Giddyup!

Man, I can't believe the horse track is walking distance from our apartment! Boy are we gonna have some fun. Tomorrow's our first race. We'll cross the street, walk through the Palermo rose gardens and the big lake where folks paddle around in boats and over to the Hipodromo.

Then next week we'll walk across the street to the Lisandro de la Torre train station and get the train out to San Isidro for more races, this time on the only grass track in Argentina. Sure wish Goyito was here to help me read the race sheet I bought.

Tonight we're having a mellow sunday night. Gonna walk over to China Town and have some chinese food around 9:30pm and probably be in bed by midnight. Early.

On Potatoes and Pizza

Forget the museums. The best way to get to know a foreign culture is through the food. It's the basic link. The one thing we all have in common (besides shittin' and music) is food. We all gotta eat.

Ceviche tells the history of colonial trade routes. Potatoes tell the story of the Andes. Pizza and pasta in Buenos Aires tells the history of Italian immigration. The cut of a steak - why one's thick and why one's thin - tells the story of the gauchos. And food will take you to every neighborhood of the city: Chinatown, the Jewish neighborhood, the swanky hoods, the shopping districts.

When I'm traveling, I never feel bad about spending all my money on food. And I can spend all day finding the coolest places to chow: the hip ones, the historic ones, the street food, the dives, the cafes, the confiterías.

I step into a museum and I'm stuck in a petri dish, having uttered one sentence to another person to get inside. I go to a restaurant or a street stall and I gotta talk to the waiter, read the menu (if there is one), ask questions, try to understand answers. I gotta figure shit out. If I don't I die.

El Federal, San Telmo

Bad Relationships

So, what if someone's telling you every fucking day that you'd better be careful. That you're inept. Don't get off the bus until it gets right up to the curb. Don't too get close to that edge, you might fall. Careful with that coffee, stupid, it's hot. Don't cross there, you'll get hit by a car. You're inept!

You know you can take care of yourself. You know you ain't dumb. But after the years, that shit starts to sink in, get under your skin, soak into your subconcious. You don't even hear it anymore. White noise. A leech at the base of your spine, growing.

Then you finally break it off. And the air comes creeping back in. You can breathe! There you are!

It's kinda like leavin' the States.

Sortija!!

Choripan!

Lost Horizons

I realized today that I haven't seen anything even resembling a horizon in ten days. Just canyons of buildings. I'm starting to feel like those rainforest people who, having never left the jungle and having never seen a horizon, lost their minds after anthropoligists brought them to the open plains. They couldn't focus. I can imagine.

In the neighborhood

I just went out to pick up my laundry and walked past the neighborhood gym (which looks more like a high-end spa from the front), and two women with giant fake tits and little ankle-biter dog stood at the door. Next to them, three guys smoked cigarettes in their workout suits. God I love this place. What the?!

Then I passed Persicco ice cream where you can smoke cigarettes as you slurp up a giant scoop of dulce de leche with all the neighborhood couples and families. Great fun to blow smoke rings at the little kids - they just love it!

Passed the news stand where I buy La Nacion or the Buenos Aires Herald every day. Passed the flower guy who's set up right next to the soap and incense guy. Passed the grocery store (which has that checkout system I still can't figure out). Passed La Imprenta, where Aimee and I go for salads or pasta or coffee when we don't feel like dealing at home. Passed the wine-and-cheese shop, and the chocolate shop and the kiosk where I buy my smokes. Passed the little art supply store where we buy stuff like tape or pens or folders. Passed the key shop where we got an extra set of keys made.

Man, if we didn't have to run around the city and check out all botique shops, the funky hole-in-the-wall restaurants, the amazing museums, the theaters, the punk rock shopping malls covered in grafitti, the designer shops that would make your mother consider fetish-wear, the huge parks, the smoky bars, the lingerie shops, the neighborhoods with decrepid 19th century arcitecture, the hip restaurants and the packed shopping streets, we'd never even have to leave our neighborhood.

Fried Brainanas

Man, we've been going nonstop for a week now, and my brain is fried. And there's certain things I shouldn't try to do with a cooked head. Like attempting to get a Subte subway pass at 4:30pm after walking the city all day. Seemed like a good idea since we've been taking the Subte so much. But I just can't figure it out: I purchase a card at a separate counter that gives me no discount but which requires me to fill out a long form, turn over my passport number, address, name and telephone? I thought it would be easy but after the woman pulled out the form and started asking us questions, Aimee and I bagged it, grabbed our passports and split.

We decided to go food shopping instead. Why do I get the feeling whenever we get in line at our local supermarket, that there's some system in place that I just don't understand? We jump in the line with only one person in it, and she ends up taking 15 minutes filling out blanks on the ten-foot receipt that came out of the machine. Then the bag boys put all her stuff into plastic boxes. When it's finally our turn, the checker asks me something like, 'a vio?' which no other checker has ever asked me. We just stared at each other.

The whole city, really, has a system we're trying to figure out. I guess. It's tiring. But so fucking amazing I can barely sleep at night.

Livin' la vida locaaaa....

Two glasses of torrontés, three smokes and veggie sandwich at La Imprenta and I'm feelin' goood. Goddamn, I can't believe this place. You should see our hood. Wide sidewalks, tunnels of leafy trees, people everywhere, cafe tables in front of every other stylish shop and 70 degrees at 7pm. Can it get much better?

Down side: Back in the land of toilets with barely enough water to hold a baby-turd so you gotta scrub down the porcelain after every movement. Of course, we don't have a toilet scrubber yet, but it's on the list.

The apartment is killer and there's plenty of room for you. Walk out the door and we're smack in the middle of Las Cañitas. There's a hardware shop around the corner (already picked up my plug adapter), fruit stands just up the street, flower stands everywhere and newstands on every other corner. I can't believe they make cities like this. I can't believe that bottle of torrontés cost $3!

I keep thinking of Huckleberry Shelf cuz there are so many designer kids shops around here. Huck, you'd dig this shit!

I'm so tired I can barely think. And the mate didn't help (but it sure tasted good).

The Al Swearengen Computer Backup Plan

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck!

I spent the last two goddamn days reinstalling my laptop's operating system - and all my software - after the fucking thing took a fatal dump on me. Right before the fucking move! Talk about stress.

Deadwood's been my only respite. But all I wanna fucking do now is swear at this shit-stuffed computer.

Fortunately I got most everything back - except for my email. Meaning I lost everyone's emails. So please email me and help me build it back up with all your beautiful names. It'd sure as hell be great to hear from ya too.

And for god's fucking sake, would you limp-dicked cocksuckers come down and visit?! But call me before you do, cuz I might have ta have ya bring me some more fucking recovery discs.