...gives you some funny results. Like when your friend says, “Hey, we’re going out tomorrow—give me a call around one and we’ll start out at my place,” and then I give him a call at one in the afternoon, thinking ‘damn, they start early here.’
Part of me knew he meant to call him at one in the morning. But I called at one in the afternoon anyways. They even have the expression “to pre-game.” They just pre-game at one, go out at three, and post-game at dawn.
Funny, when he tells me "I'm on the second floor", and I go up one flight of stairs and start knocking on the door, and he comes down and asks what the hell I'm doing, because the floor I came in on was the zeroeth floor, rather than the first.
More interesting, though, is that when I have strong reactions to something, I speak Spanish. Something beautiful, something surprising, something that makes me angry, what have you. When I held my friends’ baby for the first time, I had trouble speaking English, and when I did get the words out the syntax was all mangled.
English is a great language for sarcasm, for veiled emotions, and definitely for clinical exposition. We’ve got a word for every last thing on the planet. But I would never tell an American guy “a hug and a kiss” at the end of a phone conversation. I’d catch hell for that for years. I’ll slag off an ex-girlfriend in any number of ways, but I would never say “she hurt me straight to the heart, and even now I suffer.” In Spanish, that’s par for the course.
I’m pretty sure I’ve never used the word “suffer” in conversation.
I’ve had a running joke that every Spanish-language song is required by law to use the word “corazón”. Seems like it sometimes—they love to talk about their hearts. My heart is full, my heart is wounded, my heart is empty. Again, if I was sitting around at a bar with a bunch of American guys and I mentioned my heart in any way, I’d hear “Aw, is Davey-wavey’s wittle heart awl wounded?” For the next decade or so.
I still get a little flustered when my guy friend here tells me “un abrazo, ciao” (a hug, bye) on the phone. But in Spanish it’s not a thing (though I’m still not able to kiss a guy on the cheek, which is apparently how they do around here).
We have the words—we just don’t use them. Maybe that’s why I ended up as a writer. In writing, passion is fine—it’s good, even. It’s not that we don’t feel it, or like hearing it. We’re just apt to crack a joke, with everyone else understanding (or not) what unspoken emotion sits underneath.
On that note, I should crack a joke on the way out…but I can’t think of any, and it’s almost one. Un abrazo para todos desde el fondo de mi corazón. Ciao!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
An Open Letter to the Western Press
this is a repost of a piece I wrote for the Iran Human Rights Voice website (http://www.ihrv.org/inf/?p=2293)
It seems obvious that Roxana Saberi’s release was the result of international pressure, aided by the ongoing coverage of her story in the west by influential media outlets such as the New York Times and the BBC. This is a commendable thing. A commendable thing which has done absolutely nothing to help the hundreds, thousands, of journalists, teachers, students, and activists currently imprisoned throughout Iran.
The world has cause to celebrate with Ms. Saberi and her family, as it has cause to celebrate every time a good person is spared an unjust fate. But why should Ms. Saberi’s case stand alone on the front pages of foreign papers? Her bravery in returning to Iran, as both an American and a journalist under an administration which tolerates neither, was remarkable, newsworthy, and no different from the bravery of the masses of Iranian protestors who would choose jail, even torture, over silence and fear.
We all know why the Times, and President Obama, leapt so quickly to her cause. A pocket-sized, blue-covered document—a few pieces of paper stitched together, and the embossed logo of the United States. This small fact of her American citizenship, western media implies, makes her somehow more worthy of our attention.
It is all well and good for the U.S. to look out for its own, adopted or otherwise. It is not good, it is not acceptable, for the so-called “free press” to treat Ms. Saberi’s case as exceptional, when it was really merely another file in a docket aimed at the repression, the outright destruction, of the opposition in Iran. It is pragmatic, if not honorable, for U.S. politicians to aim for the release of a single reporter from Evin Prison. It is revolting, that the press should shy away from this opportunity to expose the modus operandi currently perverting the judicial system in Iran.
Fine, if the press smells a diplomatic incident in the making, and wants to cover it. It sells papers. Not fine, to ignore the roots of the case, and to give millions of readers the false impression that Ms. Saberi’s arrest is something out of the ordinary. Unacceptable, for the press to mislead us into the assumption that this one woman is the only courageous person, the only voice of dissent, who has been targeted in Iran. For the western press to even remotely suggest, even by omission, that the people of Iran are not actively fighting this vicious regime is an abdication of journalistic integrity, and a betrayal of their peers, those brave thousands who labor, who are imprisoned, who are tortured and who are murdered every day in Iran so that the truth may be known.
When Ms. Saberi returns to the United States, she will no doubt be the subject of a week’s worth of interviews, before the press moves on to some other, more current event. In that one week it will be her job, and her honor, to bring to the western public the portraits of those soldiers, the better Iranian army, now rotting alone in the dark.
It seems obvious that Roxana Saberi’s release was the result of international pressure, aided by the ongoing coverage of her story in the west by influential media outlets such as the New York Times and the BBC. This is a commendable thing. A commendable thing which has done absolutely nothing to help the hundreds, thousands, of journalists, teachers, students, and activists currently imprisoned throughout Iran.
The world has cause to celebrate with Ms. Saberi and her family, as it has cause to celebrate every time a good person is spared an unjust fate. But why should Ms. Saberi’s case stand alone on the front pages of foreign papers? Her bravery in returning to Iran, as both an American and a journalist under an administration which tolerates neither, was remarkable, newsworthy, and no different from the bravery of the masses of Iranian protestors who would choose jail, even torture, over silence and fear.
We all know why the Times, and President Obama, leapt so quickly to her cause. A pocket-sized, blue-covered document—a few pieces of paper stitched together, and the embossed logo of the United States. This small fact of her American citizenship, western media implies, makes her somehow more worthy of our attention.
It is all well and good for the U.S. to look out for its own, adopted or otherwise. It is not good, it is not acceptable, for the so-called “free press” to treat Ms. Saberi’s case as exceptional, when it was really merely another file in a docket aimed at the repression, the outright destruction, of the opposition in Iran. It is pragmatic, if not honorable, for U.S. politicians to aim for the release of a single reporter from Evin Prison. It is revolting, that the press should shy away from this opportunity to expose the modus operandi currently perverting the judicial system in Iran.
Fine, if the press smells a diplomatic incident in the making, and wants to cover it. It sells papers. Not fine, to ignore the roots of the case, and to give millions of readers the false impression that Ms. Saberi’s arrest is something out of the ordinary. Unacceptable, for the press to mislead us into the assumption that this one woman is the only courageous person, the only voice of dissent, who has been targeted in Iran. For the western press to even remotely suggest, even by omission, that the people of Iran are not actively fighting this vicious regime is an abdication of journalistic integrity, and a betrayal of their peers, those brave thousands who labor, who are imprisoned, who are tortured and who are murdered every day in Iran so that the truth may be known.
When Ms. Saberi returns to the United States, she will no doubt be the subject of a week’s worth of interviews, before the press moves on to some other, more current event. In that one week it will be her job, and her honor, to bring to the western public the portraits of those soldiers, the better Iranian army, now rotting alone in the dark.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Food Here, Food at Home, Food in General
People here eat dinner around 9 or 10. That’s fine, I like it, I’m pretty used to it from Europe and Ecuador (Thai people eat early, like Americans), but for the first couple weeks it takes some getting used to. So tonight I went to the grocery store around 5, so I could eat dinner on my own time without being both alone at a table and alone in a restaurant. Went to a regular old grocery store (Carrefour), just the one closest to my apartment. Bought more or less the same stuff I’d have gotten at home—a half dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, ham and cheese, bread, coffee, butter, etc. Normal stuff.
Anyways, I wanted an egg sandwich. McFadden knows—sometimes you crave an egg sandwich. BFD, man. Breakfast for dinner. So I tapped an egg on the lip of the pan. Didn’t crack. Tapped it harder and knocked the pan on the floor. Still hadn’t cracked it. Busted it a good one against the counter, and that got it, but when I dumped the guts into the pan, it looked weird. The yolk was dark, dark yellow. It looked like a damn chicken might have grown out of the thing if I’d let it sit on the counter long enough. Nasty. Living things in my eggs.
What kind of life have I been living that I don’t even know what a healthy egg looks like? I’m so used to brittle shells and watery yolks that I, almost thirty years old, don’t even recognize a real egg when I see it. I almost threw the damn thing out thinking it was spoiled.
Yeah, real glad I didn’t. Best. Egg. Sandwich. Ever.
Same thing happened later on tonight, when I made tomatoes and pasta (Ali, if you’re reading this, here’s your dish’s cameo). I’ve been doing this for years and years and years—light fry the garlic til the taste gets in the oil, toss in some diced tomatoes and let them cook out til there’s a bit of tomato juice in there with the oil, dump it on pasta and eat it. Simplest possible thing, works every time.
But I’ll be fucked if I didn’t almost fall out of my chair eating this shit. Have I really never tasted a tomato? Kill me now. I love tomatoes like I love my dogs. Kill me right in the face.
Okay, I’ve lived in Italy, and I’ve drooled myself dehydrated since then remembering the tastes they got out of three ingredients, pasta included. Is that really the secret? Don’t pump your chickens full of ‘roids, and go easy on the glysophate…better yet, leave the toxins out completely. Less killing, tastes great.
One of my soon-to-be professors had a funny bit about saying grace in Borneo: “O Lord, we thank you for making food taste good—you could have made it taste like parrot droppings.”
I’ve got grace for America: “Fuck you, Monsanto. Lay off the tomatoes.”
The title implies that I’ll make some comment about food in general—though I could change the title to ‘The Michelin Guide to Food that Doesn’t Taste Like Tires’, I’ll make a point anyways: Food—you’ll know it if you eat it.
Anyways, I wanted an egg sandwich. McFadden knows—sometimes you crave an egg sandwich. BFD, man. Breakfast for dinner. So I tapped an egg on the lip of the pan. Didn’t crack. Tapped it harder and knocked the pan on the floor. Still hadn’t cracked it. Busted it a good one against the counter, and that got it, but when I dumped the guts into the pan, it looked weird. The yolk was dark, dark yellow. It looked like a damn chicken might have grown out of the thing if I’d let it sit on the counter long enough. Nasty. Living things in my eggs.
What kind of life have I been living that I don’t even know what a healthy egg looks like? I’m so used to brittle shells and watery yolks that I, almost thirty years old, don’t even recognize a real egg when I see it. I almost threw the damn thing out thinking it was spoiled.
Yeah, real glad I didn’t. Best. Egg. Sandwich. Ever.
Same thing happened later on tonight, when I made tomatoes and pasta (Ali, if you’re reading this, here’s your dish’s cameo). I’ve been doing this for years and years and years—light fry the garlic til the taste gets in the oil, toss in some diced tomatoes and let them cook out til there’s a bit of tomato juice in there with the oil, dump it on pasta and eat it. Simplest possible thing, works every time.
But I’ll be fucked if I didn’t almost fall out of my chair eating this shit. Have I really never tasted a tomato? Kill me now. I love tomatoes like I love my dogs. Kill me right in the face.
Okay, I’ve lived in Italy, and I’ve drooled myself dehydrated since then remembering the tastes they got out of three ingredients, pasta included. Is that really the secret? Don’t pump your chickens full of ‘roids, and go easy on the glysophate…better yet, leave the toxins out completely. Less killing, tastes great.
One of my soon-to-be professors had a funny bit about saying grace in Borneo: “O Lord, we thank you for making food taste good—you could have made it taste like parrot droppings.”
I’ve got grace for America: “Fuck you, Monsanto. Lay off the tomatoes.”
The title implies that I’ll make some comment about food in general—though I could change the title to ‘The Michelin Guide to Food that Doesn’t Taste Like Tires’, I’ll make a point anyways: Food—you’ll know it if you eat it.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A Not-So-Lonely Planet Guide to Traveling Alone
Yes, traveling alone is lonely (see also: how to lose weight by having no one to eat with). It’s also the best way to meet people. When you’re sitting by yourself, you’re more approachable. You could be from anywhere. And in my case, with black hair and dark eyes, the first assumption is Argentine or, if not, at least a Latino of some variety.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a foreigner,” said the woman behind me in line at the bank. “How embarrassing, just talking to you like you’re from Argentina. You’re Spanish? Oh, a United Statesian (it’s quite rude to tell people you’re an American, as if South America isn’t an America too). You learned Spanish in Spain, then. Here we say vos this, vos that, vos is, vos isn't.” I was using tu (same difference).
A nice lady, she greeted a tiny, tiny old woman passing by. “She used to be a famous ballet dancer,” the woman tells me. “From Russia.” The lady in front of me joins in the conversation. “She must be ninety-something years old.” “She has no one left,” the lady behind me says. “We met at a party some years ago, and now I say hello to her, because she has no one left.”
On a not-so-lonely planet, those of us who are most alone are most likely to make new friends.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a foreigner,” said the woman behind me in line at the bank. “How embarrassing, just talking to you like you’re from Argentina. You’re Spanish? Oh, a United Statesian (it’s quite rude to tell people you’re an American, as if South America isn’t an America too). You learned Spanish in Spain, then. Here we say vos this, vos that, vos is, vos isn't.” I was using tu (same difference).
A nice lady, she greeted a tiny, tiny old woman passing by. “She used to be a famous ballet dancer,” the woman tells me. “From Russia.” The lady in front of me joins in the conversation. “She must be ninety-something years old.” “She has no one left,” the lady behind me says. “We met at a party some years ago, and now I say hello to her, because she has no one left.”
On a not-so-lonely planet, those of us who are most alone are most likely to make new friends.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Plaza Serrano, 9/5
It’s not that hard to go around the world giving Americans a good name (scratch that—a better name). All you have to do is give a damn, and try to understand. I’ve got a bit of an advantage, because I actually do care, but it couldn’t be that hard to fake it...
For example:
The waiter asked me where I was from and (thanks Obama) I told him the truth. He started speaking to me in English, so I told him (in Spanish), “Oh, but I’m here to learn the language.” (Maybe “practice” would have been the truer word, but hey, underpromise, overdeliver). After a while he says, “Hey, your Spanish is pretty good, where are you from?” Bam! Everyone from Philly gets a good rep. For all he knows, everyone from my city cares enough about Latin America to learn the language, and enough about Buenos Aires to come pay a visit.
An old, pretty beat up guy with fewer teeth than I have fingers handed me a magazine. Even in English I’d have a hard time understanding someone with no teeth. The waiter came by to make sure I was picking it up—he’s a homeless man, selling a magazine written by the homeless.
He stuck around, the homeless guy, and after a while I started to understand him. “The recession is not so bad here, because we already had a 14% unemployment rate. But I hear that it is 30% in your country.” “30%? No way. I think more like 6 or 7, now, maybe 8.” “In Detroit,” he says (try saying the word Detroit without using your front teeth), “Detroit is 30% unemployed.” “Oh, Detroit, maybe, because of the car companies.” “Chrysler, GM and Ford,” he says. “Not good. They built big cars in an oil crisis. Not very smart.” “No, not very smart.” “We are all very worried here about the people of Detroit.”
No shit? Bam! As far as I know, all the homeless and unemployed people around the world worry about each other, when they could be worrying about other things, like maybe finding a place to stay, or a pair of dentures. All the problems he’s got, and he cares about people in Detroit, probably more than I do, or did, until I met him.
The woman playing folk songs (the waiter sang with her for a minute, on a lark, and had a very nice voice), is selling her CDs for 20 pesos. I only have 15 on me. “That’s okay,” she says. “15 is enough. I saw you listening, and talking to the people. Where is your accent from?” Bam! Now Americans care about the homeless, and about music. Then she practiced saying the days of the week. She forgot Thursday, but that’s cool, I forget about Thursdays sometimes, too.
The man who replaced her is playing Stairway to Heaven. There are some things we can all enjoy. I bet even Osama bin Laden likes the opening to Stairway.
My waiter looks a lot like Andrew Menan. How many kinds of people are there? We are all more or less the same, as far as I can tell. More or less.
Pigeons are dive-bombing the tables. They’re fast, aggressive, and attack solo diners en masse. Smart buggers, they are, but the ladies at the next table and I have joined forces, and we’re winning. We’re both eating the same vegetarian pizza, and we hit it off on that account, and now the pigeons have to fear me, even though I’m eating alone, because I’ve got some fierce septuagenarians watching my back. So the pigeons can just bring it, and see what they get in return. “This pizza is delicious,” says one of the women, to me, “and it’s mine!” to the pigeons. Whack, whack, whack with the magazine.
From this magazine I learned the following: nearly 40% of the trees in the northern part of the country have been cleared away in the last ten years, and it’s caused a dengue epidemic, or something quite close to it (worse in Bolivia and Paraguay, says the biologist interviewed). The lack of trees lets water pool and stagnate, raises the air temperature, and the use of pesticides on the newly cleared land eliminates the mosquitoes’ natural predators. Food sources and traditional medicines from the forest are gone, and the immunological defenses of the people have taken a hit. Other causes, according to the biologist: plastic and polyethylene litter, like candy wrappers and water bottles, hold enough stagnant water for mosquito larvae to do their thing. 19,000 cases of dengue (reported) this year.
And so few people who care that my job is ridiculously easy. Thanks, I guess.
But, says the biologist, he is optimistic about the epidemic: “when we do something like this, and people begin to get sick and die, nature is telling us we have done something wrong, that we need to change.”
Also from the homeless mag, an interview with an environmental activist on “what is patriotism?” (Juan Martin Lutteral, is his name—translated by me):
“I very quickly associated patriotism with the negative representations of what patriotism was, because our history has had much more to do with benefitting groups…and not with building something for everyone. In the name of patriotism we have committed many atrocities. Patriotism…is to stop thinking about isolation and individualism, and to stop being selfish. In this sense, the environment is the most symbolic of all…Patriotism is a return to communal projects, to constructing a community…Part of the great crisis we face is that when we enclose ourselves in our small egos, we don’t owe anything to anyone…and then there is a loss of values and convictions, and these are things which give us a sense of something greater. I am profoundly convinced that our future is a construction to be carried out today, with other people and not against them.”
Here, as at home. And always some people who care, and thank fuck for ‘em.
Otherwise, and outside of the street musicians who duet with waiters, the meth-addled pigeons, and the kindly homeless who don’t need teeth to smile, the Plaza is smallish, kiosks of crafts and touristy things folded and wound about one another, and running down one cobblestone street, closed for the day. Restaurants, cafes, all outdoor seating and every table full, I had to pluck mine as a pigeon, a ninja strike when backs were turned. Not a massive plaza, nothing like in Marrakech or Jatujak market in Bangkok, and so calm. People drink tea (mate), juice, soda, beer (I drink beer, a big Quilmes bock, a liter for about $4, and that right in the center of the most expensive neighborhood in town). Sandwiches, pizza, a stew called locro with grated cheese over top, looks kinda like chili, looks definitely like something I’ll be able to report on tomorrow. A special place only for the attitude. So chill, so calming. Just people chatting with their friends, a bite to eat and a drink. A lot of smiling. Sun and trees, the heart of the city. It’s a good heart.
For example:
The waiter asked me where I was from and (thanks Obama) I told him the truth. He started speaking to me in English, so I told him (in Spanish), “Oh, but I’m here to learn the language.” (Maybe “practice” would have been the truer word, but hey, underpromise, overdeliver). After a while he says, “Hey, your Spanish is pretty good, where are you from?” Bam! Everyone from Philly gets a good rep. For all he knows, everyone from my city cares enough about Latin America to learn the language, and enough about Buenos Aires to come pay a visit.
An old, pretty beat up guy with fewer teeth than I have fingers handed me a magazine. Even in English I’d have a hard time understanding someone with no teeth. The waiter came by to make sure I was picking it up—he’s a homeless man, selling a magazine written by the homeless.
He stuck around, the homeless guy, and after a while I started to understand him. “The recession is not so bad here, because we already had a 14% unemployment rate. But I hear that it is 30% in your country.” “30%? No way. I think more like 6 or 7, now, maybe 8.” “In Detroit,” he says (try saying the word Detroit without using your front teeth), “Detroit is 30% unemployed.” “Oh, Detroit, maybe, because of the car companies.” “Chrysler, GM and Ford,” he says. “Not good. They built big cars in an oil crisis. Not very smart.” “No, not very smart.” “We are all very worried here about the people of Detroit.”
No shit? Bam! As far as I know, all the homeless and unemployed people around the world worry about each other, when they could be worrying about other things, like maybe finding a place to stay, or a pair of dentures. All the problems he’s got, and he cares about people in Detroit, probably more than I do, or did, until I met him.
The woman playing folk songs (the waiter sang with her for a minute, on a lark, and had a very nice voice), is selling her CDs for 20 pesos. I only have 15 on me. “That’s okay,” she says. “15 is enough. I saw you listening, and talking to the people. Where is your accent from?” Bam! Now Americans care about the homeless, and about music. Then she practiced saying the days of the week. She forgot Thursday, but that’s cool, I forget about Thursdays sometimes, too.
The man who replaced her is playing Stairway to Heaven. There are some things we can all enjoy. I bet even Osama bin Laden likes the opening to Stairway.
My waiter looks a lot like Andrew Menan. How many kinds of people are there? We are all more or less the same, as far as I can tell. More or less.
Pigeons are dive-bombing the tables. They’re fast, aggressive, and attack solo diners en masse. Smart buggers, they are, but the ladies at the next table and I have joined forces, and we’re winning. We’re both eating the same vegetarian pizza, and we hit it off on that account, and now the pigeons have to fear me, even though I’m eating alone, because I’ve got some fierce septuagenarians watching my back. So the pigeons can just bring it, and see what they get in return. “This pizza is delicious,” says one of the women, to me, “and it’s mine!” to the pigeons. Whack, whack, whack with the magazine.
From this magazine I learned the following: nearly 40% of the trees in the northern part of the country have been cleared away in the last ten years, and it’s caused a dengue epidemic, or something quite close to it (worse in Bolivia and Paraguay, says the biologist interviewed). The lack of trees lets water pool and stagnate, raises the air temperature, and the use of pesticides on the newly cleared land eliminates the mosquitoes’ natural predators. Food sources and traditional medicines from the forest are gone, and the immunological defenses of the people have taken a hit. Other causes, according to the biologist: plastic and polyethylene litter, like candy wrappers and water bottles, hold enough stagnant water for mosquito larvae to do their thing. 19,000 cases of dengue (reported) this year.
And so few people who care that my job is ridiculously easy. Thanks, I guess.
But, says the biologist, he is optimistic about the epidemic: “when we do something like this, and people begin to get sick and die, nature is telling us we have done something wrong, that we need to change.”
Also from the homeless mag, an interview with an environmental activist on “what is patriotism?” (Juan Martin Lutteral, is his name—translated by me):
“I very quickly associated patriotism with the negative representations of what patriotism was, because our history has had much more to do with benefitting groups…and not with building something for everyone. In the name of patriotism we have committed many atrocities. Patriotism…is to stop thinking about isolation and individualism, and to stop being selfish. In this sense, the environment is the most symbolic of all…Patriotism is a return to communal projects, to constructing a community…Part of the great crisis we face is that when we enclose ourselves in our small egos, we don’t owe anything to anyone…and then there is a loss of values and convictions, and these are things which give us a sense of something greater. I am profoundly convinced that our future is a construction to be carried out today, with other people and not against them.”
Here, as at home. And always some people who care, and thank fuck for ‘em.
Otherwise, and outside of the street musicians who duet with waiters, the meth-addled pigeons, and the kindly homeless who don’t need teeth to smile, the Plaza is smallish, kiosks of crafts and touristy things folded and wound about one another, and running down one cobblestone street, closed for the day. Restaurants, cafes, all outdoor seating and every table full, I had to pluck mine as a pigeon, a ninja strike when backs were turned. Not a massive plaza, nothing like in Marrakech or Jatujak market in Bangkok, and so calm. People drink tea (mate), juice, soda, beer (I drink beer, a big Quilmes bock, a liter for about $4, and that right in the center of the most expensive neighborhood in town). Sandwiches, pizza, a stew called locro with grated cheese over top, looks kinda like chili, looks definitely like something I’ll be able to report on tomorrow. A special place only for the attitude. So chill, so calming. Just people chatting with their friends, a bite to eat and a drink. A lot of smiling. Sun and trees, the heart of the city. It’s a good heart.
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