an improvised blog a bit tipsy on salsa, red wine, and sleeplessness

She tried to play it cool, but is against her nature, a chart filled
with fire, to play anything cool.

She wears her heart on her sleeve and expects the same from others.

She can't play it cool, salsa dancing in the club that is too hot.
"They keep it warm so we buy more drinks," explains the woman with
the shoulders that wiggle like jello and the hair that with curls
like a slinky, the kind of curls Serena longs for.

She tried to play it cool, not waiting for the email she new would
never come, for the message to confirm that the kiss, not the usual
latin obligatory kiss on the cheek, but a real kiss, a hint of that
kiss that in 12 days will be a year old, that kiss that meant hope,
meant maybe her instincts were not so off, maybe she was not the only
one who had fallen in love.

Her new shoes pinched her toes, but over all, she felt sexy, poised.
The first dance was awkward, nervous, but soon, she loosened up and
her body remembered the rhythms, the slides, the rolls, the wiggles
and soon she stopped thinking, the most genuine smile caressed her
lips than had been there for weeks. She could feel the sweat
pooling between her breasts and worried, momentarily about a sweat
spot on her shirt. Then she saw the smile on her partners lips
mirroring hers, saw the woman out of the corner of her eye fanning
herself in the heat, and knew it didn't matter. She surrendered to
the dance, the music, the joy of salsa.

She tried to play it cool, but it is against her nature. Unlike the
tango, hidden behind the facade of control, coolness, she preferred
salsa, raw and organic, pulsating with energy and life. After all
she said, after the suggestion, which may not have been taken
seriously in its outrageousness, after the breakfast, and after the
kiss, there are no more excuses to be made for the mail that never
comes, for the call that is never made.

She tries to play it cool, but as she drives home, the cool salt of
the sweat mixes with the hot sweat of tears.

an improvised blog a bit tipsy on salsa, red wine, and sleeplessness

She tried to play it cool, but is against her nature, a chart filled
with fire, to play anything cool.

She wears her heart on her sleeve and expects the same from others.

She can't play it cool, salsa dancing in the club that is too hot.
"They keep it warm so we buy more drinks," explains the woman with
the shoulders that wiggle like jello and the hair that with curls
like a slinky, the kind of curls Serena longs for.

She tried to play it cool, not waiting for the email she new would
never come, for the message to confirm that the kiss, not the usual
latin obligatory kiss on the cheek, but a real kiss, a hint of that
kiss that in 12 days will be a year old, that kiss that meant hope,
meant maybe her instincts were not so off, maybe she was not the only
one who had fallen in love.

Her new shoes pinched her toes, but over all, she felt sexy, poised.
The first dance was awkward, nervous, but soon, she loosened up and
her body remembered the rhythms, the slides, the rolls, the wiggles
and soon she stopped thinking, the most genuine smile caressed her
lips than had been there for weeks. She could feel the sweat
pooling between her breasts and worried, momentarily about a sweat
spot on her shirt. Then she saw the smile on her partners lips
mirroring hers, saw the woman out of the corner of her eye fanning
herself in the heat, and knew it didn't matter. She surrendered to
the dance, the music, the joy of salsa.

She tried to play it cool, but it is against her nature. Unlike the
tango, hidden behind the facade of control, coolness, she preferred
salsa, raw and organic, pulsating with energy and life. After all
she said, after the suggestion, which may not have been taken
seriously in its outrageousness, after the breakfast, and after the
kiss, there are no more excuses to be made for the mail that never
comes, for the call that is never made.

She tries to play it cool, but as she drives home, the cool salt of
the sweat mixes with the hot sweat of tears.

Comforts of Home

As I have written, more than any other trip, I could not wait to get
home. I longed for my lovely four walls of comfort, my routines of
salsa and yoga and hiking, to sit at my desk and write or lounge in
my couch and read.

Moreover, there is nothing like a pick-up at the airport to make you
feel like you are really home . . . though I transitioned through
customs at record speed -- chatting with the customs officer who,
seeing my listing salsa shoes on my form, inquired about my salsa
dancing. Argentineans are not so chatty.

So, I sat in the exhausted filled airport air, basking in the morning
LA light and loving it. I hoped in the car and could not felt more
at home or happier. Off we went into the LA morning traffic, taking
round about ways to find the least congested freeways, not that I
minded, after my long and cooped up flight, driving in the
convertible and chatting with a good friend. After the long journey
home, I realized how blessed I was as I hopped in the shower while my
driver went to the kitchen to concoct one of my favorite breakfasts:
huevos de Colombia y tostados y café! As we ate our breakfast and
continued to share our adventures of the past two weeks, I realized
that sometimes, only distance can enlighten the beauty of the simple
gifts our lives offer us each day.

I am sure I will travel again, though right now, I feel content to
explore my own backyard. Perhaps my next vacation, during which I
think I should not longer avoid bringing my mother's remains to New
Jersey, I will drive across this lovely country I have seen so little
of, visit my dear friends, and just be where I am rather than trying
to escape to something new, trying to prove something to myself or
others about my worldliness, my independence. And in the end, I
truly do think that this is what has made this vacation a bit sour
(and my homecoming so very, very delicious), the craving for
connection rather than escape. Often we travel to break the ties
that bind us at home, let off the yoke of the burdens and obligations
of work, family, friends. However, I already am in a place where I
feel bound to nothing or no one and crave connection, roots,
obligations, burdens. Sometimes, obligations, when chosen and given
freely, are liberating and uplifting. Like my friend picking me up
at the airport and making me breakfast. I am thankful, but nothing
was expected, he was just glad to help. I also need to learn to let
others do that for me.

Even as my home is sealed against the smoky air and tragedy and fires
surround my city, as loss threatens so many, as we all are reminded
of the fragility of everything, I sit here happy to know I am where I
should be at this time, that there are blessings waiting for me, and
the hope of dreams come true.

Don't Cry for Me, Argentina

Don't Cry for Me Argentina

I am home and more thankful than ever for the fabulous life I have
here. So, even if my poorly planned vacation (not enough time before
I head back to work, and not thinking of the point of going to
somewhere that too closely mirrors where I am), it has given me a new
appreciation for all that I have in my life right here in my own
backyard (aka Southern California).

I don't know why I feel so frustrated that I don't feel inspired to
write more details of this trip; I guess it is a sort of obligation
to myself, a habit since I started blogging, to turn my travels into
mini stories of reflection, adventure, and, maybe at times, insight.
But I have none of that to say, just a recounting of incidents.
Moreover, I fear I will be too harsh on the Argentineans, who are not
bad people if a bit reserved and more willing to lie than have a
confrontation or admit they do not know something about the city.
They will be super polite when answering questions, but you can never
rely on the answers. But then, do I have the right to except more
from folks who are just going about their daily business? Am I
secretly a tourist who expects to be catered to and entertained by
the locals? Or am I realizing that just because it is out side the
familiar walls of the U.S. it is not necessarily other, exotic,
adventurous, or inspiring?

So, here are the events, more or less. .

The synagogue visit fascinated me in once again confronting the
seeming never ending reaches of the Holocaust, here contrasted
sharply with the fact that Argentina was a haven for Nazi's fleeing
Europe after WWII. The rise of anti-Semitism in the world was
evidenced by the prominent police presence that prevented us from
taking pictures of the outside. To get in, we were interrogated at
the door about where we were from, why were in Argentina and why we
wanted to see the synagogue and its museum. Then, we were made to
wait in a café while they verified our passports. Inside, we learned
the story of how this synagogue started -- a man who fled to
Argentina, went to the park to practice his daily prayers. He
noticed others doing the same, and invited them to join him. They
started with a few families meeting in homes and eventually built the
community and the synagogue. A simple, beautiful story.

La Boca and San Telmo -- two more 'must sees' of Buenos Aires. I now
we've seen them. The photos say all of La Boca, more than I could
try to contrive into a story. The museum, the painted buildings,
Tango, and a beer. San Telmo -- more small cobble stoned streets
and artists selling their stuff in the main square. We were happy to
go back to peaceful, hip, trendy, and comfy Palermo Viejo for a good
dinner. After that, I headed to a Tango lesson and show (or so I was
told) at the Armenian Cultural center. I arrived to watch the end of
the very popular swing dance lessons. It was a non-descript
community hall in a basement packed with locals. It was fun to
watch, but I grew tired as I waited for the Tango lessons I was not
sure would happen, as it was 30 minutes past the time. They did. I
took a beginning lesson with a mixture of locals and tourists, much
like the one I took in downtown LA. Then, I was given a quizzical
look when I asked about the tango show . . . I sleepily walked back
to the Cypress In and enjoyed some time on the balcony practicing
salsa to my ipod, not really caring if the neighbors were gawking a
the American gyrating strangely in silence.

The Buquebus and Colonia. Despite the fiasco of trying to get
tickets on Wednesday, we now had our tickets for Friday and looked
forward to a lovely ride on the ferry and lunch in the quaint
waterfront town to escape the heat and pollution of Buenos Aires. I
imagined something like the Staten Island ferry -- simple, not so
comfortable, but plenty of places to wander on a deck and enjoy the
ride. Instead, we were shuffled into airline seats all in rows facing
the snack bar, tempting you for the hour with beer, alfajores,
empanadas, soda and coffee. Everything either loaded with meat or
sugar. Once in Colonia, we strolled around the cobblestone streets,
found the one waterfront restaurant, and ate very bad, very
overpriced food. Thankfully, we each had about four glasses of wine
so the rest of the day I stumbled around a bit drunk and took too
many pictures. Just look at the number of pictures in Colonia. We
got back, tired and hot. I then hiked back through downtown to pick
up my new, custom fitted salsa shoes (which I just looked up on line
and found that I saved nearly $90 on these beautiful shoes).

Thankfully, I did get to leave Argentina on a high note, out last day
in Buenos Aires more the pace and mood both Amy and I anticipated. A
lounging morning, Amy finally got up and we headed to Recoleta. The
cemetery was incredible. I expected a cemetery, not this little city
of sepulchers. Again, the pictures say it all. We then had lunch,
shopped for gifts in the extensive Saturday artists' fair, had our
final delicious dinner at Olsen, then prepared for sleep, only to
have the party in the house next door start, with music wafting up
through the open skylight into the echo chamber of the concrete
patios, lasting until my alarm rang at 7:45 am.

In proper Argentine fashion, we were hurried through security in
record time, but it took two people over ten minutes to order and pay
for breakfast at the café, so that I never did get my final medialuna
(crescent roll) before having to board the plane.

The things I love about Argentina

Because the positive is a bit overdue:

Palermo Viejo, the neighborhood where our lovely B & B is, a more
European version of Williamsburg, with ultra hip restaurants and
shops, a small artists market, and swarming with trendy 20 somethings
and more mature professionals (like Amy and I). However, it is much
more casual that had been reported to either Amy or I, mostly jeans
and sneakers crowd. Though hip jeans and sporty funky sneakers.

The Cypress In is a beautiful little haven in this overly polluted
city. Decorated in Zen-chic style that is so popular here, it feels
polished, sophisticate and yet homey. The lobby is all in black,
reds, and whites looking out onto a small patio with wooden chairs
and simple greens, fresh flowers always on the table. There are four
stories in the building accessed by a black metal staircase covered
with a glass awning. We are on the top floor, the only room, like a
bird nest in a tree, on that floor accessing an amazing roof-top patio
with more of the zen-wooden tables and chairs. We see the gardens and
patios of other buildings in beautiful pinks and blues all outlined by
tall green trees and the blue sky (or grey and rainy at the moment).

The great new pair of salsa shoes I just bought. Extremely well made
and fitted to my foot precisely and comfy and elegant. They are bit
higher than I hoped to find, but are so comfy. I hope I can dance
well in them and look forward to being back to my class, to familiar
partners and the addictive energy of the LA salsa scene.

The good food at cheap prices and the great wine and Brownie, the
little shop that sells great coffee to go and, yes, brownies.

Hanging out with Amy. It is good to be with a true friend that has
withstood the test of time and living together, and, now, travelling
together.

Bus 152: in a city without a bus map, this bus had gotten us
everywhere. First, to San Telmo and Boca and back. Then, walking
down the street in our ´hood, I saw this bus go by and Amy and I
laughed as we could have taken that bus all the way home from La Boca
rather than getting stuck on the train for 20 minutes the day before.
So, after we left the opera we should not have been surprised to see
the 152 pass the front of the theater (great since the woman who
befriended us before the show and downed several glasses of the free
champagne with us and offered us a rid home disappeared after ths
show). Then, today, asking the front desk which bus would bring us to
the Buquebus, of course she told us to take the 152. I truly love
this bus. Now, if only it went to the airport (since Buenos Aires is
the only city I have ever been in that does not have shuttle vans to
the airport, true to their motto -- see previous blog for that).

Hopefully, next on the list will be our final excursion, Recoleta.
One more day and we are staying in our neighborhood, avoiding the
exhaust fumes of downtown, eating good food, and relaxing before the
long journey home (or, for Amy, on to her next country).

Still to come . .. tango, Colonia, and more evidence to support my
campaign for the Argentine motto of ¨Yeah, Whatever¨"

Tales from Mendoza

"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind
blows cold when it is Summer int he light, and winter in the shade."
-- Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.

This pretty much sums up Mendoza, filled with Great Expectations where
simplicity would suffice. Though not March, the weather from day to
day was either uncomfortably hot and dusty or cold and dry, sometimes
changing from minute to minute. Maybe i am getting old and grumpy,
but I just could not seem to spin Mendoza into a fabulous travel
experience.

Note to self: plan vacations to only warm tropical places unless great
exception for destination i.e. Machu Pichu.

Mendoza is a medium sized city in the wine region of Argentina. It
reminds me much of Hungary as I walk in the awakening streets to
school with people sweeping the sidewalks or hosing them down. It is
dusty, only given the gift of trees by a complex irrigation system
that brings waters from the Andes to the city via canals that act as
self watering pots for the trees. The Park of San Martin, the
equivalent of Central Park, is strategically placed so that the winds
of the mountains will be cooled by the trees in the park before
reaching the city. The summers are hot, over 100 degrees. The trees
in the city were selected to offer shade in the summer and then let
the sun through in the winter. Thanks much to San Martin for all
this planning and greatness. Something about him also liberating
Chile and other surrounding countries -- did they need liberating, I
am not clear and will have to look that up. Otherwise the climate is
exactly like LA, from what I understand. Except a bit cooler in the
winter and this past winter they actually had snow in town.
Moreover, Southern California is much more beautiful.

As if being in a less beautiful version of where you live is not
enough, the siesta made it difficult to plan anything. The Argentines
don´t seem to care that they lose much possible business by not
allowing tourists to do anything for 4 hours a day. The tourist
motto for the country should be something like: Argentina, We Like It
and Don´t Really Care if you Do or Not. When you ask for help or
talk in broken Spanish, they are patient and polite and nice, but
don´t expect anyone to give any more information than what you
specifically ask for. Also, they seem to not want to say no or be
confrontational, so, for instance, when I inquired about tango lessons
and a show, I was told there were indeed lesson followed by a show,
which in fact was not true . .. more about that in a bit.

So, it is comfortable here, I am practicing my Spanish, but it is not
the great adventure or get away I expected. But maybe I need to
learn to let go of expectations . . .

Like what a spa trip should be like . . . did I really think I could
have a relaxing day at a spa and a massage for bargain prices
(compared to the US)? Since the activities director did not offer to
help me make reservations, I called the spa on my own and, in Spanish,
made reservations for the spa and a massage, I got directions to the
spa by bus, and even found out the bus times and prices. I was very
proud of doing all this on my own in Spanish. So, it is one of the
wintry days and I suffer a cold bus ride in the rain to a little
hamlet in the mountains, going to the end of the route as told. ¨My
teacher told me that I would get out and the spa would be RIGHT THERE.
However, the only thing I could see was a run down soda stand and
some run down houses. Someone points me down a dirt road, and I find
the thermal swimming pools which look something like a pool at a bad
campground. They send me further down the road to the spa. I begin
walking as the hamlet gives way to more run down homes and a pile of
steel beams as if some construction as been abandoned, dead ending
into an abandoned railway. I go back and ask for directions again,
the man leads me to the edge of the canyon and shows me the roof of
the spa. With some trepidation and doubt, I head down the rail track,
wondering how I will get back to the bus at night. I finally find
the spa, now wet and cold, only to be told they do not have a massage
reservation for me. I was outraged. Of course, the man was only
mildly apologetic and shrugged. I looked around at the empty lobby
not believing they could´not squeeze me in somewhere. So, I settled
with just the spa. The water was lovely and soothing. The pools
were made of natural rocks and formed into little hot tubs as if they
were naturally formed in the mountainside for vacationers. There was
a little pool of mud. Imitating the old women from Chile, I smeared
my body in the mud, not really caring how ridiculous Iooked, and stood
in the cold as it dried before rinsing myself under the hot spring
shower. After that, I went to ¨"la grotto" as they called the sauna,
which was a cave that was sweating. I could only stay there 10
minutes, but it might have been the best 10 minutes of my week as I
enjoyed the warmth and darkness. After several hours of sitting in
the warm water and reading (to the dubious looks of the other spa
goers), I returned to the cold and thankfully only had to cross the
main road to catch the bus.

Now, I must go dress for tonight's premier of Elektra at the opera,
which is not at the Teatro Colon, which is under renovation (as is my
usual luck in travel . . . ). Anyway, we scored some nosebleed
seats, I suspect, for about $10 each. Really, how can it be bad. And
it is another warm day, so I can wear my skirt in comfort.

Next editions will include the Vines of Mendoza experiences, Buenos
Aires, Tango, and the Opera.

It's officiall

I have been granted my Clear Single Subject Teaching Credential in
English.

I guess this means I am actually qualified to do what I have been
doing for the past five years and makes it more difficult for them to
fire me.

Other than that, I am essentially the same person I was 30 seconds ago
thinking about my trip to the Sounthern hemisphere.

Crossing the line

Two days until I cross over to the other side of the equator.

Maybe this will restore the balance I crave, the balance I lost . . .
disregarding time, space, and logic.

Human Follies

I am in that netherworld of enchantment, joy, and despair that one
feels when finishing an exceptionally well written novel, the kind
where the characters become like family that you can't wait to sit
down with for your next 'visit.' Then, it all ends.

After finishing my second Paul Auster novel, I will declare him one of
my new favorite writers. Oracle Night and The Brooklyn Follies (the
one I just finished), both are first person narratives that are so
natural, so fluid, the divide between writer and narrator is
non-existent. Even more so, I suspect, for anyone familiar with the
intricacies of life in NYC, particularly Park Slope (I had a good
friend who lived there, so I am only slightly acquainted with that
area, but enough to feel transported back there with each story),
intricacies woven by both the habit of daily patterns and the constant
surprises and unexpected encounters that happen when thrown in to such
close proximity with so many other human beings also going about daily
habits and routines.

The book begins with a Nathan Glass returning to Brooklyn to die --
not in a suicidal dramatic way, but just to quietly let the days pass
until his days come. What unfolds is a series of events that reminds
the reader that each moment hold the hope for life altering changes
that may bring abundant joy or crushing despair, but wherever we are,
that change will come, so it is all hopeful. Like many of my favorite
stories, it is about the inexplicable connection of humans.
Ultimately, we are here to help each other along in our journeys.
Sadly, unless, like Nathan Glass, we are retired and resigned to wait
for death, we rarely take the time to listen and intervene, to become
involved and to care.

Still, there is that hope that around the the next corner will the
person I need to help me along the next phase. This week has been
like that for me, actually (which then reminds me of Oracle Night
where a writer buys a blue notebook with which he feels a mysterious
connection and the fiction he writes in the book seems to start
turning into reality, with much darker results that Nathan Glass's
notes on human follies), where old friends have resurfaced to replace
others who have fallen out of presence, new acquaintances have
be introduced for yet to be seen importance, and words of
encouragement and grace have come unsolicited.

The book ends (I won't give it away, really) with a mark that reminds
of the fragility of the circulation of life, individually and
communally, and, from our wiser perspective, of our resilience to keep
going, hopefully with more appreciation for that beauty.

I am thankful for all my human follies, and my accomplices in those follies.