It's Raining Nerds

It's the season for year end lists, so I might as well throw one out there.  In no particular order, here are my Top Ten Previously Unposted Pictures.

There aren't any back alleys in San Telmo, so garbage is just left on the curb for nightly pickup.  The city has been putting out curbside dumpsters for the past month, which cuts down on blowing trash but exacerbates the parking wars.  Someone blowed up this one real good.





This one is a little blurry.  My hands were still kind of shaking after they cut me out of the front seat.

One of the stalls in Mercado San Telmo.  You could spend a whole day going through the collection of old maps, movie posters, tango sheet music, and vintage pornography.



My pal Mafalda.  She's like the Ziggy of Argentina, except she's really popular.



Sasquatch!

My first confirmed cockroach kill.  I haven't seen too many, but the ones I have seen have been monsters.

While they may be lagging in pepper mill technology, Argentina is years ahead of us when it comes to home electronics.

Like all great vandalism, this raises more questions than it answers.




The Canadian!  I wasn't fast enough to get get a shot with his helmet on.  It's hard to tell what brand of stick he is using, but I would guess Sherwood.





I told you so.



A Great Leap Sideways

We had a fairly low key Christmas.  Brendan brought presents from our parents with him, which supplemented my burgeoning collection of unholy underwear.  They also gave me a pepper mill, as Argentina seems yet to have mastered that technology.  The local palate is averse to spicy food, which extends even to fresh cracked pepper.  I did buy one here, but the ratio of nails-on the-chalkboard squeaks to peppercorns successfully ground is pretty pathetic.  We broke in the new mill over our salami and egg breakfast.

The afternoon passed in agreeable holiday style, playing cards and watching movies (Mike had never seen Gremlins before!), including the gala premiere of 4D.  Mike shot a bunch of video during December 4th, and had spent his down time over the past few weeks editing it into a bravura 15 minutes of cinematic gold.  Easily my favourite movie of the year.  I braved the evil oven to cook a chicken with some of the trimmings, and we called it a night fairly early so Brendan and I could wake up early and pack.

I wouldn't have minded staying at floor hockey central, but someone else had already booked it for the 26th of December onwards.  My new place is a whopping two and a half blocks over from the old one, and pretty much the polar opposite in terms of style.  It is still in an old building, but the interior was gutted to make a gleaming four-plex.  Instead of the perpetual gloom to which I had become accustomed, this one is flooded with natural light.  Instead of gaucho country charm, the new pad is decidedly modern - polished concrete floors, brushed steel walkways, angular white leather furniture.  What sold me on it was the giant private rooftop terrace, complete with parilla.  New Year's Eve party at my place!

Erik Estrada vs. Corey Hart

Back in Calgary, I get my hair cut by my Special Lady Friend.  Jen will be coming for a visit in February, but I couldn't wait any longer to get a trim.  My neck hair was threatening to start its own comb-over, and the sides were starting to feather themselves.  Whenever I try something new down here, I check my phrasebook or use Google Translate first, and try to memorize what I'll need to say.  As soon as I start talking to someone with the phrases I've memorized, they don't understand what I've said, and I usually return the compliment.  There were four entries under hairdressing in the phrasebook:
"I'd like a haircut."
"Don't cut it too short."
"Shave it all off."
"I should never have let you near me!"
I hoped that I wouldn't need to use the last one.

As is my custom, after the first phrase I totally blanked out and reverted to wild pantomime.  My Spanish may be coming along slowly, but my charades skills are getting good enough for me to turn pro.  The barber seemed to understand what I had asked for, and sure enough, he cut my hair almost exactly how I wanted.  Then, he kept cutting for twenty more minutes.  It's not TOO bad, just short and spiky.  Except for my neck hair, that's still long enough to braid.

El Sexo Y La Ciudad

I come from a long line of reluctant shoppers.  It's not just a guy thing, it's also a Mennonite thing.  Yes, we're simple, hardworking folk; happy to just sit on the back porch after a long day in the fields, sipping lemonade and sewing patches into our only pair of overalls.  Whenever I buy an article of clothing, I usually regret it, especially if the item is expensive.  I expect the utility of a garment to be commensurate with the amount of money I spent on it, which fills me with resentment for the fifty dollar shirt that isn't ten times better than the five dollar one I got at Value Village.  Also, my powerful thighs preclude wearing skinny jeans, which seem to be the only kind you can get now.  As a result, my wardrobe consists mainly of band t-shirts and CJSW Funding Drive swag.  My newest pair of underwear is the pair that Cody left at my house two years ago on June 4th (which were accidentally mailed to Brandan, who left them at my house last June 4th, so, hey, they're only 7 months old to me).  The only reason I have two pairs of sneakers is that I won some Adidas from Gravity Pope last winter.

As part of my rigorous program of turning my life around, yesterday I enlisted Brendan and Mike for a trip to the swanky boutiques of Palermo.  I managed to score a half dozen pairs of fancy boxer briefs, but when I got them home, realized they all had to be hand washed in cold water.  I also picked up a non band related t-shirt and found a pair of jeans with acceptable leg circumference.  The major score (or biggest mistake, the jury is still out) was a pair of shoes from 28 Sport.  Save your Imelda Marcos jokes, my second pair of sneakers recently blew up, so I still only have two pairs.  28 Sport make hand stitched leather shoes with bronze eyelets and rubber soles, basing their designs on classic athletic wear from the 30's, 40's, and 50's.  Each design is produced in a limited edition of 12 pairs, except for a few designs that they only make one pair of.  Even better, many of them look like the wildest bowling shoes ever conceived.  With proper care, they should last a lifetime, which is good because I spent my shoe budget for the next six years on them.

Ghost in the Latrine

There are many benefits to renting an apartment in a building that is over 100 years old.  You can receive a low grade shock every time you touch an electrical appliance, which saves you money on coffee.  If you're bored, you can go on a cockroach hunt, or try to get the bird out from behind the smoke detector.  When it rains, you can go puddle jumping in the main hallway below the apartment.  Look out for the dead baby pigeon!  Of course, in any building this old, the main attraction will be the ghosts.

There's Esteban, who mainly sulks in the corners of the foyer.  He gets a kick out of unlocking the front door in the middle of the night, and sometimes knocking over the umbrella.  There's Esmerelda, an adorable toddler ghost who likes to rattle the window panes and chant creepy Spanish nursery rhymes.  My favourite ghost is probably Gary.  He haunts the toilet in the main bathroom.  Every hour or two, he forces an air bubble up from the bottom of the plumbing.  They range in force from 'blowing milk bubbles through a straw' to 'airspace is closed in Western Europe'.  We have learned to keep the lid down when the toilet is not in use, and that maybe reading a book on the john isn't such a good idea.  What used to be a peaceful, contemplative act is now a white-knuckled, edge of your seat game of Russian Poo-lette.  I haven't received the 'accidental bidet' yet, but I have a feeling that Gary is just biding his time.

This is a shot of the aftermath of one of Gary's escape attempts.  There was a piece of toilet paper in the bowl when it happened, so you can see the blast radius outlined in t.p. shrapnel.

Obviously, you're not a golfer

My internet and phone line both stopped working last Friday.  From what I could decipher, they were cut off because the owner hadn't paid his bill.  I went down to the rental agency's office on Saturday to see if they could get it fixed, and they were quick to assure me that they might get around to calling the owner about it on Monday or Tuesday.  I didn't have time to argue with them, as it was Mike's friend Twyla's last day in BA, and we had to go hang out in Caminito with our pal Diego Maradona.

My cousin Bradley arrived from Chile that night, so Brendan and I took him out to Guebara to see some live music.  I'm not sure what the name of the band was, but one of the songs featured a surprise guest appearance by the guy from Electrochongo!  On Sunday, we went to Luna Park to check out 100% LUCHA.  It is kind of a cross between Mexican lucha libre and WWE beefcake soap opera.  Our favourite wrestler was The Canadian.  He came out holding a hockey stick and wearing a hockey helmet over his luchador mask.  Here he is holding a fake garbage can while Crazy Bug Eyed Guy does a backflip off the top rope.

On Monday, we wanted to go golfing, but the reservation line wasn't working.  We decided to just take a cab to the Palermo Golf Club and see if we could get on.  The course was open, but the pro shop was closed, which meant no club rentals, which meant a walk of shame away from the golf course, which led somehow to Paloko Bowl.  We rolled a few games, went to Plaza Dorrego for lunch, and came back to my apartment to play cards and shake our fists at the still inoperative modem.  The card games whetted our appetite for something harder, so after dinner we strolled down to Puerto Madero Casino for some riverboat gambling.  They say that casino gambling is a sucker's game, but I have a system!  You simply take out as much money as you are comfortable losing, then you lose it in 10 minutes and spend the rest of the night nursing a beer and muttering under your breath.  It was pretty good people watching, though, and when we got back to my place at 5 this morning, the internet and phone line were operational.

December Fourth

Most people are aware of the celebrations that occur all over Canada (and parts of the UK) on June 4th.  It is The Day That Everything Happens, also known as trash my house day.  A day when ordinary schmucks like you and me can call in sick to work, eat too many waffles, and injure ourselves on the slip'n'slide.  But how many of you knew that in the southern hemisphere, this holi-est of days is observed on December 4th?  Seven of you?  Huh.

There was a preternatural calm on the streets of San Telmo the night of December 3rd.  You could smell the anticipation, and it smelled suspiciously like dog poop.  We awoke at the crack of 10, not wanting to miss a single moment.  The day began with a hearty waffle feast: raspberries for Brendan; ham and cheese for me; ham, cheese, and creamy white whiskey sauce for Mike.  Then, a cabbie took us the long way around to Paloko Bowl to get our hands dirty.  Once again, the children were banished to the basement, so we could bowl in relative peace.  There was one little kid who wasn't bowling, and he became our biggest fan.  His name was Ignacio, and he helped us out by sticking his head into the ball return to watch for returning balls.  Who got the highest score?  A gentleman never tells!  It was me.

After bowling, we came back to my apartment to invent the card and dice game called Tarty Humps.  What a stinker!  It quickly became obvious why no one had ever played it before.  Everyone just saves their trump cards until the end, and they're worthless!  After we abandoned Tarty Humps, there was a gala screening of El Gran Lebowski.  Watching a movie that you have memorized overdubbed in Spanish is a far more effective way than Rosetta Stone to learn a new language.  Now I need to find an occasion to say, "Just because we're bereaved, doesn't make us saps!"  Following the movie we went out for dinner, then to a nightclub around the corner so Mike could give us dance lessons.

It was a great day, but bittersweet.  I missed having the regular June 4th pals around, but was happy that I didn't have to clean fruit off of the ceiling.  Oh, and for those keeping score at home, Schoobs 2010 Part II was mate, Fernet Branca, and Mariposa.

Key Party

I was given two sets of keys to my new apartment, but only one of them had a key to the outside door of the building.  Not a big deal when I was here by myself, but with my brother Brendan's arrival this Wednesday, I had been pushing hard to get a second key.  As I was leaving the apartment on Wednesday morning to meet Brendan at the airport, I noticed an envelope had been slipped under the door of the servant's entrance.  Jackpot.  While I was putting the building key on the second key ring, inspiration struck.  There are three separate locks for the apartment door, but I only ever use the top one, so I took the extra two keys off of my ring so I wouldn't have such a huge lump in my pocket.  Because I am a thoughtful brother, I also took the unnecessary keys off of Brendan's set.  I was running a bit late by this time, so I grabbed both sets of keys and bolted downstairs to hail a cab.

The key that opens the building door is required to exit the building as well, so I figured this would be a good time to test out the new one.  It slid easily into the lock, but would not turn.  It was also stuck inside the keyhole.  After about 10 minutes of frantic struggling, I realized that I could reach through a gap in the wrought iron door and open it with the original key from the outside.  The door was now open, but that new key was not going anywhere.  Fifteen minutes later, I was about to give up and just leave the key in the lock forever, when I finally wrenched it out.  Luckily, it took Brendan an hour and a half to get through customs, so I wasn't late.

After we got back into town and had lunch with Mike, all of us needed to take out some cash.  Too bad it was the first of the month.  Everyone was depositing their paycheques and taking out cash.  We tried five different banks, but every ATM was either out of service or out of cash.  We kept running into a fellow named Richard at every bank, and after the fifth shutout, he suggested we retire to a pub to collect our thoughts.  Richard is a stringer for the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Company), and had previously worked for the BBC and the CBC when he lived in Toronto.  He was a bit of a raconteur, and told us some old journalist war stories, as well as a few useful tips for getting by in BA.  After a couple of pints, Brendan, Mike, and I headed back to my place.  We were locked out.

Wednesday is also the day my maid comes to clean, and she is apparently much more thorough than me when locking up.  The bulge in my pocket may have been smaller, but I couldn't open the two previously unused locks.  We raced back to Mike's, stopping at two more banks on the way (ha ha ha!).  I phoned the rental agency, and they were able to reach the owner.  He was nice enough to meet us back at my apartment later that night to let me in.  I guess I'll just have to have a big lump in my pants from now on.

Food Porn

Mike's apartment is 7 blocks away from mine, in a gleaming brand new building.  In the courtyard out back, there is a beautiful pool, a wooden deck with lounge chairs, several tables, and a huge parilla (charcoal grill).  The building seems to be populated almost entirely by rich kids in their twenties, punctuated by an occasional wrinkly Brit on vacation.  The courtyard area turns into a younger, sleeker version of Melrose Place on the weekends, and there are a few sideways looks at the pasty and hairy Canadians if we venture out there on a Saturday.  During the week it is usually pretty dead, so last Monday we invited our Spanish instructors over for dinner.

Since we had only grilled on propane barbecues before, we had a trial run a few days earlier.  It took about an hour and a whole bottle of lighter fluid to get the charcoal going, but after that, I think we handled ourselves pretty well.  On Monday, we went to the San Telmo Mercado for fresh fruit and vegetables, got the butcher to saw us off some thick ribeyes and sirloins, and picked up a bag of charcoal (and more lighter fluid).  Then we hit up the deli for some cheese, and the bakery for dessert.

Dinner was a gut busting success.  Andres and Alejandra brought over several bottles of wine, some cheese, bread and salami for a starter, and a couple of green salads.  Andres showed us the proper charcoal lighting technique (the most important thing is to wave a garbage can lid up and down), and once the coals were hot, took over the grilling duties.  I usually cook a steak for just a few minutes per side on the highest possible heat, then let it sit for 10 minutes to settle before serving.  I was kind of worried when the meat was still on the grill after 30 minutes, but Andres knew what he was doing.  They were a lovely medium rare, and had crusted over a bit on the outside while absorbing the smoky flavour of the charcoal.  We also grilled red peppers with eggs cracked into them, provolone cheese, and asparagus.  There was a watermelon-basil-feta-almond salad, as well.  For dessert, fresh cherries with a chocolate, ricotta, and dulce de leche tart.  We didn't finish eating until midnight.

Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the Candlestick

This is the building my apartment is in.  My place is in the back of the building, so there is no patio, unfortunately.

The Foyer/Driving Range

Navigational Chamber/Yoga Studio

Floor Hockey Rink.  It may not look that big, but keep in mind those are 15 foot ceilings.

Accusing Parlour

Salon/Cribbage Court














Master Bedroom

Bidet Practice Room

Interrogation Room

Guest Bedroom

Breakfast Nook

Washeteria

Servant's Washroom.  Yes, I have a urinal in my apartment.

Kitchen.  When the maid came on Wednesday, I asked her to show me the proper way to start the oven.  It was so obvious, I was embarrassed not to have realized the proper procedure.  All you do is find the long metal poker behind the sink.  Cut a strip from an old t-shirt, tie it to the poker, and soak it with rubbing alcohol.  Open the oven door and pry out one of the heavy bricks from the bottom.  Then, you simply turn on the gas valve, twist the oven knob counter-clockwise a quarter turn and push it in, light the t-shirt poker on fire, and wave it around in the bowels of the oven until it catches.  Hold the knob in for 30 seconds, then replace the brick.  Dinner time!

Dressing Room.  Featuring a biweekly montage of me trying on different outfits while listening to "Eye Of The Tiger".

Rush to Relax

One of my biggest vices is punctuality.  It is a natural extension of being terminally impatient.  I'm always conscious of time slipping away, which makes me paranoid that I will force someone else to have to waste precious minutes waiting for me.  Living in BA has been a good way for me to ratchet down my worrying about what is happening next, and learn to relax and be in the moment.  I mean, I'm unemployed and basically have nowhere I need to be, so it's not like this is a profound personality shift.  Still, I have a great respect for the ability of the locals to slow things down.  Close up shop for the afternoon to have a siesta.  Stretch dinner out for 3 hours.  Pretend you don't see me when I'm next in line.  Nice and easy.

This contrasts sharply with local driving behavior, which is a sort of bumper car - go kart hybrid.  Traffic lights are merely a suggestion, and painted lane divisions are an insult.  There is a 7 lane avenue in front of my apartment, but I've seen 10 cars lined up across those lanes at a red light.  The point isn't to get to where you're going faster, it's to get ahead of the car in front of you.  The proper strategy when approaching a blind, uncontrolled intersection is to speed up and flash your lights.  Last week, Shannon, Miko, and I took a taxi to Palermo to check out a band, and the driver squeezed through a seemingly impassable gap between two cars just before a red light.  It didn't get us to the venue any faster, but we were ONE CAR AHEAD.  We started clapping, mostly out of relief that we didn't crash.  The driver was beaming; proud of his skills, and grateful for the recognition.

Over the line

I've been bowling in Belfast, Bangkok, Budapest, and Baton Rouge, but none of them come close to bowling in Buenos Aires.  I'm kidding, of course.  Baton Rouge was way better, bowling alleys in the U.S. always are.  Americans (at least, the cool ones) have a profound understanding of the bowling lifestyle that never totally translates to other cultures.  No matter how nice a foreign alley seems, there is always something a little off, like an Irish pub in Turkmenistan that plays The Gipsy Kings instead of The Chieftans.  I mean, I wouldn't even think of trying to get a white russian at the place we went to yesterday.

Paloko Bowl was pretty nice though, the lanes were in good shape and they had the coolest rental shoes I've ever seen.  There were separate lanes in the basement to quarantine the screaming kids having a birthday party, and the beer was so cold that the foam was a bit slushy.  They do need to work on cleaning the ball returns.  By the end of the first game, our hands were as dark as a black steer's tookus on a moonless prairie night.

Touristing

Mike and I had avoided doing a lot of touristy things for the first month in BA, since we are expecting a fair number of visitors and don't want to get stuck seeing Recoleta Cemetery eight times.  With the arrival of my friends Miko and Shan, and Mike's friend Natasha, it was time to put on the black socks, sandals, and fanny packs.  First stop - Recoleta Cemetery!  It really is awe inspiring, a full city block jammed with the mausoleums of Argentina's most powerful people, from Bernardo de Irigoyen to Madonna.  The best part was comparing the moustaches on the various statues and carvings.

Yesterday, I took the ferry with Miko and Shan to Uruguay for the day.  It is a one hour jaunt across the Rio Plate, or 3 hours if you get on the wrong ferry.  We wandered around the town of Colonia, which is so obnoxiously quaint it was declared a Unesco World Heritage Site.  The quiet, tree lined streets were a welcome respite from the noise and exhaust fumes of BA.  Especially since they started doing construction above my new apartment.

The Case of the Barking Oven

As promised, Malala's niece arrived at 10 yesterday morning to make the switch.  The refund she offered was $340.00 less than promised.  After a series of phone calls, someone from the agency came by with the rest of the money, and I had 10 minutes to get to the new place on time.  If I had known that there are two different streets named Irigoyen, I might have made it.  I thought that the cabbie was going the wrong way, but the last month has given me a healthy appreciation of my poor sense of direction, so I didn't say anything.  I was looking for building 668 (the neighbour of the beast!), but it went 656 - 662 - parking lot - 674.  After checking with the lot attendant to see if there was a secret tunnel or something, he looked at the address on my reservation and explained my stupidity.  A second cabbie was given the secret password (Bernardo de Irirgoyen), and I arrived 15 minutes late, still 30 minutes before the new agency rep got there.

This apartment is located in a historic building.  Seriously, it's on a registry and everything!  It has 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, an office, a giant foyer, and a hallway connecting all of the rooms that is big enough for floor hockey.  The real jewel is the kitchen, though.  After Mike escorted Miko and Shan in from the airport, we went to our favourite Italian place for lunch (motto: No Lasagne!).  They were pretty bagged from the flight and went to bed for a few hours, which gave me time to make some granola.

Did I tell you about the kitchen?  It is designed for entertaining; there is even a second entrance from outside, so your houseguests don't see the help.  The centerpiece is an industrial 6 burner gas stove.  It only took me about 15 minutes to figure out how to turn on the gas valve, locate the proper dial, and find the hole for the pilot light.  Once I got it lit, I had to hold the dial in, or it would go out.  I developed a system of lighting the pilot and holding the dial in for about 30 seconds until the smell and sound of escaping gas unnerved me enough to let the pilot light go out before I destroyed a historic building.  Then, I'd wait for 10 minutes for the gas to clear before repeating the process.  After the fifth aborted attempt, I hit on the bright idea of keeping the oven door closed after the pilot light was lit.  I waited for 45 seconds, then started to worry that the pilot light had gone out, so I cracked the oven door open a bit.  WOOF!  A sheet of flame shot out across the floor, blowing ashes and oven grit everywhere.  But the oven stayed lit!  I'm glad I made a double batch of granola, because I don't think I'll have the nerve to do that again.

Goodbye, Gay City

Unless I'm falling for a colossal fake-out, I think I've extricated myself from Casa del Smasho.  Only one of the 7 apartments that I applied for was available, so I grabbed it while I could.  It is bigger than I need (3 bedrooms!), but at least it is too expensive.  I only have it for one month, so I'll be repeating the process again soon.  I was hoping to move yesterday, but Malala can't get me the refund money until Monday, which I need to pay for the new place. 

Monday morning is shaping up to be busy:
10:00 - Malala meets me here, gives me the refund, and gets the keys.
10:45 - I meet my new landlady at the new place to check in.
10:50 - My pals Miko and Shannon arrive from Calgary.
Also, my house sale finally goes through at noon (4pm my time).  This calls for a steak blowout at La Brigada!  No Riverdancing, please.

Polka Your Eyes Out

When I was 14 or so, I went on a camping trip in Montana with my friend Daryl Grove and his dad.  We stopped at a record store in Great Falls, and each of us bought a tape.  I got Weird Al Yankovic's Polka Party, and Daryl picked up a heavy metal compilation.  Daryl's tape included "Caught in a Mosh" by thrash pioneers Anthrax.  This was before "grunge" had popularized mosh pits, so two small town kids like us were mystified.  We spent the rest of the trip speculating about what a mosh could possibly be.  I think we decided it was some sort of swamp (Yeah!  It's like a marsh!).

When Mike saw that Anthrax was playing Buenos Aires, we knew we had to go.  Neither of us are huge Anthrax fans, but South Americans have a reputation for being passionate metal heads, and this seemed like the perfect chance to see them in action.  Trust me, the legends are true.  The crowd shouted along to every word, the energy was incredible.  And yes, there was moshing aplenty.  Luckily, we didn't get caught.

Victory! Or is it?

It seemed too easy.  After I threatened to refuse access to Malala's realtor, the rental agency sent an email right away.  It turns out that her niece DID hear the construction noise, they were very sorry for my distress, and they offered a refund for the last two months of my lease.  Jubilant, I immediately started scouring the dozens of other agencies offering furnished apartments in BA.  I found the perfect one, sent in the reservation form, and waited for the promised call or email.  I'm still waiting.

This afternoon, I started to get nervous, so I tried to call the new agency.  It was just a recorded message, and I couldn't tell if I had actually reached the agency or if the phone # didn't work.  Such is the state of my Spanish comprehension.  I think I heard "fourteen", and possibly "breakfast".  I decided I needed a backup plan, so I sent out 7 different reservation requests to 7 different agencies.  When I was done, Malala's niece showed up at the door to see if everything was alright.  I asked her to thank her aunt for offering the refund, and she gave me a confused look.  She hadn't heard any noise yesterday, and besides, the labourers told her they would be done by Friday!  What refund?

I think I finally understand the meaning of that old Argentine saying:  "Never Riverdance with a briefcase in Gay City."

Brinkmanship

Construction continues unabated in the apartment upstairs.  I've been trying all week to get a refund for my remaining time on the reservation, but I'm clearly not dealing with amateurs.  The rental agency and my landlady are playing faux helpful cop/benignly obtuse cop.  I email the agency, they say that they will talk to Malala.  I phone Malala, she says she will look into it.  The projected end of construction keeps slouching over the horizon, but it will definitely be soon, soon!

Finally, the agency emailed me yesterday to say that Malala would come over this morning to check out the situation at 10.  I waited until 11, then phoned her.  Oh, her niece went at 10, but didn't want to disturb me!  Shockingly, it was quiet between 10 and 10:30, so maybe they are done.  If not now, then by Friday for sure!

Malala is also trying to sell the apartment, so I've had to leave whenever it is being shown, including a three hour open house every Saturday afternoon.  After the hammering magically started up again at 11:30, I emailed the agency to inform them that if they would not release me from the lease, I was revoking my permission for the Estate Agent to show it.  I can't wait to see their next move.

None of this really matters, because I finally had a really good paella.  This picture does not do justice to the meal, it was much more tentacled in real life.

Anarchic Defecation

People don't clean up after their dogs here.  And there are a lot of dogs.  It kind of grossed me out at first, but it didn't take long to adjust to the new reality.  Yesterday, Mike and I went for a run along the boardwalk in Puerto Madero, and we saw a woman with a plastic bag actually picking up her dog's shit!  In Calgary, I wouldn't have even noticed.  After getting used to to the local custom of "a poo laid is a poo played", it just seemed wrong that she would demean herself that way.  Anyway, my poo-dar is getting pretty good, no major missteps yet.  Every once in a while, I see a skidding shoe print smeared through some caca de perro, and wonder if I'm going to be next.

Symphony for Hammers in BA Minor

I've been avoiding my apartment for the past week.  The unit above me is being renovated, and all day long there is relentless hammering, drilling, and grinding.  At first, it was kind of nice, because the construction noise drowned out my neighbour's stupid barking dogs.  Now, I'm starting to get a little testy.  Last week, the landlady assured me that everything would be done by Friday.  When the pipe burst and I had to go upstairs to tell them that my ceiling was raining ("AGUA!  AGUA!"), it looked more like a 2 month job to me.  Sure enough, the hits just keep on coming.  Malala (my landlady) has phoned to tell me that they will now be done by THIS Friday, for realsies this time!  I'm beginning to question the wisdom of paying 3 months rent upfront in cash.

The man is driving his car

Is the boy driving?

No, the boy is reading a book.

How many green apples are there?

There are seven green apples.

What are you eating?

I am eating an egg.

The women are swimming.

This is my brother's sandwich.

I could totally have that conversation in Spanish right now.  Soon I will be the toast of BA's legendary nightlife:  "Is that? . . . . It is!  The sophisticated Canadian playboy who knows how many green apples there are!  I'm going to see if he'll let me buy him a drink, and invite him to my yacht christening!"  Before I left Canada, I had fantasies of reading Pablo Neruda or Jorge Luis Borges in Spanish.  I have since lowered my expectations.

Hey, you guys!

On a somber note, former Argentine president and current first hombre Nestor Kirchner passed away today.  Let us pause from our Censo carousing and raise our glasses in remembrance of the man who raised export taxes on soybeans in 2008.

I don't roll on Censo

Today is the day that Argentina conducts its census.  That's right, it only takes them one day.  Why can't we do this in Canada?  All you have to do is forbid every single business to open and force everyone to sit at home to wait for the census takers to arrive.  Everyone gets a day off, nobody gets hurt.  It was eerily calm this morning.  Even the construction workers who usually start jackhammering in the apartment above me at 8 in the morning had the day off.  I'm thankful that they were able to fix the water pipe that burst yesterday, as I wasn't looking forward to another day of my bedroom ceiling dripping water on everything.

This time, it's personal

There are a few things I miss about Canada.  My friends.  My family.  Hockey.  And one thing I didn't realize I had feelings for:  peanut butter.  Back home, I took PB for granted.  It was always a stalwart in my cupboard, hanging out with the tea bags and expired condiments.  Sure, I'd come home late at night and want a quick something to satisfy my urges, but peanut butter was cool!  We had an understanding.  There was no judging, we just enjoyed the moment.

At least, I thought we had an understanding.  It turns out, PB is a fickle mistress.  Just because I'm having a midlife crisis, I can't expect my favourite spread to pick up and move to South America.  The first few times I went grocery shopping here, I tried not to let it bother me.  There were dazzling arrays of exotic jams, and more honey varieties than seemed necessary.  It was a brave new world of toast toppings, who needed boring old Skippy when I could have dulce de leche?  But something was nagging at me.

Back in the bad old days before the internets, it might have ended there.  Now, though, it only takes a few clicks to send someone on a wild goose chase through deepest BA for a sweet taste of lady legume.  I tried Google's suggestion to check out a dieticia, but no dice.  Then, I heard about Jumbo.  The Walmart of Chile, recently exported to Argentina!  After 10 days of dingy autoservecias, Jumbo seemed like a Kubrickian dream of spotless consumerism.  The liquor selection was unparallelled, but what really impressed me was how random booze popped up in EVERY section of the store.  Want to purchase some cheese?  Perhaps some Absolut Mango as well!  Looking for cereal for the kids?  Why not grab a bottle of Jack Daniel's, too!

After a double-take through the imported foods aisle (try the Smirnoff!), Mike finally noticed two jars of PB hidden between the Ichiban and Pringles.  It's not like I have a peanut butter fetish, but by this point, it felt like a sort of homecoming.

Spanish Lessons

I guess a few people may wonder what I'm doing with myself in Argentina.  To assuage the worst fears of those close to me, I figured I should try to keep a log on the web (I call it a lweb), just to prove that I'm not spending my days smoking heroin or smuggling Paraguayan sex slaves.  The truth is far more banal, I'm afraid.  What I'm mostly doing with my days is cursing myself for not practicing Spanish over the summer.

I knew from a previous visit that it is tough to get by with English down here.  It's humiliating to be the arrogant tourist who expects the locals to know my mother tongue.  I have a Spanish language program on my laptop, but so far, the urge to make myself understood has proved no match for my procrastination skills.  Sure, I could spend a few hours doing Rosetta Stone.  But maybe I'll just sit at a cafe with my pal Mike and drink wine instead.  It's hardly a fair fight.

Luckily, the second day I was here, we met a couple who own a wine store.  Andreas and Alexandria wanted to practice their English.  Would we mind bringing some cheese to their tasting room, so they could open a few bottles of wine and practice English by teaching us Spanish?  Like any selfless Canadians, we could hardly pass up the chance to do a good deed for amigos in need.  I just returned home from our third lesson, and I've realized that I may actually have to put some work into this.  Or maybe I'll watch some spicy Latin soap operas tomorrow to see what sinks in.