Yo No Entiendo

The past week has been the first time since arriving in BA that I've been alone.  I've reverted to my natural state of hermitude, rarely leaving the apartment except for exercise or groceries.  Facial hair is getting longer, eyes becoming wild and suspicious.  Most of my time has been spent plowing through Rosetta Stone in a last gasp effort to get a handle on Spanish.  I'm getting close to the end of the course, but it doesn't look like a light bulb will go on and I'll be magically fluent by the time I "graduate".  I know, I should have just taken real Spanish lessons, but that involves actually talking to people, and why do that if you don't have to?  It's a bit of a Catch-22.  I'll never get any better without practicing on real people, but I'm not good enough to even start practicing.  I tend to shun most human interaction anyway, so why am I even trying?  I have it made, the perfect excuse to avoid any unnecessary socializing.

I am looking forward to some necessary socializing, though.  Gods of standby travel permitting, my brother Tyler and his Special Lady Friend Tracy will be arriving tomorrow afternoon.  I've been crafting a schedule of enlightening and educational experiences for their visit, which we can ignore while drinking beer and playing cards on the roof.

The Honeymoon Is Over

Steph and Johnny have just left for the airport, heading back home to enjoy a lifetime of marital bliss.  Before they left, we cranked the touristing up a notch and bought tickets to a tango show.  Bar Sur is situated on a picturesque corner in San Telmo, and the interior reeks of romantic charm.  It is a small room with tiny candlelit tables hemming the performers in on three sides, leaving about 100 square feet of performance space.  We had the option of paying only for the show, or we could also prepay for dinner, which turned out to be a huge mistake.  It's not nearly as cheap to eat in Argentina as it was five or six years ago, but you can still have a nice steak dinner for two with a good bottle of wine for around twenty dollars, if you know where to look.  The dinner at Bar Sur was 120 pesos each (about 30 bucks Canadian), and drinks were four times as expensive as anywhere else I've been.  The first course was the worst empanada in Buenos Aires, a sub-Hot Pocket of slimy beef.  The main course was ravioli that had been overcooked into porridge and salted so much that it was almost crunchy.  For dessert, ice cream that may have once been vanilla, but had long since graduated to triple freezer-burned.  It was breathtaking, really, the kind of meal that takes careful planning to pull off.

The show itself was excellent.  It wasn't exactly authentic, especially the dancing, which had been tarted up for foreign consumption.  Tango originated as a dance between men who were waiting in line at brothels.  Those guys would probably be rolling over in their syphilis riddled graves if they saw the Bar Sur show.  It was a Ringling Brothers version of tango, with enough kicks, spins, and near misses to populate a new Matrix sequel.  Very athletic, and quite entertaining.  The musical performers changed throughout the night, but the first ones were my favourite: sunburned Rick Mercer on The Loudest Accordion Ever, and Alfred Hitchcock's dad on piano.  At the end of the show, the dancers selected random victims from the crowd to go up and dance with them.  I managed to fake an old football injury the first time I was asked, but the second dancer didn't fall for it.  I'm looking at MY FEET!

The Saddest List In The World

I was pretty excited to find a used copy of The Yiddish Policemen's Union at Walrus Books.  I was even more excited when I opened the book and this fell out:

Who wants to start a book club with me?

Dead Legs

I've been in constant pain for about thirteen years, courtesy of my years spent kneeling in airplane bellies loading luggage for Air Canada.  The pain started in my neck, spent a few years exploring my back, and eventually migrated to my left hip.  It's not crippling pain, but if I spend more than fifteen minutes sitting down on a hard surface, it's hard to concentrate on anything else.  I've gone through four physiotherapists, two acupuncturists, a neurologist, and two chiropractors.  About six years ago, I gave up and decided to just live with it.  The only thing that seems to help is doing yoga.  I ordered a couple of yoga DVDs about a year ago, and whenever I do the beginner one, I'm almost pain free for hours at a time.  Two days ago, I decided it was time to graduate to the intermediate DVD.  This one involves far less gentle stretching with deep breathing, and a lot more flopping around gasping for breath as I try to keep an eye on the demonstration while strangling myself with my ankles.  My legs have been so sore for the past two days that I haven't even noticed any hip pain.  Probably not the best time to take a tango lesson.

Our instructor was Enriqueta Kleinman, who had taught my Special Lady Friend a few months ago when she was in Calgary.  Jen really wants to tango when she gets here in February, so we figured it would be best to take lessons from the same teacher.  Enriqueta ushered Steph, Johnny, and I into the studio and told us we should put on our tango shoes so the lesson could start.  Uh . . . . tango shoes?  "You mean, you've never tangoed before?"  The lesson plan was revised, and we spent the first part of the hour practicing walking in time to the music.  It's not so easy to move your feet to the beat of music with NO PERCUSSION, especially for those of us with dead ears and screaming hamstrings.  After several laps around the studio, we paired off for some basic steps.  I tried to ignore Enriqueta's body crushed against mine, her eyes boring into my soul, and just focused on not breaking her toes or driving into a wall.  She tried to throw me off my game with double entendres ("Not such long steps!  You are too big for a woman to take!"), but I managed to make it through the hour without drawing blood.  I even signed up for a second lesson.

Dead Ears

Mike is back in Calgary, and The Honeymooners have been visiting Iguazu Falls for the past four days, so I've been using my free time to buckle down on the old Spanish studies.  It's really embarrassing how little Spanish I've learned, considering I've been here for three months now.  I've been primarily hanging out with native English speakers, so I guess it's not too surprising.  Still, when people ask me how long I've been in BA, lately I've been tempted to say, "oh, a couple of weeks now."  I just can't stand the look of pity or derision that inevitably follows when people realize I'm still effectively a deaf mute after all this time.

When Russell Crowe was doing promotional work for Robin Hood, one of the interviewers chided him for his terrible accent in the film.  Crowe's response was, "you've got dead ears, mate."  I assume a telephone was also thrown.  I'm not passing judgement on Russell Crowe (I haven't seen the movie), but the phrase 'dead ears' has stuck with me.  I think I'm making progress, but when I try to have an actual conversation, I immediately blank out and can't make out a single word.  At first, I figured it was the same social anxiety that causes me to instantly forget people's names when I meet them, but what if my ears are dead?  This would also explain why I can't carry a tune.

Another problem is that I'm not really studying Spanish, I'm studying Rosetta Stone.  Straight A's man, I'm practically fluent!  I just need real live people to speak incredibly slowly, and offer me three different choices for my answer.  Ideally, there will always be a visual clue, so if the person is holding a cat and one of the answers has the word 'gato' in it, I can pick that one.

Canadian Graffiti

Buenos Aires is a treasure trove of street art.  There are huge pieces on most walls, ranging from hasty tags to elaborate murals.  While not technically legal, a blind eye seems to get turned towards graffiti, or maybe it is so prevalent that no one can be bothered to paint over it.  There are a few walls that operate as a kind of political facebook.  Every night, someone whitewashes over the previous day's message and posts a new slogan in letters six feet tall that can run for an entire block.  There are street art tours that will bus you around to different pieces and let you know about the artists responsible for each one.

A few days ago, I went to a graffiti class with Steph and Johnny.  It turned out to be a stencilling class, and the instruction was face-palmingly obvious.  See, what you do is, you cut out the part that you want to make a picture, and you don't cut out the part that you don't want to get paint on.  Despite being the equivalent of a Grade 2 art class, we had a pretty good time.  The 'teachers' were an amiable set of brothers who provided an impromptu political history lesson as we painstakingly tried to colour between the lines.  Steph made a 3D airplane, Johnny made a tank with a speech bubble ("FART!"), and I made an Ace Frehley with chunks of his eyes missing.  I guess I failed Grade 2 art again.

Cry For Mike

My pal Mike flew back to Canada yesterday.  He had been here the whole time that I was, providing moral support during my midlife crisis.  A better dog poop spotter, you will not find.  Together, we learned the proper time to order fruit salad, why scuba dude graffiti is everywhere, and that geo-caching is stupid.  Mike didn't have the foresight to sell his house in a divorce before coming down here, so looming financial constraints meant it was time to leave.  His apartment is paid for until February third, though, and he left me the keys so I could keep using the swimming pool.

To give him a proper sendoff, we had a pool party on Monday.  There ended up being twelve people, which was appropriate for a Last Supper (assuming that Jesus was there in spirit).  It had threatened to rain all day, but the weather cooperated long enough for us to enjoy a steak dinner and some Spenglish conversation.  Of course, some idiot had to do a cannonball into the pool at the end of the night, but luckily I remembered to take the camera out of my pocket first.  ¡Salud, Mike!