Darling Harrie

My dear darling Harrie

Happy Chrissy darling one.

I keep meaning to ask what happened to the sculpture you could no longer face because of the artist who was a bit of a crook.  Did you manage to find a solution to the problema?  Did it stick on the valley floor?

I am well.  A little frustrated this afternoon with Feliz Año plans going all astray and out of my control and I have been ordered to a café closeby to write to friends.  The instruction from the hairdresser who doesn’t like to see his chica blue and also knows well by now that me blue means him getting a passive beating.  Oh Kirsty, when will you leave off being a brat?

It’s this German semi-leach you see.

I met her through my German friend Kata a couple of weeks ago.  They had met a few weeks prior to that while renting apartments in the same building. Kata left on the 23^rd.  Georgie and I had a farewell drinkie with her, in Katarin’s (the other chick) apartment. Minutes before we put Kata the lovely into a taxi Katarin, who had been in conversation with Georgie out in the small courtyard, ducked her head inside and into Kata and my conversation and said “is it ok if I spend Christmas with you? Really?  I didn’t ask, he invited me.  Is it ok?” What choice did I have.

She is not that bad really, a bit freaky weirdo and a bit too into flashing her tits in your face for my liking but it was Christmas and she hadn’t a mate and she left earlyish in any case with a cold so, while I didn’t wish her cold upon her, I was mildly relieved to have her gone from the first Georgie family Christmas I was hosting with only our dear German flatmate (lots of Germans, yes) and our best friends; an American pair and their 3 month old, about to leave the country for good after 6 years.

It wasn’t a big deal but today, having arranged at the last minute to camp on an island not one hour away with the yankees, Fernando the hairdresser who I met my first few months here, who took my number, who never got lucky, who eventually introduced me to his bestie the Porge, who now I kiss most regularly, was suddenly on the New Year hang out list.  But there is no island invite for three, especially not the Ferafro who likes to snort amyl nitrate on special occasions and becomes a nuisance and the gig is about a big bonfire, perhaps a guitar, perhaps a spliff, perhaps a boogie. Delicious hosts with apparently delicious friends. Bugger. So that’s ok. There is a party in our very own Pasaje Giuffra (laneway, home) so the party is can come to us instead. And I thought I’d shout us a fancy pantz dinner here in San Telmo but Ferafro doesn’t want to pay much. Fair enough, “perhaps I can shout the three of us to dinner?” “And what about Katarin?” I hear. She joins us again. Bugger. I became bratty and got blue. Then got booted out of the house to cheer up in this café.  Who cares about New Years’ in any case hey? It is always a bigger deal than it ought to be, and I was all set to relax and make this cauliflower pasta I discovered which sounds revolting and wrongo but is truly delicious (5 anchovies, 5 cloves of garlic, lots of oil. Heat her up, shove in the coliflor, lid on, 20 mintues-ish.  Add roasted pumpkin if you can be arsed. And when in Argentina where vegetarian dishes are not particularly acceptable shove in some chook). Yum. Anyway, Katarin is a vegan.  Dull to cook for, especially when my tour will finish at 19hs, one hour to get home, surely a little sip of something with the gringos to bring the new year in early and the idea was no hosting, no cleaning, no stress. Party comes to us. What a whiner I feel.  I lay down for 30 odd minutes after my whining and concluded that I am a bitch and Katarin is not bad, just a bad hugger and a dreary conversationalist and perhaps one who makes too many suggestions about all the future times we are going to hang out ‘cooking, cycling and so forth’…presumptuous buddiness doesn’t chime well with me, I run a mile.   Then one of the Shankees phoned about borrowing our camping mattresses, now that we won’t be using them.  We actually had two islands lined up and the other caved in this morning about 4 mintues before the other. They thought she was a “lecturous freak” too so at least it isn’t all in my head. And really, if I can get my eyes off her cleavage, maybe I could have a ok conversation.  Jen said she got a weird half hug too and that Tyler had boobs pushed more than mildly into his chest and a kiss on the ear. I am tempted to write lick but it would be a lie, even if a good and sordid one. Funny spot to kiss a man you’ve just met though or again is it in my head?

Enough Ross. There must be better things to tell the Harriemeister. Ummm……

Did you know that plates and cups do not get cleared away in Argentina until you have left the restaurant? I have concluded that it is a system to tell other waitstaff that the customer is still in the red. And I ordered a rectangular cupcake with lemon icing and it was yesterdays’ masterpiece not today’s.   Boo. Oh whinger Ross, change subject again.

I have decided to give up my studio.

Yes it is true.

900 pesos is not a great deal when translated into dollars though it is still roughly $250 which, per month for a space I didn’t visit in December (except today to pay rent) is silly. I have also begun to enjoy our studio space at home much more now that piano is no longer on the desk (so uncomfortable) and so, with that 900pesos Georgie suggests I put it in a jar and eat lemon cake in local cafes.  I was thinking instead I might travel once a month and write to Dear Harrie. What do you make of that? It might not go down so well with lover boy but it is all the more interesting this scribbling business when the eyes are fresh.  I haven’t run the idea by him yet.  He keeps saying I am abandoning my family (him and the cat) by pissing off to Rome for a month in May.  Perhaps I am.

We fought this week.  I am quite absurdly an overreactor in such situations and make decisions to “not have a baby with you”, “to not have a baby with anyone ever”, “to move to Sri Lanka to begin an orphanage at my father’s expense”. It was a two day non-talking stand off.  And my fault I discovered last night. So petty, yet not.

We had had a wonderful Christmas Eve, even with the leachorous freak in tow. Loads of good food, a five year old who is funny and breakdances well, yummy wine, Abigail the 18 year old niece I teach English to pulled out peach daiquiries for pud, it was good. And I didn’t know but at midnight, when JC and Santa are in the hood, it is homegrown firecracker time.  We all went out into Pasaje Giuffra and kept walking to the end of the block after block to catch the latest and greatest display.  Loud. Rough. Dangerous. Old school.  I remember Guy Fawkes day well, do you? Parachutes, whizzing things.  There weren’t so many of those, just gunpowder shooting out of canasters. Bautista the 5 year old was master of some blasting powder.

Couldn’t get rid of Georgie’s mother the next day as hard as I hinted.  “Family Kirsty, she is family, it is Christmas”.  I realised this week that I am much more sentimental about Chrissy then I imagined.  It is all about the eve here as I mentioned.  And before I fell asleep at 0430hs (they were all still at it),  I said to mummy Zunilda that if she wished to have a sleepover she was welcome.  Her ears pricked up, and from the moment I woke the following morning she didn’t stop talking at me.  I was exhausted by her. She is the sweetest woman in the world but she talks dribble and repeats herself more than anyone I have ever met.  She came to the park with us on our picnic which was fine but Georgie fell asleep while I drank wine and got talked at.  I of course dominated the conversation as much as I could getting slightly sloshed and believing myself more entertaining, but it was challenging.  She followed me to the loo. I took her into the Rose Garden when I needed to stretch my legs.  At 6pm when she hadn’t given me one second of peace I went to the loo again and she wanted to accompany me.  I couldn’t do it anymore. As politely as I could muster and with some impolite truth added I whinced “but I haven’t been by myself all day Zuni. I just need 5 minutes alone”.  I peed in a pretty revolting portaloo and on my way back ran into this pair of American boys who’d been interesting on my tour the other day.  When I say interesting I refer more to one who was somewhat obnoxious. Adventurous in a way I admire for he went inside every building whose extrerior wall we just show (is it too early for a glass of plonk? 1900hs).  Our second last stop we bang on the door of the studio of three artists, all of whom paint in the street. Two were in and they are lovely and very accustomed to us but I only like to linger a few minutes because we go in daily and it must be disruptive and so I say “well, chaps, we might make a move” and pass this pair to go down the stairs when the rebel says “we’re going to stay here. I want to talk about that painting.” The painting was by Pastel, the architect of the trio, and the house where Heidegger the Nazi wrote his book about Exitentialism. “Oh. Um, ok. Let me just ask if that’s cool.” “You don’t need to do that, we’ll have our own, y’know,  little chat”. I felt bullied and ignored him, got an ok from the fellas and left them to it.

And then I ran into them coming back from the stinky loo.  They said they’d smoked a spliff, bought some art, were going back. Sounded like a good time and I was pleased to hear it.  Peter tells me a story of his first BA mission to get pot and I ask if he has any. They argue with one saying yes, the other insisting no, that “that spliff” was in the apartment. Then Peter produced a mini spliff and I returned to a now cold, sun almost gone Georgie and Zunilda. I had been three quarters of the way through the bottle (which by the way I had emptied into a thermos, best idea I’ve had in quite some time) and so a little trashed and aware of it. There was dancing in the streets, I wanted to watch. They wanted to eat up the cow tail. Earlier in the day we’d tucked into the cow tongue. So Zunilda was staying for dinner. Ok. Cool, family, Christmas, find your heart Ross. We had talked earlier about film, “Zuni, would you like to come?” If you want me to. “NOOO, I wanted to shout. I am trashed and you are unrelaxing me.” She said yes. She was going to sleep the night, again. We had 30 minutes before departure so I got up to hide in my room saying “maybe you two could go together?”  Bratty again but it was Christmas Day and now I wanted to relax. I sent a message to my journo mate Sorrel requesting an escape route and she sent me this :” Bring me food at work. No canteen. Starving. Serious request.”

It was a serious request and Georgie and I left Zunilda in front of the telly and turned ourselves into angels with a plate of tongue, tail, ham, salad, german potato salad, stuffed tomato and a bottle of champagne. Her work is only some blocks away and she had been sending messages out on facebook and twitter all day; poor dear pom, no tucker on Chrissy day. And my perfect escape route. When we returned there was still dancing in the streets and Georgie left me to it for a little while before I jumped into bed, but not before Zunilda had asked me to sit down with her on the sofa, patting the seat beside her. This time I said “I just want to be with my novio only, just for a few moments today”. Her face looked a little shocked as she probably thought I was openly telling her we were keen for a little nooky. “We’re going to watch a film, goodnight.” She left early in the morning and Georgie told me she thought she’d offended me when I asked for minutes alone, and that she finds me interesting and wants to hang on to me. If only I were more fascinating it would feel more justified.

I was beginning to tell you of our fight.

It was at the end of Boxing Day. We had a lovely afternoon. Lunch in Palermo, the trendy hood on the other side of the city. It was late by the time we fed so with the bottle of white in us when we finished up it was the perfect hour to go to a very popular gig called La Bomba. Every Monday night. The foreigners love it and so do the Argentines.  Lots of spliffs and usually people selling cake filled with flowers in the queue outside. Lots and lots of drumming. An orchestra you might say, including the conductor. Pretty fabulous. Vodka for me, Fernet for Porge. Dancing, kissing in public. We were in love. Fernet by the way is the most popular drinkie here outside of vino and perhaps cerveza. It is an oldies’ drink in Italy, dark brown and bitter, and somehow it managed to make its way into the youth of Argentina. Odd but true. They mix it with coca cola and I quite dig it myself. Bit acquired but perfect houseparty drink.  Doesn’t make you pee like cerveza will, doesn’t turn your teeth red, doesn’t get me drunk like a white may, and doesn’t run out like champers will ineveitably do. Oh yes, fernet.

We ran into a client of his, Muriel, who I super dig and love to dance with. I don’t love to dance with Georgie. With a boy she is kissing we all went to Guapachoza (translates as “lovely shack”) for a night of skits and more vodka.

We always take the bus. Taxi fares rose 29% in the month of November while I was away and so  trip from Palermo to San Telmo has gone from 38 pesos to 70. Bit of a steep rise, I am sure you’d agree dear Harrie, Argentina does that. The bus is $1.25 (that is in pesos, not dollars).

But it had been such a lovely day, and weekend and so as we left Lovely Shack I said ‘taxi, my shout”.

He said “gracias” when I suggested it which I either did not hear or conveniently forgot. In the taxi I asked if 50 pesos would be enough (we were in Abasto not Palermo which is rough and interesting with tango and theatre and small seedy bars and generally good old fashioned roughness) and apparently said he needed to say thank you. So he did. Again, convenient memory loss.  Thing is, you see, it is not a natural word this ‘Thank you’ business for Georgie and as it has been drummed into me along with ‘please’ since I was in the womb and I feel a great weighing lack in the air any time I expect a one and don’t hear it. Doesn’t have to be to do with shouting taxis or dinner of course, could be for getting the milk or making a tea or hanging out the washing.  Acknowldgement, that’s all.

We arrived and it was 33 pesos. The 25 cent and the 50 cent coin here are nearly identical (to me they are but yesterday a waitress plopped down some change on my table, it was upside down and thus unidentifiable by numero and she walked away confident and spot on.) I’d handed some over confidently and wrong and we were 25 cents short. I apologised, we coughed it up and I got out. Standing by the door I waited for Georgie to pull out his keys. I had no idea he was scowling with fury at the driver and, forgetting the previous prompt and the initial non-prompt in my haze of vino, vodka and borrowed spliffs, I rerereprompted him for a gracias. He said it in muffled anger in the direction of the taxi. We entered.

We must walk down a passage way to get the last door, our door, at the end on the left. Something wasn’t sitting right and, while I did wonder to say it or not, I said “Georgie, that wasn’t the way you do it. You need to say gracias again.” He lost it. “How many times must I say it? If I have to make a grand show each time I’d rather take the bus”. With no recollection of half the night I froze in my tracks, went silent and snuck up to our room pulling out the camping mattress and setting it up in the studio before he could catch up to me.

We didn’t talk for two days. I was so upset. Last night he told me he cried. He believed he’d seen a new, evil, absolute bitch inside his love. Oh. We heard each others’ sides, I went first. When he told me his version I went very very quiet. Oh. Sorry. My fault. Sorry. So I am not going to Sri Lanka just yet. Oh.

My left hand is beginning to hurt and while I have a wireless keyboard on my lap there have been so many “low battery” warnings, the last one critical, that surely she is set to collapse at any moment.

There is an end of year Jazz night here this evening at “Café Rivas” on Balcarce Street (my favourite) and I have made us a booking.  We shall have our new years’ fancy dinner afterall and whatever happens with the amyl addict and the Hamburg leach, all will be fine and well.

Lots of love darling one

k xxo

Dear Harrie

My darling Harrie

How are you my love? I find myself today in Caracas.  First stop, a carpark.  It wasn’t my idea, it was Nelson of Nelson’s Place,who directed me into this carpark opposite his joint for un “desayuno criollo”.  I nearly frightened myself away by the “under-a-mall-dodgy-teen-diner look and feel, but this had to be a place for there was none other. Scanning their gawdy menu for ‘brekkie’ my eyes hit upon what looked vaguely like what I think I was meant to be looking for.  I pointed, requesting its title and here I am gobbling it on down.  ‘Desayuno criollo’. Shredded meat piled in one corner (while round plates do not have corners just pretend), black beans to one side, scrambled eggs with splashes of tomato to the other and an arepa slapped bang in the middle. Oh arepa, I remember you from Colombia. Not sure exactly what an arepa is, maize I think, – heavy, dougy, round is what it is. Feed a family of five and keep them going for seven weeks is what it is.  I gave it a bash then – I am giving it a bash now and no, I didn’t dig then and it seems I’m not digging the Venezolano version now.  Just having a quick glance, there are 12 arepa options here at Café New, where the square, red, marbled tables each have 4 spidery legs branching out from the middle as though they are about to crawl away in a science fiction flick. Bit of a tricky table to sit around and I am perched to the side, in the centre of two. Perhaps I’ll try to be less greedy. No. Not a success story. The two women beside me are both sitting a well practiced side saddle.

I don’t drink coffee. I would consider this a crime in Venezuela had Nelson not informed me that they now must import the stuff, so, with dear Irish Breakfast teabag stuffed in my pocket I have asked as sweetly, honestly and pathetically as I could, with my voice lowered to a tender tune for a cup of hot water (with milk on the side). It is always frought with great confusion this tea caper – ‘how hot?’ they want to know. “Boiling.” “Leche a lado” I add.  Milky water isn’t my dream drink but tricky to avoid in South America when hunting for a simple cuppa char.  And then you get two cups, two saucers. The first with the lovely burning, boiling water, and the second full to the brim with steamy hot hot skin-spiking-the-top milk. I got myself a spoon to pour her in by and she now sizzles through my dear veins, along with a bunch of beans to make a girl strong and windy for the day.  What a fascinating account of tea and beans landing here before me on the paper, how you must miss me so!

They’re all pretty smiley in here. And they just took my recently finished juice and plate away. Amazing. Now I know I am not in Argentina.

Every time I glance up I catch yet another 4wd heading out the boom gate. You don’t see so many in BsAs.  I saw some old beauties on the way in from the airport this morning.  What an entrance to a city, to a country that was. The sun was rising, the temperature perfect and large, lovely, green hills slowly becoming populated then densely, depressingly so, with ‘barrios’, the word for the Brazilian ‘favela’ or the Argentine ‘villa miseria’, the slums.  Buenos Aires is in the pampas, think the desert, think flat, so while they surround the city they don’t climb high hills and so can’t be seen like they can be here. It’s intense. Those close to the road were each painted different colours of the spectrum, paint I was told, given by the government. They verge on attractive.  Though they’re not really.

They just tried to charge me $4 for a chamomile tea.

Well, I’m breakfasted up, time to head out there Harrie girl, to brave the danger and who knows what of Caracas. I must remove the bag from its secure holding around my thigh, a habit I have formed from champion Porteno pickpocketeers.  This bag I mention is in fact none other than a shoe bag. A tango shoe bag.  A mate urged me to walk the Caraceno streets adorned with a non-descript plastic bag to avoid being mugged so as I ran out the door back in San Telmo I grabbed the closest yet sturdiest thing I could. A tango shoebag.  I don’t mind tango.  And it seems I like to have a tango lesson once about every six months; too long after the last to remember that tricky step 6/7 twist-it change foot and balance like a trooper move and too advanced to feel like the super beginner with which carries the mildest of arrogance on my part.  I always thought “if only I got myself the shoes…”. So one day I did. Lover Georgie bullied me into the sequinned black jobbies and they have not left the house once in the year I have owned them.  They are very pretty though and I have worn them, whilst sitting of course, once or twice.  Sitting I feel particularly feminine, walking I feel a clumsy drag queen.

We’re still struggling on the tea price.  My set menu is $45, and with a coffee swapped for a cup of milk and a cup of water she has jumped to $58. The money is quite nice here.  Scribbled all over it is a very long name for country; Republica Bolivariana de Venezuela  and I’m going to be here for ten whole days. Got it down to $48, that’ll do. Ciao xxo

 

Just jumped a bus so I won’t be able to scribble too long but I am headed for El Hautillo to find some crafty arty outfit and a colonial town which, the bloke who gave me directions to this metrobus stop said, was very ‘pelligroso’ and if I didn’t have my wits about me well….. I told him I had nothing to pinch when he pointed to his right hand and whispered “they’ll steal your bones.” I slowly removed the 30 year old black Swatch I found last Christmas in the parents’ kitchen drawer, I think it might be the first they ever gave me. It looks a little absurd on an adult but I have thin wrists. I got an Argentine watchmaker to shove a battery in her and well, if you don’t mind the unintentional pun, she runs like clockwork. And now she’s in the tango bag.

I have separated my room address from the keys and have $BS100 (about US$20) in a spare pocket, just in case this mugging business tracks me down.

I’m not sure why we’re not leaving. It’s reminding me of last night’s flight. It had been delayed for over an hour in BA so they told me to sprint for the connector in Lima.  Which I did, though and I do not like to run in public. And then we all sat on the tarmac for an hour in silence. Bit boring. And it fucked Nelson up a bit too, not to mention little old me who walked out of the arrivals gate at 4am to find the sharks awaiting me. I had a vague knowledge of funny currency up here with a million different black markets in play, and here was I with not a foreign penny but greenbacks at an unfamiliar airport about to be worth near diddlysquat. I sussed out some of the sharks and their skanky offers and wondered what happened to the dream I had tried to put in place. The dream I had believed might really and truly come true. You know that one where your name, your very own name, is written upon an A4 piece of white paper and when you see it the stranger becomes your friend and offers to carry your junk. That dream. But no, Taca Airlines blew that plan out of the water so ciao chauffeur-action, hola crooks.

Yep, Caracas is really dangerous, a fact I surmised more and more as I told crew I’d booked a last minute flight, while they glared at me in horror each asking “why”? My English journo mate is on sabattical from Dohar and says there is about to be a religious festival called Maria Lionza.  Why not? He happens to be on an island with his Colombian buddy this weekend so I am doing the solo hang till Monday. Today is Friday.

And I am an accidental pusher-inner-er.  Dreadful. I feel dreadful. This here bus (yep, still waiting for the bus to move) arrived, upon which the entire queue, a lengthy one at that, did a sudden about turn. It was most unexpected. Unknowingly I had jumped to the front. Well almost. I came in at third. There was an old couple lingering back, well, lingering forward, in confidence I suppose with their tied first place, and separating themselves from the troops. The black woman I’d asked whether I was queuing for the right bus must have thought me a right dick.
In my semi-innocence, I didn’t think I quite deserved to boot myself to the very back, but I wasn’t entirely sure where to fit myself in so I let about 20 people on (Ross, that’s a lie and you know it!). Ok. 15. I got a seat. Many did not. With this and the milk con this morning I am feeling like a pretty rubbish ambassador.

It is suddenly pissing down.

We’re off. Bye beautiful. Xxo

 

Darling Harrie

Don’t think this’ll be a long one but I wished to wish you well having receieved your very delicious “date” news just last evening.

 

I have just been teary.

 

Almost finished the bottle of good Malbec (Argentina’s famous drop of red) here on this Sunday eve in La Fabrica.  I didn’t want to call this place a studio though it is but I feel like a tosser, nor a space, nor a place, so I decided one day to call it a factory but I can only really say that to the Porge or I am completely misunderstood except now I can say it also to you. I had intentions to write to dear Irish mischief (one should never assume anything (mothership rule number one) but as your friend a mine potentially, I must surely be able to break rule numero uno.

 

So I got all teary because to I bought a bunch of magazines down on Corrientes (one of the main drags (there are five subway lines and they all simply run under the main drags). Corrientes (must mean running or something like it) is the bookshop and theatre, big theatre strip.  All of Buenos Aires is a theatre, shame I don’t get it and mostly fall asleep though the Ross could try a little harder and certainly more often. Anyway, got me mags didn’t I? Was thinking collage weren’t I? “Twas recalling excellente adviso from dear mate Harrie Fash who said make another collage.  Made the no-mistake but super tear jerker over a solo bottle of red of picking up some national geographics from the 80’s with Australia in the mix.  I went through my fashion, and living, and geographics and old school (we bought our first sewing machine this week, it is a singer, and I plucked out the most absurd looking advertisement for a Singer ever.  Clearly not their intention to be silly but she is enormous.  Anyway, I got a little  teary over the Kimberley and the stories and, though I pursued with the exercise, I have just spent the last half an hour revisiting all the articles I partly ripped apart for images of the bungles (I feel naughty saying Bungle bungle but they don’t even mention the word Purnululu in ’86) and the names of the black fellas (I hung out with their rellies) and a Bunuba man called the Pigeon who was tracker and his uncle was killed by the white fellas (the national geographic simply says whites), he in turn of course kills the policeman who did it and gets gunned down soon after. Tears. Oh tears.  Better now.  I gently de-buletacked my family photo from the wall (I have a sad frown on though still) and I am homesick homesick yes I am homesick.  The other day I realised it as I busted out a conversation with Georgie about our future.  Tears. Going for a refill.

Been for a wee and lost my train of thought.  The talk of future isn’t worthy of the tears at all, we seem to be great and we always (I always begin it) talk of the future.  I realised that we now have one more year entero left at the current joint.  He works from home.  We are in the crème de la crème location of Buenos Aires if you like it a little rough and hipppe and charming which of course I do.  And we will have to leave.  And our landlords are like minded Manchester crew travelling and I pay them 6 months rent at a time to remind them how fabulous we are and Argentines renting out properties is a newish thing and you hear the most dreadfully boring stories about, well, nothing short of irritating demands (you may not use lemon for it will stain the tiles) stories that I have become mildly terrified for my future and thinking to purchase. Though this country has a convincing reputation for peak and trough (is that the word?). crash, god at crashing.  And good at hyperinflation.  And that now is not a good time.  But I could pick up the most amazing joint fro $US 200, 0000.  I am surely tempted.  And you want to hear something truly truly unbelievably truth? You must pay in cash.  And in US dollars. And so if you want to buy a property you have to take that cash out of the bank and then exchange it and then hand it over. The place is a basket case financially and I am best not to involve myself but I really can’t bear the idea of a dick of landlord and you have to sign (always) for two years and and and…. So georgie’s business is picking up and any time I ask “how do you feel about living in Austraalia?” he says “don’t know it yet.” And fair enough. We will know it in just 2 months, wicked. So it is tricky to jump to the future but for both of us it is important that he is a worker and can pay his way (sometimes it sucks being loaded Harrie Fash, it just isn’t fair on these fellas)  but I said I was perhaps willing to stick around a while but, should I do so, imagine me in Australia for 2 months every year. He tried to negotiate me back sweet darling but I recalled all those lovely people who are there and now the next generation who are growing up and I want to see that happen.  Oh my God. Giles sent me a bundle of Bruno this morning. That man is handdddddsommmmm.  So the tears are for nostalgia and not much else.  Maybe, but I don’t think so, a little disappointment today for it was the second and last Sunday of our stencil (graffiti) course with the fellas who do it in these parts who I have met and could vaguely call friends and put on courses not one previous I could have attended and they let me go freebie and Georgie wanted in and we went (both dreadfully hungover last Sunday after an American mate made us sing karaoke for her lover’s birthday (goldfinger, Shirley Bassey, discovered it twice in one night while mastering Karaoke in Tokyo and really feel like there is no point in moving on)). They gave us images to chop which we chopped and then later sprayed onto the back of our black front door.  Mind is of a woman sipping, about to sip, tea. Georgie is some military dude or cowboy or I’m not sure what. A bloke with a hat. We were supposed to doctor images for today’s second class which I didn’t quite do. This is not to say, in my defense, that I didn’t dedicate time to the cuase. I spent 2 hours at lease the other night searching through my dreary photos (I don’t take photos and when I very rarely do they are fast and thoughtless and embrasses or they are buildings chopped with the wrong angles, we all have our strengths, GIels is a good photographer, yo no)… so, tried out photoshop on dreary photos. No joy. I came home on Wednesday to find Georgie;s face with Mickey Mouse ears not only plastered near my charming tea sipper, but twice more in our two block street. Anyewya, where this is all going is that, having been in such trouble (not really Harrie) for not succeeding in my tarea (homework) the fella went and got soooooo trashed last night that I had to go solo. I’d asked him to not get trashed for two saturdays only. The first we did it together with this rotten drink which is fabulous called Fernet (Italian krinklies drink it) and it must be put with coca cola.If ever, and this is good advice Fasher, invited to a housewarming or other such house party, bottle o’ fernet and as much coke as you can carry…the latter always disintegrates. So, he tried. He did try. He told me a few times this afternoon.  I am perhaps too slurry myself now to go forth and repeat personal versions of tales of today (my typing skills are dwindling dwinglidgnaidgnl)  but in his defense, it wasn’t really his fault that he and his bestie Ferando(who, incidentally introduced us) brought home the Chilean-Frennch couple at 10am whereup they continues to drink Fernet and had to wait 21/2 hours for the coke dealer to rock up; which is why, having left the house to breakfast and write real paper paper letters to my other penpal Airlie the Niece, I return having been promised (“yes I will sleep for they will go and yes  will sleep) return to not empty house which is fine and I convince him not to join me though he wants to though the coke has just that second arrived and we must leave in 18 minutes….tricky. I let him off the hoo).  But 4 hours later and I brace myself as I walk up our corridor (pasillo) with washing up detergent packed in the backpack for we ran out yesterday so I couldn’t do more than rinse after our barbeque and I take  a deep breath in preparation for the skank I am about to find and it is ok, I must not be a martry, I must simply be that person who likes clean, and the bastards are still all there.  There are only 4 of them.  The ahd moved a little.  Fernadno tried to tell me he hadn’t moved in the tme I was gone but he had, about ne meter.  He,  soon after my arrival, tried to high five me for something, and I proceeded to explain that “I don’t high five” which became confusing and loud on his behalf so I offered up my high two   which he didn’t like and soon moved upstairs to hide with the cat.  Then I went out to find a delicious bottle of wine and here I am.

I have no internet access here and wish to reread your date.  Sounds a bit nice.  He sounds a bit lovely. At least a perfect starter date. Do I recall the word creative?? Think I do. And skip in his jump? No, step in his stride? I kno wi  am sloce. Ok, sloce is not close but it is sloce. To be gone I must and poor Nestor I supposed to have called lights out on me 35 minutes ago.

 

And if I do send this also to find Irishwoman whose name escapes me for never have I met thee…..I promise I am not always drowned in fine wine.

 

K xxo

Darling Harrie

Hello you

How are you?

Speaking to some mates last night and the discussion of “how are you” in emails came up.  If the mate is someone I believe impossible to offend I don’t bother and the others said I was rude.  “Straight to the point” I argued, yet as I begin a letter to you I always query your health.  I truly am interested in how you are, and too would be if this were an email so at what stage did the internet steal my good manners?

Are you well?  I am tempted to ask “are you fine?” which is of my loverstudent’s design and sounds so charming that I neglect to correct him each time. I think I mentioned that I have another student; his 18-year old neice Abigail who seems like an interesting rebel punk and comes over every Monday.  I’m enjoying the classes and am getting better, especially the part about what means what and why?

Did you know Harrie that we use ‘some’ in positive statements and ‘any’ in negative ones and/or in questions?  Such news may not strike you as exquisitely fascinating as it does me and I tell you, it led me to wonder after attacking mates all these years for introducing me as a linguist (which made a girl feel super phoney), that maybe somewhere in there I might just be one.  I always get stuck on the academic part of such titles.

My Spanish could do with some serious assistance but by reading further texts on the science of English, and insisting that those closest to me to hurry up and master the same, it is simply not working out as well as I had hoped. I am being unkind as my fine if not charmingly rough and, while I continue to “learn on the pillow”, it can only improve no matter how slowly that decides to takes place.

I’m sucking on a drink called mate at the moment. It is pronounced maat-ay and they simly adore it around here. They cultivate ‘Yerba Mate’ (the herb) and put in a strange shaped gourd (the mate), shove an odd metal straw down the side (bombilla?) and throw in some water that must never ever be boiled. It steers away hunger and can kill the swine flu and cure cancer.  It is very ritualised and the server (servador (?)) drinks the first (for that is the roughest) and proceeds to pass it around adding more unboiled but almost  boiled water as each finishes.  Word on the street is that you must not say gracias for it means “no more” and you get left out of the gang.

Neighbour Nestor just knocked on the door and, I promise I tell you no lie, he was holding a mate in hand and a thermos in armpit. He has handed me a small comic, “Correrias de Patoruzito”, which Jorge will explain it to me, so that I understand “a little more of Argentina”.  Love Nestor.  Probably ought to have offered to share my mate with him but while I love him, I am writing to you and the man can talk.

I am currently reading another comic called El Eternauta. Ana, the Argentine guide, gave it to me when I spotted it in her house whilst gobbling down empanadas. Do you know what I mean by empanada Harrie?  It is a science fiction about big bugs knocking all us earthlings off. So these massive skanky beetles sprinkle killer snow over the entire world and the few survivors make a suit and are fighting back.  Good for the Spanish and now I have another.

I am ten pages away from finishing Love in a Time of Cholera.  A wonderful book but I am nervous about the ending.  They are on a boat and I keep thinking the thing is going to sink.  Do you know the tale? I returned from Sydney with a bunch of Penguin Classics and am set to move onto Lady Chatterley’s Lover and then Around the World in 80 Days.  In between rereading The Artist’s Way and one chosen chapter of Women Who Dance With the Wolves. It is the story of The Red Shoes. I never finish the chapter and always spend too long between reads that I start again and find myself underlining new stuff.  ‘A life too easy is no good for creativity’ is one of the messages I am pulling out this week and all I can think is to sell my place in Sydney which would force me into a paid job but that sounds so awful that I am more than highly unlikely to make such a move.  “Sacrifice” she writes.  And so much more.  I’ll get back to you on that summary perhaps.

And then there is the Argentine history book I use to jack up my laptop here.  Fascinating yet forgetful.  Have you got a good trick to fix poor memories? ‘Write it down’ I suppose is the first best step, isn’t it?  Underlining doesn’t seem to be doing me much good. I honestly am interested as I read the bugger but then poof! It vanishes.

Don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it to you but I believe (first time I’m trying this sentence out with “believe” attached) that I do not have a very strong sense of smell.  Loverboy let one rip on the bus the other day and I asked if he was the culprit.  I got called a liar for saying I couldn’t smell and I put my hand over my mouth in order not to interrupt him while he listened to his theory on my shirking of responsibilites.  By telling the world I can’t smell I am no longer responsible for, for, I forget, but for perhaps coming up with an answer as to what smell the smell might be? I am confused, might have to get back to you.

 

Do you really enjoy this dribble or are you being a kind good friend and letting me pursue such fancies because something else might eventually eventuate?   I dig your encouragement lovely but I don’t want my writing to be a waste of your time.  Let me know won’t you and I’ll work on a swifter edit.  I do enjoy scribbling them though, it’s always good to chat to you.

How are you?

While I feel greedy for taking the floor again so soon after asking of your health and well-being do you mind if I just go back for a second to the dribble scribble for a moment?   I hear you smile “no Kirst”.

So my old man is in Sri Lanka at the moment and sent me word some days ago that he’d met a writer who is ready to receive word from me.  Ready and waiting.  His famously repetitive advice has been that “no effort is ever wasted” and he suggests I send her something because, Harrie, “no effort is ever wasted”.  As my number one fan he must speak about me to anyone who dares give him an inch.

I read the email late one night and with no reply jumped straight into bed thinking an immediate “no”.  There has still been no reply and I feel a little pressure to respond but, parental pressure aside, I have been thinking it over. Why couldn’t I send something off to a complete stranger whom my father has no doubt charmed and who, given the context, is highly unlikely to call me a dumb dull twit,?  I also wonder wonder what it could be that I would send her?

All I write is these letters to you.  They are a bit personal and possibly extraordinarily dull if you weren’t my mate.

I need Harrie advice.

The hairdresser said I should write a story but the creative stuff is hard, forced work.  I tried one out today by opening Hard Times in the Middle of Nowhere and with eyes closed dipped my finger into a line.

My story thus began:

“Above their heads, some of these held huge colour photographs of their king and queen, hung with bright flowers; peculiar items to take to a revolution, I felt”.

I didn’t make it very far at all.  Sometimes I do better.  To give you an idea of one of less excellent attempts let me type her out for you….

…..They wore long felt tunics around their torsos, which crept up at the thighs to reveal their pink stockinged lengthy magnitude of health and wealth and beautiful glory.

Why ever are we here?  I wanted to shout it out to them. Adorning masks and marching for royalty is absurd and I wanted to let everyone in on the secret.

It’s my nose, you see. My nose knows about secrets and can always see whether the one or the other behave inappropriately or so not.

The End.

 

Hmmmm…ummmm, yeah.

 

I await some splendid advice for you always have it and I love to hear it.

Really got to lay off this mate business, I’m on my fifth and for a girl who can’t handle more than two cups of Irish breakfast tea in the morning let alone a swig of coffee, except to top off a boozy dinner party, I am feeling a bit wasted.  And to think they survive on this brew! What a bunch of trashbags these Argentines are.

My father has cut out the gizzards (his word not mine) of a book and is attempting to smuggle an iphone into the country.  I have been lent one temporily which allows only 4 messages in my inbox and refuses to change its ringtone to a HelloMoto hot dancefloor beat.

I am watching too much television, which frightens me, and Madmen has us sucked in as we enter Series 2.

I am also trying to drink less.  However, while I think “must not drink this evening” all I can envision is delicious red red wine.

Won at chess for the first time on Saturday night.  My opponent wasn’t terribly gracious about it, so shocked was he for not having spotted my queen. It was an absolute win and I am most pleased with myself.

 

Flying, need to go for a walk.

 

Lots of love beautiful

 

Kirst xxo

Dear Harrie

So locro is this brew they make here.  Think stew not brew.  Yummy if it’s made right.  Dull and offal-awful if not.  Most restaurants only pull it out on public holidays (of which there are many many) and the other day, upon my return route past the florists and the cemetery I spotted, stuck to a closed door and out of the corner of my eye, a small yellow piece of paper shouting “locro”.  I about-turned and read quickly about said “locro” just 3 days hence on Saturday 9^th July.  The widest road in the world that runs through the town goes by the same date/name and is one of several independence days celebrated in the country, this particular one from Spain.

10 pesos ($3) and a drink thrown I of course mentioned it to the Porge who digs a bargain. Holly an Australian from a tour earlier that week was unable to take off for Rio due to Chilean volcanic ash so looked me up and asked to play for the day. One off locro hidden amongst florists, cemeteries and mechanics sounded to odd to miss so off we three headed.

I might have mentioned once that there is a wonderful market around the Parque Los Andes nearby which is one of my favourite Saturday gigs.Proper treasure hunting.  I usually find something. Valentine the typewriter lived there once so of course you will have heard me mention it.  Need to work out how to make the ink move without my hand involved, speaking of which.

I came home on Saturday with one beautiful glass jug and, best of all, two large teacups with matching saucers.  Big enough to be satisfying cuppa, no kitch flowers painted just two thin green lines and “made in England” painted on its backside which leads a girl to believe that they may have been made to keep in a little heat.  What’s with mugs lately? Freezing cold tea by the second sip.  Not these, oh no.  Been enjoying them all week, I have. Well one. I washed them when I got home that Saturday and would you believe I chipped one? Ever so slightly Harrie, on the lip opposite the handle.  Bloody shame and I couldn’t believe it.  I imagined the many hands held in their handles and 10 minutes in my world bang! Beat them up why don’t I?  I rise earlier than the other so there is opportunity to both enjoy the unchipped, and when we are both sipping I’ll be a good sport and try not to look as I down that sweet sweet nectar.

I also bought a gravy boat. I think it is lovely.  Also “made in England” which makes me feel like a tosser who will only buy foreign inventions but the Poms will know about such things as gravy and I do not and I thought it might help in my accessing knowledge without asking.  Come to me oh gravy, come into my gravy boat without wondering why…. any Argentine I’ve mentioned the idea to have looked at me like I am a loony. Juice from the pan and cornflour?  There are cheat things called Gravox are there not?

Made pasta, much to the horror of my food subject, with cauliflower and anchovies this week.  It was actually rather delicious if I don’t mind saying so myself.

With goods in tow we went off on a hunt for the famous locro. Couldn’t find it.  Got halfway down to Marcelo Katz before I made us turn back, I knew it was closer to the park.  Felt disappointed that I’d not taken greater care to write down the number but to be honest, I didn’t really think we’d make the trek because it is a one hour journey and locro was to be sold in every restaurant in the country, including the 10 we have within two blocks of our joint. Yep, disappointment. And with Holly in the club I now felt the responsibility as part tour guide.

Georgie asked a flower seller and we were sent to Silvio’s not just 2 blocks that way, and one to the left.  It was a detour and certainly not our yellow sign but plans need to be flexible.  He re-asked a woman who was washing her delegated portion of the footpath with a hose and a brush (very common here) whol informed us that Silvio was closed.  I sighed. A passing bloke heard my sigh and said we’d find what we were searchig for the first door to the left after the church so off to church we went. Treasure hunts must be followed clue by clue and so to the church we went.  Just past the main entrance we saw the enormous sign drawn in texta and large bubble letters “BIENVENIDO. LOCRO.” There was a funny looking Argentine flag beside it, made of beanbag beans (the white part) and various other bits of coloured string. Down the stairs we crept to find a full hall of hungry people, half them on a stage leading the song backed by a poster of JC and not a table unoccupied. We would have to wait.  I looked at Holly to see if there she had gone off me and my plans but she seemed to be ok. She did explain that several members of her large family had become Born Again Christians and those “unsaved” survivors had an honest hatred of the church but she repeated that she said she was ok and we stuck it out.  We were about to leave as the food was being blessed Christian laced locro was looking out when a family, heading out for a pre-locro fag, said we could sit with them at theirs.  Cool.  We looked like a bunch of wierdos (at least porcelain doll skinned Holly and short haired me did) but they put up with us and their young boys seemed a little fascinated by the sight of us. The locro was fabulous, best I’ve had yet, and we all left quite pleased with ourselves.

After a snooze after and an opening in a rough hood near mine called La Boca I took Holly to birthday party drinkies for Ana the Argentine graffiti guide who has since broken up with her stencil artist lover and may not continue with the tours which would be very sad.  We then to made our way to a hostel where Georgie had been invited to do do’s. These women fight Harrie, fight in the line to get a look in with him and even the organiser said that next time he wouldn’t bother getting a band in for he had to stop hairspraying and slamming in pins in order that they turn their attention to the cello and the chick.

There was an auction that night and I, by now a little pleased with my day, my consumption of local Argentine drinkie Fernet and Cola (old Italians also dig it) and post the spliff that had been forced of course into my hand, bought a painting.  Cool.  There were four and the artists, while they’d had the week to play with the pieces, were finishing them off when Holly and I arrived. I went to pick it up last week but it was still wet so I’ll get it this week.  Wicked. It is very girlie, of a woman in a feathered tuto looking over her shoulder and one of the feathers has fallen to the ground.  I love it.

And then the day after my graffitimundo bosses gave me a most fabulous stencil piece by a good fella and wonderful artist Dario, otherwise known as Malatesta.  Yeah baby.

Did I tell you the story about the wall outside our house and the artist Malagria whose work we don’t dig and the neighbour who is a bully?

Anyway, I will stop for now for I am feeling sleepy with a heater on one side and a cheeky glass of red on the other. The latter is not common practice I promise but the fella is off at sewing so I thought I’d run up here for locro tales and, well, there was a drip left in the bottle…you know how it is.

I was very happy to hear about the mate you will not be losing.  And I know James somehow, think through an old flatmate Leigh, the lovely Leigh Richards who I quite fancied and think I moved in to Old Buckingham Street, Redfern for that reason. What a tart!  Didn’t work out the way I subconsciously planned in any case and I he is one of the finest characters I always run into when home. Have you ever lived in Old Buckingham Street?  It seems that many most randomly have.

By the way, I don’t think you could ever be too rough and especially not in matters of the heart where honesty must reign. You’re a good one Harrie Fash and might I add that I too am delighted that you are my cobber.

 

And I remind you of this :

 

A creative thinking brain.

A communicator – interested in conversation and debate.

 

Good luck on the dates, lucky fellas.

 

Super big love to you

 

k xxo

 

p.s. Just found this.  Sounds longwinded and best bought on public holidays in Argentina.  Visit me?

 

Argentine Locro
Serves 6

 

Ingredients

1 cup dried white corn [hominy]
2 ears of fresh yellow sweet corn, cut the kernels off the cobs
2 medium white onions, coarsely chopped
2 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
2- ¼” thick slices of smoked pancetta or slab bacon, cubed
2 chorizos colorados or other slightly spicy sausage, sliced
2- 1″ thick pieces of osso buco [beef shanks], or similar cut
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
½ teaspoon of freshly-ground black pepper
2 bay leaves
1 ½ cups of butternut squash, peeled and diced small
1 ½ cups of yams, peeled and diced small
1 large baking potato, peeled and diced small
2 plum tomatoes, cut in small wedges
salt to taste
green onion for garnish (optional)
chili oil (see directions)

Directions

Soak the dried white corn in 2 cups of water overnight (a minimum of 12 hours).

The next day, prepare the chili oil in advance by soaking a teaspoon of red pepper flakes (or ají molido) in a tablespoon of olive oil for 2-3 hours.

Place the onions, garlic, bacon, sausage, and osso buco in a large stewpot. Cook over medium heat until the onions are translucent. Add the fresh yellow corn, paprika, cumin, bay leaves, salt, and pepper. Continue to cook, stirring regularly, for roughly 10 minutes. Add the soaked white corn kernels, including the soaking water. Add hot water to the pot to about 2 inches above the level of the ingredients. Add the remaining vegetables, stir, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, stirring every 15-20 minutes, for at least 2 hours.

At this point, uncover the pot and remove the bay leaves. Remove the pieces of osso buco and discard the bones. Cut the meat into bite-sized pieces, and then return it to the pot. Continue to stir over low heat, and using the back of a wide spoon or spatula, press the ingredients up against the sides of the pot so that the starchy vegetables and tomato break down into the soup (the corn and meat will resist being mashed). As you continue to stir, mash, and cook, the soup should gradually thicken. Continue until the locro reaches the rich consistency of a stew. Add salt to taste.

Serve in bowls, and garnish with green onions and a touch of chili oil.

Darling Harrie

My dear mate Harrie

 

How are you beautiful?  It’s been a long time between scribbles…are you ok?  I’ve been thinking of you and your world….how are things with Mr Cobber?  I hope it is all working out ok for the both of you, it’ll be lovely to see you in November and give you a big hug.

 

The exhibition sounded all a bit bloody terrific.  “Sold a few” hey? Bet you sold the lot! I tried to get my old man in the door but he’d certainly have tracked you down and you didn’t mention him so I guess he got shy.  He doesn’t get shy.  He misses my mates when I’m not around (well, who wouldn’t I ask you?).

 

I am well and crusing along in this busy old place where I remain mostly unbusy.  Been busy this week though which has been splendid. Not a splendid reason though with one of the guides making a trip home for a dead granny’s farewell but she was old and I am working so, without wishing to sound like a nasty insensitive bitch, let me just say that a tour every second day versus one on Friday is much more like it.  Well, 3 a week would be tops but let’s not go get picky.

 

Speaking of oldies croaking it, our neighbour is about to go we think.  He goes by the name of Don Silva and must be nearing a century.  I’m told he smells rough (my only sense in tact seems to be touch, poor Kirst) and wears his key on a super tuff large long bling chain with odd t-shirts picked up by someone else at the Salvos showing off the latest teen band from God knows where or a long lost rock band.  He likes the girls and talks of his girlfriends. I always say hola and do the obligatory Argentine right cheek to right cheek air kiss and ask him he is.  Then he talks.  And talks.  Truth is I haven’t a fucking clue what he is telling me which is dreadful because the bits I catch our about failing health, doctors, lungs perhaps collapsing… I just nod my head and look for an escape route.  He has two teeth left and while Georgie can understand him I simply can not.  It makes me feel so rude but what do I do?  Shame there isn’t a pill for understanding people, I’d be downing them by the dozen.

So on Monday I got home and Georgie told me that he had fallen down the stairs.  The four apartments in our PH (propiedad horizontal =  house-like apartment) share one terrace which is good for hanging clothes and not much else.  He must have been hanging his gear which I helped him with one time by wringing out a pair or two of jeans and my they actually did smell quite shocking.  Poor old fella.  He has this evil granddaughter who seems to live there with him and the three dogs and the cat.  I have not, by the way, spotted one of the animals in the 13 months we have been neighbours and yes, the passage we all share stinks.  So the cleaner from upstairs bangs on our door, Georgie helps him, calls an ambulance while the cleaner calls the police (haven’t worked that one out yet, seemed most odd) and on Tuesday the furniture started disappearing down the passage.  One of the dogs has not stopped crying and Georgie found out he broke his shoulder and the evil girl is still yelling at him.  It is really so sad.  I dreamt about him dying a week ago and Georgie and I had to organise a funeral because no-one came to get him.  And now all they seem to be doing to help is hocking off his goods.  All rumour that I am starting of course so I shouldn’t suggest such a thing but the Argentines I’ve mentioned it too say the same.  They don’t think too highly of each other around here most of the time, and everyone with Argentine blood running through their viens is apt to develop the “dodgy streak” once (to potentially be a lingering strain) in their lives.

Had my piano lesson today. I’m making progress I am.  He has had me on this piece of music for a few weeks which is good but I get a bit bored of practicing it, fucking it up a bit, starting again and so forth.  My memory tries to come on in every now and then and remind me that to improve one must perservere, practice, fuck it up, breathe, repeat, but usually the impatience wins and I move on back to the blues again.  Today, hooray, I’ve been given the next step in the blues.  Stride.  No idea if that is what she’d be called if in English but that’s how Marcelo Katz calls it. I’m to jump around with the left hand from the beginning of the chord to the end of the chord. Not a very terrific description and I do doubt your sudden understanding (unless of course this ‘stride’ business something to you?) but it sounds cool and fast and fun and mad.  In fact it sounds like Muggsy Spanier.  I discovered Muggsy a month or so back just after the Porge had fixed the record player Javier had given him 6 months earlier which sat most beautifully and uselessly on the very beautiful and very useless sewing machine desk. The machine is hidden and also requires a mend and she’ll be lucky to get our touch before the end of our contract in one year’s time.

 

Did I ever tell you that my lover ten years my junior is stuck, along with most other Argentines I cross paths with, in that era we remember fondly and are uncomfortably and most commonly drunkenly drawn back into by a desperate choice of a bar or a new friend we wished we’d not made?  I refer to the eighties.  Oh the eighties.  The Argy’s think the decade is perfection and have collectively decided to stay put.  Forever. I can’t remember if I wrote about this in my last scribble so I won’t go on about Thompson Twins, Erasure, the mob who sang “Red Red Wine” but I will tell you that we went to my favourite flea market to hunt for treasure and while Georgie was buying Heart and the B52s I picked up Muggsy.  It makes a girl want to charlston but it is from New Orleans in the 70s.  Yeah baby.  Look, she’s not a disco you could put on every day but she’s a disco alright.  And my next step in piano seems to be heading right in Muggsy’s direzione.

Judit the current flatmate is cooking rosemary chicken this evening for a bunch of buddies from Spanish class and perhaps volunteering work to which we are invited.  She is a little better but still annoys me.  She keeps herself busy and Georgie pays her lots and lots of attention so I feel I am more or less covered.  I bought some black boots last night (and then, we not a cent to speak of, went into a store I like and tried on half a dozen lovely silky summery dresses just to feel them next to my skin.  In the height of winter it seems perfectly absurd. When I got home and bashfully showed off my new wares she said I too have a pair.  2 seconds later she had them on and out the door we all walked to play pool.  I found that weird.  She said if it’s too weird I’ll take them off.  But it was too weird, what ever could I say?

 

Incidentally I did not play pool.  I seem to have taken a great disliking to the game ever since Georgie learned about its existence some 12 months ago in a bar called ‘Bar de Julio’.  Have I ever told you about Julio?  Opens at 6 am?  2 bumpy pool tables and a third he opens up just for those who can play? Anyway, Georgie now loves pool.  He likes to win and he loves to play.  But this game, remembered throughout my life with a beer in one hand and a conversation playing along in the other is now ostensibly a highly serious sport where one must not smile, laugh or hit the ball however you damn well please in the hope of landing in it some distant pocket or otherwise.  Pool and I have seen our day together and thank God Judit is desperate to show him how it’s really done.  I tagged along last night because a student on last week’s tour swang by for a haircut and lingered so long she ended up cooking dinner in our kitchen (I found that a bit weird too, maybe I am the weirdo?) and she didn’t know how to play so I hung out making an effort not to watch the determined pair.  I was secretly rooting for the lover only because the loser had to cook for three; myself, themselves and of course the winner. Judit is a good cook.

 

I got in trouble with the lover yesterday for being a dobber.  He really doesn’t like it, I dobbed on him to Hugo to but I can’t for the life of me remember what about.  This time was about eating a flatemate’s delicious leftovers. Uncool.  In fact splendidly uncool in my book.  Ok, so perhaps I grabbed a teaspoon and scooped up some of those heavily fried little potatoes soaked in god knows what sitting there glaring at me in the frying pan when we returned home from a successful screaming match at tennis in Consitution.  And then maybe just maybe I went back for more because Judit is a good cook.  And then Georgie did the same but he grabbed a tablespoon, went back again and then 40 minutes later grabbed a plate and polished the lot off.

It is not the first time he has behaved thus.  The other wasn’t quite as bad as she’d made this good lentil brew and said we could help ourselves but we’d eaten and it was teaspoon job for a sample and nothing more.  The following day he grabbed the pot and had his way with it for lunch.  Not a scrap left.  Super super uncool.  I’d be furious.  I’d be sad but I’d also be grumpy pissed off, not calm or cool.  Judit is calmer and cooler than I but when I saw her Tuesday evening, by way of a semi apology I told her I’d tucked in but that my pig of a lover was really the responsible one.  “Judit, did you mind?” I put in the query.  “I’m not going to cry about it but I wouldn’t have eaten them later. “Tell him off” I pleaded ”he won’t learn otherwise.”  “Do you think it’ll make any difference?”  And with that last line I realised, I think I realised, that she would indeed have rathered her leftovers not have been tucked into by her greedy Argentine propiedad horizontal-mate.  I told Georgie the next day about my detective work and about 4 mintues after doing so he told me off for being a “buchoneador”, otherwise known as a skanky dobber.  I don’t deny it, sometimes I dob.  No-one likes a dobber, least of all me, and here I am hypocrita numero uno.  What do you do?

 

Heard an English fella on the phone walking down the street last night and he asked whoever he was speaking to “what are you up to tonight?” but he said in that super amazing we are actually speaking a dialect of English way “whadeyeubte tonight?”  I tried to teach him today, tricky. He kept on thinking I said “where” and not “what”. We best squeeze in masses of listening practice before touchdown in Oz or the man’ll suffer terribily.  Or I’ll suffer worse for having to translate every little syllable.

He never stays angry very long so, until the next row.

The tennis tantrum I threw was because my serves turned to dust a while back and I’ve been lopping these pathetic lollipops in just in order not to double fault the match and start a rally.  So what does the bastard do three times in a row?  Drops it just just over onto my side of the net so a girl has to sprint, lunge, groan and inevitably miss.  On the third strike I bellowed something out and turned into the grump that seems to become me so often, particularly on tennis Monday.

With the highway so close I can bellow and whine to my heart’s content without being heard by any ears but mine so I shouted to myself something about lollipops out and whacking with great great force and velocity in.  That made him grumpy meanwhile I shouted some more (both at the net of course) explaining my fury at his design to kill the rally and his greed to purely and unnecessarily win. I think we made some progress on Tennis Monday this week.

Harrie beautiful, word just in that my krinkiles have called and as I haven’t spoken to them in a couple of months I’d better get back home and give them a shout.

 

But I wanted to tell you about locro…. Remind to tell you the 9 Julio locro tale sometime.

 

Beautiful one, ciao.

 

k xxo

Darling Harrie

My darling girl

 

How are you?

I hope your heart is still beating its wonderful Harrie beat and that the wintery days in the bush, with your beautiful hounds, is as delicious as you deserve it to be.

I am well.  A little fired up and working out how to work it out but well and happy and recently blow-dried. I’ve become quite accustomed to the non-fluff look and have been keeping Georgie on top of it.

I am in lovely studio once more, this time with Edimburgo far behind me and the idea of more work for Graffitimundo ahead.  But first I wanted to scribble properly to my old mate you.

Hello.

So yesterday we received the new flattie flatmate Judit. A translator based in San Fran, born and bred Hungary.  She is quite stiff and I thought it was the jetlag but she doesn’t appear to have softened overnight.

My humour, in its nervous-just-met-you-stylee, kind of hit the nothing, way-way-over-the-reciever’s-head mark over a tea or two yesterday morning and when faced with questions of my lot in life and how I might be contributing to the general goings-on of it and Argentina I became even more nervous and eventually ran away to babysit my mate’s 6 month old while she cashed in at the dentist for the last day of her health insurance.  6 cavities poor bastard. A screaming baby was a welcome relief. Judit is a little scary.  She is a no nonsense illustrator and has cool slightly oozing out of her but intimidating and I have problems communicating with people who don’t find me in the slightest bit funny.  I changed my tactic at the second sitting over roast vegies and Porgie crook on the sofa; I spoke less. I spoke more calmly.  I seemed to pull out my snottier accent and I said sugar instead of shit and goodness instead of God.  Sometimes I swear much more in my nervous first meetings but she has this American accent so I keep forgetting she isn’t and they always say I “cuss” too darn much so cuss I did not.  When I said “sugar” (the vegies were in at 250 degrees) she repeated with scorn “sugar?”.  I am learning not to react but I fear I may become a bitchy biting bitter brat if she keeps it up.  The studio is my rescue and it is good for me to speak less and give less clue as to my place in the world and my opinions regarding it.  She wants my opinion on it all; racism, political correctness last night, this morning how is it I feel about San Telmo becoming a little flashier and trendy.

She has come out with several barks since arriving and I have want to try to remember them but have forgotten most.

The cat licks a lot and will wakes you up in the morning.  “well! I shall simply shut my door each evening.”

Georgie fixed your blind yesterday, it is a little rough but it should hold up. “well! Who will be looking in at me in any case?”

She responds with phrases obviously “obvio” so speaking less will help her make help me feel less frequently like an idiot.

I am looking at her as material.  And Kirsty practice. Intimidating types who make me feel like a twit.  I don’t need to blab on so much and so I won’t. Blabbing is what gets me into strife.

Have started having weekly massages with Guillermo who comes to the house  and sets up shop in my boudoir.  He came in yesterday and is a bit fucking fantastic.  I feel cruel mentioning it.  Sorry.

I was going to tell you about Brasil.  I don’t think I want to.  It started off really well and ended ok.  In Sao Paulo with 3 different mates calling us to play and us without a phone. We thought it would make us more “on holiday” yet spent most of the time trying to please others and fighting with payphones of which there are many and of which many there are there are few that function.

Paraty on the coast after that which was beautiful and serene and we lashed out a little and stayed in a sweet small hostel which doubled up as a animal rescue joint.  The doggieeeees. And there was a chook called Gaby. Bicycles and beaches and fresh water springs and a charming old town with roads that seemed more like a dried up riverbed and certainly not cyclable.  Daytrips on buses with drivers who put the fear in you and warm seawater.  Capirinha is delicious but I may have had my way with them forever and no more.

Onto Isla Grande where we intended to pitch our new tent.  It could have been rocks for all we new as we carried it around having never taken it out of the bag.  Pretty pathetic campers with a blow up mattress each and a teeny tent where both head and feet touch the sides and there is nothing nobody nowhere could do anything about. Camping grounds were the ugly front yards of people’s places or the ugly front yards of hostels and with a dodgy backpack each, a kilo of rice, a big enamel cup for cooking, a packet of matches and one headtorch between us (oh, and I picked up a teatowel in Paraty) we weren’t exactly excellently equipped in order to hike and pitch and get out of town.  Bummer though, I thought there might be some lovely place sparkling with serenity and hippies in love with life everlasting but no.  The telly woke us up in the morning and the view was concrete one side and a skanky river the other.  We did have two very marvellous trees sheltering us on either side however and for those I was most happy.  The Isla Grande idea also is large walks through the nature inspired centre but Georgie isn’t really the “trekking” type nor are bugs his friend so we kinda missed that bit.  He’ll fit right in at your joint then won’t he?  He did snorkel for the first time though and that was sweet to witness.

From there we went to Rio which again was… ok.  I feel like a fuckwit saying such a thing about one of the most famous cities in the world but it was…ok.  Our fault that it was not more than ok but we’d had a drunken blue in Paraty and didn’t spring back till the end of our return back in Sao Paolo.  Between you and I, I kind of called it all off or at least suggested it. Was it is the productivity, or great lack of it, that was driving me a little mad?  We didn’t seem to do much.  We would wake up late and not make the most of the days. Also, the lack of curiosity that I thought might emerge in a new country for the first time.  He was curious but most things he presumed were Argentine and they were not nor were they stolen from his dear patria. Anyway, give the fine fella and chance Kirst and let’s see how big I can get his eyes to grow in Aussie Aussie Australia in November.

The other thing that happened on the first day in Rio was, and after many an afternoon beer, a semi marriage proposal.  It was not a serious one I realised but one along the lines of “if we do have that child the…”.  Yes, haha I hear you say once more.  This talk of children.  We shall see but it seems to emerge quite often. In my head I thought “not sure” but out of my mouth rose a quietish “ok”. Then I got sentimentally girlie about it all and sidled up next to him asking sweetly “so, you wanna marry me do you?” Five minutes before we had sat down for this latest drinkie he had asked me if, when in the future I became grumpy and a bit mean, I could try to take the “nice Kirsty” avenue instead of the “grumpy mean Kirsty” avenue. I promised that I would try. So, when I sidled so sweetly trying in my head to work out the date, for I figured it was important to know, he threw in the condition of “if you can change we shall see”. That didn’t go down so well and I pulled out.  “My answer is no”. That might have been why Rio wasn’t the city for me. I felt like an idiot to be honest Harrie.  I became a little silent and irritated and felt a fool for having got so, so, so what about it?  Girlie?  I am a girl, why is it such a girlie thing that I did?  Funny?  My reaction didn’t feel funny at the time and doesn’t feel funny now that I remember, but girlie and funny were the words I just backspaced.  I started making promises to myself in secret that even if he asked me again in the futuro I will say no and just stopped myself telling him so matter-of-factly so it wouldn’t come as a shock when and if it indeed to come to pass. The last and really only other lover I have had longterm began our 3-year relationship with “marriage ain’t for me” and I dug him terribly and imagined we would stick it out so “marriage weren’t for me neither”. And I got in my head. Truth is I don’t think it is important to me but I get all choked up at them if it is two besties in love who I think are just fabulous. Harrie I’m sorry to talk like this when the last note you wrote me referred to not only the royal marriage but also your royal split.  I am remembering Rio.

I don’t think I will do so little (read ‘no’) research again, particularly with cities.  Towns are different but you just miss so very much in the big smokes and Georgie isn’t as anxious as I am to do more.

Speaking of researching cities, ask me what you like about Covent Garden and Edinburgh! My mate Sorrel, a good fun whiney Pom who writes for the local English rag and always takes on any work offered, asked if I would help her write, wait for it, a guide book on Gran Bretania, in Spanish.  I wished to say no, I wanted so very much to say no, but Sorrel knows that I practice piano and swing up to my lovely studio space every now and then and every other now and then that I show some people some street art and that this one Ross had time to do such an awfully awful task.

My Spanish, it can be said, did improve with just Georgie by my side in Brasil but writing in a second language, particularly when you read very little of it and write only at gunpoint, is excruciating.  I said yes.  It killed me slowly but I got the motherfucker in (such a good word, yes) and managed to use my brain which I can only admit was good. Killer motherfucker though, fuck. I would read about all sorts of fascinating places, ripping lines from the internet (preferably in Spanish but easier to plaguerise the English) going around in circles only to reread the motherfucker a further hour later and feel like a 3 year old could do a better job and that, were it I reading the guidebook, I would not visit the Transport Museo or 7 Dials in a fit.

Georgie and I didn’t get on so well when it came to the final edit and he would bang on about new paragraphs and try to put my short little concise sentences into one awful even drearier (impossible) one.  I would have to give in in the end for it is he is of “the native tongue” and really, we were lucky to have come out of it alive.

A few days after deadline she, Sorrel the tart, asked me if I would be interested in Edimburgo. “No”.  “Think of it more as ‘producing’ than ‘working” she starts up, “and also, ahem, helping out a mate??… And this time I’ll pay you.”

She paid me for the first one with a bottle of red from Mendoza which sits on the shelf as a memory that I did work once. One day the lover and I will dip into it.

I said yes and handed it in one week ago and survive to tell the tale.  No more though and she knows better than to ask.  Good for the Spanish but all body organs seemed to fail me for the stress of it and I wonder Harrie, are we all really and truly designed for work?

My mates/bosses from Graffitimundo have asked me to write for them, in English.  They said it for the second time the other day and added that they too would like to pay me.  I find it odd given that the only writing I have been writing are these letters to you and that you and I are the only souls who dare speak of such folly.  What they expect me to write about I am not quite certain.  It seems to be quite broad with the only instruction thus far of “anything”. One would assume they expect something a little along the lines of graffiti?  And if not ‘street’ than certainly ‘art’?  What would I have to say about art that isn’t that favourite adjective of mine “lovely”?  I don’t think I could even pull out “interesting” because I might be asked “why” and go into freakout mode.  Than again, Judit the Illustrator might be good practice for me regarding coping with freaking out mode.

They are redoing their website and want blogging I think and anything I think and I really haven’t a clue I think for “anything” needs a little narrowing. As of this Friday, however, they are beginning the weekly graffitimundo lunch for their 3 guides (at their joint for they are with babe) and I will walk from there, hopefully not earlier than desired, to my tour that will start just up the way at 3pm.

I just remembered that there is a photo of me on the new website. Ana, the Argentine lover of one of the stencil artists and the newest member of the evergrowing familia that is Graffitimundo, told me.  She has also invited Mel and I over this evening to her joint for empanadas and hanging out.  She is truly lovely and tells me often that I am terrific so we like Ana a lot.

Graffitimundo.com/beta is the backpage I am told so sshhh but if you want you could check me out. I am going to check me out right now for this studio now has stolen internet.

I like the site, I’m not mad about the photo. That on my face by the way is a fluoro yellow shooting star.

I might head off beautiful as it is one hour on the number 24 (bus) and may be a little longer in hora piko.

Nina Simone just began singing Porgie.

I think you simply marvellous and I hope that you are looking after you.

 

Loads and loads of my love to you

 

k xxo

Darling Harrie

My dearest girl

How are you?

I am getting a little drunk on a Thursday afternoon but when offered a glass of “gaseosa” which equals one pepsi, one sprite or one glass of red vino what was I supposed to do? It is included in the menu executivo (set menu) and I am a sucker for a drop of the old plonk.

I was angry too. Pissed off with an Argentine lover who doesn’t do the dishes.

I know it is so petty to be angry about but it is fundamental to the contination of our relationship. Respect Harrie. And a boy who is the only boy in a land of one mother and two sisters and, while not a super spoiled Argentine macho boy by any accounts, a boy whose mother when she comes to visit does our dishes, sweeps the cut hair off the floor as it is falling and dares to put on a load. The magic spell under which he has been held, oh Argentine, must be broken. Truth is, I’ve been working on it since June 9 2010 when we moved in together and thought the “nag” which I think most women eventually get labelled was going to bite her tongue from the eve of graduation, to forever keep it bitten, when rolled around dear June 9 2011. He is better but he is not good and Harrie, does it mean I will be alone if I refuse to be a mother to a man? I don’t want to be alone but I will not clean up after boys unless they are my own grotty children. Blah.

How are you lady?

I am, apart from spurting with domestic anger upon waking, rather splendid.

I sit in oficina dear oficina having dined on a big bit of too salty beef and potatoes and one just one slice of purple cabbage hiding one just one handful of coriander in the restaurant below. I have been meaning to venture in there for a while but have been nervous to for I wanted to steal their wifi password and a) didn’t want to steal it because internet equals distraction and the idea is to write not surrrf and b) stealing is stealing. So, I stole it. And, as of about 18 mintues ago, have confirmed that I am close enough, for my studio is perched directly above the kitchen, for the theft to be a successful theft.

As I said, I didn’t want to be a thief but for the last two weeks I have barely ventured in to curtains up, heater in and on, candles anew, radio station found, yoga mat on floor for scribble procrastination, wine fast dwindling but have pud to go studio. I have barely ventured in because my mate the workaholic miser Sorrel has once again taken on too much and asked me if I would could wouldn’t be interested in helping a mate out with, wait for it, helping her write a guide book on Great Britain, in Spanish. So, writing was a nice idea. In my own language to start with would be tops, terrific, better than ok. I said yes cos I kind of had the spare time and a bottle of wine sounded lovely.

Stressful.

Though interesting..

I learn all sorts of fascinating ‘bits’ about Covent Garden, so much so that I was desperate to visit and truly regretted my pathetic touristy skills as a 19 year old working in a hotel on Sloane Street catching 3 tubes each way to work before working out in my final days that I could have walked in 40 mintues (killer). My Spanish improved (thanks to Spanishdict.com) as did my English (thanks to dictionary.com) but you see, sensa wifi world these days, hours, painful moments were sat upon dear compu in the discomfort of my home down the road on a wooden bench comforted only by the one cushion we own and a hot water bottle between yours truly and the very erect wall.

So, when I discovered those 18 minutes ago about oficina dear oficina being a Royal Mile fountain of information (did I mention I foolishly said yes to a second week of stress and madness and let her give me Edimburgo?) because the password santelmo made it through the floor it made me happy. Yes happy. Booze has run out and the pudding is tough. Bugger. Speaking of tough I learnt today that when the poms burnt down the garden markets in Edimburgo it was referred to as “rough wooing” because Henry of the headchopping fame wanted to marry off his son to the then baby babe Mary to be Queen of Scots. I guess the answer was no.

I don’t want to go home.

I must tell you bits about Brasil but another day.

I can’t belive it Harrie, what synchronicity!….. I was just about to tell you about piano progress and what do you know? Somewhere Over the Rainbow just came on my radio station. Awwwww. It is/has been/was/will forever be my very first song in piano lesson. Awwwwww.

One week ago exactamente my Yamaha p-95 keyboard arrived and piano progress is progressing far more fabulously. I was kind of ignoring Judy (Garland) ‘cos the second part had all these skanky looking chords and the whole thing was making me use a different unknown skill (reading music) as opposed to the delicious memorise and improvise skill I have been learning with my various ostinattos. Today I got given ostinatto numero 10. Yeah baby.

Anyway, she now sounds like a piano and the keys don’t bounce and jump like they did on ‘shouldn’t knock it too hard’ tin Casio that we are giving away to Georgie’s 4 year old nephew Bautista. I have been practising daily if not bidaily (I dedicate that word to you dear Harrie.., hang on! I have the internet, let me see if she exists….they have turned their internet off. Fair enough, good to know.) Makes sense as I have a fusebox in my oficina oficina which I have been told to try to remember to switch off when not in use. It’s quite useful really, I can leave the lot on and turn only one thing off. Is that dodgy practice? I do pull the 400 year old heater out of the wall because she looks ready to blow at any second but the rest is working by the one-switch method.

Got a new song today. Did I tell you that I am coming home for the month of November? And I know I didn’t tell you that I am bringing the lazy non-plate dishing slob with me for 3 of the weeks that I am there. Reason I mention it is that Marcelo Katz says I have to have a concert prepared for my homecoming. She starts with Somewhere Over the Rainbow of course. I think the concert will be just for my mummy and my daddy (proud of their 37 year old daughter won’t they just be?) but you just never know, I may pull out a repeat solo performance.

I was actually wondering if we might be able to come and visit you and the houndlets for a night. What do you think? I’m looking forward to it actually, especially now that the family have all met him and he has met them all and my friends are lovely. I am nervous about the gay boys though and wish I wasn’t. They can be a bunch of bitches sometimes and Georgie’s English is rough and to some he will sound like a twit and I can hear them teasing him behind our backs. Terrible, isn’t it, that I think that …but I do.

We arrive November 2, he leaves 22^nd and I leave 28^th.

It is so much more fun to write to you than to translate the Royal Mile into 100 words in Spanish. My Spanish is rough at the best of times, and it is somewhat on the depressing side when you have lived in a country for a couple of years and still produce work equivalent to that of a 3 year olds’. Good for me though, so I keep telling myself.

I have been writing you letters, well, oneliners, for weeks. Just always in the shower or on the subte (subterranean metro network) or strolling through a park and shorthand notes just don’t cut it later. Recording devices sound embarrassing and I lose the lines. Of course they seem positively brilliant at the time.

Guess what>!>!>!??!? The night before last night Georgie put the Olivetti ink ribbon that I had I found, badly, into the machina de escribir and I typed a three-page letter to my old man for his birthday , which was yesterday. I say badly, for the faxing idea (so that it would arrive for the 19^th Mayo) was soon to be obselete (I sent her anyway) as 3 lines in and the ink desapareció. Vanished. The strength in my fingers was enough to leave an imprint so the original I will send tomorrow will be legible if not a little tardy but yeah, I say badly for I had it confirmed today that one does not need to manually move the ink along which is what Miss Ross here did as she realised the illegibility of her ancient document. I really had it down by page three, about 4 lines before I said adios.

Am now home and this is to be continued but just in case it takes me some time I shall it post it up to you.

Lots of love from me to you beautiful one

k xxo

Darling Harrie

My dearest Harrie

How are you?

It is nearing the end of another week here in Buenos Aires and I am well.

I bought a typewriter.  Yes, yes it is true.  You suggested it and I saw it.  It is red and she is called Valentine.

I spotted her Saturday morning in Parque de los Andes.

I had been stood up that morning by Georgie’s mate Matias.

Matias’ parents have a printing press and he wants to (for he has always wanted to) start a magazine. He has enlisted me as interviewer-of-street-artists extraordinaire and Saturday was the second time he fucked me and my artist around. I would like here to mention the undeniable pain of Saturday combined with early and I have decided to hold a grudge.

So, grudgingly and now awake, I stormed off to my antique treasure park trove stumbled upon one Saturday last year attending an odd singing meditation nearby.

I was a bit early. But Harrie, I was not too early for my Valentine for it is never to early for my Valentine.

He said she was “barbaro” when asked of her potential. Wicked, fabulous, brilliant, the best. And, while I didn’t really believe him I didn’t really care. She is lovely. I took her home and Georgie and I and Ed have been looking at her for the week and stabbing the occasional single key and pushing various bits from side to side.

I am really rather pleased with myself.

I almost jammed the poor girl but she is fine and I have promised to slow down. She seems to have everything but the number one and who wants a one anyway?  Not me and certainly not Valentine.

I did mention she was red, did I not?

Trying my best to manage my expectations I was simply assuming she was not to put print to paper.  And then on Tuesday Georgie shoved in a piece and off he went.  It was faint as a whisper but it was.  And, living a little in the dark ages here, there is almost certainly to be ancient yet untouched Olivetti ribbon in town and said ribbon has made to the “big things” list along with a piano keyboard with heavy keys (not to mention all of them).

Autumn has struck and scarves and legwarmers are closer to getting a look-in. Thank Christ.

It dropped from a very heavy and demanding 29 degrees to a very bitter but delicious 13 degrees Saturday evening.

That afternoon, having delivered Valentine safely to her new digs, and just as I was heading off to give my graffiti tour the most magnificent storm broke out.

I invited the lover along for the ride and we stopped off at our local and Argentina’s most famous plaza, Plaza de Mayo, to pick ourselves up a fresh, black, large and lovely, functional umbrella to calm down my brolly envy and headed for the meeting point on the other side of town.

Jonny, my boss and mate, phoned on the way saying 9 of the 17 had cancelled the minute they heard the first slap of thunder but to still head on in as there are often some “hardcorers” that we mustn’t forget.

We were so soaked but we both adore the rain and it wasn’t yet freezing so we marched happily on.

No-one rocked up to the tour which was sad for them as the rain had turned off by the time our subterranean transport had arrived.  Buenos Aires was living up to its name for a mini-second (Good Airs); all deliciously calm and cool.  So we waited, left and proceeded slowly to the Galeria Turbo for a promised parade of absurdity.

The gallery is run by the Doma collective; four friends who mix up street art, illustration and graphic design. Every tour we give the graffitimundo punters a peak in to Turbo to get an idea of how street art exits the street.

Turbo closes this week after three years for the rent has climbed beyond their reach. T** translate turbo spiel

They have decided to go virtual and odd and late Saturday afternoon, after a violent and mad good thunderstorm Doma/Turbo launched their new look act with one very wonderful farewell welcome to the new world street parade fiesta.

I thought we’d be too early having learnt the hard and lonely way to say “no” to punctuality, so we headed for Home Hotel in Palermo Hollywood where it was rumoured I would find none other than an Espresso Martini **insert recipe discovered in Melbourne town a while back. Too good.

Palermo by the way is the popular bar, restaurant, nightclub and shopping area which was once just one suburb and now attaches its name to all those on who slink around its borders.  It is big like Bondi when you put all the bits together and boasts such wrongo names as Palermo Hollywood, P. Soho, P. Queens and P. Viejo (old).  Hollywood has a television station and is the most swanky of the lot though with one look of Turbo and her carnies you might think otherwise.

My interviewee artist, Franco (codename Jaz), whispered to me last week that it was dressup so Georgie and I put on our minimalist “squeeze it in your handbag just in case outfits” and headed into the crowd.  I don’t normally touch coffee so I was, I believe, in terrific form with just the right amount of jumping and dancing energy a girl might require. Trashed on coffee.

The Doma crew make some really excellent toys and, with their colourful sewing skills, had organised outfits for the party.  Nice one fellas.

Beers and a spliff and masks and music and dancing and parading and a celebration of time well enjoyed and galleries going weird.  And then we began to walk.  And walk and dance and walk and dance…

Friends held handpainted happy faced lollipop stop signs for the traffic and midway we stopped at a park where the fireworks were so bad they just let out a bang and gave no light, one of my favourite parst.  They were followed up with ones that worked which I guess were crowdpleasing impressive but give me the dodgies any day.

It was super lovely work and I am putting it down as one my favourite days since landing in town two years ago.

Our “just in cases” by the way, proudly worn and admired, were one black, curly, afro wig, snipped nicely by the hairdresser a while back for his farewell “wig party” at the old salon and one extremely adored, hand-painted sailor’s hat made for the very same occasion.  We were looking hot mate, hot.

I had more piano today.  Thursdays at 1 o’clock.  I love it and he gives me new material each week if I do my “tarea” and I feel like a little girl getting a praise.

And I was thinking about the territory I must walk to get there, and how different it is from my usual “caminatas” around my hood of San Telmo and the city and Palermo.  I try to extend it and succeed every so often (bring on the bike hey?) especially at 1pm on Thursdays when I head for Marcelo Katz’s place.

Marcelo lives on the edge of dodgy.

He on the edge of 3 barrios; Villa Crespo otherwise known as Palermo Queens, La Paternal the motor parts only hood and Chacarita famous for a famous cemetery.  It feels rough and it is rough.

My one hour journey ends with a twenty minute walk from my musical typewriter corner Parque de Los Andes were there are several signs saying “basta! enough of the thieves!”

When I reach the end of my park I must follow Calle Jorge Newbery (an aviator) to the left and go alongside the side, the long, long side of the cemetery till I reach the train tracks.

I pass a repetitive collection of flower sellers selling mostly very ripe bunches,  perfect for leaving on the graves of the dead. There are three or four Parrillas which is a restaurant serving barbequed cow cuts, chook or chorizos, sometimes thrown bread and called milanesa or suprema.  Parilla are coal driven and sit charmingly on most Argentine streets on curbs or in them.

I have sat at one more than once and not once at any other and now say hello to the two old boys turning the meat and attending to the tables. Old men more commonly run the show in Argentine restaurants, slow and tired yet efficient and extremely charming. Women are more likely spotted in more modern hipster Palermo-ian joints.

My Italian friend just dropped in to drop off my “Writing down the Bones” book. In a super rush as she realised today that she flies out tomorrow we spoke briefly of charming Argentine men (she was in a bit of a rush). She admitted to having an affair with one married with children.

While she fought with the idea of the sisterhood and naughtiness (she is a lawyer by trade) she said he treats her like such a princess, such a woman, that she held on for she missed it.

Georgie is the same.  I am always considered first, always a princess, his angel, his amor. He is forever incredibly sweet with foot or back massages and ham and cheese combinations with the good humour that makes it more than bearable. Argentine men are also well known for doing the dirty on their lovers.

Charming  dodgy Argentines, I do digress.  I was on the piano strip heading for my weekly favourite hour past rough restaurants with rough tucker and rough looking customers taking a break from mending motors that have no doubt seen half a century at least.

To the other side of the road I cross as I near the train tracks.   The other side of the road where there is simply one enormous, grey wall sprinkled with tags and slogans and the occasional entrance/exit inside of which is extraordinary. There are trees and green grass lining Jorge Newbery and as I reach the tracks I see and hear once again the woman who sells icypoles to the cars, always no doubt getting a greater chance when they must stop for the train.  They put the boom gate down so early here, it is a bit too safe.

And there is the family who live there by the tracks and by the wall.  The cemetery finishes at the tracks and Marcelo’s house is just over the road, Avenida Warnes. There are sometimes very young children running barefoot and filthy and there are always dreadful looking dogs sleeping on eaten mattresses.  It is depressing and I try not to look their way, though often I do.

I cros the tracks, walk the final half a block selling and fixing windshields and tyres and there suddenly, in the midst of all this grime and death and food and poverty is one white door marked with black bars. I must ring the bell and wait to be buzzed in.

My mother loves a cemetery and I too now have a fascination. They are always so peaceful, so quiet.  Every now and then, after class, I make my way through Cementario Chacarita taking the long cut to the subte.

It is fascninating, and while most people crowd into the Recoleta Cemetary to catch a glimpse of Eva Peron’s humble tomb, I like to stroll through Chacarita.

Bodies upon bodies upon bodies in the same little hut.  Not a hut, a house.  No, not a house but an…opening.   A tomb. Yeah, you got ‘em Ross, a tomb. We put our lot in the ground. Half f this lot are in the ground but they are stacked on shelves.  They might have their own shelf or one shelf might hold four or five caskets bang on top of the other.

And I can see into their underground and there is a ladder and there is water at the bottom and, well, if it wasn’t so creepy, I tell you I’d be climbing down.

Today I did not enter and waiting at the end of my wide treelined dodgy piano strip were a bunch of people all dressed in yellow and holding banners. “Equal pay for equal work”. And quite right too.  They used the word “tarea” for work, a word I have only heard referenced to homework so I found it hard to take them seriously and they called themselves “Guardia Auxilio”, the Help Guards.

There are so many marches here I can’t keep up.

Yesterday Georgie and I finally finally successfully and ecstaticly borrowed Macri’s bikes and got to cycle down Avenida de Mayo.

It was closed to cars for there was a march up at Congress for Las Malvinas (sshshhh, don’t say Falklands) and we did some wheelies on this most magnificent stretch of five lanes and delicious buildings.  One old fellow spotted us and shouted out to Georgie “give it some!” “we are giving it some!!” Lovely. My first cycle in BsAs and I am happy.  I have been scared of mad Argentines who have a vast array of hand/arm/head/voice signals to anyone daring to cross their path as well as my boring back so haven’t been brave but the crook Macri, who had promised to extend the subte, has recently begun to lend us all bikes.  There will be no subte extension for the time being.

There are 15 *** count) stations all over town and once registered (only took three attempts) you can take one for two hours and drop it off at any station you like.

There are posters all over the place informing the public about the money you’ll save and the fun you’ll have.  No mention yet of any environmental reasons but I’ve got an eye out and now that we’re “in” we might just cycle some more.   * photo posters**

If you take it back post 120 minutes you are forbidden to borrow a bike for one week. If you are tardy four times you’re out of the game.  Bit rough.  And if it gets pinched you have to cough up $1500; a helluva lot around these parts if you imagine it is equivalent to two weeks rent of my entire joint.

what with the police trip to prove and then the electician turning up as we did so the printer didn’t work and we couldn’t prove legit)

 

Darling Harrie

Darling Harrie girl

How are you dear one?

I am well and pottering along.

Got invited to my Japanese mate Tomoko’s house on Sunday and have been inspired to cook once more.  I am nervous to say it out loud for when I do it stops dead in its tracks but yes, I am at the beginning of a bit of a bout of cooking.  Doesn’t last too long and the attacks come in most infrequently.  It seems I am working myself up to the use of heat (now that really is cooking) but I put together a batch of muesli, I put sun-dried tomatoes in a jar of oil, and I soaked chickpeas.  All mini morsels leading the brave way to something surely large. Surely.

Georgie with hangover yesterday ordered a mountain of food so Chickpea Surprise was no longer needed for dinner. I cooked them up anyway, with the previoulsly roasted garlic I might add (oh, just watch me go!), and spent the next hour or four mashing them with first the potato masher and then individually with a fork.

Argentine pace.

Once forked I shoved them in small batches into the largest and narrowest plastic jug in the one kitchen cupboard at our disposable (I miss cupboards) and set to them with the egg beater.  My mother thinks that only Australia knows the design of the eggbeater and arrived with one last October. I christened it last night.

Far from the creamy dip you’ll find at Fatimas and Habibis mine was chock full of whole chickpeas and the house at breakfast was most pleased; hommus on toast topped with cherry tomato. It is a good day.

We are at the end of a four day weekend.  Carnaval. Brilliant. They have a fair few public holidays around here.  It is actually kind of absurd how many there are and how very rarely they know what each is  for.  This whopping long weekend is the first holidiay for Carnaval in 30 years, and the first since the dictatorship in the late 70’s. The local Governor, an apparent crook called Macri, is trying to revive the cultural tradition of Carnaval. Days off are always a crowd pleaser for sure.

We ate food from Honduras on Sunday and caught a parade on Saturday night.  The famous Avenida de Mayo links Government House with Congress and is as impressive an avenue as any and there is often a bit of action to be found.

We fucked up a bit and kind of missed most of the dancing and singing and costumes but what I did witness for the first time is the spray can attack of the Argentine. 5000 people each armed with a can (King Monkey she be called) of fake snow which would in turn be blurted in the faces, torsos, and ears of complete strangers. The first to get us was a young girl, about 7, who just slammed us right in the face, hair, chest.  She was about to go back for a second round but I put my hand up and gave her the look.  She nodded in complete understanding and held back (good woman) but later I realised what a bad sport I had been.  Everyone was at it.

Apparently in Brasil they are all kissing each other and I’m not sure which I’d rather as  each has its own version of stranger interaction.  Unforeseen stranger interaction always puts me ill at ease.

And you can imagine the voluminous hairdresser dealing with all the snow baubles fast drying in his precious locks.

I spent about half an hour fascinated by a neverending battle between parents and children. It would die down only to be ignited by a 4 year old.  Then it would be all on once more.

The theme was all Uruguayan and Dominican.

And there was this dancer with this bum… I was well mesmerised.

Marcelo Katz gave me my first song this week; Somewhere Over The Rainbow.  Wicked. This is the beginning of reading music and it is exciting but tricky and have I before mentioned that Judy and I share a birthday?

Have you heard of this French character JR? What amazing work hey? Find him on Youtube or at ted.com if you haven’t, he just put out a film called Women are Heroes and I reckon his work is remarkable.

We have a new flatmate Ed.  Another of Englands’ fine stock who sings in the shower, loves tea and toast more than the average camper and doesn’t speak a word of Spanish so Georgie is in constant conversation class.  Perfecto. Hugo didn’t drink tea, not that I want to compare the two lads but, well, Hugo didn’t drink tea.

I began studying Portuguese yesterday.  Didn’t get too far but I found the books and went so far as to open one and erase the previous students’ answers. Certainly a word or two slipped in to the brain while I was at it.  Bom dia? Sue Kirsty. I am almost fluent you might say.

Victor is in here trying to break a smallish paadlock.  WD40,  a hammer and a screwdriver. So is this how to break in Argentine style.  Think he just smashed a finger, heard a mild groan.

It is International Dia de la Mujer (Day of the Woman) today and I am unsure of my place in the world. Is that Ok dear Harrie?

I returned home for lunch of, por supuesto, eggwhipped hommus and couldn’t relax to lie down afterwards.  Guilt siesta?  I can’t be at home without trying to neaten up the joint. And then I just feel like a pain in the arse.  I taught Georgie pain in the arse this week, bad move as he keeps labelling me one.

I am keen to read in here, but in a way it feels like not working. Studying?  Avoiding writing. The creative stories are always weird and if not super dull and I find it hard to ditch the editor in me. I’ll keep at it though, and keep the chin up.  Morning pages are getting a look in 5 days a week.

“Casi casi” almost almost, he says with the lock.

I could drill today as Felix next door has one to lend me but I hinted at “help” to no avail. Improve the ditz or learn yourself Ross.  I’m going to have to bring Georgie in on it.  While I love and adore him spare time is spent on Facebook or Southpark episodes and that is ok. Sometimes it is not and I fear that we will never, could never, mightn’t ever achieve anything together both being so siesta loving, but that is ok. It drives me mad though, but that is ok. It is ok isn’t it?

I am without that little plastic bit for the wall and its hole.  I also haven’t a clue as to how to put up a curtain rod. .  Do you use a ruler and a pencil?  Am I a twit?  Maybe I could ask youtube…how do you put up a curtain rod?  Embarassing yes.

I began Virginia Woolfe’s A Room With A View this week s per your instruction.  How beautifully she writes and am I mistaken or does she have a good sense of humour? All women need is money and a room of their own.  I have both. But what to do with this room, what to do.  A good space I have, though marked with the direction of a rambler obsessed. I shall read on.

Organic. Isn’t that what they call that these days.  An organic space in which to create organically my organic creativity.   All I need is to add “urban” to the bill and my tosser status is complete.

The space, as long as I turn up, will inevitably become a something space. Learning, writing, playing, drinking cups of tea.  I have books, I have a radio, I have a sink, and I have coloured pencils and paper.  I have a stamp pad and I have a playschool paint palette.

I have been gobbling down an uncooked brownie since Victor’s departure. The lock is now out of action, the window open and the joint unlockable.  I may as well be licking the wooden spoon from the bowl it is so very gooey.  Can’t be good for you and while I feel rough and wish I hadn’t started it glares at me and begs me to finish off the job.

Finished.

Someone practices. Is it an oboe?  Very high pitched wind in any case. I wonder is it a lesson or is it practice?

I practised piano this morning without headphones (volume super low) and as the oboe is not at all distracting or painful I might do the same again tomorrow when practice calls.

Handyman-ness is being held off it seems as I’ll miss 3/5 of the course due to Brasil escapades and, while I’ll be the dunce of the class particularly language wise, I felt awkward about missing the second class only to rock up one month later wondering still forgetting the word for sink.

Not doing so many tours as the tourists, while still here, are not as still here as they were.

I met two gay boys on a tour the other day.  They are travelling around the world living in different places for 90 days at a time…91days.com I checked it out, good photos. I wondered could I do the same but I would need to be touristy.  Could be fun.

And I confirmed once more on Saturday that cameras and I are not great mates.  Fuck I take a bad, rushed, dreary photo.  So nervous about crashing into someone’s life if and when I do take the photo of a stranger that it is generally of them chewing or saying a fascinating “ah”.

Dar one the sun is dropping and I think we have plans to play poker this evening so I had best be off.

Oh, and then there was the blackout that just confirmed it.  How suddenly heavy the air is without a fan breathing down your neck.

Give all my love to the rascals

k xxo