Fantasmas en la casa

As we move from summer to fall in the Northern Hemisphere, it's time to think about tea, fuzzy sweaters, crisp air, and warm fires--or not, depending on your preferences.

Fun Argentine pop group Miranda! will share the moment with us--in beautiful San Carlos de Bariloche no less.

"Pero no, no, no, no, no, no ...."

Dancing with the Soon-to-Be-Behind-Bars

Disgraced former White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer
salsas with tears in his eyes

That moment when you realize, nope, I'm indeed completely devoid of shame ...

That moment when you realize it might have been better not to have responded to that email from a Nigerian prince ...

That moment when you hear Mephistopheles laugh and you realize the joke's on you for eternity ...

That moment when you hear an announcer with a British accent intone, "Performing the salsa, Sean Spicer and his partner Lindsay Arnold!" and you finally realize you've died and gone to hell ... and you totally deserve it.

Poultry in motion

"Portrait of Argentine Actress Eva Duarte" (later Eva Perón)
by Annemarie Heinrich. Wikimedia Commons. Public Domain.

So my all-things-Argentina sojourn continues. And--you're forewarned--likely will for some time.

Currently I'm reading this biography of Eva Perón, Evita: The Life of Eva Perón by Jill Hedges, which is really very good, painting a more more nuanced portrait of Evita than you might get from other sources (such as musicals), but not shirking from her stridency, score-settling, and authoritarian tendencies either.

There is lots to recommend the book--it is thoughtful, sympathetic but clear-eyed, well written and well researched. But for now I want to focus on my favorite anecdote so far, one that brings into glorious flower (or do I mean feather?) the Peróns' mid-20th-century pro-level trolling. This anecdote has both a literary connection (Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges) and a library connection (Borges worked as a librarian for a time during the Perón era and then immediately afterwards, too).

Apparently, during the Perón era, Borges made many ugly public and private statements about Eva's origins--as did many Argentinians on the right, left, and center. If you were shocked how mean people, pundits, and politicos were to Hillary Clinton as a woman in power, really, you will fall to the floor in a faint when you read stories about the vitriol directed at Eva.

Eva Perón's origins were indeed poor, murky, and humble--one of five children born out of wedlock, her mother, Juana Ibarguren, was the paramour of Juan Duarte, an Argentine landowner and rancher who had another, legal family. By all accounts, he kept Eva's family to the side and never really provided for them in a significant way, especially not after his death.

Imagine growing up like that--fatherless, shunned, hungry, treated like trash, your mother working constantly to provide for five young children. Imagine how hungry for justice, sincere kindness, and social acceptance that you would feel as an adult. 

Then imagine having to hear famed author Jorge Luis Borges, a man in the 1940s with an international literary reputation, a man of the oligarchy, claim--based on no evidence then or now--that your mother at one point ran a brothel and that you and her sisters were prostitutes in said brothel for a time.

Hedges argues that it was likely quite the opposite, that Eva's mother worked hard, overcompensated, and raised her children to be as good, clean, and proper as possible so that they would not be tarnished for life by their illegitimacy and poverty.

Borges kept telling these tales throughout his life, including (and especially) when Eva and Juan were in power in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Coincidentally, in those days Borges had a government or quasi-government job as a librarian in Buenos Aires. Of the good, the bad, and the indifferent that the Peróns did during their reign, they tended to practice "clientelism," awarding the spoils of war--i.e., government jobs--to their supporters, poor, middle class, and wealthy.

Borges was not one of those supporters, obviously. So they offered him a "promotion": A plum position as an inspector for poultry and rabbits at the Buenos Aires municipal market.

I don't know if he took the job, but he likely wasn't happy about the offer. I imagine that he thought his privilege would excuse his being a jerk but surprise! No.

I do know that there are a number of librarians I've worked with that, if I were in charge, I would promote to poultry inspector in a heartbeat. Who knows? They might be good at it, better than they were as librarians, colleagues, and human beings, but I fear incidents of salmonella and bird flu would skyrocket during their tenure, nonetheless.

All's well that ends well, I guess: When Perón was ousted, Borges became head of la Biblioteca Nacional de la Argentina, the Argentine national library. Years later, he still repeated those stories and continued to display his right-wing, oligarchic street cred as a big supporter of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.

Maybe a little more time in the chicken coop, stepping around and through all that chicken shit, would have adjusted Borges' attitude some. But probably not.

Poor you, poor me, poor us

Street scene, Purmamarca, Argentina

Is Argentina a poor country?

Well, as far as poverty is concerned, it may all depend on how you define it. Using the World Bank's World Development Indicators from 2018, approximately 7% of Argentina's population lives on less than $5.50 USD per day. That's compared to 1% for Canada, 2% for the US (still shockingly something like 6 to 7 million people), 21% for Brazil, 35% for Mexico, and a whopping 57% for South Africa.

However, viewed another way, according to the the CIA World Factbook (2016, 2017, et al.), 32% of the Argentine population lives below the national poverty line--compared with 9.4% for Canada, 12.3% for the US, 4.2% for Brazil, 46% for Mexico, and 16.6% for South Africa.

Say what? The numbers are all over the map (literally) and don't necessarily translate well when comparing one country to another.

***

Viewed more subjectively, Buenos Aires looks great, like a stunning, slightly funky, "exotic" capital city, every so slightly lived in. At least that's the case if you stay in Palermo, Retiro, Recoleta, downtown, and most of the city proper. (In comparison, tidy Toronto is so un-crumpled, so unlived-in, so anodyne, and quite tedious, so much so that I almost cried upon landing back home.) I'm not sure what Buenos Aires is like in the poorer, more industrial suburbs, although a ride in from the international airport in Ezeiza reveals its share of tenements--but no corrugated shacks or squatter camps, at least as far as I could tell.

If you watch the Argentine news or current affairs programs there, you see your share of people of different income levels and social classes. And inevitably, like much of the rest of the Western world, the lighter the skin, the higher the social class/economic level tends to be (although not exclusively).

Despite the prevalence of Turkish soap operas, there is at least one Argentine soap, El Marginal (which was available on Netflix at one point--but not in Canada), shown on Argentina's public TV broadcaster, that takes a very gritty look at life among the poor, prisoners, ex-cons, petty criminals, and other "marginal" people.

Farther afield, the city of Salta in northwestern Argentina feels like a rather pristine Spanish colonial city with modern conveniences. "Salta la linda" doesn't have the glamor and cash that Buenos Aires does, however. Smaller Altiplano indigenous communities like Purmamarca and Humahuaca look more "developing" with unpaved streets and adobe buildings--but the restaurants at least have wifi.

Suffice it to say that Argentina is poorer than the US and Canada but does not feel desperately poor. Nonetheless, how do you maneuver this as a tourist without looking clueless or insensitive?

I still stayed in nice hotels and ate good food, but I tried not to overdo it or be ostentatious, much as I live in North America. I shopped some, both from stores and street merchants, including those trying to get by selling dishcloths, tissues, candies, and other small items, all part of the more informal economy. Did I need dishcloths while in Argentina? Not necessarily but they did come in handy. And as allergy-prone as I am, tissues are always in season.

I generally gave some money to those on the street, when asked, same as here. The "need" in Canada is sometimes questionable--with young guys on Queen West requesting money "for their band" or street people near my building asking me if I have something "better" than the $1 or $2 coin that I offered. While in Argentina, I didn't constantly pass out cash, only if I was prepared to, able to, and felt comfortable doing so.

***

What was more challenging was knowing how to handle a situation like the one I'm about to describe.

One night for dinner in Salta, I passed by the more elegant option recommended to me by a fellow tourist, instead opting for the old and familiar--McDonald's. Hey, what can I say? I was just feeling a little homesick that night and not very adventurous, especially after my lunch of "cazuela de llama" (llama stew) earlier that day in San Antonio de los Cobres. So I kept it simple: A grilled chicken sandwich and fries, a Diet Coke, all a prelude to some vanilla soft-serve, which I'd been craving all week for some reason.

While seated at a communal table, I vaguely noticed that a young boy sat down near me. But I didn't really focus on him, as I was no doubt scrolling through my Facebook or Twitter feed or reading the news from home, with home still being the US, despite my life in Canada. The boy eventually got up and went to another table where he asked a young couple if they were going to finish their fries and if not, could he have them.

At that point, I paid attention. I hadn't seen that happen before--or at least not in a very long time, and certainly not in glamorous Palermo.

The couple generously gave their fries to him without even a second's hesitation. So I decided to do the same. It wasn't much--there weren't many left, as I'd been eating them absent-mindedly while engrossed in the access to the wider world provided by my phone. But, literally, it was the least I could do.

An image of Eva Perón, downtown Buenos Aires,
exhorting the wealthy to do more for the people of Argentina

I started to leave, making my way toward the ice cream, served at a separate counter. But then I paused. I have more resources at my disposal, I thought; I can and should do more.

But what exactly? If I give too much money, will I look ostentatious? As Americans, we have a reputation for overtipping, and sometimes this can be viewed as showing off, rather than being understood as carrying out an American habit of leaving an inflationary amount for service because we know wait staff in the US have to get by on tips rather than salary.

The boy was young, maybe 12 or 13 at most--and this made me hesitate doing more as well. Being an older man seen giving a young boy cash, would there be the perception that I was expecting something for my money, either by the others around me or the boy himself? I recalled urban legends from visiting Puerto Vallarta years ago, a city with a big gay vacation scene, that young men of unknown age might entice you as part of a sting, with the police nearby, ready to swoop in for a bribe to "help" you avoid jail time and embarrassment. This was not the same situation at all. Nevertheless, on the trip down, I'd also seen posters all over the Atlanta airport about human trafficking and the sex trade. Suddenly the topic felt very real, very present. 

I debated what to do: Give him a generous amount of cash, buy him a meal, offer him a smaller amount along with my fries, or something else entirely (up to and including walking away). I ended up making what I perceived to be the least ostentatious gesture: I gave him about $30 pesos, not even one whole Canadian dollar, my fries, and wished him well.

I'm glad I respected the boy's pride, his "space," and I'm glad I didn't do anything that would appear compromising to him, to me, or to others. But was playing it safe the best I could do? Did respecting someone's pride outweigh momentarily alleviating their very real need--hunger? Should avoiding confusion, embarrassment, and, yes, the appearance of criminality, take precedence over helping combat someone's hunger or destitution?

***

I didn't know then, and I don't know now, and I will likely never know.

I do know, though, that I skipped having any ice cream that evening. Suddenly I was no longer hungry. Instead, I felt ever so slightly more melancholy for the comforts of home.

Argentina, te quiero

Oh, don't mind me. I'm just stuck at home with an apres-trip head cold, feeling melancholy, with too much music on my hands ....

El día que me quieras

I've been traveling again. Can we guess where?

Star quality!

Elena Roger and Ricky Martin perform "What's New, Buenos Aires?" from the 2012 Broadway revival of Evita.

Fin del Mundo

Fin del Mundo? Bring it on, Señor!

Is it any wonder? (Summer soundtrack #7)

After a few years on hiatus, Keane has new music out, which is reason to dance in the streets on a hot summer's day. The new song, "The Way I Feel," sounds great, but I still consider "Is It Any Wonder?," a gem from 2006 (13 years ago!), to be peak Keane.

It's because (Summer soundtrack #6)

"I'm Not in Love" by 10cc is perhaps in my personal top ten--nay, my top five--of favorite songs of all time. It is the perfect love song, lyrically, sonically (is that a word?), emotionally, and atmospherically, and why there's not an internet radio station dedicated to playing it non-stop, 24 hours a day, I will never understand.

By chance, I was in Alley Cats, an excellent record shop in Orillia, Ontario, earlier this week when this was played over the sound system. And even now, nearly 45 years later, the song still gives me a chill.

In town on business, I had fun explaining to a younger colleague that this was the original version, that other versions she was aware of were (in my opinion) pale imitations. She knew versions that I did not (a live version by Robert Smith and The Cure apparently), and I knew versions that she did not (Olive's somewhat drum-and-bass version from 2000, to me a major disappointment from a group I had adored up to that moment), but we both agreed that the song, no matter who recorded it, is ethereal, lovely, and poignant.

Why I didn't buy the vinyl then and there, I do not understand. I do have a CD version from The Very Best of 10cc, but here's one occasion when I can agree with hipster audiophiles: The warmth and intimacy of the vinyl cannot be denied.

A mellow tune for summer, but even a long, hot summer requires its slow jams.

* * *

Here's a short BBC TV documentary about how the song was made.

Wow. Just wow. It seems incredible that someone would make this much effort--especially in an era when multi-tracking was new and tape-looping was novel and rare--to create "just a pop song." But indeed 10cc did, as did ABBA, as did the Beatles, as did Giorgio Moroder, and did many other greats (by my estimation at least).

This article, cited in Wikipedia has more backstory about how the song came about, particularly lyrically, spawning from a complaint by band member and lead singer Eric Stewart's wife that he didn't tell her he loved her often enough.

Pfft. Typical man. Can't say the words but can feel all the emotion. In time, he can find a way to tell the world the way he feels. And maybe eventually even you.

Nonetheless, with the end result being the exquisiteness that is "I'm Not in Love," I'd say Mr. Stewart finally and sufficiently got his point across.

Queer theory

I for one am looking forward to his theory as to why he's such a douchebag.

Bishop explains: You're gay because your mom had anal while she was pregnant with you.
🤔https://t.co/FCNJyFQzlL

— Q. Allan Brocka (@allanbrocka) July 26, 2019

Death of pie

Muskoka berry pie from the Mariposa Market,
Orillia, Ontario

Scene from a murder, 3 AM.

In the pink (Summer soundtrack #5)

It's OK, Duran Duran, your secret's safe with me: You basically ... let's be kind and say "co-opted" ... late '70s Roxy Music's style, sound, wardrobe, and lyrical content for your first, I dunno, five or six albums. But I forgive you.

This past Sunday, I went shopping, mainly for shoes but for other clothes as well. In my never-ending quest to get outside of my own self-induced ruts, I went into a store I normally don't visit: Le Château, a Montréal-based clothing store chair that has locations in Toronto and across Le Canada. What drew me in was this beautiful soft pink suit--not unlike something Bryan Ferry would've worn in 1979 or Simon Le Bon in 1983. And while I coveted it, I realized, too, that at 57, this is a dream best left to the past.

To tell the truth, I couldn't have worn it in the past either because I'd have been way too self-conscious. Not because of the pink color per se, although I do not look particularly appealing in pastels. But let's face it: I was never a pretty man, not in an '80s blond highlights, triangle-shaped face, androgynous features, Patrick Nagel print kind of way.

It was likely a painful realization at the time. But now? Well, now I seem content with some comfortable shoes, stretchy-waist cotton trousers, and checked and plaid easy-care shirts. The mighty have fallen, perhaps, but the mighty are a heckuva lot more comfortable than they were throughout much of the 1970s, the '80s, the '90s, the '00s, and probably even last week.

Twin screw steel steam cruisers

RMS Oceanic (1870). Public domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

So in getting ready for another trip to Argentina in a month's time (aka Down Argentine Way Round 2), I've been re-reading Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. Which is a bit funny in that I should have re-read this a year ago when I was actually going to Patagonia. Instead, this time I'm going to Buenos Aires and Argentina's Andean northwest (Salta, Jujuy, Purmamarca, Tilcara, Humahuaca, etc.).

I'll skip the critique of the book, for the most part. There are parts I remember reading way back when (mid-'80s), and there are parts I don't remember at all. (Which leads me to think that perhaps I never finished the book?) In some of the narrative, Chatwin comes across as very, "oh look at me, a Brit traveling the world, and passing judgment on the odd unfortunates I meet." To be expected perhaps, but we can't all be as woke as we are today. (Heavy sarcasm.)

But other parts, specifically the history of seafaring around Cape Horn, including that of a family relation of humble origin who rose to the rank of captain for a New Zealand shipping line, have been oddly fascinating.

In one part of the story, the engine fails on a ship his great-uncle (I think) is commandeering. It is a hybrid vessel: A steamship but one that has sails, which, after the engine fails, allows them to limp slowly toward Cape Horn with the hope of arriving eventually in port at Punta Arenas, Chile. But they have to be careful as they move to the cape for fear of catching a current that will set them adrift in the South Atlantic--not to mention the worry over smashing into the rocky coast of southern South America.
 
Chatwin remarks that the ship had no radio. According to my quick research at 3 am Sunday, ship-to-shore communication apparently didn't exist until the last few years of the 1890s, thanks to the pioneering "wireless telegraphy" inventions of Guglielmo Marconi. Further, such communication wasn't in common use until the early part of the 20th century. Thus there was no way to communicate what was happening on board, even as the ship moved closer and closer to shore.

Chatwin also mentions that another ship around the time had broken a propeller and, as a result, had been set adrift in the South Atlantic for four months before it was discovered. (This event served as the basis for Falk, a novella written by Joseph Conrad, which I'm now trying to track down for a hopefully quick read.)

While 125 or so years ago now seems like a long time ago, when Chatwin was writing his book, the events had taken place less than a hundred years before.

My points here are probably rather mundane:

• We're not as old, advanced, or as conscious as we think we are. 
• A lot has happened in the last century or two, so no wonder sometimes we feel like we're enduring cultural whiplash, a harsh and frightful spin on a carnival ride that is designed to thrill but ends up hurting as much as it satisfies. 
• These events put into perspective any flight delays we may have or any gastrointestinal illness we may have caught on board a cruise ship. 

Not that the latter aren't frustrating, awful, and even occasionally life-threatening, but the problems we experience now somewhat pale in comparison to never knowing if you are going to make it home despite "modern" (then steamship) technology at your disposal.

Maybe our ancestors were just a lot more used to risk and danger then. Maybe in some respects and in their own way they were braver, smarter, cleverer than us, even if they didn't know the same things we know now. Maybe this will make me less anxious about taking the small risks I take in life, which, while significant to me, seem quite tame. And that's OK. I'm a relatively tame guy.

Maybe, too, pondering what my ancestors endured and how I have benefited from it will make me whine less about the momentary discomforts of modern life.

But I doubt it.

Jock itch for the brain (Summer soundtrack #4)

Ah la la la la la kill me now please.

The thing is, I despise this song, at least lyrically--it's sexist, braggadocious bullshit. And yet "Sweat" by Jamaican reggae shame band Inner Circle has been stuck in my head for the better part of a week now.

So I'm adding this song to my summer soundtrack if for no other reason than it'll remind me that summer isn't always easy-breezy Cover Girl. No, sometimes it's crappy reggae reminding you that Hell is other people's music, trying to enjoy summer in the city, and in doing so, sweating so profusely that you end up with the worst case of jock itch you've ever had in your adult life.

Not that this happened to anyone I know, of course.

In praise of termites

A chainsaw artist has unveiled a sculpture of First Lady and Glamour Model Melania Trump in her home town in Slovenia. (Yes, she's an immigrant--but a genius!)

I dunno. Melania looks a little wooden.

But at the same time, amazingly lifelike.

Streetcar Stories: Black shoes, black belt

Black belt. Public Domain. Via Wikimedia Commons.

A man bounded onto the streetcar on my way home yesterday. He was 40, had lived in Texas much of his life, but was originally from Toronto, having left when he was 13.

I know all this not by sight but because he told me and another passenger soon after he sat down.

"I'm so confused," he said. "I don't recognize anything. I don't feel like I fit in here." He didn't say this morosely but with a smile and a laugh, one part amazement, one part exasperation, and maybe even one small hint of desperation.

I smiled genuinely but as I do so often in life, kept a certain amount of distance between me and the conversation that the man and the other passenger were having. Honest, I'm not trying to be aloof--it's just self-preservation in a world that I often find overwhelming and confusing myself. In my heart of hearts, I want to be open to the world, but the reality of said world often makes me think better of it. As I've said before, people can surprise you--sometimes in a good way but other times in a disappointing, even frightening way.

I let the other passenger do the talking and listening for a while.

The car stopped at Bremner Blvd. and the other passenger exited. I thought, well, I can exit, too, as a way to end the conversation, then walk the rest of the way home. But for some reason I decided it against it.

The man smiled, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, "For what it's worth, I feel out of place here, too. I'm from the States originally, and I don't feel like I fit in either. And I've lived here for four years."

Which is completely true. Canada is like America's slightly off doppelganger. Things look similarly on the surface, but when you get below the surface, nothing seems the same. It's jarring--people sound mostly the same, English is the predominant language in Toronto, the accent and vocabulary are similar, and yet it's all different as well. Queen's Park, Parliament, hockey, cottage country, Harvey's for hamburgers and Second Cup for coffee, the prevalence of marijuana smoke and no one particularly stressed about health care costs. At least when I'm in Argentina I know the culture is different and I have to communicate in a different language. But in Toronto ...?

"Where are you from?"

"North Carolina originally. But I lived in Texas for many years as well."

"Ah, a Southern boy!" Which is a funny thing for a 40-year-old man to call a 57-year-old man, but I took it in the spirit intended.

We compared notes about Texas, having both lived in San Antonio.

"I don't know what's going on. I spent my time in athletics, then the military. Not like this, playing football, sports, the Army, not trying to ..." his voice trailed off. "But my Dad said, 'Come on up!' so here I am!"

He got up, ready to exit the car at the next stop, my stop.

"I have a question for you," he said. Which always makes me nervous because in my younger days, when someone said this to me, it usually resulted in some wildly indecent or offensive comment in a public place from a man or a woman with few boundaries.

"Can you come over here so I can ask you?"

Oh dear god. What in the name of ...?

Foolhardy person that I am, I walked closer. There were others around, and he wasn't using his inside voice, so I figured I could easily escape or deflect an unwanted comment if I needed to. I knew where my wallet was, and it was not easily accessible to him.

"I'm going for a job interview. I have a dark blue coat, dark pants, white shirt, and a red tie. Should I wear black shoes and a black belt or brown shoes and a brown belt?"

That was the question?

"Well, you might get by with either. Personally with the white shirt and red tie, I would go with black shoes/black belt. It can depend on how dark the blue is but black would be the safer choice, in my opinion. It won't look odd or out of place."

"Great! All I have are black shoes and a black belt! I don't have time to get anything else!"

Yes, that was the question. Frankly, having seen enough men wear brown shoes with a black belt, I was impressed that I didn't have to explain to him why that would be a bad idea.

"Thank you, man! I really appreciate the advice. Thanks for talking with me."

And with that he bounded off the streetcar and headed out into the world.

I lost track of him in the crowd at Queens Quay and Spadina. I walked along the waterfront, deviating from my normnal route a little and watching my back, then arrived safely at home.

Blue jeans sur la plage (Summer soundtrack #3)

From Québec avec summer amour, Les Hou-Lops (or, if you prefer, Les Têtes Blanches, which appears to have been an alternate name for the group), performing their non-iTunes available hit from 1965 or so, "Blue jeans sur la plage."

Poker face

Ivanka playing poker #UnwantedIvanka.

(Author's note: Not my work, sadly, so whoever did this, you are my hero/ine!)

A fistful of dollars

Headline from PBS News Hour, July 1, 2019

Ripped from the headlines: "Trump lashes out at N.Y. governor and attorney general over business probes."

Bummer.

I think everybody should just get off President Trump's ass, at least for a little while.

I mean, come on, after last week's deep and extensive probing in Japan by Vladimir Putin, Kim Jong-Un, Mohammad bin Salman al Saud, and countless others, I'm sure our Butt Boy in Chief is just plain worn out. No wonder he's so riled up!