Miramar, Argentina – For a long time now I haven’t posted here. Mostly it’s because I was waiting to have some masterpiece to offer and, as of yet, nothing masterful has come to me. I realized recently, however, in my embarrassed silence when friends have asked if I’ve been writing, or in my sinking stomach when I saw this long-untouched site bookmarked as a favorite on my Mom’s computer, that the most important thing is to write, to pay attention and share what I see and how I see it. To use words to narrow all this distance.
I met a nice woman once who read some of my work. She told me she really liked what she read, but that she was more interested in seeing the rough draft. She wanted to see the scribbled out parts, the uncensored path I took to get to that too-perfect package I finally revealed to the public. So here it is, for Lauren and for anyone still interested enough to read this (Mom), here is the mess.
This place is like any other summer vacation spot one can find around the world. Warm weather, beaches, sunny skies, open sea with alternating tides and waves and all the recreational activities one can do with these things. Everything summertime you can imagine is here (except, of course, Philly water ice and soft pretzels). There are locals, super-obvious in their disdain for the tourists they’ve been waiting all year to take advantage of. There are the tourists, from all over Argentina, who I’m only just now beginning to be able to tell apart, but whom Fede can spot in a second. Then there’s me, half-awkward, half-exotic for being from someplace else altogether. Somehow this gives me a bit of an edge: I’m not the typical porteño from Buenos Aires and not just some other countryfolk from inside the country, less pretentious but still annoying to the people who live here year round. Truth is, no one knows quite what to make of me. One of my yoga students back in BsAs who is from Scotland called me courageous for coming to teach classes in Miramar. I didn’t understand completely until I showed up. The yoga students from Tucuman who took my first class ‘in Castellano’ said they enjoyed the class, but after some of my attempted explanations of postures (como un gato con muuuucho miedo!) truthfully probably think I’m a little bit off. The people in the supermarkets, when they hear my strange accent, look at me a sort of funny and speak extra slow (I’m still not sure if it’s because they think I am). The only person I’ve met so far who speaks English is an eccentric old man who says he used to write books for a living but now just writes for his friends. Quite an inspiration he was. He thought it was interesting that I’m trying to live here, but was more interested in my foreign dog.
Fede is having an easier time, even being an Argentine tourist. He’s taking photos for a surf school on the beach, a job he wrangled up within two days of our arrival. My classes are moving along slowly, but my Castellano is improving quickly for the sudden immersion. I’ve been practicing yoga regularly and reading both Spanish and English in large quantities with all the space and time. It’s turning out to be a mini-retreat of sorts, perhaps exactly what we need does come at just the right time. I’m finding myself writing lots more.
Just two weeks in, I sense a definite pulse that emanates uniquely from this place. I’m beginning to feel the vibe. The other afternoon, the hottest day of the summer so far, while reading in the shade of a tree by the small lake in Parque Mar, some smooth reggae reached out to me from across the water and had me tapping my toes and craving an ice cold beer. The beaches are mobbed with children playing and people vending all the things you want, and even some things you don’t, while hanging out at the beach. This afternoon, in THE empanada place on the peatonal, one of the cooks was drumming out the beat to a cumbia song blaring overhead on the metal cooktop with his metal spatulas. While I wouldn’t dare to call more attention to myself, I wanted to dance while I waited.
Miramar is very Latino for sure, but also distinctively Argentine. I’m awoken at 4am some nights by electronic music blaring from cars outside waiting to pick the neighbor UP to go out. My Spanish is good enough now that I confidently call out the window to tell the driver to turn it down in correct Castellano (though no self-respecting Argentine would ever think to do this, not even Fede’s 85-year-old abuelo). Fede laughs at this and says I’m getting old. Last night, another neighbor across the way kept us up as he told stories way too loud to whoever sat with him listening and laughing equally loud. Wide awake at 3am after too long trying to sleep, we went out walking in search of ice cream and actually found it. We were far from being the only people in the street. Many were just getting out.
There was barely a soul on the beaches today, those same ones usually packed like sardines. The weather is grey and windy, cool, the waves excitedly churning and applauding the coming of the full moon. You can feel the change about town as many of the January vacationers start the trek home and February rolls in. Fede came home from his morning run laughing about those few staring out at the too active sea, obviously either saying goodbye til next year or hallelujah after so long. We sidestepped the beach ourselves, opting to pass the day in the forest instead. As we drove back home and saw how the coast had taken herself back, at least for a day or two, I felt as grateful for the break from the quilombo as those newcomers who just arrived.
