January
29, 2004 - A BACKWARD GLANCE It's been a year since I temporarily
set aside my search for a country to return to San Francisco. When
I left Asia this time last year, I decided to stay put in my home in San
Francisco for one year. I still had slight misgivings about my desire to
live abroad. Was I running from something? If I put in consistent time
in San Francisco would I find my purpose here? I would give the States
one last chance. Several friends had hinted that the reason I felt disconnected
from the U.S., was because I was always on the run. Ok then, I would
throw myself into my community full-time, nourish friendships, develop
contacts in the writing world, tie off the distracting loose ends of my
former marriage. And complete my two biggest goals: Finish my book and
find a mate. No go on both counts.
The
publishing world is in a state of paralysis - work for writers has all
but dried up. It is so expensive to live in San Francisco, that I when
I am here, I must occasionally rent out my condo, which means I have to
move out for one to two weeks at a time, making it impossible to really
sink roots here. I have dated two American men this past year. Neither
shares my longing to live at least part of each year out of the United
States. One thinks that much about our country stinks, but he believes
that those who cut bait and run are selfish, that one should fight for
change from the inside. Why would I want to live somewhere other than the
best country on earth they both want to know? Why indeed? Because I am
happiest living and working among people with an international view of
the world. I want to do what I can to bring various cultures together
in peace, to foster acceptance of our differences, and to shed light on
the fact that in all ways that matter, we are more alike than we are different.
Even my most liberal friends are
isolated from the rest of the world. They hear only one side of the news
- that of American owned radio and TV, and even they let it sneak out every
now and then, that they believe that Americans are somehow better than
the rest of the world; it's the government, not us kind of thing. Granted
the people I call friends do travel occasionally, but usually just for
a 2-week peek at "the others" from the confines of a tour group or
a five-star hotel.
Like
Ayla in Clan of the Cave Bear, I set out again in search of my tribe.
ONWARD
Over the past six years, my search
has taken me to France, Italy, London, Spain, Katmandu, Bali, Thailand,
Mexico, and Belize. One month ago, I headed south of the U.S. border, way
south, to the Southern Cone, to a place rich in mystery and intrigue -
Argentina.
FIRST A FEW FACTS
There are 3.5 million people in Buenos
Aires, 12 million including the metropolitan area.
Literacy is nearly 97 percent, one of
the highest in the Americas.
A 19th century tidal wave of Italians,
Basques, English, Irish, Welsh, Ukrainians, and other nationalities has
made Buenos Aires a mosaic of immigrants
LAND OF IMMIGRANTS
Argentina has fascinated me as long
as I can remember. It's a proud (some say haughty, but I admire their verve
in the face of their ups and downs) European country surrounded by earthy,
fiery, less prosperous Latin American countries.
Like
America, most of Argentina's immigrants arrived on ships from Europe.
Adding to its mystery is its shadow: a history of political and military
coupes, the "disappeared", and the recent economic meltdown in what was
once the world's fifth wealthiest country. With the precipitous drop of
the peso in 2001, Argentina was suddenly the global investor's dream. I
might be too late for the big bargains, but Argentina was still a less
expensive place to live than the U.S. and who knew? Perhaps in Argentina
I'd find the home that had so far, eluded me.
TAKING OFF
Standing in the check-in line at
the San Francisco Airport, I feel something distinctly different about
the people around me - the way they hold their heads, their graceful movements
, the mellifluous words coming from their lips which at first I don't comprehend.
Spanish with an Italian lilt.
Yes!!! The familiar flutter in my
stomach is back in anticipation of setting out for the unknown. I'm
still alive.
The American Airlines 747 fills with
Argentines returning home - and an American tour group headed for the Antarctic.
It will be a long flight, and like surgery, I'd rather wake up when it's
over. So in go the earplugs, on goes the eye mask, and between me and the
airplane window, a pillow. I go to sleep imagining Argentina.
JANUARY 30, 2004
CHE LULU
The taxi driver delivers me to the
guesthouse I chose on the internet the night before I left - Che Lulu -
painted bright red outside like a Scandinavian barn and inside delightfully
shocking colors, urban hip with an eclectic blend of furniture. Buenos
Aires is a city made up of distinct barrios and I've chosen the Soho-like
barrio of Palermo for my brief stay - Three Argentine airline attendants
who fly between Buenos Aires and New York put their savings together and
renovated the building, opening Che Lulu less than one one year ago. What
would I llike to drink? Here's the computer - use it whenever you want.
What can we do for you? What's life like for you? And so on. I feel immediately
at home as if I've entered a womb of like-minded, same-aged friends.
I toss my un-packed luggage on my
bed and set out for a walk through the city to check its pulse. I
teeter over its cobbled streets, in the shade of its sycamore trees, peek
inside boutiques with the latest fashions, stop in a cafe for an espresso
and empanada, look at the latest in furniture fashion. The women I notice,
look like Penelope Cruz, perhaps a bit softer.. With its crumbling buildings
and potholed roads, one gets the feeling of a city once great, which has
suffered massive neglect. But with the emergence of boutiques, cafes, bars,
and museums, one gets the sense of a city busy being reborn.
Buenos Aires - she is an old, elegant
woman with a Bohemian hat.
Mojo and Frederick are entertaining
friends tonight. Introductions go around, lots of air kisses, music, laughter
and hilarity fill the house - and outside the steady drum of rain.They
proudly show their friends each room in their guesthouse and then they
gather around the dining table clinking champagne glasses and delivering
toasts, " Buena suerte (good luck) in su trabajo (work), in su familia
(family), y en su vida ( life.) I fall into bed early, the hearty laughter
and conversation of friends ringing through the house. As I drop off to
sleep, I am thinking that no matter how bad things get, or how destitute
one becomes, if one has friends and the time to spend with them, one is
rich.
WHEN IT RAINS IN ARGENTINA
At 2 AM I am wide-awake though daylight
is still hours away. The rain is hitting the roof hard. I slip on a robe
and go into the house to use the computer. A groggy MaJo is working the
night shift. We greet each other as I step down into the anteroom just
off the front door where the computer is kept. Cold water submerges my
feet. "You have a leak in here," I tell her.
January
29, 2004 - A BACKWARD GLANCE It's been a year since I temporarily
set aside my search for a country to return to San Francisco. When
I left Asia this time last year, I decided to stay put in my home in San
Francisco for one year. I still had slight misgivings about my desire to
live abroad. Was I running from something? If I put in consistent time
in San Francisco would I find my purpose here? I would give the States
one last chance. Several friends had hinted that the reason I felt disconnected
from the U.S., was because I was always on the run. Ok then, I would
throw myself into my community full-time, nourish friendships, develop
contacts in the writing world, tie off the distracting loose ends of my
former marriage. And complete my two biggest goals: Finish my book and
find a mate. No go on both counts.
