The Buenos Aires Experience

Me mudé

2007-01-04T17:17:00.000-08:00

I'll be back and I'll be millions

2006-11-14T08:36:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me will know how absolutely catastrophically bad I am at endings. I can't even finish a meal without slumping into depression. And the thought of closing my Buenos Aires chapter, even for a time, makes me too teary to even continue this post, so I'll move swiftly on. In four years I've written a book, learnt a language, had my heart broken for the first time, made some of the best friends I've ever known, climbed the career ladder and fallen in front of a taxi, loved, lost, loved, won, jumped out of an airplane, met the greatest soccer player ever, eaten meat again (don't tell me ma) and left my appendix in a public hospital. But the time came to saddle up again and move my lack-of-an-ass back across the Atlantic once more. So for the time being, I've left my home in Argentina and with it all that was the Buenos Aires Experience. Those of you who bravely persist in following my inane ramblings will find that, true to form, they continue elsewhere. I can be found at fionadublin.blogspot.com. It's green. Like the country. And I'm blue to be leaving. But I'll be back, amigos, so get some rest if you can and if you can't bear it, follow me over to Dublin. I'd love to have youse.

All that white space

2006-10-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

These apparently are the countries I've visited so far. Remarkably concentrated, when you look at it, and far too much white space left. Gotta get moving. Meanwhile, you too can assess the red/white balance at this site.

A day in the life

2006-10-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

I wake up to streaming sunlight and toddle into the shower, which beats me to a pulp. Ah, the delight of proper water pressure, more notable after the misty fallout of my electric shower in Ireland. I emerge bruised and awake, pushing back the shutters to greet the streaming sunshine. Ah, the delight of a blue sky, more notable after . . . Ok, need I say more? Ireland in October isn't famed for tropical weather. I would have a mate, but Clara doesn't drink it, so instead I amble out for some medialunas from Continental. Sweet buttery bliss. Course, before I can do so, I have to find my keys. They are huge, heavy bronze affairs, so weighty that my trousers practically fall down when I put them in my pocket. But the problem with keeping me pants up might also be in part due to my undersized culo, which falls tragically short of Latino proportions.
I wait for hours for the rickety lift to make its way up to the sixth floor. You get used to waiting in Argentina, and this ancient ironclad ascensor is worth it - I still get a kick out of the accordian-like iron doors that slide back stuttering to let me in. I´ve barely set foot on the cracked pavement outside when a young man passing by stops in his tracks to tell me how beautiful I am. It really isn´t a bad way to start the day.
I decide to skip the medialunas and head for the rotiseria - a kind of mini-restaurant serving potato omelettes and roast chicken - just a block away, where they bake the best bread in town. Then on to the supermercado for some creamy cheese from the deli counter, where a stubbled old man carefully wraps my selection in white paper and insists on a plastic bag, despite my protestations.
If it were a normal day, I´d already be on the bondi, or bus, headed for the Reuters office. But I finished there on Friday, and have a whole day of idling ahead of me instead. I come home to watch the live TV coverage of Juan Domingo Peron´s body progressing towards its new resting place. The poor fella has had some difficulty resting in peace, having been moved from grave to grave, then had his tomb raided where the grave robbers mysteriously cut off his hands, and now a decision to move him out of the crypt in Characitas to a weekend home in the suburbs. Everybody is very excited, and there´s a huge police escort accompanying him along the motorway. Commuters are advised to avoid this particular road. They´d be well used to this kind of carry on, what with road blocks being fairly commonplace in the land of picketers and protests.
It´s time to plan the evening already, as the options come flooding in. Buenos Aires is a very sociable town, and there´s always a dinner or a party to attend. So far I haven´t stopped, and each evening has been packed with activity, catching up with old friends, weddings in Tigre, dining in some of my favourite restaurants and generally getting caught up in the non-stop nightlife that characterises this crazy town. It´s exhausting, so today being my first real day off for a very long time, I´m thinking of indulging in the sweetest latin invention, the siesta. Then it´s all systems go until the wee hours, as Buenos Aires kicks off again when the sun goes down. I won´t get to bed before three, but it´s more likely to be even later.
Time flies in Buenos Aires, because I´m always having fun here. But I may require an entire Irish winter of serious hybernation to get over it all.

en casa

2006-10-12T11:42:00.000-07:00

I’m back breathing in the Good Airs, simmering in the sunshine, dodging the doggy do and staying out till way-ay-ay too late, and it feels like coming home. Part of it's the folks, mis amigos de años who've come trotting out of their daily swirl to twirl me around the city again. And part of it's the city itself, the cracked pavements and big trees, the lady-crazed Argie boys and their constant piropos, the number 50 bus and the garrolous taxistas, the cheek-kissing and meat-eatin' joy of Buenos Aires. It's also good being back among folks where vagabonding is the norm and slipping between languages doubles your chances of finding the right way to express whatever it is you're feeling. Which right now, in my case, is en casa.

Affinity

2006-09-14T03:54:00.000-07:00

It was a sepia moment in a tiny room with fairy lights strung across the walls. We lay back on the sofa bed, our eyes on the shadowy ceiling, the room still warm with the end of summer, and a Ryan Adams song played all over us. Come pick me up. We were just a little younger than we are now, just a little bit before everything that happened afterwards. Living in a foreign country, both of us giddy with words and books and the newness of us and the sudden delight of our friendship. Both of us hovering on the brink of falling in love, and for a moment, we almost teetered into each other. The room held its breath, then shrugged and moved on. Soon after that, we gave our hearts to other people, and our lives drifted away from sofa beds and pick-me-ups. Now he’s in LA accumulating pages and I am back in Dublin, still caught in the great debates. But I remember books piled high on the kitchen table and the words of Marcus Aurelius that calmed a swell of panic once, and these things, along with his name in my inbox every some time, remind me that we are still affined.

the pickanick

2006-09-05T07:01:00.000-07:00

Just back from Ireland's biggest boutique festival, whatever that means, the craictastic electric picnic . Highlights included the lep-around fabulosity of Jape, Paul Noonan of Bell X1's solo set with backing vocals provided by the exuberant offkey punters, and the thigh-slappin', crowd-hollerin' set from Crawdaddy Tent king Josh Ritter . That's not to mention the inflatable church with its cavalcade of weddings, the stitch-n-bitch knitting tent (very rock-n-roll), and the chocolate cake tea-party on a sunny Sunday afternoon for Anya's birthday. And Keith Harwood standing before the carousel at four in the morning, calling for "One more tune! One more tune!" every time it stopped twirling. Goooooood times.

about last night

2006-08-22T11:34:00.000-07:00

One of the good things about being home is the plethora of live gigs on offer every night of the week. Not to mention having friends in the music business who can keep me posted and get me in. Last night, I was taken to see the Raconteurs play at one of my favourite Dublin venues, the Olympia theatre. They rocked through tiers of ornate theatre boxes and balconies all the way to the gods (I've spent the past sixteen hours trying to post a photo of Jack White and the lads, but blogger's having none of it today for some reason). Included in the high-energy set were two covers: one, an eerie Jack Black version of "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)", the second a cover of Irish singer Jape's "Floating". On the way home at around 12.30, which is waaaaaay late in Dublin of a Monday night, we passed a little old lady out polishing her door knob. She was all made up too, polishing away with her rosey blushed cheeks. Mad.

Steak and ale pie

2006-08-04T07:59:00.000-07:00

When the man who once upon a reckless time fell for you so hard he couldn’t breathe compares you to a meat pasty, you know things have changed. Specifically, it was a steak and ale pie. On a summer’s day. There’s really no good way to read this. Apparently, I’m intense (see left). Once he said it, I longed to be a tossed salad, or an ice-cold chardonnay. Anything that would be a little more desirable, and infinitely more palatable on a hot, sunny day. But then, as Eileen pointed out, he hadn’t specified what kind of summer he meant. A London summer’s day? Well a steak and ale pie could be quite a pleasing prospect, in that case. But I think we all know what kind of summer’s day he was talking about – he’s from Africa after all - and no positive interpretations can change it, as hard as the glass-half-fullers may try.

I don’t think anyone else sees me as a steak and ale pie. None of my friends have ever referred to me as particularly intense, or dense, or heavy even (there’d be smacks if either of the last two adjectives were used, let me tell you). And I’m certainly not rich. Is it possible that a certain kind of person can just bring out the steak and ale pie in you? Is it possible this genius of metaphor in question MADE me a steak and ale pie (not made me a pie – it’s summer after all and TOO HOT FOR PIES in case you didn’t realise - but made me INTO one, if you follow)? Will I be a steak and ale pie forever as a result, or is there a chance I can become an asparagus side dish grizzled with extra virgin olive oil in the future, depending on the diner - or indeed the weather?

In the midst of big happy work news and big happy life times in general, all I could think about last night was the steak and ale pie. I pondered his words - perhaps he was just a big fan of steak and ale pie, and was only thrilled to bits to have found it embodied in woman form. I pondered myself - wondering whether there was steak and aleness in me that I had not been aware of previously, that had grown over the years to take me over entirely. And wondering whether I could turn that into a good thing (I confess, I’m a glass-half-fuller myself). And wondering why he couldn’t see the ice-cream sundae in me that other people do (they do, they really do).

And as I lay there last night stewing on it (haha, stewing, geddit?), I could almost hear him laughing (in a diet cokey sort of way), and he was right. The proof was in the pudding (sorry, that was the last one, I promise). Me analysing my steak and aleness. Let’s face it – it’s such a steak and ale pie thing to do.

plus ca change

2006-07-26T11:01:00.000-07:00

Last night I went on the lash with Donal Scannell (a.k.a. the new Conor Pope) and Brian. For those of you unaware of my geographical changes, I’m currently back home in Dublin, and having zipped around to dinners, barbecues, christenings and rock-n-roll gigs, this was my first real night out in town. A Tuesday night, and fairly mellow, you’d think, but Dublin was a-rocking as we blagged our way into Vicar Street.

I’m a great fan of the blag, but always reluctant to pull one myself. Scannell, however, is the Holy Emperor of blaggery. There’s nobody in Dublin he doesn’t know, and no venue, bar, club or exclusive establishment that he can’t talk his way into. Last night, he wheedled us two coveted tickets to see Toots and the Maytals, not to mention a few complimentary beverages from the bar.

You have to admire that kind of mischief. There’s no one this lad doesn’t know, and no one he won’t shamelessly sweet-talk to ensure an open-door policy everywhere he goes. I watched him butter up bouncers, wink at barmen, and pump hands across the dance floor as we weaved our way through the sweaty masses.

But there’s something quintessentially Dublin about that, about the who-you-knowness of it, and about not even being able to pop your head out the door on a Tuesday night without running into fragments of your life all over the place. And despite the fact that I’ve been living on the other side of the world for four years, wandering along Thomas Street last night pretty much erased all of that. Coming out of the Thomas House I bumped into the very lad who taught me the rules of rugby at the back of Physics class. And over in Vicar Street I was accosted by another old friend, last seen at a Yellow House party playing pool in the basement. And as we wended our way towards Isolde’s (see why he’s the new Conor Pope?), I ran into a former work colleague, now a barrister, still a boozer.

While that small-townness may have been part of what made me pack my bags in the first place, I have to admit it was kind of comforting to venture out after a long absence and still see familiar faces among all the sea changes, confirming that the uber-hyped new Ireland's still got a few old heads in it.

eenie meanie miney and mo

2006-07-18T04:15:00.000-07:00

There we were, the four of us, sitting around a bottle or several of wine, like no time had passed, like it hadn't been light years since the last wine-fuelled encounter in another capital city thousands of miles away. And though so much had changed, nothing was different. N still exploding with that booming belly laugh of hers as she explained, glass in one hand, fag in the other, that she'd come directly from another detoxifying, soul-cleansing "breathing course", then leaping to her feet, legs splayed, as she illustrated another of her side-splitting stories with an anecdote or accent. L still the understated fulcrum of it all, organising and galvanising things the way only she can, and managing somehow to look both like an authoritative professional and a little giggling girl at the same time. G still out to save the world, the sweet endearing softness of her shot through with that steely firmness of prurpose that strikes awe and admiration in the rest of us. And me.
The four of us, banging on about endless Buenos Aires nights, about fabulocinos , and exes known only by their country of origin, about cheap depilation and the 152 bus, about bad dates and happy hours and the controversial open-door policy in our Bolivar residence, but still so much ourselves, despite shorter hair here, or a love won and lost there.
There's just something about being with these people whose Latin adventure coincided so fortunately with my own, that warmed the cockles of my vagabond heart, and helped break the fall from there to here. Something that puts geography firmly in its place behind history, behind contact.

cain, abel and an ancient violin

2006-07-08T00:33:00.000-07:00

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,3-2260926,00.html

deja vu

2006-07-05T08:10:00.000-07:00

Juan is organising post-work pints in honour of my departure. Has it really been four years since I did this last? Four years since the post-work pints with the ireland.com crew, and Conor Pope falling off his bicycle? Four years since I was commended by my boss's boss for doubling my salary through use of the company phone and dancing to Britney Spears songs in Isolde's Tavern (let's never speak of this again)?

And now I'm at it again, this time leaving Reuters and my Latin American colleagues, but the same post-work pints in a faux Irish bar, and the same melancholy pull to be leaving a great bunch of folk who have rescued me from taxis, fought with me over driving, bar-toddled through BA and Santiago by my side and sung a capella in the wee hours, visited me in two hospitals and managed despite all of that to teach a non-visual wordsmith how to tell a story through images. For which, from the bottom of mi corazon latino I thank each and every one.

rocky and roll

2006-06-26T14:03:00.000-07:00

rocky took a lover

Que partido!

2006-06-24T16:07:00.000-07:00

I was so nervous I ate my flag.

Pero ganamos! Vamos Argentina!

what I'll miss from here

2006-06-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

Oh. And cheap depilation.

what I miss from there

2006-06-23T08:32:00.000-07:00

Me little sister (who is actually 28).

Malvinas

2006-06-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

I live with a British diplomat now. Please don't tell my mother. Yesterday, he came home and collapsed dramatically on one of the several couches in the apartment. Diplomacy requires a proliferation of soft reclining surfaces, it seems. But yesterday's swan-like sofa dive was because he had just spent another day arguing about the Falklands / Malvinas. I'd imagine that kind of wrangling can take its toll. Perhaps this is the secret Argentinian weapon: wear them down little by little, so that diplomat after diplomat becomes so exhausted politely defending the British position on the islands that they eventually surrender, depleted. Afer all, nobody can keep up a tirade like an Argentinian. When it comes to constant, unyielding dialogue, my money´s on the Argentinians over the English every time.

My other British diplomat friend (you might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, after all), went through the same thing on Saturday. After another week of Malvinas in the headlines, with Argentina reiterating before the UN their demand that dialogue on the sovereignty of the islands be reopened, we ended up at an asado where the local contingent sought to take advantage of the presence of a representative of the British embassy to bang on about the islands once again. Being Irish, I felt a natural affinity with the Argentinian position. But there was my diplomatic friend, attempting with admirable politeness to avoid offending anyone while being attacked from all sides by agressive Argentinians. As he listened to the local contingent reminding him of how cold English people were, how they never invite you to dinner, how nobody ever smiles in England, and how they really should give back what isn't theirs, I couldn't help but feel sorry for my old china, who is almost constantly beaming and has on several occasions fed me free of charge.

At the same time, I didn't hesitate to point out that I was, in fact, Irish. The great thing is that this not only exempts me from this particular argument, but there's also the implication that we paddies fall into the "our enemy's enemy is our friend" camp. God bless the accident of birth that made me Irish. The worst I ever get is being slagged off for uncharacteristic sobriety. And that's a lot easier remedied than giving back the Falklands.

breathing through gauze

2006-06-21T11:21:00.000-07:00

"It's like breathing through gauze," he told her. And her heart squeezed, pumping dizzy air inside her. All the things she said. All the things he didn't. Now he wheezes oceans away and she is gasping for breath.

gooooooooooooooooooooool!

2006-06-16T18:35:00.000-07:00

Oh the beautiful game, and the dizzy delirium of living it today in Argentina. The joy of watching the boys clock up six sweet scores, with almost effortless precision. By now, I am one eighth Argentinian myself, having lived four of my thirty two years in the land of dulce de leche and Diego. And if what I experienced today is the equivalent of just one eighth of the heart-clattering ecstacy that pounded in the average Argentinian chest today, I have no idea how anyone survived.

African sunrise

2006-06-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

change of barrio

2006-06-06T07:21:00.000-07:00

Folks, I've come up in the world. From Monserrat to Recoleta. You'd hardly recognise me these days. I even have a washing machine in my house! And a security man at the door. There are lush, green open spaces visible from my balcony (I have a balcony dontcha know) and a garage where my neighbours keep their cars. Needless to stay, it´s not my place. I'm temporarily lodging with my friend the British diplomat, whose fridge is twice the size of my previous kitchen, and five times as full. But I miss the crazy, curly lady who manned the newspaper stand at the corner and kept offering to reiki me, and the huge, iron eyebrows of el gallego who ran the hidden shop on the corner of Solis, where you could by cream cheese dusted with flour and wrapped in thick white paper. I miss the 168 and the 50, Congresso plaza, living six blocks from Clara and meeting on Belgrano, I even miss the shrunken t-shirts that came back from the chinos who laundered my clothes. There's no doubt about it, the little street I'm living on now is pretty, central, and without the sweet stench of rotten rubbish I'd become so accustomed to. But it ain't Monserrat my friends, and Monserrat, well, it's always going to be the neighbourhood where I did a lot of growing up. It's mi barrio.

comings and goings

2006-06-05T08:20:00.000-07:00

I'm just back. And Lars is going. And then I'm going too. And then I'm arriving somewhere else. All this to-ing and fro-ing is gut-tugging me. I went to Cape Town for three days. Then I came back to Buenos Aires where I have one more month, before going on to Madrid, London and then Dublin. I don't know when I'll be back. With all this churning around inside me, with all this pulling out of me as I walk through these streets that are my current, one-time, long-time home, my good friend Lars announces he is leaving in days. So my goodbyes are already beginning. Beginnings and endings. And with this ending, a return to Dublin and the four years in between.

The other Fiona McCann

2006-05-24T07:45:00.000-07:00

My mother accused me the other day of having a blog. I mean accused me in that passive aggressive “I’m just inquiring” kind of way mothers have, that makes it clear straight off that there’s more than just inquiring on the line here. My mam was basically upset because I hadn’t told her about said blog, so that she could print it out for her scrap book (my mother has been collecting clippings of my work since I first put pen to paper). Keen to uncover all my shady cyber secrets, my increasingly internet-savvy mam finally got around to googling me and came up with Fiona McCann’s blog. But not mine. As it transpires, there’s another Fiona McCann, who lives in another corner of cyber space and is wandering through the net world, and most likely other worlds too, under my name. Alarming, and even more so because it’s not just my mam that keeps coming up with her. Everybody who googles my name (our name) gets her, before finally happening on me somewhere into the fourth or fifth page (perseverance pays, my friends). OK, I know this isn’t exactly outrageous alien-invasion level oddness, but it’s still enough to spark at least my curiosity. So I went to Fiona McCann’s blog, and wrote to her. Or me.

Dear Fiona McCann,
My name is Fiona McCann, and every time somebody googles me, they end up on your site and I go through the whole rigmarole of explaining that I am not you, or you are not me. Today, I googled myself, and once again, it led to you. In a moment of existential uncertainty, I thought it best to write and confirm that we are not, in fact the same person.
Regards,
Fiona McCann

And the delightful Fiona McCann (I knew she would be), put my comment up on her site and wrote this:

“I plan to definitely email this Fiona McCann immediately and ask her some pertinent questions about her life and if I like what I hear, I will offer to exchange identities with her so that people looking for her who end up here will be in the right place.”

A lively exchange between two (or was it just the one all along?) Fiona McCanns ensued, as you’d expect really, where we made it clear that neither of us were porn stars or water polo players (for more of this: Fiona McCann ).

I know all this has been done before, a la Dave Gorman, but not by me, and now I sort of get it. There’s something kind of cool to find someone else wandering around living a whole other life under your personal alias. So bualadh bos to Fiona McCann. Now we just need to find the porn star and the water polo player, and we can take over the world.

Ode to the general practitioner

2006-05-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not one to wax lyrical about the way things are oh-so-much-better in my homeland, which I am aware that I still left for some suddenly unfathomable reason. But today, I have an ear-ache and it really pees me off that I can't go to a GP and sort it out. I have been diligently saving up my minor medical complaints because I only want to have to go see the doc the one time, and am hoping to get the lot seen to in one fell swoop. Oh but here's the thing: that doesn't work in a country where there's no such thing as your jack-of-all-trades GP. You have an ear problem? Go to the ear specialist. You have a sore toe? Why the toe doc is the one for you. You need to renew your pill prescription? Get thee to the pill-presciption renewal specialist. And what, smartypants specialist, if I have all three problems at once? That'd be the Emergency Room for you little fall-apart lady.

Well today I have an ear-ache, and I don't want to go to the ER and sit and wait beside a man with a knife stuck in his chest (this actually happened to me - well, sort of) and be treated by a random doctor who doesn't know me from Adam and is already rushed and bearing no resemblance at all to any of the handsome doctors from the show of the same name. I want one of those docs that has known you since you were two and will sagely say something along the lines of: "Fiona, you know what that ear-ache could be? Remember you put a pea up your nose when you were seven, and it never came out?".

touched indeed

2006-05-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

touched by the hand of god

2006-05-03T12:20:00.000-07:00

People often ask me why I came to Argentina. Depending on my mood, their appearance, time constraints and the likelihood of them actually listening, my answer ambles somewhere between the factual, the lyrical and the outrageously inventive. But sometimes, when it's a very special type of person, and I've had a very special amount to drink, I slip in the all-important word, the one that above all others lies at the very heart of it all. Maradona. The big M. Apologies to those of you who find this cliche in the extreme: I never intended to be so obvious, but, what can I tell you, I am. Because at the end of the day, Maradona's role in my trans-Atlantic transfer cannot be overstated.

It's worth pointing out at this juncture for those who haven't read my entertaining profile that I'm Irish. And that as a general rule, we Irish have never been able to boast massive victories on the sporting field. Sure, we once made it to the World Cup quarter finals. So euphoric was our response to said moment, in fact, that a million people turned out to greet the team when they came home from what most countries would consider abject failure rather than a victory meriting a national holiday and reception from a quarter of the country's entire population. Because lest you've forgotten, a million people in a country of four million is an alarmingly large precentage. What I'm trying to say is that, much as we'd love to bring a World Cup home one day, we've never even gotten close. Not with our own team, anyway.

And then there's the English. I'm not going to bang on about the centuries of oppression, and all that rigmarole. But it just so happens that our arch enemies across the Irish sea have a considerably stronger history of World Cup showings than we do, and we'd really rather they didn't. Numerous Eurovision song contest defeats are not nearly as satisfactory as you might think, so there's nothing we love more than watching the English go down at soccer. Cue Maradona.

No need to mention the glorious hand of god goal that shut the English up once and for all? To tell you how my father, suddenly nimble on his feet, danced around the room like Maradona around the English defenders? OK, so we're not Argentinian. But when they defeat the English, we're as close as two nations can get.

Now I'm not much for celebrities. Brushing shoulders with the big wigs really does nothing for me, and having had my share of rock-n-roll moments I really thought I had perfected some sort of jaded celebrity immunity. But I was sorely deluded. Picture the scene. Through a series of fortuitous circumstances, I've ended up at the Four Seasons hotel at U2's post-gig party in Buenos Aires. I'm in a room with Bono et al, calmly snarfling the free food and quaffing champagne, and remaining largely oblivious to the presence of some of the world's biggest rockstars. Keeping my cool. Chillin'. Whatevs. And next thing you know it, in he walks. The earth moved, the ceiling span, and my legs almost fell off me. The man himself, my long-time idol, the man who put the balls in footie, was in the room. The same room as me. I'm not joking you, I pretty much wet my pants. I. MET. DIEGO. MARADONA. Once I remembered to breathe, I literally bowled over Bono, pushed Larry Mullen aside and launched myself mini rocket style onto his lap. Of the meeting itself, I remember little, apart from my own anxious babbling, and his courteous acquiescence as I took seventy six photos of me clung to his side. I do know he was sweetly willing, and patient with me. I also know that he was short. I clock in at not much over the five foot mark myself, so it's rare I meet a man that I actually fit into the same photo frame as. But the thing is, the glorious, heart-clattering thing is, I met him. I met Diego. I have photos to prove it. The hand of god has touched me. And after four years in Argentina, avoiding poop in the streets and being run over by insane taxi drivers, after four years of peso salaries and tramites, tramites, tramites, after four years of having to wait till eleven o'clock to have my dinner, it's all, all been worth it. I met the man. The big M. And as soon as I can work out how to post photos here, you'll be witness to the proof.

butter or grease? anyone? anyone?

2006-04-05T08:13:00.000-07:00

Butter or grease? Perhaps from a European perspective, it's much of a muchness. But oh, the world of difference to me now. Every day I have to choose: butter or grease? Butter or grease? Because there are two kinds of half-moons in this country (and they never make a whole), and ne'er the twain shall meet (except in my belly). Half-moons, or medialunas, are the ubiquitous Buenos Aires' croissants, their curled up, slumbering figures lined up coyly dozing in bakeries and cafés the length and breadth of the city. And they come in two varieties: butter, or grease (the latter being a rough translation of the word grasa, referring to the oil used in their preparation). So much subtler than the cat/dog cliché, the subcategories in the half-moon war make the game infinitely more complex. A butter half-moon from Continental, the café across the street from my Time Out office, is worth ten of grease, but not if the grease are the simultaneously melting and crunchy variety (ooh, the blissful recollection) available from the Entre Rios panadería. And if they're warm, fresh out of the oven? Ah, that changes things too. The sweetly springy butter version rarely stands the test of time, but oh, when it's warm and soft from baking! And there are other factors to take in. Whether they are to be eaten with coffee or mate, whether it's morning or merienda (afternoon snack) time, whether you're dunking or eating it dry, whether you're starving or merely peckish. The permutations would leave even a committed croissant muncher dithering. Well, I'm going to go out on a limb here, and state my preference. I am going to define myself against the butter brigade, and go with grasa. And like Boca Juniors, this preference isn't something you can change on a whim. I am committed. Grease it is and the devil take me for it. Unless, of course, it's from Continental . . .

I still can't say what I want to say

2006-04-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

It's been almost four years. I know how this city works. I speak the language. I've even mastered the slang. So why do I suddenly get tongue-tied in a hairdresser's, and find myself completely unable to explain what the hell I want? It was hard enough to understand what sleek golden haired Fabian was saying to me over the drone of hairdriers and the punchy punchy of electronic beats, but all of a sudden I found myself at a loss when it came to useful expressions like "thin out" and "the curls will bounce up and I will look like a Pomeranian". I felt under pressure, knowing that if I didn't get it right, I'd probably end up with a mullet. Which suddenly, scarily enough, doesn't seem so bad. Have I been here too long? Probably. But here's a funny thing that happened. The very kind gentleman who washed my hair also gave me a head massage in the process. A delicious, fifteen minute squish that left me so relaxed they could have shaved my head and I wouldn't even have whimpered in protest. And as he wrapped my towel on my head, he explained that my preferential treatment was due to the fact that my eyes made him melt. "Do you understand the word melt?" he asked me. Of course, that was the one word I did understand, and to show him the breadth of my knowledge, I started to define melt for him. What I meant to say was "yeah, it's when you heat up something and . . ." What I said, and in fairness to me it's such a small leap in Spanish, was "yeah, it's when you get all horny and . . . " Nice one Fiona. The sweet-talking gent was slightly taken aback at my graphic interpretation, and I was mortified. "Yeah, you're telling me that my eyes are so gorgeous, you want to jump my bones." Ahem. As soon as I saw his expression, I cringed, knowing that I'd made it sound like I thought he was saying what he obviously wasn't saying, or at least not explicitly, and mortified that, having teased and toed the line so expertly, I had suddenly, inadvertently lept right over it and landed myself practically in his lap. I was even too mortified to leave a tip, after all my hot talk. And I walked out there with big hair and a heavy heart, knowing that it'll be years, long light years, before I'll be easy enough with the language and the culture to be able to banter with the boys and come out with a decent haircut.

domingiando

2006-03-26T12:06:00.000-08:00

Wish I could spend today Domingiando (Sundaying). Wish I could get up late, buy La Nación and read the horoscopes from the magazine over a big fat café con leche with freshly baked medialunas. Then maybe wander out to San Telmo to join the hordes at Plaza Dorrego and buy myself a useless piece of antique crapology from one of the stalls. Or maybe just stroll up to Congresso for a bit of sunshine, passing by Clara's to drag her out and make her watch the superclassico (the Boca-River match). Or go for the long-haul option, jet across the city and do the chichi thing, brunching at Olsen´s and pottering around Palermo. Instead, I´m in the Time Out office again, and all I can hear of the match is the occasional cheer or the manic clamour every time someone scores. But the great thing about Buenos Aires is that it doesn't matter what time I leave here. There'll still be something going on. Even if I wander out through Congresso, down San Jose to see if the greatest secret bread shop is open, turning onto Belgrano past the long police station where the flirty guards keep watch for passing chicas, meander down Cevallos and finally through the big iron gate of home. Even if, when I get home, I lie down on my big red bedspread for a little while to take the evening siesta, listening to the family downstairs bang pots around the kitchen. Even if I get up and shower (hot, cold, hot, cold gas powered shower), and play a little Be Good Tanyas on my guitar, even then, there'll still be something going on. There'll still be time to head out to the Gibraltar, the Sunday night regular destination, and, while I might miss the sushi, I'll still catch all the regulars shooting pool in the back room and holding fast to the weekend.

never again

2006-03-24T15:15:00.000-08:00

It took me half an hour to walk up Avenida de Mayo today. On my way, I passed tens of thousands of people swarming towards the plaza to commemorate thirty years since the military coup that ousted the governent and ushered in a violent dictatorship. Over the seven years that followed March 24, 1976, 30,000 people were ´disappeared´by the military regime - around the same number of people that are on the streets tonight, shouting, dancing, banging drums and hurling slogans into the air. Thirty years ago, they would have been afraid to raise their voices. But three decades on, the fear is gone and has been replaced by anger, and a sense of triumph at having come through such a dark period unbeaten. There's even a kind of carnival atmosphere in the crowd today, with some people dressed up in colourful costumes and dancing samba-like through the street. And today´s protest is a typical Argentinian protest. It smells of barbecued meat (makeshift barbecues are dotted around the square to feed the hungry demonstrators) and sugar coated almonds. And the slogans keep repeating. No to the ALCA (the Free Trade Agreement of the Americas), no to the repayment of Argentina´s external debt, no to Argentinian troops in Haiti. Every ten minutes, someone yells through the loudspeaker: "The thirty thousand disappeared." And the crowd yells back: "Present, present, present for ever." Then it changes to a chant in support of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, a group of remarkable women who defied the junta, demanding to know what happened to their lost children. "The Mothers of the Plaza, the people embrace you." At one stage, as I moved out of the square, I got caught in a crowd of dozens of young people jumping as they sang: "You have to jump. You have to jump. Whoever isn´t jumping is a member of the military." I passed hundreds of people carrying pictures of the disappeared on huge placards over their heads. I passed human rights groups. I passed unions. I passed neighbourhood groups. I passed militants. And as I walked, every now and then running into a familiar face in this crowd of thousands of thousands, I felt a buzz that was strangely joyous, despite what the date signified. It felt like things can change.

Mind the gap

2006-03-18T07:33:00.000-08:00

Alex told me yesterday that the best thing about living in Argentina is that it keeps you sharp. According to Alex, living in England is too easy, it makes you soft, because you're looked after at every step. Alex lived there for seven years, before coming back to Argentina with a big wad of cash and a thick Irish accent picked up from his boss in the bar trade. His theory is that there are serious disadvantages to living in a society where you don't have to keep your wits about you all the time. If the state minds you, you forget how to mind yourself. And if there's one thing that sums it all up for Alex, it's the phrase "Mind the gap". Here, in a country littered with gaps and slip ups and loopholes and things you really should be minding, you have to keep a watch out yourself or you land on your own arse. Argentina won't tell you where the gap is, or whether you should mind it or not. And that, for Alex, is the best thing about being here. "Keeps you sharp," he told me. "Keeps you thinking."

Mathematics

2006-02-21T08:31:00.000-08:00

Staggering under the weight of thousands of half finished posts, I see the persistence of numbers in my life. Growing numbers, because I have been adding things up for some time now. I have been adding up cities, joys, years, falls, friends, languages, experiences, lives. But the more of them changes their value, and now I turn my thoughts to prime numbers. Like Home. I know now, having amassed the numerous ages, that Home is a prime number. And, wary of numbers like beats per minute and the possible finite number of big falls you get in life, I find myself understanding that Love is a prime number too. I can feel in moments of infinite clarity that I am finally solving the equation, paring it down to its truest conclusion. Love=Home. Q.E.D.

conversation in the bar last night

2006-01-30T09:33:00.001-08:00

Carlos (munching on coca leaves): They are really good for your health. It's nothing to do with drugs. We've been chewing coca leaves for years you know.
(Note: I've never seen Carlos chew coca leaves before in my life, and I've known him for three years. I suspect it's part of the Morales-isation of my middle class Argentinian friends)
Carlos (still munching and waxing lyrical on coca leaves): Ah, yes, coca leaves. You know the tea from coca leaves is delicious too. Muy rico.
Reb (in mild agreement): Si, si, muy rico.
Me (from behind a plant): Coca tea? It's awful stuff! What are you talking about?
(Note: I'm all for the cocaleros, and I'd buy and wear the Evo jumper with pride, if it didn't cost 70 dollars to pick up a replica, but I draw the line at pretending to like that rancid coca tea stuff)
Reb (sheepishly): It's good for altitude sickness, though.
Carlos: That plant is bothering me.
Reb: Why don't you eat it then?

three things

2006-01-30T09:33:00.000-08:00

I like the way he swallows unexpected parts of his words, rendering him periodically incomprehensible, sonically distinct.
I like the sepia colour around his eyes, shades of bronze and dust.
I like the ways his arms bend dancing and his legs bend when climbing over the arm of a chair.

burning and drowning

2006-01-23T07:22:00.000-08:00

It's difficult for him to live in this world. He keeps wanting to go diving. He loves it down there, living deep with his diving buddies. I understand why, I understand about the worlds that open, way down there. But I have to keep coming up to the surface. I can't live down there. I think it's my job to go between the worlds, bringing the treasures up to the surface so other people can see them too. But there are some things you can't bring up with you. And all this to-ing and fro-ing, this constant coming up means I'll never get down as deep as he does. These days, he is my only diving buddy. Although I am sometimes afraid he will dive too far below, alone, and drown. He's afraid of that too, I think. "Whether you go up or down, you burn or drown," he said, and I could see him wistful of Icarus. If there is a direction in me, it's down into the deep. I would choose to go by drowning. But I'll never go too far either way, and sometimes that's what makes me sad. The worst that will ever happen me is the bends from time to time, as I bob along the surface for a while, a little out of breath. I hope he can still come up from time to time, or that the next time I dive, he won't have gone down so far that I can't reach him.

The impossibility of letting go

2006-01-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

Leave it behind, they say.

Leave behind his face, features unclear but topped by yellow hair, and a white t-shirt and arms swinging towards me.

Leave behind the fumbled running through the rain and a moment on a doorstep far away when lips met lips met lips met lips.

Leave behind the bus station, where his eyes met yours, reached out and touched yours, moist and holding, and all the world around you held its breath.

Get on the bus and leave it behind.

Leave behind the moments, the looks crossed now stuffed in weighty pockets, the smells that hang around your neck, the holding seconds, the green fields by the road to Waterford and him large and joyous beside you, the white round porcelain of bath time singing and sliding sheets that wrapped you both, the tube to a London suburb and him waiting on the platform, the first phone call where thousands upon thousands of tribal drums struck up a rhythm in your chest.

Leave them behind, they say, your frame is small, you cannot carry it all.

I take them all out, one by one, from all their hidden places, behind a certain song, or at the mention of midsummer, or inside the smell of an after shave you once spilled in your bag.
I take one last look and place them softly, gently, I leave them down and turn my face away.

I fly away.

And here I am, years later, a rainy day in Buenos Aires and I pass a shop you've never seen, and a song comes out. And the string pulls, connecting me to you and me and time long gone but here in a cramped car going south, your hand on my leg, our future before us all along a road that is shorter than we think.

And here, in a foreign bar, somebody speaks with your voice, the slow, wrangled drawl of you, and I am in the London rain with you again and we are still getting wet.

disappearances

2005-12-02T11:18:00.000-08:00

when you're far away, people dying is different, somehow unreal. you hear about it over the telephone, and it hits you, yes, the way bad news hits you before you know what it really is. you know it's sad. you may even cry. you try to think about the person, remember them, delve into the pasts that swirl at the back of your mind and pull something out of your head to hold on to. but this person isn't dead to you. this person is away in that world where all the rest are, your family, your people, your past. that parallel world that runs alongside your own, informs it, is part of it in its own fantastical way. but you can't see, you can't really feel that in that parallel universe, things are changing, people are leaving and it will never be the same. you know that he is gone, that person who was once in some way part of your life. but it's not until you return that you really know this. it's not until you're back in the old world, maybe just passing through, maybe years later, when everybody else has filled up the absence and moved on, it's not until you step back there that you really know the loss. and then it's late. you cannot share the grief with all the others who have lived through their long goodbyes and beyond. you can only bring your own, imported sadnesses, out of synch with time, and mourn, alone. and until then, until you do go back to walk into the place he no longer inhabits, you live out your sadnesses in a foreign country, far from a home that is disappearing, slowly dissolving, leaving you eternally adrift.

highly lowly

2005-10-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

I get overly excited. I rush at the potential of things, childlike and full-on, impulsive in the extreme and extremely lacking in that zen-ist of qualities, patience. and this is why the ups - oh the swooping joyful ups - are always followed by deeplowly empty downs. The rushes get rusher, higher, buzzer, but the swinging dullness that follows, and the deep long aching. I'm learning though. I'm learning. I'm making mistakes and I'm learning. I'm learning not to wallow in the hollows. Not to dwell on the flip side of life for too long, but to dust off, chalk another one up to experience, and find the way out. Because even if the falls are vertiginous, and the tops-of-the-worlds tumble, the thing I've learned is that it can work the other way too, gravity-defyingly upside-down-fallingly out of the holes. Things can pull me up as fast as the plummets. I can pull me up. Blessed be the years that taught me that.

the four horsemen of the apocalypse

2005-09-23T14:48:00.000-07:00

it's apocalpytic weather out there, booming and cracking out of the heavens, and if the end of the world is nigh, I want to be caught with my pants down. it's cling-on-for-dear-life times, and I need someone to cling on to. I'm fantasising about the four horsemen. at least they'd be up for a ride.

a la playa

2005-09-20T20:39:00.000-07:00

"A donde van?" the taxi driver asked us as we hopped in fresh from another Nip Tuck Tuesday at Jackie's. "A la playa!" said Clara. I laughed. We live in Buenos Aires for the love of Jesus, and I have to work tomorrow. The she turned to me, that big wide Clara grin on her face, and asked me: "Can't you feel it?" I shrugged - what? "That summer air." And then I got it, that hint of summer and racing through taxis in Buenos Aires on hot, urban nights. And I got palpitations of excitement and flashbacks all at once. Winter is on the way out here in the Southern Hemisphere, where July and August mean cold and indoors, and Christmas time is hot and sticky. And this is something I love about here that's different to home. Summer nights. Hot, summer nights in a big, sprawling city that's bubbling all night. And it delights me to note how my own inner seasons have started adjusting themselves to this upside down place. How November has lost its greyness and short days, and become my favourite month of the year, vibrant and colourful and hints of what's to come. And how September has lost its back-to-schoolness and instead becomes the month of promise, of spring time, of paving the way towards sweet, sticky heat and holidays.

2005-09-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

builders

2005-09-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

Everywhere I go there seem to be people building things. I don't mean people being constructive with their lives. I mean people drilling holes in the walls beside me. Call me small-minded but right now I'd really love to live in a place that's already made. NGGGGRRRR.