Reflections from Iowa

Prairie in Cedar Falls where I like to walk

I’ve had almost four weeks in Iowa to rest and process my trip. When I left in February, the ground was blanketed in several feet of snow. I returned to a verdant world. The ride home from the airport bypassed patchwork fields with dizzying rows of corn and soy sprouts. Tulips, strawberries, mint, tomatoes, peaches, garlic, lettuces and much more were growing and ripening in my mother’s garden. The bike trails that snake around Cedar Falls had filled with vegetation and the prairie reserve near my parents home had grown tall, providing shelter to killdeers, robins, and warblers. 

The lush landscape differs greatly from the polluted sprawl of Buenos Aires, but even more distinct is the sense of security. I can come and go anytime of the day or night without worrying about finding myself on an unsafe street. I have reveled in the freedom and warm weather. I haven’t wanted to sleep. Well after midnight, I’ve found myself on the backyard hammock watching the stars with my brother Vinnie. I’ve gone to the wine bar downtown and sat outside with girlfriends for hours. Under the glow of the street lights and slightly buzzed, I’ve thought, 

“I don’t miss being in Buenos Aires at all.”

I know that it feels good to be home, but hindsight has not brought much clarity about why I needed to go to Buenos Aires and what it means to my life as a whole. Since I was 19, I have felt drawn to living in South America and learning Spanish. Maybe I can’t admit the possibility that there was no specific lesson to be learned there, that my fascination was more whim than integral part of who I am and will become. On the other hand, I wonder if there isn’t something that I am missing, a revelation that will come to me at some later time. I can’t decide, so I let it be and go outside for a walk.

Time to Go

I’ve prepared my backpack, the apartment is tidy, and the sheets are in the wash. My hours in Buenos Aires are numbered--12 to be exact. Waiting for the landlady to check out the apartment and return the security deposit, I am taking stock of my belonging, checking the closets and medicine cabinets for nearly-forgotten objects. 

Despite packing conservatively for the trip, only what could fit in one backpack. I am surprised to find items that I forgot I had even brought. Goggles, ripped jeans, shoes that rub too much--all superfluous to my daily activities. Conversely, there are articles that I overused and would prefer never to see again. The seat of my green corduroys is threadbare and friends who saw me regularly could have bet with favorable odds as to what I would wear. 

Marisa and I in Puerto Madero

Due to a tight budget, I am returning with a bag that is physically lighter than when I left. (My treadless sneakers got tossed, as did the jeans.) The true souvenirs of this trip won’t adorn a coffee table or be framed on the wall. I am going home with an experience more real than any tangible object. In Buenos Aires, and perhaps any large city, ugliness, violence, pollution, and poverty exist alongside passion, friendship, dignity and kindness. I have seen a mob of men threatening pedestrians as they rode to a fútbol game along with men hugging and singing to one another on the street. Armed robbers stealing and impoverished families picking through the garbage. Regular people who were unwilling to intervene when I was in need and ones who opened up their homes and hearts. I am leaving with my Spanish much improved and deep gratitude for those Porteños and fellow tourists whose friendship has made it all worthwhile. Above all, a special thank you to Marisa for being my best companion and support. It's been an adventure!

Holiday

I woke up to powerful wind blowing through the courtyard. A thick layer of grey clouds hung low and refused to move. My stomach rumbled. I have been fighting a digestive bug that makes it impossible to keep food in my system. Food in equals food out. In the bathroom I discovered that I had managed to use up three rolls of toilet paper over the past three days and that the paper supply was running dangerously low. I zipped on my hoodie and left the apartment to pick up more paper at the grocer five doors down. 

Out on the street, I immediately sensed that something was off. The streets were too  quiet. Where were the people smoking cigarettes on the stoops or the old ladies chatting about discounts as they returned from the supermarket? Where were the taxis rudely edging forward to cut one another off? The stores remained dark, their gates padlocked to the ground. Even the grocer was barred with no explanation as to where everyone was or when they would be back.

I pulled up my hood, stuffed my hands into my pockets and walked back home sifting coins between my fingers. After a quick search on Google, I read that today Buenos Aires celebrates the Día del Trabajador--the Day of the Worker. This makes the sixth national holiday over the past few months. Just last weekend, Argentinians took a four day weekend for Easter. The country supposedly voted last year in favor of the creation of more national holidays, so this year was the first time several were ever observed. I can appreciate the sentiment behind these days off, but as a visitor without a job these holidays are no cause for celebration. 

The Day of the Worker has put me in a foul mood. To be clear, I have nothing against workers getting a break and I do feel that it is unfortunate that their day off is actually a Sunday. My bitterness is not directed at any worker, but rather at my own inability to find good consistent work myself. I am tired of being underemployed or unemployed. I want to work and today I feel frustrated. Tomorrow won’t be a holiday anymore and I will probably feel a bit better.

Being Twenty-six

It’s my birthday. I am still in Argentina and I am turning twenty-six today. Every year since I can remember, my father has asked me (and all his children), "How does it feel to be X years old?"   The question was posed to me first thing this morning as I sat on the toilet. In front of me, tucked into the toilet paper dispenser, Marisa had left a beautiful card featuring a Chagall painting. It depicted a figure dominating the frame and a little man suspended in the forefront. I turned that card over and read, “¡Feliz Cumpleaños! ¿Como se siente al ser de 26?”

Sitting there, I had a minute to think. How do I feel? I thought of a birthday long ago, maybe it was my 4th, 5th, or 6th (I don’t remember). But I do remember putting on my party dress and combing the inch of hair on my head and then going outdoors to wait for friends to arrive and to ride my pink scooter. I remember taking a lot of pleasure in the sunny sky, the attention lavished on me, and the fact that the scooter and my dress were both pink. 

Although I will probably no longer be seen riding a pink scooter about town, I do feel more or less the same as that young me. I got up from the toilet, brushed my teeth, showered, and put on one of my dressier outfits (clothing options are limited to what I was able to fit in my backpack). And then Marisa and I went off to celebrate the day. I enjoyed the coffee and the processions of people passing by the window carrying branches to celebrate Palm Sunday. And later, when the sun came out, I appreciated its heat on my back. 

Being twenty-six is definitely older. I am well into adulthood. Still, at my core, the way I understand the world has not changed. There is a lot of living still to enjoy--sunny afternoons, time spent with family and friends, and pretty dresses. I am looking forward to it all and twenty-six feels just fine.

Un Recuerdo

I wrote about a childhood memory for my Spanish class. Here it is...

One year later, all six of us posed for a picture--
the Girls dressed for the Epiphany,
Anthony holding the Star of Wonder,
and Vincent nearing his first birthday.

Mis padres se casaron cuando eran bastante mayores. Todavía, tanto mi mama como mi papa querían hijos. Con suerte no tuvieron ningun problema y rápidamente mi mama dió luz a cuatro hijas. Yo soy la tercera. Mis padres estaban contentos, pero mi abuelo, aquien yo le llamaba Nono por su lengua materna que era italiano, no. Aunque él vivía en E.E.U.U por años, nunca dejó sus pensamientos tradicionales. Él quería un nieto. Por fin, con casi 40 años, mi mama se embarazó con un hijo y despues otro hijo. Recuerdo bien el día que mi hermano menor nació. Yo tenía siete años. Era el tiempo del Epifanía y en estos años estuvimos haciendo un tradición austríaca. Mis hermanas y yo estuvimos vestidas como Los Tres Reyes (aunque, en realidad éramos cuatro). Estábamos pasando desde una casa a la otra para cantar en cambio por dinero para paises desarollados. Mi hermana tenía una cara pintada en negro y nosotros llevabamos coronas y togas. Así, fuimos al hospital a buscar nuestro nuevo hermano. Cuando llegamos mis padres y abuelo estaban allí. Mi abuelo tomaba una copa de vino para celebrar. El estaba muy alegre porque llegó el segundo nieto para continuar el apellido familiar. Un pequeño rey ha llegado. Mis padres le llamaron Vincent como un italiano, y Wiliam Michael por mi papa. El padrino, quien era de Uganda, le dió cuarto nombre. Le llamaba Okenya que significa hijo despues muchas hijas.

Impromptu Celebration

Last Sunday, Marisa and I met up with a friend to explore the San Telmo Market. Stretching over many blocks, including a park, vendors converge on the area to pedal everything from fresh squeezed orange juice to hand crafted daggers. A stroll down Defensa, the main drag of the market, tickles the senses. The smell of fresh baked dough and onions wafts from trays of golden brown empanadas. Antique Swarovski crystal chandeliers glitter above dusty pink dresses and crinkled leathers shoes. A band of nine musicians (a singer, a piano player, a bass player, two violinists, and four bandoneón--folk accordions used in tango) melds the sounds of each instrument into a gasping melody. For a few pesos you can dance the tango with a seasoned milonguero. Dressed in a brown pinstripe suit and smart brimmed hat, he confidently glides his partner across a sheet of plywood.

The market sets the stage for an impromptu celebration of life. As I waited for a puppeteer to begin his show, my attention was drawn to the beat of drums moving up the street. What I saw was a group of long-haired, linen clad young men pounding out rhythms and stepping to the sounds they created. Suddenly, out of the crowd stepped an older woman. She wore a fuchsia sundress and a leopard print sweater. Though her face showed her to be a woman of about 60, she danced with a zeal and confidence that defied age. She led with one hip and then the other, using every part of her body, down to her hands, to express the beat. And she did not stop. She took the lead and headed up the street. We crossed paths again as the group headed back down and the woman was still there unabashedly dancing. 

The music and dancing, the pretty things, the fresh food, these made all the difference. I came home from the market feeling happy. The celebratory spirit of the impromptu dancer has stayed with me. Though the last weeks have brought scares, sadnesses, and tragedies (both personally and globally), life has also presented plenty of reasons to celebrate. 

Yesterday was Marisa’s 29th birthday. Even though we are far from family and friends, we made it special. I bought her flowers and truffles. She treated herself to two pairs of very tall, strappy, black tango shoes. We lit candles, went out for sushi, strolled through the Japanese Garden, and drank wine. In addition to Marisa’s birthday, I, personally, have had reason to celebrate. The University of Missouri accepted me to their Journalism MA program and offered me a full scholarship. This means that I will be able able to attend next fall without accumulating debt.

There are so many reasons to celebrate--a birthday, an unexpected gift, the sunny sky, a good rhythm. I am happy to recognize good things and to take time to enjoy them. Cheers.

Restoring Power

Life got real this week. It started with a burglary. Marisa and I had our bags snatched. The contents of my bag included a water bottle, a used handkerchief, 2 maps, the keys to our apartment, money, and my journal. The journal was my greatest personal loss. It included writing and sketches from the last two years as well as sentimental notes, love letters, and an assortment of fortune cookie fortunes. It has taken several days of self-imposed house arrest to recover from this shock. 

A thought from my new journal

It was also unfortunate that the keys to our apartment were taken, not because I fear being robbed again--the bags contained no information as to our local address, but because after the robbery it was difficult to actually get back into the apartment. We had an extra set of keys but they were inside the apartment and the only other set that existed were with the cleaning lady. 

This propelled us to involve our building's custodian who phoned our landlady. She asked the cleaning lady to send the key over to us with a driver and the custodian lent us money so we could pay the driver for his service. We promptly repaid the custodian and Marisa also gave him a generous tip for all his help.

Though the worst was over, we had more challenges ahead. A few days later, I bumped into the custodian as I came home from the grocery store. He was more affable than usual. As I went toward the elevator, he followed and opened the door, even pressing the button to my floor. I thought it odd, but went up and began preparing dinner. 

The buzzer went off and it was the custodian signaling me to pick up the phone. He said he needed to speak to me and that I should go to his apartment. With misgivings, I went. He explained that he had been robbed and that he needed me to lend him 100 pesos (US$25) until next Monday. I truthfully told him that I didn’t have that much. I hadn’t been to the bank since the robbery.

I hoped that he would not repeat his request. However, the next morning he buzzed me again and asked if I now had the money to lend him. I told him no. I felt conflicted because he had lent us 60 pesos for about 15 minutes between the time we had received the key from the driver and gone to to our apartment to retrieve the money. We had no other option. But, he is from Buenos Aires. Shouldn’t he have other people he could borrow money from? 

In the meantime, our electricity went out. I thought it was a temporary outage, so I stayed in the apartment until Marisa got home from class. When she found out that the custodian had asked me for money a second time, she said that we needed to talk to him straight away. She looked up the Spanish translation for what she wanted to say and marched down to his apartment. I nervously followed. She explained to him clearly that she was very sorry but we would not be giving him anymore money. Then we added that our power was out. 

Despite an awkward silence, he came to our apartment to see what was wrong with the electricity. He fiddled around with a light switch and then asked if we had contacted our landlady and went away. I called her and told her the whole situation and explained that the custodian had been up in the apartment but there seemed to be nothing he could do.

She said I should go ask an electrician to come take a look, so off I went in search of one. After explaining the problem to a friendly man at the hardware store, he said that he could come but this was a problem for the custodian to fix. I called the landlady back and informed her of what I had learned. She said she would take care of everything.

By the evening, we still had not heard anything from her and there was still no electricity--no light, no AC, no hot water, no internet, no TV. We ate empanadas from the corner bakery by candlelight and went to bed early. 

The next morning I marched back to the electrician and asked him to please come by and fix the electricity. He said that he could come that afternoon, but I would need to contact the custodian to let him into the basement. So back home, I again contacted the custodian. He asked me to come to his apartment and then asked why we were angry with him. I explained that I had no problem with him whatsoever. He said that we didn’t need an electrician and that he could fix the problem. Besides, he would not be in the building at the time the electrician said he could come by. He had wanted me to call the landlady the day before to work out the payment for his restoring the power. I explained that I was not angry and that when he had asked if we had called our landlady and then left, I had assumed he could not fix the problem.

So again, I called the landlady and asked her to work out the payment. Less than ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and the custodian was there with his tools and a can-do look. He unscrewed the fuse box, readjusted some wires and presto, power was restored. I called the landlady and informed her of the repairs. Before hanging up I put her on the phone with the custodian so they could work out the payment directly.

Yesterday, Marisa and I made a new copy of our key to replace the one that had been stolen. It took two trips to get the key cut correctly, but we persisted. We then made a visit to the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires. We were in need of something beautiful and it did not disappoint. Our favorite was a series of photomontages by Grete Stern titled “The Dreams.” Her work depicted women up against difficult situations--big waves, locked doors, desolate wilderness. The women appear calm, strong, and undaunted. 

I returned home feeling restored. The anxiety of the week was mitigated. I felt like cooking. I chopped vegetables and boiled them into a rich soup. I ate until I was full and then fell into a deep sleep.