The Astonishing Quality of Light

What we find exotic abroad may be what we hunger for in vain at home.

–Alain de Botton, THE ART OF TRAVEL

BUENOS AIRES, OCTOBER 16:

I arrived this morning–at last!–and agreed with my brother-in-law that the trip to Argentina is relatively easy.  Since there is almost no time change, and since there is enough time to sleep on the plane, in Buenos Aires you can function well the first day.

Plus, the seat next to mine was empty, so no fat guy and no elbows jockeying for control on the community armrest.

I arrived about an hour early and took a cab to the apartment building. I had been told I could store my bag until the apartment was ready. When I arrived, no one knew anything, no one spoke English, and I couldn’t get my cell phone to connect. I ended up rolling my bag through the streets for the next couple of hours and ended up back at the building where the security guard cheerfully sent me to the apartment, which of course was locked. I remembered enough Spanish from my Rosetta Stone course that I said: “Donde estan los llaves?” He shrugged his shoulders and made a call. I asked if I should “¿Espero aquí?” again astonished that the words had come.

After getting settled in the small apartment, I heard drum beats and chants outside. I left and took my camera and saw a massive demonstration and I have no idea what the crowd was demonstrating for or against. There were banners with pictures of Che Guevara.  Young women had their faces painted as skeletons. It felt chaotic and indiscipherable and somehow more alive that way.

Demostrating not only their beliefs, but also my ignorance

The demostration continued down Avenida Corrientes and I walked next to it, interested in taking a longer walk. In front of me an elegantly dressed older gentleman tripped on a curb and fell backwards taking a long slow-motion roll onto his back. Two men helped him up by grabbing him by the arms, but he kept his legs straight and it took extra effort to right him. He assured them “bien, bien” and started walking again.

I was focused on the parade and had slowed a bit. In front of me was a newsstand and the same man who had fallen was shaking another man by the shoulders and yelling in his face. Deep rage rose from the older man’s core and the dark, heavy bags under his eyes looked as if they were about to explode. The other man, finely dressed, middle-aged, and accompanied by a woman, was bemused and saddened and tried to calm him down by entreating “Señor, Señor…” Although, I couldn’t hear or understand him, I am sure that the man was trying to ask what had aggrieved the older man so much, but the older man would not calm down and his entire body shook visibly and violently.

I turned onto a main shopping arcade, Florida Street and the demonstration had rounded the corner and now met me head on, and jammed against the flow of people out shopping.

It stopped in front an official looking building where police had erected barricades and stood in a line, wearing helmets and riot gear. I was thrilled to be in the middle of it.

When I travel, I try not to be an obvious tourist. Often, when in other countries, people will stop and ask me directions. It happened to me a number of times in Germany and it happened today in Buenos Aires. I observe gentlemen’s shoes to make sure that mine do not make me look like a rube. I check to see how people dress. In this city, men wear darker colors and many wear jackets or suits. My shoes should be okay. I always dress in dark colors.

Each city has its own rules about pedestrian crossing. Some cities are strictly against jaywalking and cars have the right-of-way, as in Las Vegas and London. Some, like Boston, seem to have no rule about jaywalking or traffic lights. Everyone justs drifts along and expects the other guy to stop. It is a hybrid here. In general, people obey the crossing signs unless common sense tells them it is okay and then they cross. Unlike London, cars do not seem to speed up when they see a pedestrian.

Gold and blue, fire and ice on Av Santa Fe

Several years ago, I read an article in THE NEW YORK TIMES in which the writer gave his impressions of the famous O. J. Simpson White Bronco freeway chase. Unlike many viewers, he wasn’t emotional because he hadn’t known that O. J. wasn’t as good a man as his persona, but because the writer was from Southern California and missed the warm golden glow of the L. A. sunshine, a light he hadn’t been able to duplicate elsewhere.

A well-lit Florida Street buidling--not my apartment

The Argentine sunshine has that quality.  Today’s sky was a cool blue, the light was golden. The warmth and the ice combine to create an effect that I had only seen before in L. A. Perhaps it is only that both cities are famous for smog, but the day seemed uniquely perfect and the city’s name “Good Airs” seemed to be correctly advertised, even if it is occasionally lampooned because of the often-polluted air.

Oh, and that thing about the Southern Hemisphere toilets flushing counter-clockwise?

At least in this apartment, it’s a myth.

Silent But Deadly

Peggy and Sam in Paris--2004

FRANCE, JULY 2004:

It had been a good trip. My daughter Peggy was attending a summer program in Paris and I had the pleasant responsibility of escorting her to her school. We had spent four cold and rainy days in Paris, but we had friends who showed us everything. I had never spent much time in Paris and I was excited for Peggy.

I had always wanted to see the south of France and I stayed a few extra days to see a bit of the Côte d’Azur. I thought that perhaps the scenery would be nice and the weather sunny. I flew to Nice, rented a car, and drove to Cannes. When I unpacked at the hotel, I found that I had lost my passport and I paced all night in the hotel room until I could go back to the airport the next day to search for it.  In the morning, I ended up driving the wrong way up a one-way street, couldn’t get the car in reverse, and caused a minor tie-up in rush hour. People were yelling at me or offering me well-intentioned and indecipherable suggestions in French. Luckily, the owner of the same model car showed me how to get the car in gear.  At the airport, the lost and found was attended by a beautiful young Frenchwoman, who told me, yes they had my passport, and no, she couldn’t retrieve it.  I would have to wait for another person who came in at twelve and whose signature must have carried the State’s official imprimatur.

That episode done, I headed back to Cannes, where I observed the much desired scenery.

Why I thought Cannes might be nicer than Nice

The next night I was strolling up the seaside promenade called “La Croisette,” smoking a good Cuban cigar, and I saw a mime in front of Le Grand Hotel. His face and hands were painted gold, he was wearing a gold top hat, shirt, tie and a gold formal tails suit. He was pretending to film people with an all-gold prop “camera” that had a hand crank and a gold tripod. Mimes annoy me and I walked on, trying my best to hide my displeasure.

La Croisette, Cannes

I walked to the end of the boulevard and turned back towards my hotel. I passed the mime’s location again. I’m not sure exactly what happened since there were several people shouting in French, but all of a sudden the mime was being wrestled to the ground and beaten by an angry man. I thought it was an act, a clever piece of street theatre at first, but there were real blows exchanged. There were cries from the observers to obtain the police.

The mime was winning, getting in twice the punches, and silently taking over the fight.

A woman, whom I guessed to be the angry man’s mother, started scolding me in French. My schoolboy French did not help me a bit. I’m not sure whether she was angry that I had not tried to break up the fight or whether she was angry that I was taking in the improvised drama, but in any case I moved on and observed from a distance. A couple of moments later I saw the woman forcefully take the angry young man away from the scene with him complaining loudly to her.

A Mime (Google Images)

I seem to have a talent for getting yelled at in France, yet strangely enough most of the people I met in France (despite the American stereotype) were friendly, polite and seemed to like me.

I just never thought I’d see a mime that was ready to rumble.