Chauffering Street Kids - Day 1

I'd love to explain why I'm swerving through the chaotic tangle of Argentine traffic in the blazing sun with three former street kids and a five year-old in a white VW Gol. But, I'm not going to. I can only concentrate on this one thought right now, “Do not crash.”

My last encounter with driving a manual was in the calm, beach town of Maldonado, Uruguay, where I hit a parked car. Now, I'm in the midst of the lawless, corrupt cop, jumbled maze of Buenos Aires, speeding through red lights and straining to hear the directions mumbled in Argentine slang from Jesús over the blasting reggaeton music. Occasionally, Jesús points to an area - that's where he slept under the highway – that's where he used to beg for money – here's the fountain he and Wilson bathed in as kids. Wilson is Jesús' best friend, companion, and, behind his back, “slave”. They've been together through it all. It all, including watching friends die, go to jail, and waste away to drugs. Today, though, they're looking for an apartment. I'm the driver. And I don't have a clue where I am. Jesús points around – this is one of the really dangerous areas. Okay, now I know where I am. Thank you, Jesús.

As I shift the little white hatchback into third gear, Jesús points right, “Acá, acá!.” Here, here. I hesitate; he motions me to park in the street, smoky traffic barreling behind me. He hits the flashers. “Ya está.”. There we go. He hops out and runs in the renter's office. Wilson and William rest calmly in the back as massive buses attempt to swerve around me and my flashing car to pick up and drop off swarms of people. I'm in their spot. William's little girl, Rosia, smiles in the back seat with her crooked teeth and her thin curly hair bouncing on her forehead. “Do not crash.”

Jesús jumps in the car. He has a lead on a place on the outskirts of the city. He flicks the music back on, the CD is now on its third time around; I'm learning lyrics to songs I've never even heard before. I put the car in first gear, second gear - red light - neutral, coast, stop. “This isn't too hard,” I think. Which is an example of what to think when you want the universe to chuckle and toss you in the lion's den. Which, in Buenos Aires, is 9 de Julio, the fourteen-lane road stretching through the center of town.

Hundreds of cars cram themselves down this road every hour. On the map, the road is straight. On the map, the roads are also empty. Neither is true. 9 de Julio curves. It curves around statues. It curves around the giant obelisk. It curves around logical and reasonable roadway blueprints. Yet, each time the road curves, the cars refuse. The painted path ordained by the government becomes obsolete and a new pattern emerges, known only by drivers who have experienced the hell that is Buenos Aires traffic. Turn signals become Christmas ornaments, nothing more than decoration. Horns are like elbows, nudging people aside with an unfriendly “honk”. I've never felt so strange about feeling guilty about being the only person to stay in lane.

We curve in and out, narrowly avoiding a car that decides to turn left from the right lane. We watch as cars speed through red lights, or move through the intersection before the lights turn green. Meanwhile, Jesús is talking on the phone, only gesturing when I ask, “derecha o izquierda?” Left or right? I'm fifteen years old again, and the driving instructor couldn't care less if this is my first time driving and I have the power to cut off a giant tour bus, knock it into the pedestrian street, and manslaughter hundreds.

Clearly, I don't do that. Instead, I opt to swing onto a side-street, nearly avoiding denting the hood with pedestrians. A cop on the sidewalk watches. Luckily, he's on his cell phone and lets it slide. Then, Jesús motions me to park only a few car lengths from the cop, so he can check another renter's office. You mean, this spot right here? In front of the ambulance? With the no parking sign? With the cop in walking distance? Hold on, I remember the secret escape clause to violating any traffic ordinance. Flashers on. We're good Jesús. We're good.

After nearly three hours of perusing the city and risking many lives at every stoplight (most didn't know they we're risking their lives), and seeing only one apartment, we took a break so Jesús could stop and see his psychiatrist. I thought maybe I should join him. Something must be wrong with me to drive around dangerous parts of a corrupt city with three street kids, a five year old, and limited experience driving a manual transmission in a rental car I didn't pay for. I have to stop looking confident when people ask if I can do something. Sir, you look like you could land this space shuttle... Yes. Yes I can.

In case you missed it, we spent three hours, in the hottest part of the day, apartment shopping, and only saw one apartment. I love Argentina. I don't think I can explain what I do here. This is my job and my life right now, and I'm only in second gear. Tomorrow, I hit the highway.

New Years With No Reservations

“Your new year will be as your new year began.”

As far as made up superstitions go, this one is my favorite. Mainly, because my new year started out with perfect luck in a foreign city. Based on this, my new year will be filled with jackpot winnings, perfect timing, and leprechaun friends (I'll even settle for really short people with an affinity for green clothes).

The story of my new years eve, however, began with the notorious “miscommunication between man and woman!”. When a woman says, “I'll make a choice about tonight,” she really means, “You better come up with something good, or else I will act like a total b-word the rest of the night.” (the 'B' stands for bureaucrat).

I'll admit, I should have verified with Arissa, Nathalie's friend from New York City, what our plans were. I said I could do some research; however, I assumed she was going to reserve a place at one of the clubs they had listed down, and she assumed that I would find something better. I did not, and she did not. Which left us empty handed at 8pm when we met up. The man at the front desk summed up our debacle, “All of Argentina is booked tonight.”

After thirty minutes of asking around, failing to connect to the internet, and next to no advice from the hotel, we found the one option was to go to the port and hope to find a place to eat, even though every restaurant claimed to be full, all fifty thousand taxis of Buenos Aires were 'ocupado', the walk to the port was at least fifty minutes away (without high heels), and not a safe place to walk through on the way back. It was looking as hopeless as my New Years resolution to stop singing “I feel pretty” when styling my hair.

Then something came over me. “Here's what's going to happen,” I said. “We're going to get lucky. We're going to find a taxi. Find a nice restaurant with music and dancing, and it's going to be excellent.” For some reason, I believed it – probably, that reason was a glass of Argentine red wine and a mini-bar beer. We set off.

After fifteen minutes of walking down the main road, with the girls in their high heels and each taxi we waved at flying by, the fumes of negativity from Arissa, Ms. New York, began to get a little stifling. Luckily, Nathalie kept her positive attitude – probably, due to the glass of wine she had with me. We finally saw a taxi with the red “Libre” light on. Nathalie ran over. The guy looked away and flicked the light off. I thought that might have made Arissa feel at home. All that was missing was the middle finger.

At about twenty minutes of walking, a taxi pulled over and let out a group of people, we sprinted up and dove in. The price to ride five minutes to the port was enough to feed his family for a week, but you can't be choosy with your luck.

The port and the restaurants were barely speckled with people at 9pm, which is early for dinner, but without a reservation, we were shooed away. Still, confident that we would get lucky, I asked the next restaurant. The hostess wrinkled her brow when I told her we had no 'reservaciones'. She said they were completely full... But... she would see what she could do – which is code for, “you look like you've got magic dancing feet tonight, I'll make it happen just for you.”

In an instant, a husky smiling man pat me on the shoulder and fired out in unintelligible, but jovial Spanish something about something, and a table, and a price, and joining a butchers club. I smiled and frowned as he lowered the price three times before I realized I was bargaining. Then, I was inside paying a set price for the three of us.

For $100, the three of us were given a three course meal, wine, endless champagne after midnight, live guitar music, dancing, singing, and a port side view of the fireworks as they shot off in three different places. The catch: we were three people at a table for two, right next to the enormous crackling speaker and a sleeping stray dog, with a sketchy looking DJ setting up, and I couldn't have had better luck. I even had some leftover luck to get us a taxi home without a hitch... except that the driver was probably drunk and flying through the streets at 3am. Still, lucky we didn't die.

Happy 2010.

Death-styles of the Rich and the Famous

A group of us were finishing up lunch in the outdoor cafe, when Pat suggested that Nathalie, a french woman from Brazil visiting for the holidays, and I find the famous cemetery where Eva Peron is buried. I pointed directly behind her, “you mean, that cemetery?” Giant stone crosses and towers poked over the gray cement wall that quartered off several blocks of the city. Elaborate mausoleum roofs and the tips of statues peered over at us. We had had several glasses of wine, so walking amongst a few thousand dead bodies seemed like a terribly fantastic idea. So, we finished the bottle and wandered to the entrance.

For a couple hours, we took photo after photo, trying to capture the immense detail in the stone and marble carvings. The overcast sky above us glowed ominously as we wandered without direction, circling mammoth tombs, not quite sure which way we were heading, or if there was even a reason to head anywhere. Each direction held a piece of art made for the deceased, worthy of a museum – or at least, a photo from an awed tourist. You might even suspect that the dead are getting big headed with all the photo-shoots they're doing. I can see them posing in their graves now, “Yes, yes. Get my good side. Don't I have a lovely bone structure? Am I model skinny yet?”

Now, I didn't know this, but it should be common knowledge: a cemetery is a great place to charm a woman. Basically, you're starting at the bottom of expectations. The relationship can only go uphill from a cemetery... unless you're Stephen King. Yet, there's nothing like making a woman feel young and alive, than the juxtaposition of dreary tombstones, ancient death dates, and playing tag through a maze of sacred grounds. Plus, when she gets goosebumps, guess who takes the credit? That's right, you stud. High five a statue on your way out.

The main attractor to the cemetery is the famous, Eva Peron. I had read there was a great uproar about allowing Eva to be buried in this cemetery, because of her humble background. This cemetery is meant for the high class, the powerful, the important. It's the Bevery hills of death, or should I say, the Beverly Kills... or Maliboo... the Haunted Hampton's... mmm... no, no I shouldn't say. Anyway, being the savvy tourist that I am, I lead the way through the labrynth of death, and I could absolutely not find her. Nathlie, proved her french citizenship with the conclusion, “Eet juz wazen't meant to be.”

Now, to answer the question on everyone's mind, “Did you see any ghosts?”. I can only say that there were silent creatures that lurk the grounds, feeding off souls of the living – and they're super cute and furry. Cemetery cats. They seemed almost too comfortable in this setting, as if they were meant to be the watchers of those passed beyond this world. They round the corners and glide in and out of the small openings in the older tombs, making themselves at home.

One day, in the distant future, like one hundred years from now, I'll pass on. So, I've added one last tick to the list of things to do, become famous enough to be buried in the Recoleta Cemetary in Buenos Aires. Looks like I'm going to be marrying into the president's family soon. I'll send you a gold plated email when that happens.

First World Home, Third World Mosquitoes

I don't want to frighten anyone who may one day visit Uruguay. But make a tiny note in the back of your head that when you're in bed, and at your most vulnerable, malicious creatures will attack, who have the gift of flight and near invisibility whose lives consist of sucking blood from your face. I know it sounds like the cast of Twilight, but it's much worse: South American mosquitoes.Um, which I assume aren't that different from North American mosquitoes - other than their speedo tan.

For the past two weeks I've been living with Pat and Bob in a beautiful home just a five minute walk from the ocean. I wake up early, walk on the beach, swim in the pool, maybe teach some Spanish to Pat, run errands, cook dinner, relax, and go to bed. However, some nights I am awoken in the middle of the night by a zzzz (translation: hey.)........ zzzzz (wake up.) ............. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (If you don't swat at me, I will lay eggs in your ear). At that point, sporadic flailing of the arms commences, always missing the mosquitoes and only succeeding in raising my blood pressure. On those nights, I get a good fours hours of restful sleep, and a good 3 hours of Jedi training, blindly trying to smash the mini-vampires while half-awake.

One could be proud of surviving each nightly air strike of these insects, showing off their red bumps of courage. Or, one could just hose himself down with bug spray before going to bed and stop complaining. Maybe though, one doesn't like to smell like chemicals before going to bed. Well, one could shut up! Hey, one could stop and see that these mosquitoes are tearing us apart! One has a tear...

Okay, big deal. I'm in a foreign country, living by the beach, not paying a dime, and I'm complaining about mosquitoes? Yeah. Yeah, I am. Why? you ask. Good question, Mr. Jealousy, sit down and I'll tell you. Because habituation is the most powerful equalizer of society. No matter what one's situation, they will, for the most part, get used to it. Then what matters? Only differences in what one has versus what one wants. Before this, I was living in a basement that flooded on occasion, had a mildew smell, a very low ceiling, and stray cats out back, but I was just fine... mainly, because there were no mosquitoes malditos, del infierno!!! They make me go Ricky Ricardo, that's how I feel about it.

Honestly, I'm grateful this is the only thing I can pretend to complain about. So, wipe those tears, I'm adjusting well to my situation. I spray myself with bug spray before I go to bed, I sometimes put a light sheet over my head, and I surround myself with hungry frogs. Now, I just need to get habituated to the sound of croaking.

How to lose 20 pounds in just 30 waves!

I challenge anyone to get fat while surfing. It's impossible. First, the boards don't have any cup holders for your 48oz slurpee, Mr. Tubbs. Second, just because “fat floats”, doesn't mean you'll be able to stand on the board any better. Third, every muscles in your body is used when surfing, especially the “thumbs up” muscles. I personally increased my “thumbs up” reps by six today. Oh, vocal chords get a workout too. Wooooooooooooooooooo!

Have you ever had surprise exercise? You're minding your own business when a bear wanders into the office, and bam! You're exercising your way down the stairs, across the street, and into a more realistic analogy? That's exactly what happened today. I had met a surf instructor last week while walking along the beach and got some information about the classes. Since, he's there everyday, I figured I would eventually walk by and set up a time to start. Today seemed fitting, Pat was sitting by the pool reading and we had no other agenda. I was sore from running on the beach yesterday, but I wanted to walk around for a bit.

I set a good pace down the main road, next to the beach, and in thirty five minutes I made it to the surf spot. The waves looked small and the sky was overcast, I thought, not typical surfing weather. I saw Juan and waved at him. He recognized me and invited me to start surfing. I logically explained that I had no bathing suit or water or energy. Plus, the waves looked too small. Yet, with matching eloquence and persuasion he said, “we have a wet suit, come on.” Curse his superior reasoning skills! I slipped the suit over my boxers and hit the water.

I've only surfed once before. I took a three day course in the Canary Islands a few years ago and learned the basics. From the first wave though, it all came back. I caught nearly each wave. Over and over. My Hawaiian roots must have helped too - although, I only learned to dance the hula. We did exercises of standing up and laying down, how to read a wave, how to turn and paddle, and how to whip my long blond hair around my face... well, that comes at the advanced stage.

This was the most exercise I've gotten in months. Every time I caught a wave, I had to paddle back through eight more. The lift off requires you to thrust your body up, and then stay squatted to keep balance. I even threw in some Tai-bo while wiping out. Over and over, I swam in and out. The instructor, Matias, kept pushing me into waves, “Go Kevin!” “I can't help but go when you keep pushing me!” They never teach useful phrases in Spanish class; for instance, exploding lungs.

There was only one other student, a girl a little younger than me from New York. She didn't seem like a typical new yorker when I talked to her. But she did drive like one. Or steer. Or whatever surfer lingo describes heading straight towards someones face with a solid edge of hard plastic, causing them to leap out of the way, matrix-style, with just a few centimeters to spare (I'm getting used the metric system.)

The lesson lasted an hour and a half, just enough time to remind me what muscles I haven't used in awhile. It was exhausting, exhilarating, and excelente. Tomorrow will be different story, when I wont be able to move, but that will give me more time to think about returning to the cool blue water once my legs function.

I Hit a Car Today (And Other Great Things About Uruguay)

When visiting any new country, it's advisable to learn the customs, to fit in, not draw attention to oneself, and occasionally, to smash a car. Today, I was in Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay. Pat and Bob had some meetings, so I was left to wander the streets and learn the Uruguayan way. On my two hour walk, I encountered a few differences between the Americans of the north and the Americans of the south.

Lesson 1

What I saw: A woman pushing a parked car forward, presumably not her car, while a truck helped nudge it forward with its bumper, in order to turn a compact space into a jumbo jet parking zone.

What I learned: Uruguayan cars are not people, unlike their American counterparts. In fact, you better go cover their audio inputs, for this next bit.

Lesson put into action!: Later, Pat and I were dropping off Bob's broken computer in  Maldonado, the local town, next to the touristy Punta del Este. I was driving the rental car (it's a stick shift – which I haven't driven in awhile. Oh, and the reverse is right next to first gear, not back and to the right.) As I attempted to reverse, to put more space between me and the parked car in front, the car lurched forward instead and gave the car in front of me a little, tiny, itsy-bitsy, love wallop. Luckily, there was only a small dent in our car, and no visible damage to the other car. Actually, there was already a lot of visible damage to the other car. It was super-Uruguayan, I think it even liked being bumped a little bit. Pat, however, suggested she drive back.

Lesson 2

What I saw: Stray cats and dogs roaming the streets of Montevideo like government workers; they're everywhere, they don't do much, and occasionally they bark at you.

What I learned: Uruguayan cats and dogs are not people either, unlike Mr. Mittens and Fido Reginald III of the USA, shacking up in the dog motel.

Lesson put into action!: I refrained from putting Versache sweater-vests on them, and held off on feeding them gourmet foods, better looking than the slop I ate through college. In reality, most of the strays looked perfectly content with their surroundings, as if their instincts were more in tune. 

Bonus lesson!: In Montevideo, they have professional dog walkers, carrying up to ten or more dogs on leashes. Lesson being, even if dogs aren't strays, they still love being outside. Which is similar to people in that way... Oo, twist lesson.

Lesson 3

What I saw: My skin turn red.

What I learned: The sun is hot.

Lesson put into action!: Wait, let me explain.

Still learning: The sun is hot! Especially, in the southern hemisphere. I rarely burn in the sun, even without sunscreen. I have some weird disease where I look beach-ready all the time. It's a curse. Normally, I slowly roast to a golden brown; good enough for the thanksgiving centerpiece. However, my first day, I went two hours in the sun and came back with skin like a naughty boy's freshly smacked behind. Over the next two days, I put on sunscreen in the morning, yet continued to darken. At this rate, I'll be able to sneak into Namibia by January. Now, when I go out, I put on sunscreen at least three times a day. I'm actually avoiding these pristine blue days left and right so I don't have to worry about looking too different from my passport photo. In which case, I may have to stay here with the strays. All I ask is a care package of Pedigree.

Summary of Lessons

A^2 + B^2 = C^2. 'A' being my Uruguayan driving score, 'B' being how many animals I can “adopt” (carry in my arms), and C equals the liters of sunscreen I'll consume in a month. The answer is in the back of the book.

Country Road Prostitutes

Of the varied events piled behind me in life, few involve prostitutes. Occasionally on my travels, I'll run into a ho or two. My friend Caleb and I have a running debate on whether we spent an entire day in Cairo with a prostitute without knowing it (we only paid for pizza). In the red light districts of Germany, I glimpsed the large display cases of women, most of them looking mainly bored. However, the strangest-environment-to-find-a-prostitute award now goes to Uruguay.

Pat, Bob, their gardener, and I were driving down a lazy road, as if on the way to Grandma's farm, to buy some plants for the tiny garden in front of Pat's tiny castle. Bright green trees lined the roadside, dirt trails lead onto long driveways, and light traffic coasted beside us. A beautiful setting for a Saturday afternoon. Pat piped in, “Oh, this is the road with all the prostitutes”. Before I absorbed  exactly what she said, a saw a woman dressed in revealing South American Walmart clothes standing on a dirt road, as if waiting for the bright yellow school bus to take her to her first day at school. If she had been wearing a purse on her arm, instead of a box of cigarettes, I might have at least, optimistically, assumed she was waiting for a city bus.

I'm accustomed to strange cultures, but I couldn't locate an explanation in my brain for how this could make sense. Business sense, even. Low traffic area in dusty settings rarely equals bang for the buck. Excuse the hilarious and witty expression. I may not have been clear, so I will reiterate: the prostitute was standing on a dirt road in the middle of a rural area.

Pat explained, this is the road workers use to return home, so here the women “workers” wait . For some reason, this information did not help that she was leaning against a wood post, similar to those seen in Lincoln cabin photos.

The sins of man may one day be counted by an unknown source, but until then, I only judge on testable reason and logic. So I shun the prostitutes of Uruguay solely for their lack of aesthetic business sense and physiological persuasion. I reject their proposals of pleasure on the basis of the principle of practicality. To put it more elegantly: A dirt road??? Really??