Say Good-bye to the Hat

Obituary for a Hat

Purchased 1999, Otovalo Ecuador, when love between me and my physicist was still quite new.

Shaded me from sun, covered many a bad hair moment.  Fit well, never tight, stayed on through hard winds.  Faithful traveler.

Died March 2010, Puerto Iguazu, Argentina.

Well-loved.  Gone before its time.  This hat will be missed.

Turned Around, Turn Turn Turn

Travel can be disorienting in many ways.  We've been told that some native Americans believe there is a certain amount of soul loss with air travel and with general anesthetics.  Veteran of both, Catbird sees the point.  Anyone who has stumbled off a plane, through the habitrail jetway, into the stifled air of a noisy airport three or four time-zones from home knows that sense of loss.  It's not at all unlike returning from chemical unconsciousness.   Like Blanche DuBois, at that point we are all definitely dependent on the kindness of strangers.


We were, therefore, grateful for the Porteno taxi drivers who were patient with our minimal Espanol, never stiffed us on a fare, and--get this: were safe and excellent drivers!   This cannot be said about all taxi drivers we've encountered, including some in Sweet Home Austin. Your driver might be clean, sober and competent, but the quality of your cab ride can also depend on the quality and quantity of the driver's drug of choice.  We prefer the driver in a heroin nod that we have to waken when the light turns green to the speed-freak who gives us Mr. Toad's wild ride.


Buenos Aires has a pretty straightforward layout (we are not fans of circular cities or of the arrondissements of Paris), and our map was helpful but it had a few flaws.  We walked 12 blocks out of our way (looking for a restaurant recommended for its grilled pizza) because the map showed the house numbers going up when, in fact they were going down.  The pizza was worth it, though!

But the biggest problem was that the map was oriented with West/Southwest at the top.   That pitched north at about 4 p.m. and it so messed with our little heads we finally just stopped talking about north and south and talked about 'turning left on the map.'


Outside Buenos Aires, when we arrived at the hotel in Puerto Iguazu, we were told we had just enough time to get to the Falls for a quick look before it closed.  An 80 peso cab ride proved that wrong.  

Our cab driver spoke no English and we know only a handful of words in Espanol, so when he offered (mostly through gesticulations) to take us for a spin around the countryside, the only words we truly understood were: prescious, beautiful, tourist, now, 2 hours, and 120 pesos.  We figured, what the hell, we had some time to fill anyway.

25 wooded and hilly (we really wanted to give the driver a course on downshifting on the uphill) minutes later we ended up at Mina de Wanda, a mine for semi-precious stones open to tourists.

Aha!  Precious stones!  They were cranky with our request for  an English-speaking guide, but were able to conjure one while my physicist and I cooled our heels in a room that felt like bus depot. (We still haven't figured out why they wouldn't let us wait in the gift shop.) 

Now, many of you know Catbird does NOT do basements, cellars, crawl spaces or caves of any kind, but she managed to do okay with these little mines,  probably because they were so open and shallow and we were never out of sight of the sky.  Still it felt like a brave move for the Catbird.  Maybe her claustrophobia has improved; on the other hand, maybe she was just disoriented from travel.

Germ Theory

My physicist and I have an agreement when we travel: he won't tell me how old our plane is (did you know you can read it on a label as you enter the plane?) and I won't talk about food-borne illnesses. I am very aware that there are no fender-benders at 30,000 feet, and my physicist is squeamish about most things illness-related.  We try to honor each other's need to blink away from scary details.

And when one is traveling, a certain soft-focus can be useful to help you eat and drink what is available.

This trip we've eaten excellent food with no untoward side effects. We've found really nice vegetarian selections at small places near our hotel, which, in a culture known for its beef, wine and barbeque, is maldita suerte (damned lucky!). 

But it all crashed and burned  with yesterday's lunch at Puerto Modero.   Eschewing the "too touristy" places along the wharf walkways, we opted off the main path to the Magnolia Cafe.  (Note to self: do not trust the restaurant recommendations of a girl on roller blades handing out 3 x 5 leaflets.)

We are still wondering why we didn't Walk-Away-Renee when we walked in and couldn't tell if we were in a bicycle repair shop or a restaurant...Or when--despite the peak hour of almuerza, we counted only one one other couple, very young and clearly more interested in each other than food...Or when the 3 x 5 flier turned out to be the menu...Or when the special of the day turned out to be chop suey.

In deference to my physicist, I will skip over the meal itself (except for this hint: imagine out-dated ChunKing Chop Suey mixed with sour Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee spaghetti sauce and sprinkled with cheese-gone-wrong and served on dirty plates).  We didn't talk about the crusty tables, the scabby concrete floor, or the well-used bread basket with our rolls sitting against vintage crumbs and leavings of previous meals.  And I didn't tell my physicist about the boy I'd seen after the meal,  washing up with a gray rag dipped in scummy water.   

To dispel the meal's dispiriting effects, we next headed for Freddo's Ice Cream for the Sabayon (pronounce sonn- boh-yon), which had been recommended from website to guidebook to local host.  Too bad we didn't go to Wikipedia before we sampled it; we'd have found that Sabayon is made with Marsala, a strong port wine.  As it was, my physicist--fending off drunken bees--gamely ate a few bites, then pushed it away;  I sniffed it, pronounced it fermented, and we tossed it into the trash.

Dinner at Miramar was a horse of an entirely different color.  No tourist place this, but an old corner bar whose focus on wines (over 300) was more decorative than gustatory for two old teetotalers.  And, while the menu boasted--among other delicacies--oxtail, oysters, octopus, rabbit, and wild boar, there was only one vegetarian selection.  We did love the company and the atmosphere, though.  

We sat with our backs to big open screen-less windows that allowed us to touch the motorcycle and dogs on the sidewalk had we wanted to.  Every inch of wall space under the 12 foot ceiling shelved bottles of wine, so the loops of sausages and side meat hung over the bar itself rather than behind it.  An ancient meat slicer and a vintage glass case left only about 12 inches remaining for the bar itself.  These were no artsy period decorations; we watched sausage, hams, cheeses and various mystery meats pulled down, sliced, re-wrapped and returned to their spots, with the slicer lovingly wire-brushed after each use.  As diners finished their meals, we noticed the waiters carrying an asymmetric bottle of bright yellow liquid, which turned out to be home-made limoncello, a lemon liquor similar to Cointreau, whose potency will knock the drinker's socks off.

Twelve folks attached in one way or another to the University of Buenos Aires raised the conversation at our crowded table above the mundane without intimidating the non-scientists present (me and the 4-month old who blew bubbles happily through the entire night).  The lack of condescension and puffery among these esteemed scientists was remarkable, as conversations affably ran through politics, religion, social ills and world peace.

Here are some thumbnail sketches of a few players and what they shared:

•  A neuro-biologist, who--as did my physicist, received an honorary doctorate from UBA this week--uses functional MRIs to study cognitive plasticity and how we learn, and is improving our understanding of feedback loops through various areas of the brain. 
• A physician who created and evangelically promotes the One Laptop per Child Program, which has already provided a laptop for every schoolchild in Argentina.  (Check it out at www.laptop.org.) 
• A neurologist who studies 2-day-old infants and has discovered that their brains respond differently to being shown 2 dots on a card, rather than three. 
• A physicist who studies the calcium transmitters (both inside and outside of the cell) which moderate cell function and promote communication between cells.

...And that was just at my end of the table!

When the meat-heavy appetizer plate circled the table a second time, three geniuses at my end--to a man, used the same fork that had already been in their mouths to poke the remaining samples on the plate until they found the pieces they wanted. 

I could have told them about germ theory.  But my physicist and I have an agreement, so I just smiled and was happy, once again, to be a vegetarian.

Saved

I

Howard Johnson's Boutique

Dictionary.com (how we love it) defines boutique as

1.a small shop or a small specialty department within a larger store, esp. one that sells fashionable clothes and accessories or a special selection of other merchandise.

2.any small, exclusive business offering customized service: Our advertising is handled by a new Madison Avenue boutique.

3.Informal. a small business, department, etc., specializing in one aspect of a larger industry: one of Wall Street's leading research boutiques. 

So what makes this Howard Johnson's a boutique?

We haven't found any fashionable clothes or trendy accessories, and so it must just be that the place is small (fewer than 40 rooms) and is different from other HoJos in some other lovely ways. Decor is decidedly not typical: there is no aqua/orange combination anywhere.  No big bright plastic dangling circles. No spotted Formica counter-tops.  

There is no row of big orange booths, no ice cream, no fried clams, no parking lot full of muscle cars, Buick LaSabres or pickup trucks.  There is a small (12 tables) bar area where desayuna of fresh fruit, soft rolls and outstanding coffee is served each morning. 
 

The lobby has a marble floor and art deco rugs, there is marble statuary in our hallway, and the rooms are upscale comfortable and low-key classy.  There is no HoJo logo anywhere and if it were not for the sign outside on the street, there would be little indication Howard had anything to do with it.

But what really makes this place a boutique: the bidet in the bathroom (...which turns out to be a great place to rinse out socks.  Who knew?).

Villas de La Miseria

Last night, after Harry's talk, we were driven past the villas de la miseria.  In Brazil they are called favelas, while in Peru the euphemism for slums is pueblos jovenes (which roughly translates as young villages). 

Because we were on an overpass above them, we could see their layout as well as their construction.  Although there was lots of tar-paper and corrugated tin, and haphazard electrical wires and dangling bulbs, the general form reminded us of a western movie set, complete with streets both wide and narrow,  storefronts and laundry on the line.  These are not government issue high-rises with water and sewer lines; they are the cobbling together of materials at hand to provide cursory shelter.  They go on for miles just across the shallow river from the wealthier area of the city (where many of the slum residents work).

Scutwork often falls to the urban poor, and these Portenos are the recyclers of Buenos Aires.  Folks on the wealthy side of the river put their bagged trash on the sidewalk every night at eight, and crews with big carts and bags come to sort through it.  They collect anything that can be recycled and sell it to the big recycling companies.  We have seen the collection in process and did not peg it as scavenging;  it was at least as organized and well-executed as any municipally-supported trash pick up we've seen. 

As with any city, we've seen homeless squats in the parks (though fewer than many cities and as orderly as Tokyo, whose homeless are so neat and clean they are almost invisible).  Also in common with other cities, there is much division about how to address the problems.  We are told there is a current crack-down, in the form of iron fences and stepped-up policing to keep the poor and homeless from settling in.

As always and everywhere, drugs are alluded to as a factor in the burgeoning slums, and organized crime is said to be part of their building and management.  All agree that the tanking economy has exacerbated the problem.

It is a tough situation and although we've seen some excellent assistance programs (micro-lending for example) we don't have any big solutions.  My physicist and I appreciate that we wouldn't last 24 hours there.  

At the same time, we can't help but be inspired by the human spirit.  In the toughest of situations, our species seems hard-wired to work toward community, self- organization, and productivity.  We saw families gathered around a ghetto storefront last night, with little ones playing happily underfoot, a baby being held and rocked.  How could you not be touched by that?

Let the Walker Beware

Buenos Aires is a very dog-friendly city.  Dogs of every variety--both off-leash and on--sit placidly on corners, outside restaurants, lounge in the parks.  Although there is a legal limit of 8 dogs per paid walker, we've seen upwards of 12.

The dogs and dog-owners seem incredibly well-behaved, but the idea of picking up pooch's poop has not yet caught on, so WATCH YOUR STEP!

We've also noticed lovely and varied patterns in the sidewalks--and frequent unmarked cutaways for plants.  This can mean easily loosened stones and unexpected changes underfoot. 

The heartbeat of Buenos Aires is slow, but there are so many people out and about that there is still ample opportunity to bump into others, especially when the girls in school uniforms stop en masse to look at a shoe sale window.

While drivers actually stop at red lights (something Austin drivers might consider), they are not without their crotchets.  Turning right, they downshift and charge through no matter who is in that pedestrian walkway.  Your walking green is no match for the Ford Escort tearing around the corner so:  Caveat Pedestrian!  

Today near our hotel a gas truck and crew blocked the sidewalk and half the street.  I've smelled gas at this spot on two occasions but since folks with their lighted cigarettes passed without consequence, I figured I was over-sniffing it.  The gas company must have concluded otherwise and while they dig, pedestrians walk in the street.  But walkers stay on the sidewalk most of the time, cross with the light and rarely jay-walk.  It's all so civilized.

One other thing:  all those lovely apartment balconies lining every street, the ones with all those pretty green plants? They mean you will get dripped on.  Take it in stride. We are sure it is clean rain water collected to water the plants, and not an impatient dog up there.  Right?  Right?

Is That the Best You've Got?

Travel in a non-English speaking country has me thinking about eavesdropping, something I find--like most forbidden treats-- delicious.


Cellphones lend a particularly piquant flavor to the experience, although--like capers, I find a little goes a long way.  One day in ToyJoy, though, I heard a clerk shout into her phone, "Piss up a rope, you piker.  Go calculate your own pie charts!"  It was the end of the fall semester and I assume she spoke to a classmate and intended it literally, but I co-opted it as a metaphor and used it as a slogan for weeks. 


Cut me off in traffic?  Well, go calculate your own pie charts, you piker!   
You won't replace my stolen gym card? Go calculate your own pie charts!
Annoying telemarketer?  Why don't you go calculate your own pie charts! 


The confusion on the other person's face (or voice) is amazingly satisfying. 


Don't like my blog?  Go calculate your own pie charts!


Last Thanksgiving, at a bird sanctuary in South Padre, I overheard one woman say to another, "So I just said to him 'Is that the best you got? Because if it is, you are so totally worthless.' "  Pretending to move in for a better camera angle on the egrets, I slipped in just a little closer to hear the rest.  The other woman laughed, and the first woman, gesturing with a claw-like hand, said, "I had to tell him, 'North-south, north-south.  East-west.  Now down my spine, and don't forget my shoulder-blades.'"   She was talking about getting her back scratched.


I shared this story with my physicist, who is great with back-scratches (both giving and receiving)  but has been known to lose focus if his mind runs to the unsolved equations of transitional flows. On more than one occasion his own hand has dug hard at the same spot until I yelped. 


Now, when I can't get a response from him because he is deep in the newspaper or considering the scaling sequence of fractal patterns,  instead of saying, "What the hell is wrong with you?  Do you even know I'm here?"  I say: Is that the best you got?    


Sometimes I just whisper "North-south, north-south."  He knows what I mean.










 

Music on the Streets

Although today is a day for my physicist to work on the final presentation of his upcoming talks, we walked down to La Recoleta area again, to wander through the craft fair. It was crowded and pleasant and though we looked at lots of interesting things, we did not find anything we absolutely had to have. Just outside the cemetery, we ran across this group, Aqualactica, performing their electric string instruments.  We sat for awhile in the afternoon sun, taking in the weather, the people watching, and the lovely music. Eventually, we bought their CD.

We have a CD, A Memory of Ireland, we bought at the Cliffs of Moher, from the performer Tina Mulrooney while she sat under an umbrella, literally singing in the rain. Among the great new (to us) Irish folk tunes we learned, we loved singing along to "The Old Rugged Cross" as we drove our little rented car on the wrong side of the way-too-narrow roads.

And we have a CD we bought from Classique Metropolitain, the group that performs in the Paris Subway while people spin past (see below), so we knew from past experience that these make great memories of great moments. Even if the music isn't spectacular there is always pleasure in listening to it.

There is nothing like music to take you back to a place and time so completely. 

Listen to what we're listening to at http://www.aqualactica.com/

A Top Drawer Kind of Day

Yesterday was one of those almost perfect days. Maybe 10 hours of sleep the night before (after an exhausting week and an all night flight) was a factor. The weather, the neighborhoods, the lovely angels at the cemetery, the excitement of meeting Maya Angelou, and some delicious meals were all contributors. But, more than that, there was the pleasure of working side by side at the computer with my physicist, both of us enjoying our labors. Anyone in a long-term relationship knows that there are rhythms and cycles that mean you are not always in sync with one another. But the years with my physicist have taught me that the moon is there (the whole of it), even when it is hidden by thunderstorms or diminished by the shadow of the earth, and I can trust that the full shine of it will reemerge. Yesterday was a full-moon day. Walk, eat, work, sleep, touch, laugh, cry, all in harmony with each other.

So, even though my physicist got something imbedded in his eye, and even though he is catching a cold and I am recovering from one (sorry about that, love), we both agree it was a top drawer day.

In fact, in the excitement of such a great day, I almost forgot my Lenten discipline—to meditate at least once a day. OK, I am not Catholic—never have been. I’m definitely not pious and—though I do belong to a church, I would describe myself as spiritual but not religious. I’m more of a “My Karma ran over my Dogma” kind of gal. But for many years I have found it very powerful to practice some sort of Lenten structure. In the past I’ve given up meat, chocolate, sweets in general. Last year I took on once-a-day meditation.

In my most failed Lenten discipline I once tried to give up swearing. That was the spring I met my physicist, a very gentle man whose most expletive expression at the time was a single ‘dad-gummit’ (and, in his shoes at the time, I’d have kicked a hole in the wall and shouted a string of words F-words loud enough to make the dog howl). In the interest of fairness in advertising, I tried to tell him ‘you have no idea what I am really like; I’ve given up swearing for Lent.’ I was not able to scare him off, something for which I am grateful every fucking day.

This year I have given up sweets (again, always hoping it will help me lead to a more permanent handle on the crap I put in my mouth) and-- for the first time--sodas, and have committed again to one meditation per day. Although I go to a weekly meditation group, I’m really a pretty noncommittal meditator. Sad but true: given a choice, I’m just as likely to turn on Law and Order re-runs…

…even thought the pay-offs to meditation are very high. When the voices in my head jack me full of fear and self-loathing between 3 and 4 a.m., I can sit with my deep breathing and centering chant to keep them at bay. On the flight down here, I found meditating on the plane was a very easy task; it relieved the anxiety of travel disorientation and there wasn’t a whole lot else to do.

But in yesterday’s excitement, and the evening’s frustration of trying to attach both text and angel photos into one blog posting (I won’t confess how many hours I spent on that), and perhaps because of the seriously good non-decaffeinated coffee and iced tea I had consumed, meditation slipped entirely from my to-do list until I tried to settle into bed next to my sleeping physicist. Oy.

Now meditating at that point in the day usually just sends me right to dreamland and I feel I’ve cheated the actual centering process. But I was so keyed up that sleep was a distant possibility anyway, and I decided to give it a go. Believe me, that meditation took on a whole new flavor. Instead of taking me away from the evil voices (who had packed up and gone to bed so they could be up and primed for our early morning rendezvous), my centering chant took me toward the possibilities of more excellent adventures. Meditation toward excitement rather than relaxation? Meditation whose theme is ‘let’s live these moments more fully,’ rather than ‘get me the fuck out of here?’ Hmmmm…it is a new concept, but one I am itching to pursue.

Some photos from La Recoleta Cemetery, Buenos Aires

La Recoleta Cementerio

Founded in 1822, this cemetery is so densely filled with art and memorials that it was hard to photograph one great statue for another that stood in the way; that's why so many of these shots are angled virtually straight up. We are not usually drawn to opulence so we were surprised at how interesting we found this place, and how much we liked wondering through it (though, to be honest, the lovely weather was a powerful factor). In fact, we so enjoyed the experience that when we stumbled onto Evita’s tomb, it was really just an asterisk on the page, and not a very exciting mausoleum at that. I think pictures give some insight into our pleasure at the adventure, and will post them as soon as I decode the error messages I'm getting. 

But as much as we enjoyed it, we also recognized that this is no cemetery for poor folks (though the guidebook says one of the first two people buried in this public cemetery was a “black freedboy, Juan Benito”). Lots of slave or impoverished labor went into the creation of these monuments, as well as tending the rich folks while they were alive. One could make the case that this is one way to support the arts, but for my physicist and me, we say: let’s support the arts while we are alive and when we are dead, cremate our asses, scatter our ashes and send any assets we leave behind to Oxfam or Unicef or something like that.

At the Recoleta Cemetery

Yesterday we noticed that Porteños (folks from Buenos Aires) women do not have grey hair. They may have terrible red, brittle blond, or too-dark-for-words hair, but no gray. The guidebooks say there is more plastic surgery per capita in Buenos Aires than anywhere else in the world. We believe it. Appearance is very important.

Even my often-oblivious-to-people physicist noticed. "Look," he said, pointing (not too subtly) at the woman ahead of us on the street, "Look at the attention to detail: the scarf, the jewelry, the shoes, even the purse. Everything has its flair." Yes, my physicist noticed accessories. My physicist used the word flair, and not in reference to scientific phenomena. That should give you some idea of the street atmosphere in Buenos Aires.

We also wondered where are folks of African descent? Nowhere on the streets of Buenos Aires.

So today, when we were in the Recoleta Cemetery (more about the cemetery later), we kept a close watch on hair and nationality, which confirmed yesterday's observations. Just coming around the corner from the Evita monument, we spied three women of African descent posing for a fourth. Two of them had gray hair. So, before they spoke, we were pretty sure they were Americans. (They were.)

Being sensitive to the issue of the photographer seldom appearing in our own photos, we offered to shoot them together, which they gratefully accepted.

They made a lovely foursome of women representing three generations, each with quiet confidence and a beautiful smile. We chatted a bit and learned that the youngest of the group had just finished a semester at a university in Argentina and they were all on a holiday to celebrate. They asked about us, and when told that my physicist was here to give a series of scientific lectures, they chimed "save the planet!" Sometime during our conversation, the matriarch of this group spoke, and if I hadn't recognized her face, I certainly knew that voice.

OMG, I thought. I can't believe it. But I tried very hard to be cool, to continue our conversation without letting on. It seemed like they appreciated it that way. We were just two American families on holiday in Buenos Aires, making nice with one another.

Only after we walked away from them, good wishes for happy travels all around, did I allow myself to whisper like a hysterical 7th grader to my physicist: I can't believe we ran into Maya Angelou in the Recoleta Cemetery!

Of course, I began to doubt the veracity of my discovery almost as soon as I spoke it out loud to my physicist, so I quickly doubled back and asked if I might take one more photograph of them, this time with my camera. As you can see for yourself, they assented.

Colleen and Colleen

In my life, I have known two women named Colleen. They have both been inspirational.

The first is Colleen Cleary, who died one year ago this week. While her brain tumors took her out of the physical plane, believe me her spirit continues to be a powerful force in the universe. Among other things, Colleen Cleary taught me to feel my feelings (something I was decidedly NOT in favor of at the time), to up my bliss level, to consider that there just might be more options and to trust and follow my heart. While it may be very easy to tell folks these things (especially to trust and follow the heart--hyeah, right), teaching them how--and loving them while they try and falter and try again--is another thing entirely. Thanks Colleen.

The second Colleen, Colleen H. has a blog called Cranky Girls Farm (http://www.crankygirlsfarm.blogspot.com/). Now I have known this Colleen for a few years, and have delighted in the adventures of her amazing kiddos. We've even taught Sunday School together. But only in reading the blog have I come to appreciate her depth and humor. Truly I feel very lucky to read her funny, sad, angry, intelligent, frustrated, loving, always honest insights. Farming? Parenting? One foot on the farm and one in Austin (and loving both places beyond distraction)? Yup, I read you Colleen. And love every minute of it.

It is through the inspiration of both these Colleens that I gather the gumption (Does one really gather gumption? Or does it just spring up like a toadstool? Regardless...) to begin my own blog.

Did I mention that both Colleens, being beautiful both in general physical terms and in graceful demeanor, have enviably gorgeous hair? Hmmmm...I wonder if there is a spiritual connection.