Lip Stained Walls

My best friend Maria arrived in Cordoba the other week from Denver; she is here doing an independent project on dance and its influence in society. Wednesday evening we adventured out to our first tango class. Following the Cañada an old river that runs through the city we entered the art district; which is primarily occupied by hippies that vend their work on the street side and old antique stores bursting with vintage trinkets. The room began to fill, as the women took a seat to strap on their dance shoes. The sound of the ceiling fan was soon drowned out by the melody of tango music. We were told to rise and greeted by a kiss on the cheek. The dusty mirror, with a crack in the left had corner reflected the line of pupils from the other side of the room. We were ordered to walk, taking long strides back and forth across the dance floor we were taught the basic principles to tango. Afterwards, we were broken into groups of those who had tango experience and beginners. The teacher Marie told us to place our hands on the wall and practice a basic side turn front and back step. Concentrated on my feet I was oblivious to the lip stained imprint on the wall. As I begun to gain confidence I lifted my head catching a glance out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what could have been the story behind the imprint. Halfway through the class we took a break, even with the ceiling fans we couldn’t overcome the summer heat and resorted to dancing outside on the patio. I really felt as if I had tapped into the Argentine culture as the summer evening slipped into night. As a result of dancing bare footed my feet were stained black a slight reminder of the night’s activities.

Little Goodbye Notes…

A letter written to my friends Rani and Madi for their plane ride home to New Zealand…

Rani & Madi,

Its always sad to see friends off the un-longing fear of never crossings life’s paths again; but something tells me that I will find myself down under one day in New Zealand. The both of you cherish some of my fondest memories here in Argentina….star gazing in Calafate, tea cups and scrapbooked journals, the sweet sound of an acoustic guitar, and overwhelmingly large pots of pasta. Oh how the list goes on. As people turn the battered pages of my journal they always seem to encounter the picture of the six of us. I’m always more than delighted to tell the story of our friendship and our very distinct personalities. Lolly, the outgoing adventures one who’s laugh never seems to end. Rani, who serves as a constant reminder that true love, still exists. Lena, the kind & loving friend who you can always search refuge in or to provide a shoulder to cry upon. Francy, the quirky actress, who to all is secretly comic. Madi, who’s angel voice and mother mentality, can sing you to sleep. And me, somehow I fit into this contraption. We each fill the gaps, completing the other. As we set off on our different paths, we each offer something distinct in life. May we always remember the people Argentina taught us to be. Carry the valuable lessons you learned here wherever life might take you, as well as a cup of mate. May Argentina serve as a constant reminder of your young free spirited self. And as this letter comes to a close; I hope our friendship will not. Travel safely!

Besitos

Brookie

Christmas

For the last two weeks I had tried my hardest to create the Christmas spirit. I baked cookies on top of cookies, sewed stockings for my family, made a wreath; which unfortunately doesn’t work as well with palm leafs, and listened to Christmas music. Yet I failed in all my attempts; maybe it was the fact that I was walking around in shorts and t-shirt and dying from the summer sun; or the lack of or practically nonexistent Christmas lights. The only place that felt remotely like Christmas was the shopping malls were decorations could be found in ever store front window. The festivities began on the 24 as the entire family gathered in my grandmother’s house; there must have been around 35 of us. The food never ended a blend of Armenian and Argentine dishes took up three tables. Every aunt tried to make me feel comfortable while insuring me that I hadn’t tried there dish yet and stuffing a third helping down my throat. At midnight fireworks illuminated the sky, as well as little paper hot air balloons that would float away into the night until catching fire leaving a pile of ashes to float down. Considering that it was technically Christmas day at this time we gathered in the house to open gifts. The week before I had learned to sew and made almost all my gifts; embroidered towels, an apron, stockings ect… My favorite gift was a painting done by my young talented cousin of a gaucho on horseback riding off into the sunset; it now resides on my bedside table. Dessert lasted till around three in the morning when the elders started to head home. The younger generation got together with all the Armenian youth for another party. For the most part it included a lot of drinking (I not included) and horrible singing; the attempted Christmas carols came out as mumbles and screeches till 7 in the morning. The 25 is spent recuperating and sleeping till around noon. At lunch a small portion of the extended family met at my cousins to make pizza on the grill and swim. Another Christmas had passed by. Surely one the strangest I will probably ever take part in. Yet I loved it being surrounded by family something my childhood had lacked and breaking away from Americas materialistic Christmas was liberating. I had found the true Christmas spirit when I had given up looking for it.