beggars

A street in 'my' barrio, Madrid

While there were some amusing headings I could have used, I resisted.

I found, this trip, the sight of beggars disturbing. I am not sure why. There are more in India and Indonesia. Maybe there are so many there that I became inured to the sight of them.

One of the many conversations I had with myself revolved around why , on some days I was happy to contribute and why on others I wasn’t. And to whom I contributed also. Some days there was no rhyme or reason, apart from the daily tot up of how much I’d given (alarming on one day).

Why, for example did I not give to the man who informed me he had “molto deformities” (molto? in Spain?) but gave a couple of Euros to the sad, but relatively well dressed man who sat while the crowds pushed past him on Palm Sunday with a sign that said “tengo hambre’. I think it’s because he looked as if he was a victim of the economic crises and there may have been a bit of “there but for fortune…..’ going on in my brain.

The smartest beggar was the young women who stood, with her child, beside the ticket office to Tigre in Buenos Aires. She wasn’t begging, she was arranging her child’s clothes and talking to her, but she had a very good pile of 25cent pieces, the exact change from buying a ticket to Tigre with 4 pesos. She deserved the money.

taxis

When you travel alone taxi drivers become a kind of link to the world.

While the other day I found a grumpy one, most of them here have been very kind, like the one who waited outside Club Gricel for me just to be sure everything was ok. (no mi gusta el barrio).

My favourite taxi driver was the one in San Francisco who, realising I was the right age took me past Grateful Dead and Janis Joplin houses and over the bridge without charging me an exorbitant rate. In fact she turned off the meter and did it out of love for some part. Then there was the taxi drive from New Delhi to Jaipur.

In New York the taxi drivers, once they realised I was not American, talked to me openly about racism in the USA.

Here, and in Spain they teach me Spanish words like confundo for example. One particular one in Spain talked at length to me and I tried to understand. I thought he was talking about la crises economic but I finally realised he was talking about the lot of a twice divorced man and women´s love for money. Sigh.

They are a good way to interact with locals and mostly they are very nice and kind.

PS. Yesterday´s driver not only refused the tip but also reduced the fare to the next lowest 10 AND thanked me. WOW now that´s a first.

no tengo

When I was last in Argentina the expression ´no tengo´ drove me nutty. I saw it as an expression of disinterest. I now realise that it´s a bit like the Greek ¨Ti tha kano?´ (What can I do?).

´No tengo´ seems to mean ´No we don´t have it and I can´t tell you why. Maybe the peso will fall. Maybe the Americans have landed. Maybe the bloody English will invade us from the Malvinas. Maybe there´ll be another dictatorship. Maybe the power will finally fail. Maybe tomorrow this shop won´t be here´.

Not that I am asking for anyone to tiene mucho. I walked today past consumer city and decided that the only things I seriously lusted after were way out of my price range.

Tango and health notes: The hip is miraculously better. Doesn´t even have to unravel when I dance. I suspect it´s the elevator in the building which has a mind of it´s own and shakes my spine and hips into place. Today I met the world´s grumpiest taxi driver (I hope his sidewindow broke when I slammed the door) and saw the world´s most elegant woman. About 70 but sooo elegant and restrained. Yes, I danced. No, not a lot. But I did get told that I danced well but that was by a fellow my new German friend refers to as ´vampires. Was it my perfume or the skin on my neck? But it was a nice dance.

communication and Christ

Last evening´s companions were a German woman who speaks English and a Spanish woman who speaks German. And me. It was amusing and I realise I can follow along to the general idea of German as much as I can Spanish. I just miss the punch lines.

It reminded me of a time in Piacenza that involved a Morrocan woman, an African man who spoke great English and Italian, a Morrocan boy who spoke Italian and me.

Today is the first day of Pascua and I watched Christ´s effigy (or one of them, I think there maybe a few) being carried through the streets of BA as I trotted off to get my queso, vino and fresh figs. mmmmmm

Did I dance last night? Yes and no. Was it ok? Yep. Was the dancing good? Yes and no.

Am I starting to get keen to find my bed? Yes. Am I, however, content? Si.

a short comment

The woman at Scarpe Mahara sure knows her stuff. For those who know what I mean.

Yep another pair of tango shoes, but are they the right ones? Yet?

settling in

The Havanna Cafe is next to this locutorio so I am settling in. Today I had 3 Easter eggs (one with the orange juice, one with the cafe con leche and one with the cortado), all complements of the house.

The homestay is comfortable and yesterday we went to El Teatro Colon to see the ballet Carmen. Spectacular.

Yesterday´s trip was the Garay to find suitable tango shoes. Alas easter gets in the way of having any made for me but I may have sorted a decent pair. It was lovely to find a more relaxed part of town and to eat ravioli at a local cafe. Cheap, rustic and delicious. I´m not sure that turning up at a tango shoe store with a walking stick and trying to explain about the shonky foot convinced the woman I was sane. But she pretended I was.

People do stop at traffic lights here too and walking is not so bad. The rubbish and broken footpaths make it tricky but all in all it´s pretty easy. And as usual people bear with my accent and are helpful.

this travel business

It´s a weird thing this travel business.

I found myself on the plane thinking about a wonderful presentation at the conference by a superb teacher called Miguel where he described how he encouraged bored students to embark on problem based learning using the metaphor of sad cows. He also showed a representation of the world that is a bit bumpy – not that perfect sphere we believe it to be.

And I was contemplating the nature of looking at art that talks about war and poverty then confronting the beggars in the streets.

And I have left easy-going lovely Spain which is by all accounts in the midst of an economic crisis to arrive in the basket case that is Buenos Aires where everything is dirty and scruffy and poverty screams at me.

Hmmm I think I am starting to imagine my bed and the calm view from my window.

Better get on with it all.

this could be the last time

or not.

Last time I went to Europe I wore one pair of orthotic shoes, a brace and a crutch. This time, alas, I am packing shoes. No, not alas – it’s great but they do weigh a bit more than no shoes at all.

I’m off to Valencia, land of orange groves, if old school songs are anything to go by. To a digital storytelling conference.

I’m meeting up with an old friend with whom I’ve weathered many a storm and with whom I’ve had many a wonderful trip: Patmos, Naples, Auckland West Coast Beaches, Hatepe, London, Brighton and possibly a few others.

Here he is at Pompeii.

I’m also collecting the last of a sister set: Sharon, Judy, Rosie and finally Margaret.

And I hope to dance some tango, thanks to my wonderful, fabulous, chiropractor David, who after about 10 attempts finally worked on the neck so that it came unstuck. Finally, after 3 weeks I feel sane again.

Phew.

And then I visit some new friends in Buenos Aires. And, just maybe, dance some more.

oh, sharon

Before we went to Buenos Aires we were given 2 pieces of advice (well several really but 2 that seemed to count).
one: never go to a cafe on a corner
two: cleavage helps get dances

There was third but I’ll get to that later.
Cafes on corners? Every cafe is on a corner. Well no, we did go to Cafe Tortoni which is NOT on a corner. But it’s famous and pretty touristy. Nice though.
Cleavage? Turning up to the local dances in full cleavage would have been very embarrassing, so I’m pleased I used caution and tested the waters.

And the third? Ah yes. The third.

The day before we left the news about Sharon Armstrong broke. So the hilariously funny advice of course was along the lines of not carrying anyone’s suitcases. It caused me to stand in the local dairy and declaim “Do I really look that stupid?”

So was Sharon? I feel for her on the issue of hope and the internet. We all hope that who we are talking to is real, and we hope (it’s hope after all that keeps us going) that ‘something good and exciting’ will happen. But hope must have been on overdrive when she contemplated a suitcase (not hers) that she knew had a false bottom while she sat in her hotel in BA. And hope ditched her at the airport.

Hope. Love. Trust. Powerful motivators.

shoes aside

I’m leaving the stories of the great shoe hunt to friend Jane who has a great way with words (probably because she’s a writer). Meanwhile I’ve been wandering into some reading about Argentina and the dirty war.

I was in Greece first in 1977 shortly after the fall of the junta. I realised how little I knew about it and what effect it had had on people. People in my village had been involved -for and against- and I was aware of the remains of antagonisms and stresses, as well as the pride evinced by the actions of the Polytechnic students who helped end the terrible times. I read Oriana Fallaci’s “A man” and was impressed and dismayed at the passion and obsession with which he fought and the evil of the men he fought against. Along with all Greeks I relished the music of Theodorakis.

So my ears pricked up with delight as, wandering the streets of San Telmo in BA I heard his music played on a guitar. San Telmo is the real touristy area, and while it’s crowded with these people (clearly this excluded me), it is also home to the lovely open air milonga in Plaza De Reggio where we had our first dances in BA. (I was the first to be asked by the way!!!!!A situation not always repeated at subsequent milongas, but I digress).

The connection of Theodorakis’ music with events in BA was hard to ignore. Like Greece, Argentina has seen many a junta and right wing government but I suspect that in Argentina it was a little worse. I have just finished reading Andrew Graham-Yooll’s book about the dirty war and am struck by the kind of terror that existed as people disappeared and the terror of unmarked cars cruising the streets. I still can’t completely work out what it was all about but it makes a kind of sense of how people are in BA, and how much effort it must take to leave behind the terrors and move on to face a new decade or two.

Breakfast at Cafe Tortoni.

No significant insights. Just appreciation for the street names, the plaza names and the significance of cafes, like La Briela, where we sat innocently on a sunny autumn day before our trip around the Recoleta cemetery and the dutiful visit to Eva’s tomb.