!¨ Grandma is 91 years old and frighteningly sharp. Her son came over with a filled glass in each hand, ¨Mom, do you want wine or Coca-Cola?¨
¨Wine,¨ she says. ¨Which one is the wine?¨
¨They are both wine, mother.¨
¨Well give me both then,¨ laughing at her own cleverness. She was sweet and reminded me of my own grandmother, and like her, she had lived a great life and each laugh was a laugh in the face of death cheated. Ready to go, but enjoying each extra moment. You are defenseless talking to a woman like this and you sit back to soak up the knowledge and emanating light. Maggi´s Grandma spoke sentences in English, German, French, and Italian to test my language skills. I failed miserably, of course. When you are that old you are allowed to show off like that. She recounted stories of her childhood of how the siblings went off to Europe to learn languages, ¨The boys would learn German and the girls French or English. The journey to Europe took 19 days; this was in the 1920´s, you know.¨ Argentina, or I guess I should say Buenos Aires, has always considered itself connected with Europe even though it is geographically connected with the rest of Latin America. Argentina has a deep disdain for its neighbors and will take a trip to Europe thousands of kilometers away rather than step foot in a place like Bolivia or Ecuador. I enjoy talking to the idealistic Argentinian Marxist as much as the racist Grandma. Both fascinate me, although I do not agree with either of them, but neither offends me with their polarized views because they are products of their environments. Are not we all?
Later I rejoin the group conversation when the rhythm has slowed down from the initial excitement of seeing each other and now I am able to keep pace and contribute. No questions are asked about my life or my stupid biking mission and I know why; Maggi has briefed them beforehand. My story, and reputation, has preceded me. I feel as if the frosty reception received earlier in the night has begun to melt and they begrudgingly accept Maggí´s judgment in allowing me back in her life, if even for a short period, and they do the same.
Maggi is great. She lets me be me by spending the day reading, writing, cooking and listening to music. It goes well with her temperament since she needs the first 8 hours of the day to wake up, thus allowing us to do our separate things. Each day we have a deep talk and an intimate moment. We see the craziness within each of us, laugh and bask in it, and proceed with realistic happiness and one foot cautiously covering the break.
Caption, ¨Maggi.¨The next gathering is a family affair along with Maggí´s friends for New Year´s. New Year is a strange time of year. The expectations of what you will be doing when the clock strikes midnight mixed with the resolutions and sadness of hoping for a new year.
Maggi´s friends, like the family, is less excited to see me, and for a mix of confusing reasons so am I.
Like a scientist taking a random sample at different times in the same location for a study I notice that the couples that were couples three years ago are still together and the single ones are still single and searching. Could that be a coincidence? Then I think about me traveling 3 years ago as well, and what my friends were doing three years ago, and nearly all of them are doing the same thing. Does time move that fast, or that slow? Does that show the true paths, or path of least resistance, of each of those people? Am I ´doomed´ to continue my world meanderings like a scrap of paper in the wind?
I was being paranoid and the friends all warmed up to me with cold drinks. Genuine hugs and smiles were shared amongst playing catch up on each others lives. I was amazed on how much you can remember about a group of people met for a short period of time so long ago. I already know the over-dramatic sigh and look from the corner of the eye of Sebastian to his girlfriend, the curious way Nati ashes her cigarette, and the smell of Maggi´s neck. The older I get the more I perceive that each day is important, and each interaction with people and your surroundings leaves its mark, forever. Nostalgic brain slivers and heart splinters.
Getting up to fill my glass I run into another Grandma. She pulls out a chair for me and slaps the cushion for me to take a seat. She wants to know where I have been and where I am going. She is another treasure chest full of memories and iridescence. Her thin lips moved and her eyes danced as she told me where to go in Patagonia, the languages she speaks, and crossword puzzles she does. ¨If you want strong legs then you bike, if you want a strong mind then you do crossword puzzles.¨ And she is right. Speaking with her gave me that fleeting sentiment to take care of yourself, just in case you live that long. She stood up from her chair and with a flair for dramatics she looked down on me, ¨Guess how old I am?¨
Hmm, these kinds of questions I hate, ¨55?¨
¨Ha! Higher!¨
¨65?¨ A head shake, ¨75?¨, a prouder head shake, ¨82?¨, not yet, ¨87?¨.
¨Ok, now you have gone to far. 85,¨ and she stood there with her chin up and looking off to nowhere in particular to let me study her. I was looking at a triumphant 4 year old child pleased with itself while receiving praise from the parents for not wetting the bed the night before, not an 85 year old woman with a life time worth of living. I wanted to give her a big hug. She was too adorable. It is the big circle of life before our very eyes, from child to adult to child again.
Caption, ¨Maggi´s dad celebrating New Year´s like a real Argentinian man- cig in one hand and a gun that sounded like a goddamn hand cannon. In blue is his novia from Paraguay and next to her, one of the lovely grandmas who was up until 4am chatting the night away.¨Now the Aunt wants a go at me and waves me over. She is sitting in a corner flanked by her husband and Maggi´s step mother from Paraguay. Like most conversations of the evening we have to start with the topic of languages. ¨So you have an Italian passport? Do you speak Italian?¨ she asks me.
¨Nope,¨ slightly ashamed but we are speaking in Spanish.
¨Oh,¨ shaking her head, ¨this is horrrrrrrible.¨
¨I know. Thank you,¨ is all I can muster to say but I really want to do is give her a compliment on her voice. It´s deep and sexy. Well sexy if you think sounding like a man with vocal chords bathed in whiskey and hickory smoked with Marlboros for 40 years is sexy. She should opt for the more natural sounding robotic voice box replacement surgery so as to not scare the children.
¨I speak Italian,¨ of course she does.
The meek husband adds to the conversation for the first time, ¨The most common error Argentinians make is believing that they can speak Italian.¨ I love this guy. Unfortunately it is the last time I hear his voice until goodbyes at the end of the night. The Aunt goes on a vicious monologue. ¨Well my grandmother was from Milan...¨ she goes on speak about 6 grandparents in all (huh?) and she speaks each of their languages, carried in the blood I suppose, from each different country. She goes on rambling about languages for the next 15 minutes throwing in an English word here and there just to show me she speaks fluently, which she does not.
She made the mistake of leaving a slight pause to catch her breath in her pontificating and I was able to ask Maggi´s step-mom a question to include someone else in the conversation, ¨So I know they speak a different language there in Paraguay.¨
She replies, ¨Yes, it´s Guaraní¨
And then wouldn´t you know, the Aunt is an expert on Paraguay and Guaraní too! Never mind the lady who was born there and speaks the language. This speech was a tactless and clueless masterpiece. ¨Oh yes, I know all about Guaraní since I had three servants from Paraguay. This was back when I had my other husband. When I had money.¨ The husband gets up and walks away while she continues digging the hole she is quite comfortable sitting in, ¨You see, I am from the city but I am not like the city folk. It´s as if I am provincial. I speak to everyone, even to all my servants, which is why I know about Guaraní. And I would treat them all very well. Well except one who stole from me. I had to throw her out. And I threw her out with the police, I did. The funny thing about Guaraní is soup means tortilla. I did not know this so I had my servant make a ´soup´ for my guests and out comes this embarrassing thing. I told her no, that will not do. You have to make a proper soup. She returned later with another soup but it was like no soup I had seen before....¨ and on and on she went until Maggi´s step mom got up as well and left me alone with this raspy woman who knows everything except for the fact she is annoying. I see Maggi sitting on the couch laughing and talking to her friends. I am trapped in a whirlpool and there is no way to gracefully exit. Maggí calls out, ¨Come here, you need to meet my friend,¨ and I excused myself from the table. Saved.
Back on the white leather couch with the 30 year old ´kids´ they are all laughing. ¨You got caught by my Aunt. We were enjoying you suffer from here,¨ now everyone is taking enjoyment from my pain. Ha Ha.
Lying, ¨Ya, well I could have taken another two hours.¨
The whole group in disbelief, ¨No, no, it´s not true!¨
Maggi chimes in, ¨Ya, it´s true. He is like an Anthropologist. He is doing research.¨ This makes me laugh. It´s funny to see how others see you.
Sebastian turns to me, ¨Lets speak English. I want to practice my English.¨ This is always entertaining. Everyone in the group has studied English for at least 7 years but only 2 of them can really speak. Usually conversations start awkwardly with phrases like, ¨What do you want to talk ABOUT?¨ But this time it starts differently. Sebastian´s girlfriend can hardly put a sentence together so he turns to her and says, ¨Your sphincter is too loose.¨ Then he turns to me and gives me the sly wink that only a genius can do. Sebastian is one of those rare characters you meet once in a blue moon. Blessed with a giant presence; he is as intelligent as he is compassionate. He is likable with no effort.
Caption: ¨Sebastian, on the right.¨ With the impetus of just finishing an endless round of toasting with RedBull and champagne I am rife with giggles while Sebastian is on his feet acting out his story of constipation on his last road trip. I was laughing so hard that I forgot I was hearing the story in Spanish. It was one of those times when you realize you are in the moment and that realization makes the bubble pop on the magic. Like the biggest lies of all time, ¨I love you¨ and ¨I am so happy right now¨, both are better never said leaving the lips. They are moments that can only be felt and not said. The act of putting crude and coarse words to such beautiful ephemeral feelings separates you from the act and ruins it.
I really should have made a New Year´s resolution to quit moralizing. I hear it is harder than nicotine to kick.
With the holiday festivities behind I find myself daydreaming on a bus in the city, listening to music and looking out the window thinking of the fireworks that accompanied both Christmas and New Years. It was like Baghdad. After the 113 hour bus ride I notice city rides are so short you get interrupted by arriving at your destination just as you get lost in a thought.
The bus pulls away and I am walking the streets in autopilot to a park. Staring down I try to grasp at that aborted thought but it´s lost forever with the bus fumes. A hopeless feeling, like a scrap of paper with an important number blowing out of your hands and off the balcony on the 11th story. Lost thoughts, lost memories. Maybe that is why I am back here in Buenos Aires. To revisit lost memories. Memories buried in the skin that would never be triggered if you did not retrace your steps. Sad to think of memories that will never return. Nostalgia lost.
The buses´ pneumatic hiss and hiss and hiss bite my ears like snakes hugging the gutters up and down the streets. The svelte women of B.A. pass by me with a runway determination but I know that aloof look is fueled by a sour feeling from smoking cigarettes on an empty stomach. These women will only look at you if you have another girl in hand, and that makes me smile. My heart swells with something like joy. I come across an old friend; a wooden bench where I spent past afternoons losing myself. Like looking into a mirror for the first time in 3 years I see the changes in the bench, the changes in me. Sitting down with a creak, nostalgia grabs me by the throat.
Things are familiarly different. The lacquer has worn off and some of the wooden slats are cracked. Running my hands over the back of the bench absentmindedly I watch the rollerbladers and joggers stopping for their smoke breaks. ¨Ouch! Dammit.¨ A splinter in my finger. I shift in my seat and hear my heart creak. Digging at the sliver I cannot reach. Love weary and false kisses.
