yo no soy marinero; soy capitan
Hola chicos. I've created a website. Here it is. The locutorio I'm writing from is a block from my apartment in La Capital Federal de Argentina, Buenos Aires. My friend Erica and I are living in a barrio called San Telmo, which is south of downtown by just a short walk. La Casa Rosada (Argentina's gay equivalent to the White House) is our most proximal landmark. From what I can tell, the vandals have not yet managed to stencil a picture of Garfield having sex with a vampire anywhere on its pristine pink. Not the case for most other buildings in the capital.
We arrived here 22 Septiembre. Shall I work backward? It's easiest to speak of that which has occurred most recently. Thus, we spent this past weekend in the Argentine countryside, at the farmhouse of the woman whose apartment we are presently sharing. She, Marina, is the daughter and granddaughter of Argentine surgeons, and as a result has the sort of unshakable propriety and class that is so charming in a woman who licks the bottom of her soup bowls and gallops comically from the kitchen to the living room to fetch the Dostoevsky novel she's just been speaking about. The farm, she says, has been in her family since the early part of this past century, when her family's affluence was apparently much more conspicuous. The house we stayed in was meant to be a "temporary" while their grand country manor was built. However, just before construction was to begin in 1929, the Argentine economy (so long tied to that of the United States) went sour, and with it went their ambitious plans.
"Such fortunate timing!" according to Marina, "for imagine if this entire beautiful pasture were covered by some ostentatious monstrosity!"
To be sure, the place we stayed was nothing to spit at, though it's true that the plastered walls are pulling apart in places. Marina visits once a month, and returns with bags full of limones and quinotos (kumquats) to make marmalade. It is beautiful there. I will try to post photos soon. We laid in the grass, read, and ate three wonderful meals a day. Marina borrowed a horse from one of the caretakers, and we rode circles in the yard until we couldn't walk. Friday night we remembered that there were stars. Lots of stars. Saturday night we sat on the covered porch in the pitch black while the rain came in sheets. With each pulse of lightening, the fields lit enough to see the cows grazing entirely unfazed.
Incidentally, when I started writing this, the radio was playing The End of the Road by Boyz 2 Men, and is now playing Stay by Lisa Loeb. It's difficult to not write this in Castellano.
I'm running out of time, but rest assured, I'll fill in the blank spaces. Hasta pronto.
We arrived here 22 Septiembre. Shall I work backward? It's easiest to speak of that which has occurred most recently. Thus, we spent this past weekend in the Argentine countryside, at the farmhouse of the woman whose apartment we are presently sharing. She, Marina, is the daughter and granddaughter of Argentine surgeons, and as a result has the sort of unshakable propriety and class that is so charming in a woman who licks the bottom of her soup bowls and gallops comically from the kitchen to the living room to fetch the Dostoevsky novel she's just been speaking about. The farm, she says, has been in her family since the early part of this past century, when her family's affluence was apparently much more conspicuous. The house we stayed in was meant to be a "temporary" while their grand country manor was built. However, just before construction was to begin in 1929, the Argentine economy (so long tied to that of the United States) went sour, and with it went their ambitious plans.
"Such fortunate timing!" according to Marina, "for imagine if this entire beautiful pasture were covered by some ostentatious monstrosity!"
To be sure, the place we stayed was nothing to spit at, though it's true that the plastered walls are pulling apart in places. Marina visits once a month, and returns with bags full of limones and quinotos (kumquats) to make marmalade. It is beautiful there. I will try to post photos soon. We laid in the grass, read, and ate three wonderful meals a day. Marina borrowed a horse from one of the caretakers, and we rode circles in the yard until we couldn't walk. Friday night we remembered that there were stars. Lots of stars. Saturday night we sat on the covered porch in the pitch black while the rain came in sheets. With each pulse of lightening, the fields lit enough to see the cows grazing entirely unfazed.
Incidentally, when I started writing this, the radio was playing The End of the Road by Boyz 2 Men, and is now playing Stay by Lisa Loeb. It's difficult to not write this in Castellano.
I'm running out of time, but rest assured, I'll fill in the blank spaces. Hasta pronto.
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