Monday, November 26, 2007
Still Fall
Some pics from a lovely walk across Central Park on Saturday after visiting the Met with Ann, Stona, Amelia, and Claire (Miguel gave us a very nice highlights tour, including the as-spectacular-as-advertised gilded panels from Ghiberti's doors). A very late fall has cheered me up—I was resigned to missing most of it while I was in S. America. Turns out, it's just beginning to lose steam now.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
While I Was Gone
Lots of small changes in just six weeks away from New York. Since most of them are far from improvements, this will likely be another post to justify my blog name.
A hideous new logo for New York taxis has been slapped onto most of the fleet. It's a horrible jumble of typefaces and consumerism, a feeble attempt to brand NY Taxis (as if they needed branding) and make them more consumer-cuddly.
I wouldn't mind so much if the logo were any good, but it's awful too spacey, unhip and unattractive, with type that manages to look out of focus and too severe at the same time. Dozens of designers, from pro to amateur, have submitted designs much, much better than this one, which looks to be a sad result of design-by-committee, in which everyone's input was considered and accounted for, resulting in this ghastly set of compromises that achieve nothing. (Just change a few of the nouns and I could easily be writing about the textbook industry...)
This is, or rather, was Macondo, the last Spanish bookstore around.
Five months ago, there were two Spanish bookstores on 14th Street. Now there are none. Lectorum (owned by Scholastic) closed this summer and now, the smaller Macondo shut it's doors on November 1st. It had been clearly dying for quite a while (apparently they hadn't paid their rent in 10 months), but both stores fell victim to two obvious trends: the delatinization of the neighborhood (which used to be very Spanish, oh, about 20 years ago) and the fact that nobody reads books anymore, regardless of the language. This space will probably be another nail salon or pocket bank by early 2008.
On the not-so-bad-but-was-it-neseccary? shelf we have the new storefront placed onto the local deli where Bobby buys his coffee soda. It's glass and modern and makes the place look sort of like an aquarium. I can't imagine that it's really going to improve the traffic in there (it's already pretty busy), but it's not an eyesore. Though I am sad they got rid of a metal bar that made for a very conventient dog-hitching post.
And yes, some changes are actually for the good. They added an interesting new bike line on 9th avenue. By moving the row of parked cars away from the curb, they created a safe, protected bike line with metal rods separating the parked cars from the bikes.
Instead of regular parking meters, there are these muni-meters, which accept coins (at last, a use for those pesky Sacajewa dollars) and charge cards. It only goes from 23rd St. to 16th, which is about a minute and a half if you don't hit a red light, but still, it's progress.
A hideous new logo for New York taxis has been slapped onto most of the fleet. It's a horrible jumble of typefaces and consumerism, a feeble attempt to brand NY Taxis (as if they needed branding) and make them more consumer-cuddly.
I wouldn't mind so much if the logo were any good, but it's awful too spacey, unhip and unattractive, with type that manages to look out of focus and too severe at the same time. Dozens of designers, from pro to amateur, have submitted designs much, much better than this one, which looks to be a sad result of design-by-committee, in which everyone's input was considered and accounted for, resulting in this ghastly set of compromises that achieve nothing. (Just change a few of the nouns and I could easily be writing about the textbook industry...)
This is, or rather, was Macondo, the last Spanish bookstore around.
Five months ago, there were two Spanish bookstores on 14th Street. Now there are none. Lectorum (owned by Scholastic) closed this summer and now, the smaller Macondo shut it's doors on November 1st. It had been clearly dying for quite a while (apparently they hadn't paid their rent in 10 months), but both stores fell victim to two obvious trends: the delatinization of the neighborhood (which used to be very Spanish, oh, about 20 years ago) and the fact that nobody reads books anymore, regardless of the language. This space will probably be another nail salon or pocket bank by early 2008.
On the not-so-bad-but-was-it-neseccary? shelf we have the new storefront placed onto the local deli where Bobby buys his coffee soda. It's glass and modern and makes the place look sort of like an aquarium. I can't imagine that it's really going to improve the traffic in there (it's already pretty busy), but it's not an eyesore. Though I am sad they got rid of a metal bar that made for a very conventient dog-hitching post.
And yes, some changes are actually for the good. They added an interesting new bike line on 9th avenue. By moving the row of parked cars away from the curb, they created a safe, protected bike line with metal rods separating the parked cars from the bikes.
Instead of regular parking meters, there are these muni-meters, which accept coins (at last, a use for those pesky Sacajewa dollars) and charge cards. It only goes from 23rd St. to 16th, which is about a minute and a half if you don't hit a red light, but still, it's progress.
Friday, November 23, 2007
El Día de Accion de Gracias
The Spanish translation of Thanksgiving cracks me up. It seems so focused on the physical: "The Day of the Act of Thanking" But also, because I never really think about the literal meaning of the word Thanksgiving. Just a word.
Nonetheless, it was a very nice night, with good food and good friends. Here's how the apartment looked before we were ten. (Bobby and me; Ann, Stona, Amelia, and Claire; Miguel and Carter; Gary and Stephen) (Eleven counting the barky barky dog who also managed to break a glass with her tail, though happily, not a very nice one.)
The brined turkey turned out well. I hacked it apart using the Times butchering method, to mixed results. Basically, you cut everything off the bones first, then slice it. The idea being that you get more meat and slicing against the grain is better. It was easy and fun to do, but to slice across the grain, you have to cut quite thick slices, or they'll fall apart. I sort of miss the traditional, thinner turkey slices. It was great for the dark meat, though, so maybe next time I'll hack off the thighs, and then do the rest conventionally.
Pumpkin pie and apple tart by me, pecan pie by Stephen with the assistance of the pastry chef at the restaurant (Veritas) where he words. She had extra filling. Very tasty. (He also scored some appetizers--salmon tartar and an extraordinarily tasty pate with duck breast, foie gras, pork belly, and some other stuff.)
I have a long history of forgetting to put out at least one dish. This year it was the cranberry sauce that sat in the fridge, waiting patiently. Ah well. Not as tragic as the year I made three kinds of cookies as well as fudge for the holidays and then left them all in a box in the kitchen while Bobby, the dog, and I drove to Cleveland. I realized about two hours into the journey and seriously considered turning around...
I don't like taking photos during events, and I don't do it well. Anyway, here's one shot Ann took of Bobby, Claire, and me later in the evening. Amelia's legs featured in the lower right.
Nonetheless, it was a very nice night, with good food and good friends. Here's how the apartment looked before we were ten. (Bobby and me; Ann, Stona, Amelia, and Claire; Miguel and Carter; Gary and Stephen) (Eleven counting the barky barky dog who also managed to break a glass with her tail, though happily, not a very nice one.)
The brined turkey turned out well. I hacked it apart using the Times butchering method, to mixed results. Basically, you cut everything off the bones first, then slice it. The idea being that you get more meat and slicing against the grain is better. It was easy and fun to do, but to slice across the grain, you have to cut quite thick slices, or they'll fall apart. I sort of miss the traditional, thinner turkey slices. It was great for the dark meat, though, so maybe next time I'll hack off the thighs, and then do the rest conventionally.
Pumpkin pie and apple tart by me, pecan pie by Stephen with the assistance of the pastry chef at the restaurant (Veritas) where he words. She had extra filling. Very tasty. (He also scored some appetizers--salmon tartar and an extraordinarily tasty pate with duck breast, foie gras, pork belly, and some other stuff.)
I have a long history of forgetting to put out at least one dish. This year it was the cranberry sauce that sat in the fridge, waiting patiently. Ah well. Not as tragic as the year I made three kinds of cookies as well as fudge for the holidays and then left them all in a box in the kitchen while Bobby, the dog, and I drove to Cleveland. I realized about two hours into the journey and seriously considered turning around...
I don't like taking photos during events, and I don't do it well. Anyway, here's one shot Ann took of Bobby, Claire, and me later in the evening. Amelia's legs featured in the lower right.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
From Casa to Home
Smooth trip back to NY. One final communication failure with my driver on the way to the airport, just to keep me from feeling too cocky about my Spanish comprehension (about which I was feeling fairly good this time 'round). When we pulled into the airport, he asked me something, so I replied "American." He looked confused and asked again. I repeated "American," trying to enunciate more clearly. Well and good if he'd been asking me what airline I was flying, but less helpful when he was actually asking if I'd like to pay...
Here's one corner of my Buenos Aires garden as I left it.
And here's a spiky plant I bought this on impulse from stall on Corrientes.
And here's the surprise that greeted me in our garden in NY.
Our Japanese maple has been thriving for the last couple of years, since we repotted it, but it's never had a very impressive fall display. The color is usually a sort of yellowy tan that might not be out of place on a tasteful woman's suit, but is a bit dreary for a garden. Well, this year, it's putting on quite a spectacular show.
Here's another view of the garden, which is surprisingly greenish for November.
It's nice to be home, tho I miss Bs As, too. My bifurcated life requires regular readjusting, but I think that's for the best, actually. Keeps the brain humming. Or at least annoyed, which is nearly as good.
Here's one corner of my Buenos Aires garden as I left it.
And here's a spiky plant I bought this on impulse from stall on Corrientes.
And here's the surprise that greeted me in our garden in NY.
Our Japanese maple has been thriving for the last couple of years, since we repotted it, but it's never had a very impressive fall display. The color is usually a sort of yellowy tan that might not be out of place on a tasteful woman's suit, but is a bit dreary for a garden. Well, this year, it's putting on quite a spectacular show.
Here's another view of the garden, which is surprisingly greenish for November.
It's nice to be home, tho I miss Bs As, too. My bifurcated life requires regular readjusting, but I think that's for the best, actually. Keeps the brain humming. Or at least annoyed, which is nearly as good.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Chau, Baires
Back to NY this evening. Here's the place I'm saying goodbye to, for now, for those of you who haven't see it. Our door is the one on the left.
Had an excellent week of goodbye dinners and lunches with my porteño pals. Victoria's forgiven me for my crush on Alejandra, and Martha and Micky and Martha's niece (Aldana?) and I actually cracked the Clarin crossword puzzle, which was quite an accomplishment. (More on Spanish puzzle solving to come in a later post.)
Diego and Alejandra were talking about me (she remembers me!) and by way of a compliment, he told me that they both agreed I'm not nearly as stupid as I sound. That is, when I speak Spanish with my terrible accent, one's inclined to think I'm a dolt, but if you can get past the excruciating sounds, you'll find only a semi-dolt underneath. I'm pretty sure that's the word he used, terrible. I might need to work on that. But I'll focus on the compliment side, for now, and not think about the rest.
And I'm now officially in contact with Gabo Ferro. Wrote to him via his website and he wrote back right away. He'll be in California next February/March. So my new sideline as a booking agent is off and running. If anyone reading this has any contacts at Joe's Pub, let me know.
(Actually, my sister might already have a semi-connection for me to follow-up on. Thanks, Ann!)
Next post from NY. See ya there.
Had an excellent week of goodbye dinners and lunches with my porteño pals. Victoria's forgiven me for my crush on Alejandra, and Martha and Micky and Martha's niece (Aldana?) and I actually cracked the Clarin crossword puzzle, which was quite an accomplishment. (More on Spanish puzzle solving to come in a later post.)
Diego and Alejandra were talking about me (she remembers me!) and by way of a compliment, he told me that they both agreed I'm not nearly as stupid as I sound. That is, when I speak Spanish with my terrible accent, one's inclined to think I'm a dolt, but if you can get past the excruciating sounds, you'll find only a semi-dolt underneath. I'm pretty sure that's the word he used, terrible. I might need to work on that. But I'll focus on the compliment side, for now, and not think about the rest.
And I'm now officially in contact with Gabo Ferro. Wrote to him via his website and he wrote back right away. He'll be in California next February/March. So my new sideline as a booking agent is off and running. If anyone reading this has any contacts at Joe's Pub, let me know.
(Actually, my sister might already have a semi-connection for me to follow-up on. Thanks, Ann!)
Next post from NY. See ya there.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Leaving Town
I've been awfully gabby lately, so just some pics today. I leave tomorrow. Don't know what will happen to this blog when I'm back in old New York.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Overlaps
It's a big city, but a small world. Lots of overlaps and synchronicities this week.
I figure I know about 50 of the 2.7 million people here in Buenos Aires, so it was a surprise to run into Diego and Jesus on the street three corners from home. But then, I've read that statistically speaking, it's extremely probable that some extremely improbable things will happen—you just can't predict which ones. So I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that even within my very tiny circle, some of the separations turn out to be much fewer than six degrees. It turns out I'm in trouble with one of my regular blog readers, of whom I estimate there are five. Remember my crush on Alejandra, the actress? Well, it turns out that she's an ex-girlfriend of the ex-husband of my good friend Victoria. Oh dear. (Hi, Victoria. Love ya lots!)
(My actresses post seems to have caused friction in various circles near and far. My sister subtly suggested--well, said-- that she didn't care to hear (or read) anything at all about me having crushes on exotic foreign actresses. Meanwhile back here in the Southern Hemisphere, Alejandra's husband apparently wanted some reassuring that this yanqui plays for the other team...)
Surprising coincidences aren't restricted to the physical world--they can happen in the brain, too. At that Oliverio Girondo symposium I went to on Monday, they did some poetry reading. I could follow enough to get some of the imagery, but let's face it, it's hard to keep paying attention to poetry even when you speak the language. So after a poem or two, my mind was wandering. But I get points for the fact that it was staying on topic. I was working on a concrete poem I have in mind that is much more fun to think about than it would be to read. It's nothing more than a list of Spanish words I like. Of course, refunfuñar makes the cut. So do desafortunadamente, mamotreto, paracaídas, nunca, ronronear, latido, chupapijas, tragaluz, esmalte, and pulular. (Only one of those is dirty, though I suspect that if you don't know Spanish, several of them sound a bit saucy.) But at this moment, I was reconsidering the position of felpudo. And just as I was thinking "Now that's a great word, it should be up at the top of the list, maybe even the title" I tune back into the poetry reading and what do I hear? The reader actually says felpudo! I'm not making this up. And it's not like it has some common, general meaning that would occasion its use in lots of poetry—like, say, because, sunset, or feeling. It means doormat!
And in a less impressive but more personally-satisfying synchronicity, I met Gabo Ferro! It was at an appealing event called Confesionario (Confessional), in which two guests and one musician are casually interviewed about their private lives. I love the idea, although the confessor, Cecilia Szperling, wasn't nearly as probing as I'd have liked. She was quite content sticking with amusing anecdotes, as opposed to actually digging for private sins and public embarrassments, which is what the concept really begs for. Anyway, Gabo chatted and sang a half dozen songs or so. It was in a tiny venue, about 70 seats, so it was easy to just go up and chat with him after. I've been thinking lately about how much I want to hear him sing in New York, specifically at Joe's Pub, which would be the ideal place for him. So I say Hi, love your work, want you to sing in NY, and the first thing he says is that's he's been trying to get into Joe's Pub! OK, it's not crazy amazing, but he kissed me twice (greeting and parting), which is much more important.
Needless to say, at the Carlos Fuentes reading I attended last night, I neither spoke with the reader afterwards nor received two kisses from him. Some wildly improbable events are just that and nothing more.
I figure I know about 50 of the 2.7 million people here in Buenos Aires, so it was a surprise to run into Diego and Jesus on the street three corners from home. But then, I've read that statistically speaking, it's extremely probable that some extremely improbable things will happen—you just can't predict which ones. So I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that even within my very tiny circle, some of the separations turn out to be much fewer than six degrees. It turns out I'm in trouble with one of my regular blog readers, of whom I estimate there are five. Remember my crush on Alejandra, the actress? Well, it turns out that she's an ex-girlfriend of the ex-husband of my good friend Victoria. Oh dear. (Hi, Victoria. Love ya lots!)
(My actresses post seems to have caused friction in various circles near and far. My sister subtly suggested--well, said-- that she didn't care to hear (or read) anything at all about me having crushes on exotic foreign actresses. Meanwhile back here in the Southern Hemisphere, Alejandra's husband apparently wanted some reassuring that this yanqui plays for the other team...)
Surprising coincidences aren't restricted to the physical world--they can happen in the brain, too. At that Oliverio Girondo symposium I went to on Monday, they did some poetry reading. I could follow enough to get some of the imagery, but let's face it, it's hard to keep paying attention to poetry even when you speak the language. So after a poem or two, my mind was wandering. But I get points for the fact that it was staying on topic. I was working on a concrete poem I have in mind that is much more fun to think about than it would be to read. It's nothing more than a list of Spanish words I like. Of course, refunfuñar makes the cut. So do desafortunadamente, mamotreto, paracaídas, nunca, ronronear, latido, chupapijas, tragaluz, esmalte, and pulular. (Only one of those is dirty, though I suspect that if you don't know Spanish, several of them sound a bit saucy.) But at this moment, I was reconsidering the position of felpudo. And just as I was thinking "Now that's a great word, it should be up at the top of the list, maybe even the title" I tune back into the poetry reading and what do I hear? The reader actually says felpudo! I'm not making this up. And it's not like it has some common, general meaning that would occasion its use in lots of poetry—like, say, because, sunset, or feeling. It means doormat!
And in a less impressive but more personally-satisfying synchronicity, I met Gabo Ferro! It was at an appealing event called Confesionario (Confessional), in which two guests and one musician are casually interviewed about their private lives. I love the idea, although the confessor, Cecilia Szperling, wasn't nearly as probing as I'd have liked. She was quite content sticking with amusing anecdotes, as opposed to actually digging for private sins and public embarrassments, which is what the concept really begs for. Anyway, Gabo chatted and sang a half dozen songs or so. It was in a tiny venue, about 70 seats, so it was easy to just go up and chat with him after. I've been thinking lately about how much I want to hear him sing in New York, specifically at Joe's Pub, which would be the ideal place for him. So I say Hi, love your work, want you to sing in NY, and the first thing he says is that's he's been trying to get into Joe's Pub! OK, it's not crazy amazing, but he kissed me twice (greeting and parting), which is much more important.
Needless to say, at the Carlos Fuentes reading I attended last night, I neither spoke with the reader afterwards nor received two kisses from him. Some wildly improbable events are just that and nothing more.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
!Ay!
Let's time travel back to October 5. It's the second night of the Blue Coyote production of Departures and I'm out at South's bar with the gang afterwards, congratulating them on another show well done. The food there is always surprisingly tasty, so when Gary offers me a sip of his hot soup, I say sure. I have two immediate responses: a) Mmmmm, tasty, and b) Ouch! What is that searing, stabbing pain shooting through one of my teeth?
Well, the pain went away about as quickly as it arrived, but since then I've been having off and on problems with that tooth. It's been sensitive to hot and cold, making eating helado a mixed blessing—not that I've let a little hurt stop me from even one delicious mouthful of pain-inflicting goodness. The tooth eventually got bad enough that I actually hassled Silvana, my friend who's a dentist in Haedo, to look at it a few weeks ago. She did, x-ray and all, and found no particular cause for alarm--no hidden infection, just a sensitive tooth. Just another indignity of aging. She gave me lots of free samples of sensitive tooth toothpaste.
Jump forward last night, when my lingering tooth pain apparently decides it has been a back-seat presence long enough. ¡Ay! is Spanish for ouch, as in: ¡Ay! It's midnight and my damned tooth hurts! or ¡Ay¡ It's 3:30 and I still can't sleep with this pound-pound-pounding! or !Ay¡ Good morning, torcaza, you stupid — ¡Ay! — bird!
So I called Silvana and she wonderfully said to come see her a lunchtime today. I hopped on the train to Haedo (it's about 3o minutes to the West).
You'll notice that there's no charming old rusted sign at the Haedo train station. That's because a couple of years ago, local juvies burned the station down in a small riot over poorly managed trains. This is one of the reasons Silvana and Adrian don't, in general, like the idea of me taking the train to Haedo. But it's quite safe and unriotlike during off-peak hours. You do need to choose your train car a bit carefully, though. Some of them don't have any seats at all. At rush hour, these get completely jammed from wall to wall and beyond with people like cattle on their way to...never mind. Just get on a car with seats.
So Silvana picks me up at the station and drives me the few blocks to the lovely consultorio she shares with her father.
Her mom is also a dentist, as are her brother and sister-in-law. I think there's another dentist in the family, too, but I forget who it is. I'm a bit apprehensive about my first Argentine root canal, but it goes quite down OK. Well, I could have lived without the first part, where they had to cut off the old crown to get at the bad stuff underneath, but after that, it was smooth going. Silvana's definitely the sweetest dentist I've ever had, cosntantly apologizing for every small twinge or pressure.
Here are my dentists. ¡Muchísmas gracias, Silvana y Enrique!
Anyway, you learn all sorts of interesting things having an emergency dental procedure in a foreign country. Like: you can just walk into a pharmacy here and ask for antibiotics without a prescription. And the Spanish words for root canal, throbbing pain, rotten tooth pulp, and don't be such a baby.
Well, the pain went away about as quickly as it arrived, but since then I've been having off and on problems with that tooth. It's been sensitive to hot and cold, making eating helado a mixed blessing—not that I've let a little hurt stop me from even one delicious mouthful of pain-inflicting goodness. The tooth eventually got bad enough that I actually hassled Silvana, my friend who's a dentist in Haedo, to look at it a few weeks ago. She did, x-ray and all, and found no particular cause for alarm--no hidden infection, just a sensitive tooth. Just another indignity of aging. She gave me lots of free samples of sensitive tooth toothpaste.
Jump forward last night, when my lingering tooth pain apparently decides it has been a back-seat presence long enough. ¡Ay! is Spanish for ouch, as in: ¡Ay! It's midnight and my damned tooth hurts! or ¡Ay¡ It's 3:30 and I still can't sleep with this pound-pound-pounding! or !Ay¡ Good morning, torcaza, you stupid — ¡Ay! — bird!
So I called Silvana and she wonderfully said to come see her a lunchtime today. I hopped on the train to Haedo (it's about 3o minutes to the West).
You'll notice that there's no charming old rusted sign at the Haedo train station. That's because a couple of years ago, local juvies burned the station down in a small riot over poorly managed trains. This is one of the reasons Silvana and Adrian don't, in general, like the idea of me taking the train to Haedo. But it's quite safe and unriotlike during off-peak hours. You do need to choose your train car a bit carefully, though. Some of them don't have any seats at all. At rush hour, these get completely jammed from wall to wall and beyond with people like cattle on their way to...never mind. Just get on a car with seats.
So Silvana picks me up at the station and drives me the few blocks to the lovely consultorio she shares with her father.
Her mom is also a dentist, as are her brother and sister-in-law. I think there's another dentist in the family, too, but I forget who it is. I'm a bit apprehensive about my first Argentine root canal, but it goes quite down OK. Well, I could have lived without the first part, where they had to cut off the old crown to get at the bad stuff underneath, but after that, it was smooth going. Silvana's definitely the sweetest dentist I've ever had, cosntantly apologizing for every small twinge or pressure.
Here are my dentists. ¡Muchísmas gracias, Silvana y Enrique!
Anyway, you learn all sorts of interesting things having an emergency dental procedure in a foreign country. Like: you can just walk into a pharmacy here and ask for antibiotics without a prescription. And the Spanish words for root canal, throbbing pain, rotten tooth pulp, and don't be such a baby.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
On the Bus
I haven't taken a taxi since Bobby left town almost 4 weeks ago. They aren't expensive by US standards, but once you get used to paying for things in pesos, it seems silly to pay 10 pesos for a trip that costs 80 centavos by bus or 70 by subway. (Taxi fares went up this week, actually, though I don't know by how much. I imagine it's not enough to make any difference at all to tourists.)
I'm learning to navigate the bus lines a bit more smoothly, and had as real breakthrough moment last weekend when I could actually help a local woman figure out which bus line to take.
Here's the #1 Colectivo, which I saw for the first time this weekend. Look at that amazing, fat, chunky #1. Yes, at first it's almost unrecognizable as a number, but in context (every bus has a number there, so you know it's a number) it's quite beautiful.
Once you're on-board, the ride is an always-entertaining combination of lurching, listing, and turning sharply down tight corners into narrow streets that will never accommodate a bus but somehow do. Sometimes the squealing brakes and wheezing hydraulics of the doors opening and closing can be almost as annoying as, say, a twittering torcaza at 4:45 in the morning. (Ahem. It's 5:01 right now and guess who, despite a dark plodding rain, just started up? Good morning, idiot bird.)
For all of their physical irregularities, it's surprising that the only actual malfunctioning I've seen has been with collection boxes, which seem to be the colectivo's Achilles' heel. On one trip, one or two customers were having trouble getting change. The driver tried in vain to help them out. One young guy couldn't pay because of the problem, so walked into the back anyway. At the next stop, a uniformed bus agent got on and started collecting tolls manually. I have no idea how he knew to come—I guess the driver must have called or signalled him somehow, but it seemed to happen too quickly. Perhaps the problem had been going on for some time, although I'd been on the bus for ten minutes or so and the fare box had been fine for all of that time. The collector (at the driver's prompting) even hunted down the young guy to get his 80 centavos.
Today I was riding home from Malba, the nice modern art museum, having seen an interesting round-table discussion and poetry reading about Oliverio Girondo. I'm very pleased to have discovered a bus (102) that takes me practically from my door to the steps of the museum. I have a seat on the way home, which is a luxury. There aren't that many people because I had just missed the bus a few minutes ahead of us. After about 10 minutes, a guy tries to pay his fare and can't. The driver hits a button, but it's no good. Another person gets on, and can't pay the fare. At the next stop, the driver lets a few people off, but waves off the three or four people waiting to get on. They don't even look too angry, so I guess this happens a lot. (Well, one of them did look pretty peeved, actually.) The driver then reaches over and pulls out a cardboard sign that says "Máquina Fuera De Servicio," which he now waves at every stop, leaving behind quite a lot of people to wait for the next bus (they come irregularly, but quite frequently. Sometimes you'll see three or four of the same bus line in rapid succession.) So for the rest of the ride, he's just decanting passengers, I guess until the end of the line when they'll try to fix the máquina.
And speaking of buses, I have something horrendous to show you. Shield your eyes if you're aesthetically sensitive.
Oh, the horror. This started happening last year. In the name of progress, some bus lines have traded in their stunning traditional graphics for ghastly modern digital displays. One look at that soulless blot of light and I might as well be in the Bronx.
(Speaking of which, the chic neighborhood here is Palermo. Over the years, it has expanded to included regions now called Palermo Soho and Palermo Hollywood by many. Amusingly, the newest extension has renamed a chunk of what used to be Villa Crespo as Palermo Queens.)
I'm learning to navigate the bus lines a bit more smoothly, and had as real breakthrough moment last weekend when I could actually help a local woman figure out which bus line to take.
Here's the #1 Colectivo, which I saw for the first time this weekend. Look at that amazing, fat, chunky #1. Yes, at first it's almost unrecognizable as a number, but in context (every bus has a number there, so you know it's a number) it's quite beautiful.
Once you're on-board, the ride is an always-entertaining combination of lurching, listing, and turning sharply down tight corners into narrow streets that will never accommodate a bus but somehow do. Sometimes the squealing brakes and wheezing hydraulics of the doors opening and closing can be almost as annoying as, say, a twittering torcaza at 4:45 in the morning. (Ahem. It's 5:01 right now and guess who, despite a dark plodding rain, just started up? Good morning, idiot bird.)
For all of their physical irregularities, it's surprising that the only actual malfunctioning I've seen has been with collection boxes, which seem to be the colectivo's Achilles' heel. On one trip, one or two customers were having trouble getting change. The driver tried in vain to help them out. One young guy couldn't pay because of the problem, so walked into the back anyway. At the next stop, a uniformed bus agent got on and started collecting tolls manually. I have no idea how he knew to come—I guess the driver must have called or signalled him somehow, but it seemed to happen too quickly. Perhaps the problem had been going on for some time, although I'd been on the bus for ten minutes or so and the fare box had been fine for all of that time. The collector (at the driver's prompting) even hunted down the young guy to get his 80 centavos.
Today I was riding home from Malba, the nice modern art museum, having seen an interesting round-table discussion and poetry reading about Oliverio Girondo. I'm very pleased to have discovered a bus (102) that takes me practically from my door to the steps of the museum. I have a seat on the way home, which is a luxury. There aren't that many people because I had just missed the bus a few minutes ahead of us. After about 10 minutes, a guy tries to pay his fare and can't. The driver hits a button, but it's no good. Another person gets on, and can't pay the fare. At the next stop, the driver lets a few people off, but waves off the three or four people waiting to get on. They don't even look too angry, so I guess this happens a lot. (Well, one of them did look pretty peeved, actually.) The driver then reaches over and pulls out a cardboard sign that says "Máquina Fuera De Servicio," which he now waves at every stop, leaving behind quite a lot of people to wait for the next bus (they come irregularly, but quite frequently. Sometimes you'll see three or four of the same bus line in rapid succession.) So for the rest of the ride, he's just decanting passengers, I guess until the end of the line when they'll try to fix the máquina.
And speaking of buses, I have something horrendous to show you. Shield your eyes if you're aesthetically sensitive.
Oh, the horror. This started happening last year. In the name of progress, some bus lines have traded in their stunning traditional graphics for ghastly modern digital displays. One look at that soulless blot of light and I might as well be in the Bronx.
(Speaking of which, the chic neighborhood here is Palermo. Over the years, it has expanded to included regions now called Palermo Soho and Palermo Hollywood by many. Amusingly, the newest extension has renamed a chunk of what used to be Villa Crespo as Palermo Queens.)
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Mine
Let's take a little stroll over to my bookshelf, shall we? ¡Dios mio! What's this?
Why, that looks like Victoria's copy of The Buenos Aires Affair, doesn't it? In my bookshelf? Did I steal it after all? No! Its mine, mine, mine.
It turns out, blogging can be practical, too. Or at least it can help you satisfy your unnecessary, greedy desires. While I was writing my first post on this book, I tried to find a picture of the edition that's currently available. Well, I never found one that was big enough to include here, but while surfing, I accidentally hit the jackpot. I found several booksellers here selling that very edition. So I surfed around some more and found copies for sale from 40 to 90 pesos. The 40-peso copy was for sale at DeRemate.com, which is the local Ebay. As in most seemingly simple transactions here, it required dauntless perseverance (and a little deceit), but I did it! To register at the site, you actually need a DNI, which is like an Argentine social security number. I don't have one. I tried using my SSN on the registration form, but that didn't work. Now, I now that DNIs have only 8 digits, so I tried again, using my SSN but without the last digit. Success! Well, sort of. My account was active for one day only, until they realized something was up and told me I'm suspended until I correct info in my profile. But ha ha ha, it's too late. I already made it through to the seller.
The auction system is different from Ebay in that after the auction is over, you arrange payment and delivery directly with the seller. Going to his place to pick it up and paying him there seems to be the most common option (and the most convenient for me). Turns out, the seller is a book store in—irony, you saucy fellow you—Caballito, about ten minutes from Victoria's house.
I took the beautiful old wooden A-line subway to pick up my booty. Here I am there, looking smug.
It's a charming place with the mandatory bookstore cat heavily asleep on top of the computer monitor. Cat slightly rouses to give an aloof OK to my scritching. The bookseller gets my book—Yes! I want it!—and then I notice that inside the front cover, the price is marked as 20 pesos. Hmmm. I guess there's a rather steep buyer's premium for being sucker enough to use the Internet. I sniff around the shop, but one lust object is enough today, so I go to pay, and he just asks for the 20 pesos. Oh joy—I got the girl and she's a cheap date, too. How do I feel? Call it smug2.
(Actually, my copy has a very slight oil stain in the white background field to lower left, so it's a tiny bit less perfect than Victoria's. Luckily, I haven't noticed that.)
Why, that looks like Victoria's copy of The Buenos Aires Affair, doesn't it? In my bookshelf? Did I steal it after all? No! Its mine, mine, mine.
It turns out, blogging can be practical, too. Or at least it can help you satisfy your unnecessary, greedy desires. While I was writing my first post on this book, I tried to find a picture of the edition that's currently available. Well, I never found one that was big enough to include here, but while surfing, I accidentally hit the jackpot. I found several booksellers here selling that very edition. So I surfed around some more and found copies for sale from 40 to 90 pesos. The 40-peso copy was for sale at DeRemate.com, which is the local Ebay. As in most seemingly simple transactions here, it required dauntless perseverance (and a little deceit), but I did it! To register at the site, you actually need a DNI, which is like an Argentine social security number. I don't have one. I tried using my SSN on the registration form, but that didn't work. Now, I now that DNIs have only 8 digits, so I tried again, using my SSN but without the last digit. Success! Well, sort of. My account was active for one day only, until they realized something was up and told me I'm suspended until I correct info in my profile. But ha ha ha, it's too late. I already made it through to the seller.
The auction system is different from Ebay in that after the auction is over, you arrange payment and delivery directly with the seller. Going to his place to pick it up and paying him there seems to be the most common option (and the most convenient for me). Turns out, the seller is a book store in—irony, you saucy fellow you—Caballito, about ten minutes from Victoria's house.
I took the beautiful old wooden A-line subway to pick up my booty. Here I am there, looking smug.
It's a charming place with the mandatory bookstore cat heavily asleep on top of the computer monitor. Cat slightly rouses to give an aloof OK to my scritching. The bookseller gets my book—Yes! I want it!—and then I notice that inside the front cover, the price is marked as 20 pesos. Hmmm. I guess there's a rather steep buyer's premium for being sucker enough to use the Internet. I sniff around the shop, but one lust object is enough today, so I go to pay, and he just asks for the 20 pesos. Oh joy—I got the girl and she's a cheap date, too. How do I feel? Call it smug2.
(Actually, my copy has a very slight oil stain in the white background field to lower left, so it's a tiny bit less perfect than Victoria's. Luckily, I haven't noticed that.)
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Actresses and Me
What is it about actresses that makes them so exciting to be around?
I was heading for a fall. Thursday night I went to see El pasado, the not-especially-good new Gael Garcia Bernal (from Y tu mama también) movie, and even though I found it annoyingly cryptic, I was very pleased to understand a huge percentage of it, even on a word-for-word level. So last night, I was deeply humbled when I went to see a show with Diego that his friends were involved with. The pre-show scene was chaos--huge crowd waiting in small hallway. I couldn't understand anything (background noise kills me) and everybody knew everybody else which meant--aargh!--comic repartee. They might as well have been speaking Tagalog. The show started at least half an hour late and turned out not to be a play but a band playing songs that apparently have intellectually piercing lyrics, not that I could tell with the predictably lousy sound mix—even the song sung in English went by in a garbled blur. What was left was OK, but a bit heavy on the clowning and circusy beats for my taste. Afterward, of course, more mingling, during which people--rats!--started trying to talk to me. I pulled through, but felt about as exciting as a cardboard box.
So, I was fearful of the group-dinner-after, but it turned out to be lovely because there were just four of us (I'd been expecting a long table of 20, which always makes me claustrophobic after half an hour or so), Diego, myself, his actress friend Alejandra, and one of her acting students, Sergio. We went to El Cuartito, a well-known Pizza joint, and now that I could actually hear people, I fall quickly under Alejandra's thumb. In moments, I become one of her admirers, hanging on her fluid gestures and quickfire expressions, jostling with the other boys for her attention, which she gives generously and completely. She has that way of looking at you when she's talking that makes you feel loved. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I've felt it before with other actresses. Your mind is shouting "Snap out of it, sap—you're nothing special. She looks that way at everybody" but you tell your mind to shut up and think of something clever to say to her. Of course, I'm at a handicap, because she's very verbal and quick-witted. Although I miss huge swatches of her pun-filled banter with Diego, I can nonetheless admire its pace and timing. Even so, she liked at my torcaza imitation, so I'm still in play here. (Good lord, is that me doing bird calls to get attention? So it seems.) Sergio's sitting next to me, facing her, and I don't have to even look at his face to feel his puppy-dog attention, not sexual, but eager to follow her anywhere.
We get to talking more about theater, I'm relaxing a bit more, putting together better sentences, saying things that I actually believe as opposed to things that I know how to say. And voila, I'm now feeling more like myself in Spanish than I ever do. Her energy is contagious and so, apparently, is her self-confidence.
(Here's her pic from the local theater website.)
Still, as if I needed proof that her attention has nothing to do with me, at the end of the meal she orders coffee and is told by the somewhat stiff waiter that they don't serve it. She complains, but in such a charming way that she turns what should be an annoying customer grievance into a playful and affectionate first date. He clearly wants to be indifferent, but he can't. She's doesn't give him the option.
How smitten am I? While she was in the john, the three of us had decided to order a ham and pepper pizza. She came back and preferred a calabrese. They explained to me what that is, but I didn't catch it at all. Still, I'm not fussy pizza-wise, and it was clear that all of us wanted to make Alejandra happy. Turns out, it's got thin-sliced sausage, tomato, and garlic. It was very good. I'm pretty sure I'll be ordering a lot of calabrese pizzas from here on. Tasty, yes, but she likes it, too.
I was heading for a fall. Thursday night I went to see El pasado, the not-especially-good new Gael Garcia Bernal (from Y tu mama también) movie, and even though I found it annoyingly cryptic, I was very pleased to understand a huge percentage of it, even on a word-for-word level. So last night, I was deeply humbled when I went to see a show with Diego that his friends were involved with. The pre-show scene was chaos--huge crowd waiting in small hallway. I couldn't understand anything (background noise kills me) and everybody knew everybody else which meant--aargh!--comic repartee. They might as well have been speaking Tagalog. The show started at least half an hour late and turned out not to be a play but a band playing songs that apparently have intellectually piercing lyrics, not that I could tell with the predictably lousy sound mix—even the song sung in English went by in a garbled blur. What was left was OK, but a bit heavy on the clowning and circusy beats for my taste. Afterward, of course, more mingling, during which people--rats!--started trying to talk to me. I pulled through, but felt about as exciting as a cardboard box.
So, I was fearful of the group-dinner-after, but it turned out to be lovely because there were just four of us (I'd been expecting a long table of 20, which always makes me claustrophobic after half an hour or so), Diego, myself, his actress friend Alejandra, and one of her acting students, Sergio. We went to El Cuartito, a well-known Pizza joint, and now that I could actually hear people, I fall quickly under Alejandra's thumb. In moments, I become one of her admirers, hanging on her fluid gestures and quickfire expressions, jostling with the other boys for her attention, which she gives generously and completely. She has that way of looking at you when she's talking that makes you feel loved. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I've felt it before with other actresses. Your mind is shouting "Snap out of it, sap—you're nothing special. She looks that way at everybody" but you tell your mind to shut up and think of something clever to say to her. Of course, I'm at a handicap, because she's very verbal and quick-witted. Although I miss huge swatches of her pun-filled banter with Diego, I can nonetheless admire its pace and timing. Even so, she liked at my torcaza imitation, so I'm still in play here. (Good lord, is that me doing bird calls to get attention? So it seems.) Sergio's sitting next to me, facing her, and I don't have to even look at his face to feel his puppy-dog attention, not sexual, but eager to follow her anywhere.
We get to talking more about theater, I'm relaxing a bit more, putting together better sentences, saying things that I actually believe as opposed to things that I know how to say. And voila, I'm now feeling more like myself in Spanish than I ever do. Her energy is contagious and so, apparently, is her self-confidence.
(Here's her pic from the local theater website.)
Still, as if I needed proof that her attention has nothing to do with me, at the end of the meal she orders coffee and is told by the somewhat stiff waiter that they don't serve it. She complains, but in such a charming way that she turns what should be an annoying customer grievance into a playful and affectionate first date. He clearly wants to be indifferent, but he can't. She's doesn't give him the option.
How smitten am I? While she was in the john, the three of us had decided to order a ham and pepper pizza. She came back and preferred a calabrese. They explained to me what that is, but I didn't catch it at all. Still, I'm not fussy pizza-wise, and it was clear that all of us wanted to make Alejandra happy. Turns out, it's got thin-sliced sausage, tomato, and garlic. It was very good. I'm pretty sure I'll be ordering a lot of calabrese pizzas from here on. Tasty, yes, but she likes it, too.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Earning My Title
I've heard complaints (well, one) that while occasionally engaging, my blog is poorly named because, bread and cheese notwithstanding, I'm not actually doing all that much grumbling. So OK, refunfuño it is.
It's a mostly gray, mostly rainy day here. As a treat, I decided I'd go back to the Oliverio Girondo show I liked so much to take a guided tour they have on Friday's at 4:30. The subway was late-arriving and crowded (it always crowded nowadays. I don't know what happened, but a lot more people seem to be taking the subway lately). So by the time I got off, I had to hurry. Of course, I walked in the wrong direction, thanks to a street sign that was exactly 90 degrees out of whack. I figured that out fast enough, turned around, hurried to the museum, and arrived just a minute or two late. I knock on the door (because they lock it all the time, even when the museum's open. You knock, they let you in, then they lock it right behind you, I guess in case you're tempted to make off with the art.) and the desk clerk lets me in. I ask about the tour. "The guide didn't show up." No explanation, and clearly no expectation that she's likely to arrive any time soon.
So much for my afternoon treat.
On to a more personally wounding grouse. I finally wrote an e-mail to Marcelo Damiani, the professor of that literature class I'm taking. We never get to speak during class, but he did say once that if we wanted, we could write to him. So after the Kafka class, I actually had something somewhat interesting I wanted to mention. I spent quite a while crafting what I thought was a suitably compelling and fairly error-free e-mail and pushed send, imagining the beginning of a sporadic but writerly e-mail exchange in which he and I banter ideas about whatever books happen to be inspiring us at the moment. You know, just a once-in-a-while tossing-around of ideas among peers. So I waited patiently for his response. Which never came. During the next class I listened alertly for a wee reference to the topic I'd mentioned. Nope. After class, while he was talking with Martha, he parenthetically apologized to me for not answering my post, and then immediately complained that he gets 30 to 40 e-mails a day.
So much for our great correspondence.
And speaking of grousing, Bobby complains that I don't mention him enough in this blog. There.
It's a mostly gray, mostly rainy day here. As a treat, I decided I'd go back to the Oliverio Girondo show I liked so much to take a guided tour they have on Friday's at 4:30. The subway was late-arriving and crowded (it always crowded nowadays. I don't know what happened, but a lot more people seem to be taking the subway lately). So by the time I got off, I had to hurry. Of course, I walked in the wrong direction, thanks to a street sign that was exactly 90 degrees out of whack. I figured that out fast enough, turned around, hurried to the museum, and arrived just a minute or two late. I knock on the door (because they lock it all the time, even when the museum's open. You knock, they let you in, then they lock it right behind you, I guess in case you're tempted to make off with the art.) and the desk clerk lets me in. I ask about the tour. "The guide didn't show up." No explanation, and clearly no expectation that she's likely to arrive any time soon.
So much for my afternoon treat.
On to a more personally wounding grouse. I finally wrote an e-mail to Marcelo Damiani, the professor of that literature class I'm taking. We never get to speak during class, but he did say once that if we wanted, we could write to him. So after the Kafka class, I actually had something somewhat interesting I wanted to mention. I spent quite a while crafting what I thought was a suitably compelling and fairly error-free e-mail and pushed send, imagining the beginning of a sporadic but writerly e-mail exchange in which he and I banter ideas about whatever books happen to be inspiring us at the moment. You know, just a once-in-a-while tossing-around of ideas among peers. So I waited patiently for his response. Which never came. During the next class I listened alertly for a wee reference to the topic I'd mentioned. Nope. After class, while he was talking with Martha, he parenthetically apologized to me for not answering my post, and then immediately complained that he gets 30 to 40 e-mails a day.
So much for our great correspondence.
And speaking of grousing, Bobby complains that I don't mention him enough in this blog. There.
Axel Krygier
I saw this guy last April on a free double bill with Juana Molina. He was earnest, but as often happens, he pushed his live set toward a sort of crowd-pleasing bland rockiness. I like this video better. Cool combination of angsty strings, wheezy horns, theremin, and a mopey, dopey minotaur.
I won't translate the whole thing: here's the gist:
I'm having fun with with some friends when all of a sudden I understand the weight and horror of being alive. Feeling. Thought. Thought. Feeling. (It rhymes in Spanish: sentimiento/pensamiento) What torment. I could be begging with my heart clearly bleeding, but my mind keeps playing around. Seems like it's making fun of me. Feeling. Thought. etc.
I won't translate the whole thing: here's the gist:
I'm having fun with with some friends when all of a sudden I understand the weight and horror of being alive. Feeling. Thought. Thought. Feeling. (It rhymes in Spanish: sentimiento/pensamiento) What torment. I could be begging with my heart clearly bleeding, but my mind keeps playing around. Seems like it's making fun of me. Feeling. Thought. etc.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Taunt the Tourist
I was at my favorite flea market in Dorrego and saw this charming little beat-up planter. It's a set of Spanish tiles stuck onto a cement box. The tiles are real and were really nice once, but as objects go, it's a bit crummy. I wanted it anyway. So I asked the price and nobody knew whose it was (or wanted to admit that it was theirs). Finally a kid went off to ask someone. I'd set 100 pesos as my absolute limit, not wanting to spend that much, but I know that individually Spanish handpainted tiles go for quite a lot. Well, when they're not stuck on a cement block, anyway.
So the kid comes back and says "200 pesos." My heart sinks, and I sort of look glum/thoughtful, trying to justify the ridiculous price. After a few moments he gleefully says "¡Mentira! ¿No te parecía mucho?" ("I'm lying! Didn't that seem like a lot to you?) The real price was 30 pesos. So I bought it and schlepped it home on the subway (for a tiny pot, it's heavvvvvvvvy).
I decided to leave the mint plant and weed it came with for now (I repotted them with new dirt), so it looks a bit spare. I expect that when I come back at the end of March, it will be a lush green wonder. And the tiles will have repaired themselves, too.
Change
I've always been intrigued by this sign on my street corner (above one of the old pharmacies) for the Argentine Institute of Diving.
Alas, Professor Tito Rodriguez seems to have hit hard times, because here's what the sign looks like as of this week.
Alas, Professor Tito Rodriguez seems to have hit hard times, because here's what the sign looks like as of this week.
No Change
I obsess about having enough small bills to pay for things, but in this case, obsession is a fairly practical attitude. If you're not careful, an ATM machine will give you 100-peso bills, which are all almost unusable. (At 3-to-1, that's about $33 US.) No one ever has change. Last night, Martha, Mickey, Jorge, and I were comparing wallet war stories. News kiosks are notorious, so are taxi drivers. Do not even think about paying for your 10-peso taxi fare with a 100-peso note. Trust me. We've all had vendors simply refuse to sell us something because they didn't want to make change (and we've all suspected that they had the change and just didn't want to part with it.) One newsstand refused Mickey's 5-peso note to pay for a 2-peso newspaper. My solution: I have finally found an ATM that reliably gives 50s and 10s, so I only take out 150 pesos at a time. If I want 300 pesos, I take out 150 pesos twice.Coins are also in short supply. In the States, counting out change in a checkout line is usually left to petless oldsters buying cat food. Here, clerks are constantly nudging you to check your pockets to make sure you don't have ten or twenty-five or whatever centavos.
Coins are partly in demand because you need them to ride the buses (the machines only accept coins). Jorge said he's heard that some bus lines will empty their collection boxes at the end of the day and then sell the bag of coins for more than face value.
Another one of the daily disequilibiria that make this place tick.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Street Signs
I take lots and lots of pics of the signs here. I love the human-made designs and strong, hand-painted stencil fonts that are so different from the usual readymade computer graphics. Here are a few recent shots. The first one is a lovely "we've moved" sign.
¿Como?
Excellent class on Bolaño tonight. My ears lasted an hour and a half, which is good. On my way home I stopped in a nice bookstore/café on Callao and asked if they had a book I’ve been looking for. I must have been more tired than I thought, because I didn’t understand one word the clerk said in response. I tilted my head and looked quizzical (a gesture I learned from Aggie) and he repeated whatever it was he said. Again, zilch. He tried again and somehow I gathered that he was asking where I was from. I said New York and he apologized. Turns out he thought I my accent was Italian and had been speaking to me in Italian.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
School Days
Before the election, Victoria took me to the Literature Faculty of the University of Buenos Aires (UBA). Each discipline has it's own facultad and they seem to be completely separate entities. They're scattered all over town. For example, the school of medicine is not far from where I live; the lit faculty is in Caballito, a twenty minute subway ride away. The liberal arts model doesn't really exist here. You get your general overviews in secundaria, which is roughly our high school. After that, you specialize.
Here's the unprepossessing front of the building (just wait, it gets even less prepossessing inside.)
The halls and classrooms reflect a chaotic disarray of posters, graffiti, and neglect. Victoria says that some of the other faculties are classier, with well-kept woods and tidy hallways, but literature is a riot of information. Here's the front part of the biggest lecture hall.
Those are names of desaparecidos stencilled in the corner.
The atmosphere is fairly hardcore 70s student radical. Lots of jeans, facial hair, and smoking. I was a little shocked at first, because the place really does feel rundown and the comparison with the well-funded halls of Hamilton is striking to say the least. But once you get used to it, it actually seems kind of healthy to toss around big ideas in a space that feels alive and not particularly sacred. Hell, it even smells alive...
Then we visited the small library and I felt immediately at home.
I miss card catalogs terribly. I know that computer archives are much, much more convenient, but I still got all kerfluggled when I saw these. Images of Ann Walton and me working in the basement of the Shaker Height Public Library, chatting in the "page cage" while putting off reshelving the book cart that was always filled (in my memory at least) with nothing but bulging copies of Watership Down and a vast array of large-print Simenon novels.
A few years back Nicholson Baker wrote an interesting article about the information lost when converting to online catalogs (things like hand-written notes by librarians, bent corners and smudges indicating that some books were referred to more heavily, and so on). As I recall, he wasn't against computer systems, he just thought that the old card catalogs should be preserved. To me, pulling open a drawer and ruffling through cards is a rush, a sort of metaphysical prehandling of each book.
Here's a card for a collection of stories by a terrific argentine writer, Silvina Ocampo. The paper is thin and crumbly, the handwritten lettering is elegant and shaky at the same time.
The Platon (that's Plato to us English-speakers) is the cafe directly across the street, and thus a predictably popular student hang out.
It was utterly untouched since Victoria's days as a student with one literally glaring exception--they had to add a huge plexiglass enclosure sealing off almost half of the cafe for smokers (a fairly strict no-smoking law went into effect this year). I didn't venture inside the aquarium-like smoking den—my lungs already have enough to handle with city's car, bus, and unattributed fumes. From the outside, it looked a lot like a Natural History display depicting "an assortment of literature students in their natural habitat."
Here's the unprepossessing front of the building (just wait, it gets even less prepossessing inside.)
The halls and classrooms reflect a chaotic disarray of posters, graffiti, and neglect. Victoria says that some of the other faculties are classier, with well-kept woods and tidy hallways, but literature is a riot of information. Here's the front part of the biggest lecture hall.
Those are names of desaparecidos stencilled in the corner.
The atmosphere is fairly hardcore 70s student radical. Lots of jeans, facial hair, and smoking. I was a little shocked at first, because the place really does feel rundown and the comparison with the well-funded halls of Hamilton is striking to say the least. But once you get used to it, it actually seems kind of healthy to toss around big ideas in a space that feels alive and not particularly sacred. Hell, it even smells alive...
Then we visited the small library and I felt immediately at home.
I miss card catalogs terribly. I know that computer archives are much, much more convenient, but I still got all kerfluggled when I saw these. Images of Ann Walton and me working in the basement of the Shaker Height Public Library, chatting in the "page cage" while putting off reshelving the book cart that was always filled (in my memory at least) with nothing but bulging copies of Watership Down and a vast array of large-print Simenon novels.
A few years back Nicholson Baker wrote an interesting article about the information lost when converting to online catalogs (things like hand-written notes by librarians, bent corners and smudges indicating that some books were referred to more heavily, and so on). As I recall, he wasn't against computer systems, he just thought that the old card catalogs should be preserved. To me, pulling open a drawer and ruffling through cards is a rush, a sort of metaphysical prehandling of each book.
Here's a card for a collection of stories by a terrific argentine writer, Silvina Ocampo. The paper is thin and crumbly, the handwritten lettering is elegant and shaky at the same time.
The Platon (that's Plato to us English-speakers) is the cafe directly across the street, and thus a predictably popular student hang out.
It was utterly untouched since Victoria's days as a student with one literally glaring exception--they had to add a huge plexiglass enclosure sealing off almost half of the cafe for smokers (a fairly strict no-smoking law went into effect this year). I didn't venture inside the aquarium-like smoking den—my lungs already have enough to handle with city's car, bus, and unattributed fumes. From the outside, it looked a lot like a Natural History display depicting "an assortment of literature students in their natural habitat."
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