This is what I have learned:
- Flu AH1 warnings in the supermarket are creepy and strange. Advice ran along the line of "Don`t stand too close to other shoppers." Hello, paranoia anyone? On the other hand, if the pandemic serves to make people less pushy, there`s something good in it for me..
- I have managed to eat both Pizza and steak in one day, my last day in Buenos Aires. As you know, the city combines the best of many worlds: Italian Pizza and Pasta, french bread, argentinian steak...
- everything is artesanal here, chocolate, beer, ice-cream. I thought this means something related to artwork, but maybe it only means "hand-made." It is certainly no guarantee for quality but I like the way it sounds.
- I have been visually insulted by a “manly leather store“-watch men: Yes, it IS possible.
- Berlin remains the only city featuring the possibility of a unisex clothes style
One thing that is boiling the blood pressure both in Argentina and in Chile is the "Parricidio de Estado," recent laws which allow a parent or judge to prohibit the other parent to see the (usually his) child if child support is not paid. This rather strict law seems to have come to pass reacting to the original highly lax one, where the parent (usually father) could simply disavow his child and fuck off. Yet what is happening now seems to be quite bad, where children are used as bargaining chip, in a difficult economic situation, and hitting devoted, not louche, fathers.
There were other themes that wanted attention – in the form of banners, balloons, and a loudspeaker accusing and making a roll call for a demonstration - at the plaza de Mayo, where I went to glimpse the remnants of a bit of Independence Day Celebration. Among the various colorful posters I remember “Las Maledivan quedan Argentinian“ and “Pirata Ingles nos sigue invadiendo“ – anybody heard of English Pirates molesting Argentinian waters? Is this something or is it something like the guy who can cook noodles with his mind?
Walking on. On Avenida Corrientes they are showing "Frankenstein - the musical," and I almost bought a magazine about dwarfs (to see what the competition is doing) before I realized my mistake, that the magazine is in fact called "pymies"... so I sticked to a Rolling Stones with Michael Jackson cover.
My flight home was less nice than the first one; British Airways´food quality seems to depend on the country where they can buy supplies; we were waiting at least two hours in Sao Paulo where they filled up, cleaned and scrubbed the airplane – or whatever they did – until we left, in heavy rain. The silence in the – quite big – plane was palpable. It is a creepy feeling to hold one´s breath with some hundred other people. I wonder why there are no smoking signs AND ashtrays on the toilets (is the plane that old?). I miss my connection flight in Heathrow - even though, hello P! Hello I! Hello N, and hello T! – I did not plan it! Makes you superstitious doesn´t it?
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Buenos Aires, Independence Day
My second Buenos Aires experience could hardly be more different from the first. First time, it was the party hostel in Palermo, going to dinner at 12, the dog stand outside the 10-people dorm room, a British chick going crazy (before getting drunk), and everybody in general summerily hyped.. except me and my untimely bout of what-will-become-of-me-depression.
This time, I flew into an airport scenery fresh from "Twelve Monkeys." After givig a bogey health report - who`d voluntarily check any flu symptoms? not me, cough-cough - we were fotographed by mouth-masked airport personel. With about 79, Argentinia`s death toll is highest after the US and Mexiko. (Chile is 5th. as you see I'm flirting with death)
Leaving that atmosphere behind, as well as Argentinians eager to practice their English, which leaves a devastating effect on my confidence and comfort to speak Spanish (It`s a bit like a friendly struggle of wills, I ask in Spanish, they respond in English ...)
All grown-up I called up hostels (hence the struggles) and mastered public transport to a hostel in Palermo. I remember that first traveller I met, a fairly boring Itailan. Today I would consider using the Bangkok public transport. Or at least I would be less impressed.
The hostel is remarkably quiet. It is also cold, but they told me this morning if I had told them, they would have switched on the heating. I am on the third floor with a hermosa view of the roofs and a fatty smell from the fast food restaurant nearby. There aren`t even many people smoking in the hostel, which amazed me. This in a country where you still find smoke-infested toilets in busses and at the airport, where people just can`t wait... I remember the airport in oklahoma which had a positively smoker-hating architecture, making it necessary to walk for half an hour until you could exit somewhere to put dirt in your lungs...
Anyway, shopping in Buenos Aires - in fact, being in Buenos Aires - is not a good idea when all you have for clothes is the same tattered and incongruent stuff you have worn for a year. In my opinion, shopping always requires stomach, especially if you are a woman, but this here is a different level of the game. Today is Independence Day in Argentina (see my sensational title), I will see whether any stores are open to spend my money in shame and gibbery excitation about so much pretty leather stuff..
This time, I flew into an airport scenery fresh from "Twelve Monkeys." After givig a bogey health report - who`d voluntarily check any flu symptoms? not me, cough-cough - we were fotographed by mouth-masked airport personel. With about 79, Argentinia`s death toll is highest after the US and Mexiko. (Chile is 5th. as you see I'm flirting with death)
Leaving that atmosphere behind, as well as Argentinians eager to practice their English, which leaves a devastating effect on my confidence and comfort to speak Spanish (It`s a bit like a friendly struggle of wills, I ask in Spanish, they respond in English ...)
All grown-up I called up hostels (hence the struggles) and mastered public transport to a hostel in Palermo. I remember that first traveller I met, a fairly boring Itailan. Today I would consider using the Bangkok public transport. Or at least I would be less impressed.
The hostel is remarkably quiet. It is also cold, but they told me this morning if I had told them, they would have switched on the heating. I am on the third floor with a hermosa view of the roofs and a fatty smell from the fast food restaurant nearby. There aren`t even many people smoking in the hostel, which amazed me. This in a country where you still find smoke-infested toilets in busses and at the airport, where people just can`t wait... I remember the airport in oklahoma which had a positively smoker-hating architecture, making it necessary to walk for half an hour until you could exit somewhere to put dirt in your lungs...
Anyway, shopping in Buenos Aires - in fact, being in Buenos Aires - is not a good idea when all you have for clothes is the same tattered and incongruent stuff you have worn for a year. In my opinion, shopping always requires stomach, especially if you are a woman, but this here is a different level of the game. Today is Independence Day in Argentina (see my sensational title), I will see whether any stores are open to spend my money in shame and gibbery excitation about so much pretty leather stuff..
wrap-up party, santiago
The last day in Santiago was eerie. Much of this was certainly caused by my lack of sleep. There was much rum - here in Chile I can stomach this kind of alcohol, it`s drinkable like water from an old faucet with its personal aroma -, there was much cold, and there were shifting combinations of friends in the famous apartment - I slept in between so I wasn`t too attentive.
Then we watched two movies at Festival "Cine B". Nobody has explained to me what the "B" stands for but I will wait to ask until my own, wilder theories have settled down a bit. One was a short film which abruptly and frustratingly stopped in the middle of things, and a feature filma bout a day in the life of a family of Chilean peasants, or "huacho" (that was the title of the film). This one had been at cannes, but I wasn`t smitten - it certainly had nice images but dragged on painfully - first we see the grandmother`s day. Then we see the mother`s day. Then we see the grandfather`s day. Then we see the son`s day...
The atmosphere was invigorating and energetic yet I almost dropped from lack of sleep. I had had to pick up my Ersatz passport at the German embassy on their generous opening hours 9-12, four times a week. This time the embassy was packed, including 10 nuns, all of them old, funny and German. "Ich kam fuenfundfuenzig nach Chile..." a ball.
Entering the Santiago streets after the movies felt like stepping into a war zone - or like Kreuzberg on the 2nd of May. Some Chilean socker team had won against some other Chilean socker team, and everybody seemed to think it was time for a statement. I blame partly the incessant loop of and the live coverage of Michael Jackson`s funeral. I saw that girl cry for her dead at least seven times, and it was surreal before that number. The guys of the apartment were watching transfixed and commented rather bitterly.
the idea was to get four hours of sleep before getting up at 4.30 to get to the airport. Yet the apartment hosted a friendly and lively political roundtable (or so it seemed from listening to them), which meant sleep between 1-3am, approximately. Remarkably, everything worked so far, despite the dazed state of mind and body (yes, I can hear the loud coughs of all you fresh parenting people, but I don`t have a baby - and hence the incentive and the hormones - so I am amazed..)
Then we watched two movies at Festival "Cine B". Nobody has explained to me what the "B" stands for but I will wait to ask until my own, wilder theories have settled down a bit. One was a short film which abruptly and frustratingly stopped in the middle of things, and a feature filma bout a day in the life of a family of Chilean peasants, or "huacho" (that was the title of the film). This one had been at cannes, but I wasn`t smitten - it certainly had nice images but dragged on painfully - first we see the grandmother`s day. Then we see the mother`s day. Then we see the grandfather`s day. Then we see the son`s day...
The atmosphere was invigorating and energetic yet I almost dropped from lack of sleep. I had had to pick up my Ersatz passport at the German embassy on their generous opening hours 9-12, four times a week. This time the embassy was packed, including 10 nuns, all of them old, funny and German. "Ich kam fuenfundfuenzig nach Chile..." a ball.
Entering the Santiago streets after the movies felt like stepping into a war zone - or like Kreuzberg on the 2nd of May. Some Chilean socker team had won against some other Chilean socker team, and everybody seemed to think it was time for a statement. I blame partly the incessant loop of and the live coverage of Michael Jackson`s funeral. I saw that girl cry for her dead at least seven times, and it was surreal before that number. The guys of the apartment were watching transfixed and commented rather bitterly.
the idea was to get four hours of sleep before getting up at 4.30 to get to the airport. Yet the apartment hosted a friendly and lively political roundtable (or so it seemed from listening to them), which meant sleep between 1-3am, approximately. Remarkably, everything worked so far, despite the dazed state of mind and body (yes, I can hear the loud coughs of all you fresh parenting people, but I don`t have a baby - and hence the incentive and the hormones - so I am amazed..)
Thursday, July 2, 2009
a little bit of this and that in valpo
the weather remains unpredictable and therefore entertaining. there was an all-day long downpour two days ago, which made you feel sad for all the free-spirited but sickly looking dogs here. even when they drag themselves to the middle of road to empty the sick content of their bowels exactly THERE.
but I was talking about the weather. glorious sun today so we went to the beach, with the idea of exercise. The air smells of sea and everything is pretty much "nordsee" to me, although it is the pacific. on the way back we pass a monton of pretty witches`houses, derelict, with bays and corroding roofs, overgrown gardens, simply fetching. one house even had an old lady watching us secretly behind her gardine.
señora viviana, owner of the house, continues to show her motherly affection. Fortunately, Rodrigo is her main target. To me, it can be quite amusing. when she is around, he always has to do stuff and answer her questions. (But then, I sometimes have to answer questions too. there was the remarkable incident with a towel-lady, who asked me whether my father permitted me to live with a man..) She is a dentist and doing his teeth as well, or rather, something with his teeth, I didn`t quite understand the details of this explanation. She told us, in her usual fluttery non-stop style, that her son was having "la gripa famosa", which was freaky until new information arrived, the son had only been vaccinated against that famous flu...
but I was talking about the weather. glorious sun today so we went to the beach, with the idea of exercise. The air smells of sea and everything is pretty much "nordsee" to me, although it is the pacific. on the way back we pass a monton of pretty witches`houses, derelict, with bays and corroding roofs, overgrown gardens, simply fetching. one house even had an old lady watching us secretly behind her gardine.
señora viviana, owner of the house, continues to show her motherly affection. Fortunately, Rodrigo is her main target. To me, it can be quite amusing. when she is around, he always has to do stuff and answer her questions. (But then, I sometimes have to answer questions too. there was the remarkable incident with a towel-lady, who asked me whether my father permitted me to live with a man..) She is a dentist and doing his teeth as well, or rather, something with his teeth, I didn`t quite understand the details of this explanation. She told us, in her usual fluttery non-stop style, that her son was having "la gripa famosa", which was freaky until new information arrived, the son had only been vaccinated against that famous flu...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Being lucky
The first half month in Valparaiso was spent in a colorful and ice-cold room in a house on the street Victor Hugo, right at the ascensor Cordillera (and accordingly, on cerro Cordillera). The artist couple Lorena and Andres, who rent out the place on Victor Hugo, have a café downstairs. they also have a tabby cat with the annoying habit to climb up and pee everywhere after searching through the garbage. We practically had the second floor to ourselves – the other guy who lived there studied and worked a couple of jobs and probably never slept. The only drawback of this was having to share facilities, and having only one bottle of gas for either cooking or showering.
After the guy stole my bag and his cronies threatened Rodrigo with a knife, I pretty much hibernated in that room on Victor Hugo, feeling safe there. Everyone seemed even stranger to me than normal and I felt extremely suspicious to the point of paranoia. The guy who stays in the adjacent room for one night seems aggressively friendly – "soy de campo" (I`m from the countryside - who is calmed by that information?!)He insists on giving us a tin with mussels, and then asks every day “did you eat them yet?” gave me bad dreams of fairy tales and scarecrows.
The idea was to change something. When we crept out of that room and visited other Cerros (there are at least as many as in Rome), it felt like breathing different air.
To me, Valparaiso is very much like Berlin in this sense of contrast: much art, much street art, many young people (a couple of universities), many colors; at the same time, much dirt, no jobs, poverty, and “te assaltan en todas partes.” There is both the gringo tourism and the romantic sense of artists’ living and scraping by: the French guy had been living off playing guitar in the street for months - although the whole being (and singing in) French in a lanky, slightly gay way certainly helped - before the girl broke it off and he cut his hair and went back to France.
On Cerro Alegre, there are expensive restaurants and cars and gringos around, the houses are beautiful, with vines and paintings and neighborhood watch programs, and I was immediately convinced anything here would be way too expensive. The few places available - dingy, overpriced and cold - supported my assumption. Then we came upon the first floor of a house that had just been vacated by a family: the kids would still come to the second floor (passing by the common gallery). Two rooms and a living room, a fully equipped kitchen and bathroom, all in excellent shape and quality (a functioning toilet flush, a faucet that is usable without flooding the kitchen or hurting oneself in gymnastic efforts; things I had almost forgotten). Señora Viviana, mother of the family and now my favorite person in Valparaiso, is a well-shaped 40ish dentist with a girlish air, very pragmatic, extremely friendly, and she talks nonstop. (Seriously. I caught myself reflecting whether this could be a dysfunction or something. When I met her husband – a very large barbed lawyer –, all he was able to squeeze in was “encantado”) She told me I looked “chicitita” - like 21 or something (I kid you not). But I doubt this owes to my youthful complexity. Either Chilean girls my age are married or at least pregnant, or it was my clothes, my tattered “pantalones de guerra” and hoodie.
From the moment I feel in love with the place and señora Viviana decided to rent it to us, the list of goodies went on and on. The place is ridiculously cheap, considering its qualities. There is a functioning phone line, so you can call me!
+56 32 22 22 784. please do, I’m missing my friends! Moreover, Señora Viviana decided to buy both a new bed and a fridge for us. She also left a number of beautiful furniture and plants, and lots and lots of useful bits and pieces. For about a day I was expecting the hitch, the payment of some form, the firma or mafia or “that’s US$ not Chilean$“ or similar. It feels like having a patron.
After the guy stole my bag and his cronies threatened Rodrigo with a knife, I pretty much hibernated in that room on Victor Hugo, feeling safe there. Everyone seemed even stranger to me than normal and I felt extremely suspicious to the point of paranoia. The guy who stays in the adjacent room for one night seems aggressively friendly – "soy de campo" (I`m from the countryside - who is calmed by that information?!)He insists on giving us a tin with mussels, and then asks every day “did you eat them yet?” gave me bad dreams of fairy tales and scarecrows.
The idea was to change something. When we crept out of that room and visited other Cerros (there are at least as many as in Rome), it felt like breathing different air.
To me, Valparaiso is very much like Berlin in this sense of contrast: much art, much street art, many young people (a couple of universities), many colors; at the same time, much dirt, no jobs, poverty, and “te assaltan en todas partes.” There is both the gringo tourism and the romantic sense of artists’ living and scraping by: the French guy had been living off playing guitar in the street for months - although the whole being (and singing in) French in a lanky, slightly gay way certainly helped - before the girl broke it off and he cut his hair and went back to France.
On Cerro Alegre, there are expensive restaurants and cars and gringos around, the houses are beautiful, with vines and paintings and neighborhood watch programs, and I was immediately convinced anything here would be way too expensive. The few places available - dingy, overpriced and cold - supported my assumption. Then we came upon the first floor of a house that had just been vacated by a family: the kids would still come to the second floor (passing by the common gallery). Two rooms and a living room, a fully equipped kitchen and bathroom, all in excellent shape and quality (a functioning toilet flush, a faucet that is usable without flooding the kitchen or hurting oneself in gymnastic efforts; things I had almost forgotten). Señora Viviana, mother of the family and now my favorite person in Valparaiso, is a well-shaped 40ish dentist with a girlish air, very pragmatic, extremely friendly, and she talks nonstop. (Seriously. I caught myself reflecting whether this could be a dysfunction or something. When I met her husband – a very large barbed lawyer –, all he was able to squeeze in was “encantado”) She told me I looked “chicitita” - like 21 or something (I kid you not). But I doubt this owes to my youthful complexity. Either Chilean girls my age are married or at least pregnant, or it was my clothes, my tattered “pantalones de guerra” and hoodie.
From the moment I feel in love with the place and señora Viviana decided to rent it to us, the list of goodies went on and on. The place is ridiculously cheap, considering its qualities. There is a functioning phone line, so you can call me!
+56 32 22 22 784. please do, I’m missing my friends! Moreover, Señora Viviana decided to buy both a new bed and a fridge for us. She also left a number of beautiful furniture and plants, and lots and lots of useful bits and pieces. For about a day I was expecting the hitch, the payment of some form, the firma or mafia or “that’s US$ not Chilean$“ or similar. It feels like having a patron.
Recap: right now, in Santiago…
A roommate (or a guest or an amigo) is showering while Rodrigo is making eggs, with vapor only. There was a camping cooking set here but we took it to Valparaiso. I will start using it next time the French dreadlock couple with whom we share facilities, completely messes up the kitchen without cleaning up after themselves. The guys of this apartment don´t do cooking. They all work (and eat) in restaurants - with the exception of M., an unemployed actor who doesn´t live here anymore but who comes around when his girl goes to work and he is bored. I dislike his loud, vulgar, chain-smoking and game-playing way, but after all, I am a guest here myself. The other guys are: V, the oldest, a thirtish writer and supervisor in a fancy-schmanzy (Italian) restaurant, with a soft spot for things French and sniffable, extremely well-educated and funny. Kind of a Chilean version of the French comedian Gad Elmaleg.
Then there is C, a sweet guy around my age, who threw out his wife-and-children-beating father when he was 16 and built a house for his mother.
Finally, there is another guy, and there is his brother and I always mix up the two; when they leave separately in the morning, I always get a Groundhog Day – moment: Didn’t you just walk out that door..?
V,C, and M are not sure or decided whether this guy is gay or not, and I am not sure how much this matters to them.
Then there is C, a sweet guy around my age, who threw out his wife-and-children-beating father when he was 16 and built a house for his mother.
Finally, there is another guy, and there is his brother and I always mix up the two; when they leave separately in the morning, I always get a Groundhog Day – moment: Didn’t you just walk out that door..?
V,C, and M are not sure or decided whether this guy is gay or not, and I am not sure how much this matters to them.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
hospitals in Chile, part II
So, hospitals are crowded, and stingy about offering information. This particular hospital had a security guy controlling the hallway. Valparaiso is Chile’s most dangerous place, or so I’ve been told. And the hospital’s audience did seem to warrant some authoritative presence. I don’t know about you but I never know whether these guys’ presence shouldn’t render me more nervous: If security is necessary, why is there only one guy? But then, I’m in a paranoid state because a few days ago I got robbed of my bag with ALL that is valuable to me here (except passport and credit card which I kept apart…)
The first guy I had to talk to wanted to chat about Paris. (I thought, stupidly, that this was already the doctor but no-no-no. That was only the guy to take my data. I had to make an appointment and return later that day for this) I never like it when doctors like to chat. They probably think they are doing me a favor, calming the nerves and whatnot, but I want my questions answered, get the thing done, over and out of there.
Anyway, the guy was what they call a “Viejo caliente,” and he addressed every nurse as “amor de mi vida.” After another half an hour of waiting and playing Naipes, I was let into another room, where two women, a young and an old one, practiced whether or not “ella” (me) understands them.
When they finally took my blood, or tried to, I had been waiting 2-3 hours (with appointment), and I was freezing. It gets quite chilly here but there is no calefaction, nowhere, because “it doesn’t get cold enough” (this is a very relative statement) to justify squandering money on heating. As a result, everybody has a cold and/or expensive electric heater.
Have I mentioned the obsession with money that people display here? Forget prudence about “dirty money”: every price and paycheck is relentlessly asked, told, compared and memorized; and even the least helpful staff member will be able to rattle off the prices of things.
The corpulent lady did not find a suitable vein and complained to me about this. She then decided to tell me she would “try her luck” and literally poking in my arm in search of blood, occasionally asking me if it hurt. I have been watching In the Valley of Elah recently, and was weirdly reminded of the sadistic private in that movie. When she gave up she told me she would try my hand now, informing me that “this will hurt.” There was only a little blood coming, and I tried to tell her that I was going to faint but she didn’t listen or pay attention. When I was coming to, there were four women in the room, two holding me tight, all of them gabbering in Spanish at high voice and speed. Unmitigated terror. I had no clue what was going on but felt that I definitely should.
Afterwards, one of the ladies was indignated that I couldn’t tell her what was my usual low blood pressure (Seriously, do you know?) Whether I haven’t been told my pressure? In innocent and unintentionl rudeness I told her yes but that I found the information uninteresting and therefore forgot it. Great look on her face.
The first guy I had to talk to wanted to chat about Paris. (I thought, stupidly, that this was already the doctor but no-no-no. That was only the guy to take my data. I had to make an appointment and return later that day for this) I never like it when doctors like to chat. They probably think they are doing me a favor, calming the nerves and whatnot, but I want my questions answered, get the thing done, over and out of there.
Anyway, the guy was what they call a “Viejo caliente,” and he addressed every nurse as “amor de mi vida.” After another half an hour of waiting and playing Naipes, I was let into another room, where two women, a young and an old one, practiced whether or not “ella” (me) understands them.
When they finally took my blood, or tried to, I had been waiting 2-3 hours (with appointment), and I was freezing. It gets quite chilly here but there is no calefaction, nowhere, because “it doesn’t get cold enough” (this is a very relative statement) to justify squandering money on heating. As a result, everybody has a cold and/or expensive electric heater.
Have I mentioned the obsession with money that people display here? Forget prudence about “dirty money”: every price and paycheck is relentlessly asked, told, compared and memorized; and even the least helpful staff member will be able to rattle off the prices of things.
The corpulent lady did not find a suitable vein and complained to me about this. She then decided to tell me she would “try her luck” and literally poking in my arm in search of blood, occasionally asking me if it hurt. I have been watching In the Valley of Elah recently, and was weirdly reminded of the sadistic private in that movie. When she gave up she told me she would try my hand now, informing me that “this will hurt.” There was only a little blood coming, and I tried to tell her that I was going to faint but she didn’t listen or pay attention. When I was coming to, there were four women in the room, two holding me tight, all of them gabbering in Spanish at high voice and speed. Unmitigated terror. I had no clue what was going on but felt that I definitely should.
Afterwards, one of the ladies was indignated that I couldn’t tell her what was my usual low blood pressure (Seriously, do you know?) Whether I haven’t been told my pressure? In innocent and unintentionl rudeness I told her yes but that I found the information uninteresting and therefore forgot it. Great look on her face.
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