the space between us

One night in Mar del Plata I took myself out to dinner at a cuban restaurant and got chatted up by a couple of youngsters at the bar while I was waiting for my table. They asked me how old I was (a question that seems to get flung around with quite a lot more abandon in those parts than it does here). I told them and they gasped; they played their surprise off as a compliment but really it seemed to me not so much surprise that I could be that age but that ANYONE could be that advanced of an age. They were both (God help me) twenty years old. Once they recovered themselves they assured me (or themselves, I don't know which) that this age difference was actually not all that large. Oh but it is, I told them, you'll see. 

In fact, being in South America again provided me with a particularly good window on this exact difference because the first time I'd been down here, I was that age. Traveling and living abroad during my impressionable college years forever changed the way I see the world and gave me some of the best memories of my life. I noticed the occasional young American student in Buenos Aires and each time it reminded me in a visceral way that I am not so young anymore. And also that I'm pretty pleased about that. 

It's pretty easy to look back on my college days with rose colored fondness when life as a grown lady starts feeling complicated. My only big responsibilities then were writing and tennis: this is pretty much the exact life I want now (if only I could get someone to pay me to do these things instead of the other way around). But then I remember the angst of my early twenties, the feeling that I had no idea what I was doing, that no one took me seriously. the emotional ups and downs that pummeled me on a near daily basis. Sometimes I miss that girl: the way she just said what was on her mind and in her heart without worrying about the consequences, but other times I just feel glad I'm not her any longer.  

Part of what inspired this list was the idea that my twenties were supposed to be about something: finding myself, independence, adventure, risk taking that my circumstances won't countenance later in life. Not to say that all of this goes out the window once I hit 30 (or 40, 50 or 60), simply that I don't ever want to look back and I say 'I wish I'd done X when I had the chance'. 

I've had some good times here in my third decade: I've had exciting jobs and travelled the word, loved, lost, learned and lived--still I have a feeling I won't miss my twenties when they're gone. 

Do you miss your younger days or is the best still yet to come? 

kitchen confidential

We interrupt our regularly scheduled navel-gazing today to bring you news of wildly unprecendented goings-on in our kitchen last night.

Dad:

COOKING!

Readers, I have never seen my father cook. I have seen him do some manly flipping of grilled meats very occasionally on a warm summer day but full on prep and assembly of a meal? Salad, main course and desert? I documented it in case no one believes me.

The catalyst for this adventure in gastronomy was a couples-cooking class that he took my mother to last weekend. There in a room full of people, I think it occurred to my father for the first time that cooking could be a competative sport; suddenly it held a whole new appeal for him.

So last night he came home with roses for my mom and groceries for dinner. I sat at the bar with my camera at the ready drinking wine with my mom. We alternately exchanged giggles and looks of horror as my dad crashed around with the pots, stared fixedly at the thermometer in the pan of cream and reached in the direction of hot things without oven mitts. My father bravely faced this new terrain of stovetop, oven door and kitchen sink and he even did the washing-up!

                                          we don't need no stinking matching lids 

The result? A pretty tasty dinner and a throughly amused and very touched mum.

Much of what's on my list involves trying something new or returning to something I once loved; my dad's kitchen adventures are a good reminder that it's never too late for either.

Happy Valentines Day!

Julianna y Ninna

Sometimes people come along exactly when you need them to.  

The idea of taking this trip alone both worried and excited me as I was planning it. I like spending time on my own and need very much to have time to myself but the balance is delicate because I’m also very social and susceptible to loneliness. Someone who knows me well once told me that I am an introvert who masquerades as an extrovert and I think she had it right.

Ninna I met first in a tango class. I thought she was American from the look of her: blonde and blue-eyed with that cheerful openness in her expression that I have come to recognize as a trademark of my compatriots. She turned out to be from Denmark but her English is so good it took a few moments to notice she wasn’t a native speaker. Ninna wins the language contest hands-down with seven of them to her name. Seven! Perhaps it’s this black belt in language arts that allow her to use the word ‘lover’ and actually pull it off  (as of press time she is the only person I’ve ever met who could do so).  

Julianna is Brazilian and mistakenly took me from one of her countrywomen the first time she saw me; on the second day of my classes at the escuela she sat down next to me and started talking to me in Portuguese. She too has a remarkable facility with languages with three to her name and in fact I have so many bon mots from Julianna that they are getting their own post.

Though we live in three very different countries we have a lot in common. I suppose we were a bit of a self-selecting population being that we were all thirty-ish women who’d decided to come to a foreign country alone for a month or more. All of us are unmarried, well traveled, passionate about our work and excited but overwhelmed by all the decisions about our futures that we find ourselves contemplating. And we were all having SO much fun in Buenos Aires: it seems it was the cure for what ailed each of us in our disparate but similar lives   

We spent long dinners together drinking bottles of wine and telling intimate stories about our own lives: all the tales of loves, losses, tragedies and adventures that you would usually never share with people you hadn’t known long. We talked long into the night about languages, about travel, about friends and boyfriends and family. Caught up in the headiness of the trip we even planned next adventure (Carnival 2012- it’s not just a vacation promise people). We talked about our lists: of what to do in the next year, before we married, before we died.

As much as I loved meeting people who actually live in Argentina along the way, it was these two girls I felt I shared my trip with. They were right there with me for the good, bad and ugly of my foreign adventure.

Who have you bonded with while traveling?

and then there were 25

And what of the list after my epic journey?

# 3 Spend a month abroad
Done! Hurray. That was easy. Okay not easy, easy. But honestly if you’re looking to get your head straight, to really step away from your life without abandoning it completely this is the perfect amount of time. And if you go to Argentina you won’t break the bank either.

#6 Learn Spanish
I thought hard about whether or not to check this one off. It’s a difficult question because what does it mean to ‘speak’ a language? To be eloquent and have a rich vocabulary? That’s an accomplishment in one’s first language. To be understood by those you’re speaking to and understand them as well? Okay then. I would never call myself fluent in Spanish, not even close. But I was able to get past that very rudimentary level of ‘where is this?’ and ‘my name is?’ to being able to chat and converse pretty comfortably. I wouldn’t say I speak Spanish without the caveat of a ‘mas o menos’ attached but I am the boss of this list so I say: done.

#7 Learn the Tango
Again, there are many levels of knowing a dance and you don’t become an expert at a dance in a few weeks time no matter what DWTS tells you. But I can do it, I have the basics and I intend to continue with classes here in Seattle. I also give myself extra points for bravery from making an ass of myself in a genuine, Argentine milonga with a genuine Argentine. Done.

#10 Reconnect with someone I never thought I would see again
Done and done. In addition to my darling friend Jim who was my travel guide and occasional lifesaver in Buenos Aires, I reconnected with my wonderful Uruguayan host family from my student days. I took the Buquebus over to see them the day before I left for Ushuaia and spent a day with them in Colonia, Uruguay where they still live. My host parents looked exactly the same, the kids however were about four times the size they’d been when I’d seen them last; they were 4 and 6 nine years ago so were now teenagers. The chubby cheeked little boy I’d known was now taller than me and wanted to talk about Jersey Shore (our finest cultural export) and his rock band. How had so much time gone by? Where had I been? Colonia looked the same as ever: beautiful and quaint. Nine years? Feels like a moment ago. Feels like a hundred years. I got misty-eyed when I left, remembering the long nights I’d stayed up chatting with my host mom in the kitchen after coming home from a night with my friends and the nights we all danced samba in the living room with the kids and drank Amaretto. What I ever did to deserve having these amazing people as a host family, I wish I knew.

So the list and the year are off to as a good a start as they could possibly be.

What’s on your list for this year? Have you checked anything off yet?

re-entry

Time moves differently when you're travelling. I've been away a month; not enough time for things to have changed much back home. If I'd been here and my life had been going on as normally, they might seem insignificant: these past four weeks. But a month in another country is a long time, long enough to get the hang of the language a bit, long enough to make some friends, long enough to make a place familiar--even a little like home.

And so here I am, back in my natural habitat: my life is the same except that it's not because I'm not. So how do I feel right now? Exhausted. Calm. Happy. Jetlagged. My dad pointed out that he has some of his best ideas when he wakes up in the middle of the night from jetlag and he's right that it has a weird creative energy to it: something between a hangover and a meditative state.

I have many more stories yet to share about my trip and many things that will continue to percolate in my mind long after my jetlag has passed.

I have the satisfying feeling that I got what I came to Argentina for: some Spanish, some tango skills, amazing new friends, stories I will be telling for the rest of my life. And I got a much needed look back into myself and what really matters to me, a necessary reminder about what I really want and of all that is available to me if I can only find the courage.

The question remains can I hold onto the Zen, the perspective, the life lessons I learned while I was down south or if it will all fade by the time my tan does? Only Time (that cranky old headmistresses) will tell.

and then we came to the end

Since Friday ended up being my last full day in Mar del Plata, I decided I had better go out and do something fun or risk letting the weariness I'd been feeling morph into a full-on funk.

With some minimal instructions from my hotel on how to find the place, I headed in a cab outside the city to a huge park just off the beach to do some horseback riding. When I arrived in the park, there were stables and an arena and horses everywhere but no people. Not one. I wandered around for a while hoping I was not in fact experiencing the rapture at such an inconvenient moment. Finally I saw a woman and her daughter who directed me to someone at the sables who told me the only such place he knew of was all the way across the polo fields. I crossed the field on foot alternately cursing my hotel for not giving me more specific instructions and reveling in the fact that I was traipsing across a giant polo field in a foreign country alone  (well not completely alone, one of the ubiquitous stray dogs followed me out there and kept me company).

When I reached the other side of the field the gate was locked but fortunately there was an easily hoppable fence (if that doesn't take you back, nothing will). The white building in questions was surrounded by miniature horses and once again no people.

When at last I found the right place some ways down a long dirt road, it was just a bunch of horses tied to trees, a man called Juan who was about my age and a gaggle of kids who seemed to work there in some capacity.

'Hi," I said to Juan, the only grown up in the bunch, 'Can I ride horses here?' "Of course,' he said, 'do you know how to ride?' Interesting question, that. I know how to ride about as well as I speak Spanish right now which is to say, more or less, depending on the day. I realized as I steadied my feet in the stirrups that I hadn't actually been on a horse in nine years (which didn't go so well). Huh. Well.

There was one really tall beautiful horse who whinnied at me and rolled his eyes back as I approached. This turned out to be the horse that Juan rode, it was only the second time he'd been ridden he told me, he didn't even have a name yet. How sad, I said, and wished my Spanish was good enough to make a horse-with-no-name joke.  Juan rode with me and we made a couple of laps around the large park, it was a beautiful day sunny but not too hot. I told him about my grandmother who raised Arabians.

                                                                          trusty steed

My horse's name was Carlito (I mean how can you not have confidence in a horse who shares a name with an infamous fictional drug lord?) and though he had an uneven gait, he was a steady ride. I'd forgotten quite what it felt like to ride a horse across a wide open field and soon enough my nerves had abated and I remembered why I'd loved it so much growing up.

I'm still a little saddle sore three days later, which is unfortunate because I am about to get on a plane for a unmentionable number of hours. I feel sad and happy all at once: so ready to get home and yet not at all ready to leave. I'm beyond exhausted as my final weekend in Buenos Aires couldn't have been much more epic without causing some sort of international incident. I spent most of it with Julianna who I said goodbye to today; she's promised to come visit me in Seattle (and not a vacation promise either, she assures me).

Julianna will be heading back to Brazil on Wednesday, she told me she that she feels like she is leaving with a lighter spirt and a fuller heart. Does that make sense in English? She asked me. It does, I told her and I couldn't have said it better myself.

the best laid plans

Whenever I explained my full travel plans to Argentines during this trip: three weeks in BsAs for Spanish and Tango classes and then a short trip to Ushuaia followed by a few days in Mar del Plata, they would nod approvingly at all but the last choice about which they seemed a little confused. When I pressed them on this reaction they just explained that it was a little unusual for foreigners to go there, it was something like what I imagine my reaction would be if someone visiting from France told me they had a few days in Milwaukee scheduled (nothing against Milwaukee, mind you). It's not a bad place but it's overwhelming, a little like the Jersey Shore of Argentina.

I found myself immediately missing the calm of Ushuaia. Truthfully I wish I'd gone elsewhere but there are so many pace to visit in Argentina that the mind boggles and my mind ended up boggling me here. If If had it to over again I would have just left the time open at the end for some spontaneous travel. This is one of the lessons I plan on taking with me: sometimes life is more fun if you don't plan.

My hotel is safe and clean but rather charmless and the staff seem utterly put upon every time I ask for help with something. Last night I had a comically bad dinner, easily the worst meal I've had in Argentina. The rain had been pouring for hours and this restaurant was the only one I could find that accepted credit cards. I drank a glass of too sweet Sauvignon Blanc and while I was waiting for my food, the waiter brought me a magazine; he clearly pitied me for being alone (in a great heaping dose of irony the cover of the magazine was a woman with a fake moustache and the headline 'Have women become too masculine? Chilean psychologist says yes'). This insult was followed by the injury of some rather foul smelling and inedible prawns. When I sheepishly explained to the waiter that I didn't actually like it much, sorry (I'm not a great sender back of dishes) he insisted I order something else and I got a pasta that while not good, was at least edible. They brought me a free glass of champagne at the end though, which is all it really takes to get me back on your side.

                                                        don't hate cause you're in a snow drift 

I've decided to go back to Buenos Aires a day early. I noticed on my brief stop back through from Ushuaia just how comfortable the place has started to feel to me, a bit like home. And my Brazilian friend Julianna will be back there which should save me the indignity of getting anymore magazines with dinner.

What's your home away from home?