I like to be alone. I like going to places by myself; wander around in a museum, a market, the zoo or the city without anyone waiting for me; observing other people; hearing myself think and being aware of my feelings and my feelings alone. I like to be together with other people too. I like to meet people; do stuff, hang around, talk, laugh, share things. Being around other people can be fun, inspiring, comforting and being around friends is even better. Making friends isn’t easy. It’s not something you just go up and do. Making friends has more to do with becoming friends. When I look back at the way I met my friends in Holland we kind of just bumped into each other at school, at work or somewhere else. Sometimes we just unintentionally spent a lot of time together, doing the same thing, when we realised it was fun to be around each other and so we decided to see each other even more. Making friends in a foreign country maybe a little more difficult. You don’t know the language, you don’t know the codes and you at first might just not be the ‘you’ you are used to be. Making friends in a foreign city is even a bigger challenge. In the city people are busy, they live fast-paced lives in which they have little time and everything is set. People in the city seem to know what they want, what to do and when and where to do it. In the city there is less time to just spend looking, wandering, connecting, giving things a chance. I came to Buenos Aires because seven years ago I saw myself, one day, spending four months in Buenos Aires writing a book. I am the kind of girl that likes to believe some visions are to be taken seriously so I waited and waited and eventually the time felt right for me to book a flight. I didn’t really think about anything else. I was going where I was supposed to go. I arranged for a place to stay and a place to learn Spanish and that was it. Two months have gone by and half my time here is spent. How could I have known I would be feeling so lucky ending up at a language school like Amauta? Even though I thoroughly enjoy walking around town alone, sitting on park benches, watching birds take flight whenever a child comes crossing by, I do need other people around me here. Being far away from home, learning a new language, trying to be yourself and at the same time trying to fit in, it all does something to you. Something you really need to share, to talk about, to laugh and sometimes cry about, together. At my school I not only spend time listening and learning, I also spend time having fun with other students and some of them have become my friends. Friends I really need sometimes because I feel a little blue, insecure or just up to no good. And so we talk, we giggle, go out and have the time of our lives, together. PS The picture was taken by Ole Gunnar Onsøien by the way.

I like to be alone. I like going to places by myself; wander around in a museum, a market, the zoo or the city without anyone waiting for me; observing other people; hearing myself think and being aware of my feelings and my feelings alone.

I like to be together with other people too. I like to meet people; do stuff, hang around, talk, laugh, share things. Being around other people can be fun, inspiring, comforting and being around friends is even better.

Making friends isn’t easy. It’s not something you just go up and do. Making friends has more to do with becoming friends. When I look back at the way I met my friends in Holland we kind of just bumped into each other at school, at work or somewhere else. Sometimes we just unintentionally spent a lot of time together, doing the same thing, when we realised it was fun to be around each other and so we decided to see each other even more.

Making friends in a foreign country maybe a little more difficult. You don’t know the language, you don’t know the codes and you at first might just not be the ‘you’ you are used to be.

Making friends in a foreign city is even a bigger challenge. In the city people are busy, they live fast-paced lives in which they have little time and everything is set. People in the city seem to know what they want, what to do and when and where to do it. In the city there is less time to just spend looking, wandering, connecting, giving things a chance.

I came to Buenos Aires because seven years ago I saw myself, one day, spending four months in Buenos Aires writing a book. I am the kind of girl that likes to believe some visions are to be taken seriously so I waited and waited and eventually the time felt right for me to book a flight. I didn’t really think about anything else. I was going where I was supposed to go. I arranged for a place to stay and a place to learn Spanish and that was it.

Two months have gone by and half my time here is spent. How could I have known I would be feeling so lucky ending up at a language school like Amauta? Even though I thoroughly enjoy walking around town alone, sitting on park benches, watching birds take flight whenever a child comes crossing by, I do need other people around me here. Being far away from home, learning a new language, trying to be yourself and at the same time trying to fit in, it all does something to you. Something you really need to share, to talk about, to laugh and sometimes cry about, together. At my school I not only spend time listening and learning, I also spend time having fun with other students and some of them have become my friends. Friends I really need sometimes because I feel a little blue, insecure or just up to no good. And so we talk, we giggle, go out and have the time of our lives, together.

PS The picture was taken by Ole Gunnar Onsøien by the way.

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My blogs up till now have been quite positive about Buenos Aires. This city is nice, it’s fun, it’s exciting and I’m having a wonderful time. Upon coming here one of my best friends in Holland (who is Argentine) had warned me about the city and its dangers. Don’t get noticed too much, do not flaunt your stuff, walk next to the houses not next to the street, don’t wear your bag next to the curb, they might drive by and grab it. I thought he was trying to scare me and it worked a little bit. My first weeks here I was really careful. I couldn’t really relax while in the bus or the subway. I didn’t use my headphones because I was afraid someone would steal it right of my head. But as time went by I got more comfortable. Things started to seem familiar; I could easily recognize places and sometimes-even faces from people I had seen before. I started to relax and it felt good. Some girls at school talked about being followed across the street and a few lost their purses because they weren’t paying attention but nothing really bad happened.

Last week I got an invitation. Would I like to be part of the Masa Critica Nocturna? ‘Bici si, Auto no!’ is what it‘s all about. Reclaiming the streets, showing off the advantage of bikes over cars and having fun with two thousand other people. After months of not riding a bike I was happy to be invited to the biggest collective bike ride of Buenos Aires. We gathered at ‘el obelisco’ on a Thursday at nine. A tremendous amount of fun-loving, green-enthusiasts was standing round lots and lots of rather strange looking bikes; mostly old and rusty but multicolored and some with speakers attached or baskets for selling empanadas or tartas. Were they waiting for a sign? I didn’t now and my Argentinean friend didn’t either. Everybody was chatting, drinking, eating, laughing and listening to Bob Marley and the Wailers. Then all of a sudden some people began to move and slowly everybody got on to their saddle. Where were we heading off too? I had no idea. I followed the ones in front of me and before I knew it we were crossing the biggest street of Buenos Aires. What a wonderful feeling! It felt almost euphoric seeing all the taxis, busses and cars stopping and waiting for us to pass by. There was no police escort. Being with this many people was enough to make people stop and stare and wait in awe. On the sidewalk people were taking pictures and we were all waving and cheering. Green lights, red lights, it didn’t matter. The streets were ours and there was nothing anybody could do about it. It felt like I was part of a bigger than life Chinese dragon with only fireworks missing. We came through places I had never seen before. We passed streets I had only seen while on the bus. We rode and rode and it was so much fun. The atmosphere was great and I was happy to be alive, right then and there.

After an hour or so we embarked upon the autopista. My god, biking on the freeway! Did I ever think I would be…? But could anything happen? Probably not, I said to myself. We were with so many! Leisurely I crossed the four lanes. On the other side of the freeway cars were hurrying by but on our side it was all peace and quiet. ‘That is were the poor people live.’ My friend pointed at some houses on the other side of the freeway. There were no lights so I couldn’t see much but I could make out lots of little stone cots. No windows, no doors, just bricks on bricks with some kind of roof on top. Clothes hanging on lines, dogs barking and people leaning over to look at us.

How strange this must seem to them, I wondered. Normally they would be seeing a bunch of cars swerving by and now there was this big body of slowly moving people on bikes, singing and yelling, listening to music, having fun. I felt uneasy. I’d been in India where I’d seen poverty up close and personal but this felt like we were rubbing it in, the difference between rich and poor, between them and us.

A few meters in front of me two guys stood by our side of the freeway. Apparently they had crosses the first four lanes and now they were looking at us. What where they doing there? One of them was wearing a blue shirt. His hair was short. He was looking and looking and all of a sudden he ran forward and grabbed the girl that had just passed him by. Her bike came to a sudden stop, she flew backwards and without even knowing what hit her she saltoed onto the ground. Then everything went really quickly. Somebody in front of her turned round, jumped of his bike, grabbed it over his head and started banging it into the guy who tried to rob the girl. People started yelling and screaming, rocks were being thrown and I was heading in the wrong direction because the scene was coming awfully close. I had to get out of there. Behind me people thought the same so we all drove off and made for the other side of the freeway. Cowardly paddling as if our life depended upon it. But what about the girl and what about the guy that tried to help her? I looked back as I passed them and saw a mob forming. There was fighting going on. I didn’t know what else to do but ride as fast as I could. Where was my friend? Where were we going?

After ten minutes or so I found my friend. She was standing by the side of the road, waiting for me. People everywhere were talking about the incident; outrage, sadness and nervous laughter while we biked along. We drove for another two hours. In the beginning in silence but quit quickly people started having fun again. People were yelling and screaming ‘Bici si, Auto no!’, almost as if nothing had happened. The euphoria was gone however. A kind of grim gloom came over us; the Masa Critica Nocturna was having fun again but it didn’t feel quit right.

Till today I don’t know what happened to the girl, or the guy who helped her out or the guys who tried to rob her. On the Masa’s Facebook hundreds of comments about the incident and the decision to embark upon the freeway popped up but all I can think about is that girl, riding a few meters in front of me. What was it about her that those guys chose her? And what is it about me that somebody else might choose me?

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So what do you do when you just watched an ‘Original Tango Show’ that sparked your imagination and got your energy going? You don’t just go home and sleep. Not in a city like Buenos Aires where you can go to the pharmacy all night long, buy a bouquet off flowers early in the morning while waiting for your 04.45 bus ride back to your barrio. After viewing a master Tango Show you end the night in style.

We didn’t know where to go but sometimes you just get lucky. After our evening at 36 billares we headed to the left down Avenida de Mayo. The streets here are long and sometimes have over 5000 numbers but what the heck, we where in the mood and willing to walk. We passed some places that seemed ok, but not quite perfect. We crossed the widest street in the world, which at night is much easier and less frightening than during daytime, and all of a sudden I saw a sign up ahead. Café Tortoni. I had read about it and there it was, the place where Carlos Gardel had spent so many nights of his life. It was midnight, the streets where quiet and the place looked closed. Could I really be passing Tortoni’s without being able to enter? We couldn’t look in because white curtains where obscuring our view so I peaked through the crack between the doors and to my surprise I saw light.

What a wonderful place! We entered and we went back in time; chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, wooden panels upon the walls, leather upholstery, pictures all around and waiters in dinner jackets with bowties. Did I die and go to heaven? There weren’t that many people. Was there something wrong? Weren’t we supposed to be there? In awe of all the grandeur we decided on a table in the middle of the room where we could oversee everything. A waiter came. Would he be telling us to go? Were they closing? Were we underdressed or just ‘not the right kind of people’? With a big smile he handed us each a menu. ‘What would you lovely people like to drink?’

We girls decided on cocktails (what else) and the guys drank Fernet con Cola like real porteños and we played cards till Tortoni’s closed. What a way to end the night and oh how I will visit this place again.

14 notes

I wrote earlier about not being able to get around Carlos Gardel while in Buenos Aires. Because I got Tango lessons for my birthday from my classmates at Amauta I thought I’d get to know the man a little better. Google helped me along (as it always does) but of course out there is where my learning should take place.

Sometimes I do things because they sound good even when I’m not really listening. Somebody at school said something about a school trip involving Tango and therefore (por eso in Spanish by the way) I registered to come along. Without knowing whereto exactly.

I have a vivid imagination. I once discovered my inner world is much greater than the world around me can ever be. Whenever I feel like it I can make up scenarios, stories, countries, people and places; all to my liking. Thinking about our school trip I imagined we would be going to an obscure, underground but must-see venue; the lights would be dimmed, through the smoke we’d see sheer black and shades of red and couples would embrace each other passionately while dancing this enigmatic sensual dance. And then –but off course- there would be this man. He would recognise me from a distance. Slowly but surely he would make his way across the room to invite me. His stretched out hand asking me to dance. And in my dreams I –naturally- would be able to dance this sensual dance as if I had done nothing else in my life but dance, dance, dance.

Things don’t always go the way I imagine. I’m 34, I know that now and it’s ok. I am happy to be experiencing things in my mind and in real life and it doesn’t all have to be the same. I went out off my way to buy me some pretty tango shoes just to be sure but I wasn’t that disappointed when I discovered we would be going to an ‘Original Tango Show’ to sit and eat while watching and listening instead of dancing.

Marissa, our Dutch ‘soccermom’ from school who’s responsible for organising the school trips, led the way to 36 billares*, a beautiful bar slash restaurant slash pool hall in the centre of the city. The camareros wore white, the tables where set and the band started as soon as we arrived; three elderly men playing piano, bandoleon and guitar. The room lights dimmed, a spotlight turned on and a young but troubled-faced man came upon the stage. He said nothing. In anticipation we waited and so did he. The music spoke to him or so it seemed because all of a sudden he answered in a painful whisper. A tango singer had taken the stage.

The young man stood in the spotlight and sang, his shiny suit glistening, when another spotlight swerved. Across the room stood a lovely couple; his jacket was tight, he’s hair cleanly cut and she wore a dress as long as her legs with a split up to her hips. A sight for sore eyes. They made their way to the stage, gracefully and quick and danced and danced and danced like I did in my dream.

I don’t know if I am any further in getting to know Carlos Gardel but my night out was more then lovely. I didn’t get to dance but now I am more then inspired to get me some of those dancing lessons. Maybe, maybe, maybe one day…

*The Lonely Planet says about ’36 Billares’: ‘It’s the #459 of 638 things to do in Buenos Aires; shoot pool with some elderly gents – or just catch a performance by a sultry singer in the main cafe – at this antique bar where the Argentine Billiards Association was born in 1926. The nightly tango show verges on the burlesque.’

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It has been six weeks since I started here at Amauta. Six weeks of learning new words, verbs and conjunctions. Six weeks of listening, studying and trying to talk. In Holland I’m very used to expressing myself. Online, offline, in person, on paper and in presentations I talk about myself, my work, the things I care about in a way I’m am comfortable with, that suits me.

I prepared myself before coming here as well as I could. I read books on Argentina’s history, I listened to Argentinean music and I made sure I had some names and numbers from locals to hang around with because someone had said to me ‘In Bs. As. it is more important who you know than what you know’.

I didn’t think about learning Spanish. I found a school, arranged for a ten-week course and got on the plane not realising what an ordeal it would be. Fun at first but as all new things you try to get a hold on, now it feels frustrating too. In the beginning I fell in love with new words every day. I was curious and willing to take it all in. Never minding the weather, the humidity and my one-hour bus ride to school. I was learning a new language!

Last week I made a confession to one of my classmates. I told her I felt a bit disappointed in myself. ‘Things aren’t going the way I want. I don’t seem to be able to take any more in. The things I think I learn during the day seem to seep out of my brain during the night because the next morning I’ve forgotten about them completely.’ She looked at me as if she knew what I was talking about but didn’t say a thing. ‘I feel like a dork sometimes when I hear myself speak.’ She nodded and I went on. ‘It’s like I’m a child and I don’t know anything about anything. People must think I’m stupid over here.’

And that is where the cat got out of the bag. I heard it’s little paws tap on the stone floor and all of a sudden I realised where my frustration was coming from. Off course it’s not easy learning a new language. All new things are hard to master. And off course I’m not going to be able to express myself the way I’m used to and that in itself is difficult to deal with but now it seemed I had an ego-problem to deal with as well.

Going to a foreign country to learn a new language and meet new people has lots of upsides. You get to be somebody else if you want to. Nobody knows you so you can start off fresh, be whoever you want to be without considering your history. But. When things get a little bit tougher, which things always do when you are learning a new thing or two, you have not much to fall back on. Not much but you.

‘Maybe I’m having a little bit of a bruised ego,’ I said to my classmate. She looked at me and smiled. What a revelation. Maybe learning a new language is like shedding your skin like a snake ever so often does. Stripped of the unessential, starting over clean and fresh. I don’t know but let’s keep on going…

Coming from Europe I’m used to seeing Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh, Da Vinci, Picasso and Dali, to name but of a few of our finest European painters. Their works of art are familiar to me and over the last couple of years I’ve learned a thing or two about them.

I grew up in a house full of paintings (my mother is a painter) and I work with young painters, sculptors and artists all the time but I still cannot say I’m an expert in art. I know what I like and that’s about it. But I can only know what I like from the things I’ve seen and here in Buenos Aires I’ve experienced a new kind of liking (don’t know if that’s a proper English phrase, but it will have to do).

At Amauta you get to learn Spanish four hours a day. Of course it’s best to practice what you’ve learned and therefore they organize free excursions to introduce you to the ‘real Argentina’. You can learn to play Truco, get to know the ins and outs on drinking Mate, prepare an Argentinean meal and, por ejemplo, go to one of the many museums in town.

The other day we went to Malba (or Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), which features the Costantini Collection. I didn’t know what to expect and maybe therefore I was pleasantly surprised. Malba is not a big museum like for instance the Rijksmuseum, the British Museum or the Louvre, but it holds a nice and, to me it seems, balanced collection of contemporary Latin-American Art.

I took my time, like I always like to do in a museum, and found myself smiling more than once while standing in front of some of the works. I don’t know why but MALBA made me feel happy. The colors, the images, the stories, the outrageousness, I liked it all. Maybe because it was all so very new to me or maybe, because I saw something I miss in the works of some of the European artists. To me they (the Europeans) all of a sudden seemed so very very serious without any child-like quality.

As I’ve stated I’m not an expert and anyone who is could probably explain as to why I felt happy looking at Tarsila do Amaral’s Abaporu and Alejandro Xul Solar’s Por su cruz jura and why I feel gloomy looking at Van Gogh’s Aardappeleters but it doesn’t matter. I felt happy and that’s what counts.

By the way: entrance on wednesday is free with a studentcard. Am I lucky i got one from Amauta… 

2 notes

There is no way you can get in and out of Buenos Aires without bumping into Carlos Gardel. Not in the flesh of course because he died in 1935 but through a song you hear on the radio, the humming of the man beside you in the colectivo, on a mural round a park somewhere or any other way people could think up to commemorate him. ‘Carlito’ is the king of tango and always will be according to everyone who has but a slight opinion about the subject. ‘His baritone voice embodies the true essence of tango and can never be surpassed’.

I am sorry to say I really don’t know much about him. I listened to Mercedes Sosa in preperation of my coming here, not to Carlos Gardel. But now I’m here I’m getting curious and because I got Tango lessons for my birthday from my classmates I want to get to know him. But where to start? Let’s do some Googlearse…

CarlosWiki the usual

Gardelweb extensive!

On Carlos Gardel’s trail nice personal (short) story

TodosCarlosGardel all video’s

The scent of a woman Carlos Gardel and Al Pachino

18 notes

I went to Buenos Aires to experience things, meet people and learn a new language. I never imagined I would be receiving a call from home telling me that an old friend had passed away. These things happen but nobody can tell you what to do when you find yourself in a suddenly very foreign city without your dearest friends to keep you sane and on your way. Luckily I was at Amauta when I got the call. Even though my fellow students and the teachers had only known me for just a couple of weeks everybody was more then willing to lend a hand. Commenting on my facebook, hugging me in the hallway. It felt good and I feel grateful to be spending my time at just the right place.

Yesterday however I felt like being alone. I wanted to clear my head but didn’t know where to go. Then I remembered this big white blob on the map of Buenos Aires. Right in de middle of this big city is an immense cemetery called Chacarita. It sounds like a cookie or a sensual dance but it actually is the place where most Porteños are buried. I don’t make a habit of visiting cemeteries but sometimes it’s the only place to find myself some serenity.

I took the 65 and got out at the beginning of Avenida Federico Lacroze where a majestic pink entrance showed me the way. I didn’t know what I was hoping to find other than the voice of my friend in the wind curling round my face. I always think of cemeteries as still places where hardly ever anyone appears. And although deep in the heart of Chacarita you are far away from Buenos Aires traffic and you can no longer hear the colectivos swerving past, Chacarita is not really a quiet place. Cars and even taxi’s ride off and on and people (mostly men) are working the grounds in the midday sun.

Chacarita is however a wondrous place with all its little houses for the dead. Rows and rows of old marble mausoleums full of plaques with declarations of everlasting love. You can walk for hours before you stumble upon the more recent graves. A totally different sight; wooden crosses, hardly any marble and mostly plastic flowers in small heaps of earth. And even though my visit to Chacarita didn’t bring me what I was looking for I think I will visit it again the coming months. Just to sit on that crooked little stone bench among a handful of beautiful trees right after the first plot of recent graves waiting for that one bumblebee that passed my way yesterday.

19 notes

Buenos Aires can be overwhelming at times. The pace, the traffic, the noise, the hustle and bustle can make even a true cosmopolitan feel the need to get away from it all and find a place to relax and enjoy without having to watch his step, pick up speed and check for coins.

Off course you can choose to leave town and go to the country, to the seaside or even further but…there also is a place, right in the hart of Buenos Aires, where you can find tranquillity and more. Imagine a place where it’s cool and quiet, where American Jazz Standards softly play, where you can sit for hours on end and find pathways to every part of this earth.

Avenida Santa Fe is one of the principal thoroughfares in Buenos Aires and considered one of the main shopping and strolling areas of the city. On number 1860 you will find the former Grand Splendid Theatre, which since 2000 holds the El Ateneo Bookstore. El Ateneo is not any kind of bookstore. It is the best bookstore I have ever seen. I’d heard about it, I’d seen pictures, but nothing could have prepared me for this sheer heavenly place. ‘I would live here if I could’, I whispered in aw to no one in particular, hoping someone with authority would hear me and arrange for it to happen. Like in a movie where a child ends up living in a chocolate-factory.

I am a writer. Books are like friends to me. They are loyal and kind; they smell good and contain infinite amounts of knowledge and wisdom. Some girls go shopping for clothes. I go shopping for books. Because books make me see things differently, spark my imagination, help me forget.

Today I needed to get away so I went to El Ateneo. ‘Why didn’t you visit this place sooner’, a friend asked. ‘You’ve been here long enough.’ I don’t know. If I could do it all over again I would. If I could go back in time I would visit El Ateneo on my first day in town. Ok, maybe on my second day, but soon.

The best thing about the place is that you can read books here without buying any. As a writer I shouldn’t say this but I like the fact that you can come in any time you like, grab your favorite book of the shelf, start reading it in some cozy corner without anyone ever bothering you. When it’s time for you to leave you just snuggle your book in between his friends, remember where you put it and come back another time. Easy peasy!

79 notes

And then you get a phone call that makes you wish you could teleport back to Holland…or back to a few years ago and laugh, sing and dance with an old friend. Thank you for everything PM.

And then you get a phone call that makes you wish you could teleport back to Holland…or back to a few years ago and laugh, sing and dance with an old friend. Thank you for everything PM.