I was right after all. There had been something more. Satanovski, the Polish captain and Zognatieff, his Russian first officer, were being held at the naval base. While fighting the fire, sailors from the Sarandi had discovered bales of marijuana hidden amongst the soya beans. Satanovski and Zognatieff looked set to face charges but the rest of the crew had been released and were now in Buenos Aires waiting for their flight back to Tel Aviv and looking confused and uncomfortable as camera crews swarmed their hotel in Ezeiza. Zim´s spokesperson, Claudia Mizrahi, had been doing her exhausted best to explain to the reporters that Zim was in no way involved with narcotics and a lawsuit was expected to try and recover the impounded ship. The Presidenta´s spokesperson hinted that the soya beans might be unloaded and sent to local community centers to feed ¨el pueblo ¨.
Why hasn´t the local connection been arrested I wonder as I sip my morning tea - red tea with mint and cedron, as usual. A judge Etchegarray is in charge of the investigation but so far no one aside from the Arcangelo´s officers have been detained. It´s easy to be cynical but who knows the whole story? I fill my cup one more time and down the dark red liquid. It tastes flat and a little lukewarm. The tree is up in the living room! Christmas is just about here and with the weather warmer now I´ve had to move the woodstove onto the balcony. So the tree sits in the corner once occupied by the stove, anchored in a small metal trash can I found on the sidewalk on Strobel. I filled it with some broken bricks that I salvaged from a dumpster at the Asilo Unzue next door. The large seaside refuge founded by father Unzue has been under renovation for a couple of years now and those shards of brick came in handy. Isadora would often poke at articles left on the sidewalk, looking for something. However, I´m no longer embarrassed by the idea or the act of rummaging. On the other hand, my clothes are gettng threadbare and that hurts but I do have some savings left so I suppose my priorities are otherwise. Still, it´s tough in this town if you don´t have some sharp threads, especially once people recognize that you´re not a backpacker who´s just passing through. I rinse the cup in the sink and head over to the tree just to stare at it for a moment. A Welsh woman who lives out in Bosque Peralta Ramos gave some Christmas baubles to me after I got to know her in the lineup for a transit pass on Independencia right at Luro. She´s a retired civil servant who took her ample portion of pounds, some of them from the sale of her house in Cardiff, and bought a two story sunny chalet amongst the pines. Was her name Gail? I should remember, but it slips from my memory. She´s single and I wondered to Isa if we should give her Greta´s and Irma´s phone but she just shook her head and we left it at that. Why doen´t Gail, or whatever her name is, buy a car? I stare some more at the tree and the unlit lights. Maybe she has a car ... I hear footsteps in the hall - not a full stomp but not the stealthy creeping she´s capable of either. I turn away from the tree and try not to think of Christmas past.
Queres un mate amor?
She purses her lips and nods vigourously. She´s in a good mood. I fill the kettle at the sink and place it on the woodstove on the balcony and then add a branch to the fire.
The tree is nice, is true.
It IS true amor. The contraction is it´ssss.
So she follows up with a complaint over how jealously we English speakers guard our language and I snort that that´s ridiculous, that we share our language with most of the world whether they want our generosity or not. And the truly jealous guardians of a language are the Porteños themselves who consider themselves the true keepers of Castellano. Try Madrid if you want Castillian I like to say at that point. The water is just about boiling - the way she likes it - so I fill the metal cup, insert the straw and pour the liquid over the leaves. The moistened lump of cuttings swells into a plump little ball with some bubbles poking through and some of the leaves still dry. Perfect. I hand the mate to Isa. We´re out of coffee so I couldn´t add some grinds to the mix. But I do have sugar mixed in. I prefer mine bitter but she sips and sighs happily. She sits down at the pc and starts checking her mails; she´s looking for an email from Diego clearly. I turn on the radio and listen to the news. High of 28, tomorrow muggy and warmer, maybe a thunderstorm on Tuesday. Gimnasia La Plata won the Apertura last week and Peñarol is about to sign a kid from the Tarheels. Or a kid who tried out for the Tarheels? Not sure. They prefer Cubans and Venezuelans but we´ll see how he does. The singer from Bersuit Vergarabat sold his house in Punta del Este - speculation about whether he´s bankrupt. I doubt it. They tour constantly and have a loyal following around Latin America and in Spain as well. I lower the volume and decide to go the bakery.
Queres facturas? is the way I say it in castellano. The literal translation would be:
Carest thou for pastries?
But I think it´s easier just to write,
You want croissants honey?
She nods and says Diego hasn´t sent any mails but he has started phoning again so likely he´ll call today. With his inheritance nearing a resolution his calls are becoming more and more frequent. I turn and approach her from behind and kiss the top of her head.
Tutti!
It´s a happy wet little exclamation. The mate must be just the way she likes it. Having left our relationship in good working order I head out into the hallway, unheated in winter and often colder even than outside, and walk down the two flights of steps to the ground floor. Outside the sun is strong and I´m glad I didn´t throw on a shirt over my brown Tshirt I purchased from Soho several years ago now. It has the outline of a tree on it that looks suspiciously like a weed plant. It´s quite faded now. I need new threads, definitely. As I head down the steps in front of the pharmacy I remember that I had noticed Isa was reading an article at La Capital´s website on the Arcangelo and the drug bust. Of course ... she´s wondering where all that pot may end up. I know where her next paycheck is going. I´ll have to cover the groceries myself. I turn up Strobel and head towards the bakery.
Why hasn´t the local connection been arrested I wonder as I sip my morning tea - red tea with mint and cedron, as usual. A judge Etchegarray is in charge of the investigation but so far no one aside from the Arcangelo´s officers have been detained. It´s easy to be cynical but who knows the whole story? I fill my cup one more time and down the dark red liquid. It tastes flat and a little lukewarm. The tree is up in the living room! Christmas is just about here and with the weather warmer now I´ve had to move the woodstove onto the balcony. So the tree sits in the corner once occupied by the stove, anchored in a small metal trash can I found on the sidewalk on Strobel. I filled it with some broken bricks that I salvaged from a dumpster at the Asilo Unzue next door. The large seaside refuge founded by father Unzue has been under renovation for a couple of years now and those shards of brick came in handy. Isadora would often poke at articles left on the sidewalk, looking for something. However, I´m no longer embarrassed by the idea or the act of rummaging. On the other hand, my clothes are gettng threadbare and that hurts but I do have some savings left so I suppose my priorities are otherwise. Still, it´s tough in this town if you don´t have some sharp threads, especially once people recognize that you´re not a backpacker who´s just passing through. I rinse the cup in the sink and head over to the tree just to stare at it for a moment. A Welsh woman who lives out in Bosque Peralta Ramos gave some Christmas baubles to me after I got to know her in the lineup for a transit pass on Independencia right at Luro. She´s a retired civil servant who took her ample portion of pounds, some of them from the sale of her house in Cardiff, and bought a two story sunny chalet amongst the pines. Was her name Gail? I should remember, but it slips from my memory. She´s single and I wondered to Isa if we should give her Greta´s and Irma´s phone but she just shook her head and we left it at that. Why doen´t Gail, or whatever her name is, buy a car? I stare some more at the tree and the unlit lights. Maybe she has a car ... I hear footsteps in the hall - not a full stomp but not the stealthy creeping she´s capable of either. I turn away from the tree and try not to think of Christmas past.
Queres un mate amor?
She purses her lips and nods vigourously. She´s in a good mood. I fill the kettle at the sink and place it on the woodstove on the balcony and then add a branch to the fire.
The tree is nice, is true.
It IS true amor. The contraction is it´ssss.
So she follows up with a complaint over how jealously we English speakers guard our language and I snort that that´s ridiculous, that we share our language with most of the world whether they want our generosity or not. And the truly jealous guardians of a language are the Porteños themselves who consider themselves the true keepers of Castellano. Try Madrid if you want Castillian I like to say at that point. The water is just about boiling - the way she likes it - so I fill the metal cup, insert the straw and pour the liquid over the leaves. The moistened lump of cuttings swells into a plump little ball with some bubbles poking through and some of the leaves still dry. Perfect. I hand the mate to Isa. We´re out of coffee so I couldn´t add some grinds to the mix. But I do have sugar mixed in. I prefer mine bitter but she sips and sighs happily. She sits down at the pc and starts checking her mails; she´s looking for an email from Diego clearly. I turn on the radio and listen to the news. High of 28, tomorrow muggy and warmer, maybe a thunderstorm on Tuesday. Gimnasia La Plata won the Apertura last week and Peñarol is about to sign a kid from the Tarheels. Or a kid who tried out for the Tarheels? Not sure. They prefer Cubans and Venezuelans but we´ll see how he does. The singer from Bersuit Vergarabat sold his house in Punta del Este - speculation about whether he´s bankrupt. I doubt it. They tour constantly and have a loyal following around Latin America and in Spain as well. I lower the volume and decide to go the bakery.
Queres facturas? is the way I say it in castellano. The literal translation would be:
Carest thou for pastries?
But I think it´s easier just to write,
You want croissants honey?
She nods and says Diego hasn´t sent any mails but he has started phoning again so likely he´ll call today. With his inheritance nearing a resolution his calls are becoming more and more frequent. I turn and approach her from behind and kiss the top of her head.
Tutti!
It´s a happy wet little exclamation. The mate must be just the way she likes it. Having left our relationship in good working order I head out into the hallway, unheated in winter and often colder even than outside, and walk down the two flights of steps to the ground floor. Outside the sun is strong and I´m glad I didn´t throw on a shirt over my brown Tshirt I purchased from Soho several years ago now. It has the outline of a tree on it that looks suspiciously like a weed plant. It´s quite faded now. I need new threads, definitely. As I head down the steps in front of the pharmacy I remember that I had noticed Isa was reading an article at La Capital´s website on the Arcangelo and the drug bust. Of course ... she´s wondering where all that pot may end up. I know where her next paycheck is going. I´ll have to cover the groceries myself. I turn up Strobel and head towards the bakery.
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