A Day in the Life (in ten paragraphs or less)

The past few days I have been tooling around town doing the kinds of things I might have done if I were home in New York. Yesterday, I tried to motivate myself to do something enriching -- i.e., go to an art museum -- but I ended up skipping it for now and taking a nap. (That basically summarizes my entire NY cultural experience in a nutshell.)

One of the things that I did manage was go to a couple spinning classes at a local gym. Spinning here is, in theory, just like in the US -- a bunch of people sit in a room of stationery bikes and change their pace, position, etc. according to the music. The first day I went was an experience in humility. This class ended up being kind of like a party, though, just with a lot more sweating.
The instructor spoke in a streaming mumble of Spanish the entire time, with his mouth really close to the microphone, thus further obscuring his mumble. I didn't understand a word, which the instructor figured out before class when I asked him (in poor Spanish) where to buy water. My so-called back-up plan to just watch what everyone else was doing fell through because no one was doing the same thing. Everyone was riding a bike, but some people were standing, others were sitting. The guy sitting next to me was translating what to do, but his translations were a bit cryptic. ("Three minutes -- you go!" Go where? These are stationery bikes.) Meanwhile, the instructor was cruising around the classroom chatting with people. At one point, I know he gave me a shout out during the continuous mumble, but I have nary a clue about what he actually said. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed the class and promised the instructor I'd come back tonight.

I also went to see a movie, Disturbia (called Paranoia in Argentina). Nothing too unusual about the movie theater. It's assigned seating like it is in Europe. Oh, and it's cheap. I think I paid about $3.50 for my ticket. The one thing that cracked me up was the concession stand. I ordered popcorn and a drink, and the woman tried to upsell me just like they do in the US. For cincuento centavas mas, you can get the larger drink.

The movie was in English with Spanish subtitles, so I continued my learning experience. At least during the parts when my eyes weren't closed. It was crazy scary. When I came home that night, I was up until 5 in the morning because I was convinced one of the neighbors was a serial killer. I mean, with the screaming kids and the unnaturally loud waterfall, it all makes sense. (5 in the morning, by the way, is why I ended up skipping the museum yesterday.)

One good thing about the Argentine lifestyle is that people like to stay out late, and up late. So, for example, if you go to an 8:30 pm class at the gym, there's still time to meet for dinner afterwards. Or, if you stay up until 5 am scared to check out the noise in your bedroom for fear it's the psychopath neighbor poised to bludgeon you with a potato masher (you having hidden all the knives in the apartamento in case this very scenario happened to occur), there's good tv on to keep you occupied.

So, I watched this awesome BBC documentary about Kurt Cobain. Basically the only people who would agree to talk to the filmmaker were a bunch of random and peripheral nutburgers whose only connection seemed to be that they had allegedly taken drugs with Cobain and Courtney Love. Oh, that and the crazy executioner guy that Courtney Love allegedly tried to hire to kill Cobain for $50,000. Seriously, the guy was straight from central casting, with a big beer belly, no shirt, and a black, leather executioner's mask. I think deep down he's probably a really lovable teddy bear of a guy who is misunderstood because of the mask...oh, and the song he sang about killing whores.

One interesting thing I learned: according to Kurt's high school girlfriend, Kurt weighed about 120 pounds, and was really self-conscious about it. He would layer on two pairs of long underwear, jeans, a shirt, sweatshirt, flannel, coat, etc just to appear bulkier. So basically, me and my friends spent our college years in unattractive grunge-esque attire, wearing ugly flannel plaid shirts and ill fitting men's jeans, all because Kurt Cobain was self-conscious about his skinniness.

By the end of the documentary, I had gotten over my fear about my psychopathic neighbor, and had moved on to being scared that Courtney Love would come to Argentina and kill me. Bitch is crazy. I'm taking a big risk even posting this. But I do it all for you guys...

Barefoot in the Park

Today was a beautiful day, so I wandered over from my neghborhood, to the nearby Palermo section of town, where there are a multitude of parks and plazas and what not. When walking around, I realized what Central Park has over lots of other parks. So far, the BA parks I visited were very pretty, but not so much peaceful. One of the city's main roads -- with TEN lanes -- cuts through the various parks, which leads to lots of traffic noise.

Finally, I decided to walk over to the Botanical Gardens to sit and read my book for a while. The strangest thing about this park -- the biggest attraction was not the foliage, as you'd expect given the name. No -- there were probably several hundred feral cats roaming the grounds, and it's not that big of a park. I've never seen anything like it. Very Grey Gardens. Needless to say, not being a cat person, I was a little creeped out and left. I felt like I had stepped into a crazy sci-fi movie where cats took over the planet, and I figured it was only a matter of time before all of the cats figured out my vehement anti-cat stance and clawed me to my death. I was cursing myself for not bringing my camera to take a picture of the cat park to show everyone. (Sorry -- I doubt I'll be going back.)

Tonight I'm heading out with my friend Barb to a Scandinavian restaurant that apparently serves something other than beef or jamon. This should be exciting. The other night, Barb and I went to an Italian place for dinner and ordered a salad to try to balance out our daily meat intake. What arrived was a plate full of about a half pound of shaved proscuitto and a little bit of arugula on the side. What can I say? Portenos love their jamon.

Can You Hear the Lambs Screaming, Clarice?

It's been rainy and/or overcast the past few days that I've been here. I think that I brought the bad weather with me from North America. (I heard this past weekend was just gorgeous up in Maryland.) The good thing about being unemployed, however, is that when it's raining, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. So, no trudging through a torrential downpour to do something that you didn't want to do in the first place, such as go to work and quibble about discovery, or run an errand or something.

Today, for example, I'm hanging out on my couch and watching a tv movie called "An Unexpected Life" with Rizzo from Grease, S. Epatha Merkerson, and Ru Paul. A strange combination, to be sure, but after running around in the rain yesterday, I'm enjoying chilling like a villian for a little while. (Plus -- I'm learning a lot from the spanish subtitles.) I'm contemplating what to do next: either to go for a run, or to take a bath in the jacuzzi tub. Tough choices.

My apartamento is generally nice, with a few quirks. One of the things that you never know when you rent an apartment are those hidden things that you only figure out after moving in -- like really low water pressure or lots of noisy neighbors. My apartment in Brooklyn had such bad water pressure that I always felt like I was living out that episode on Seinfeld with the low water pressure bad hair.

This apartment doesn't have the water pressure issue -- exactly the opposite, in fact, as I've soaked the entire bathroom each time I've showered. No, it's just noisy. There's a unnaturally loud waterfall in the back alley/courtyard. Even with all the windows closed, it sounds like a mini-Iguazu Falls. But, I've gotten used to it. I discovered today that the back of my building abuts an elementary school. Holy cow -- are these kids or soccer hooligans? Starting at what seemed like the crack of dawn, the kids were acting out some sort of schoolyard Lord of the Flies. Or, so I assumed because I can't actually see them. I could only hear them screaming and howling and guffawing at about a thousand decibels. Not exactly music to one's ears when nursing a hangover. It was so loud that even with all the windows closed, and I was in another room in the apartment with the doors shut, you could still hear the shouting.

This went on for a few hours, and oddly enough, this phrase popped into my cloudy head: "Can you hear the lambs screaming, Clarice?" It occurs to me that it is not normal for Hannibal Lecter quotes to pop into one's head when thinking of kids, but this is how my strange, pop-cuture filled brain works. I wish that were on tv right now -- I'm sure I'd learn a lot of Spanish from the subtitles.

I'm Here!!!!!

I arrived in Buenos Aires this morning. I've been here a few hours -- just enough time to check into my apartment, shower, figure out the internet in this place, and stock my fridge with agua con gas and queso. (Most of the essentials -- I'm still lacking some wine, though.)

The trip down here was super long, but was the best that one could hope for under the circumstances. I somehow lucked into an exit row seat on the plane with no one sitting next to me. I think that's as good as it gets in coach. (I take that back -- the only thing that would have been better is if the hot Frenchman that I saw in the waiting area would have ended up in the exit row seat next to me. But, you can't have everything.)

Interestingly, I was surprised to learn that on Delta, booze is no longer free on international flights. When did this happen, and what is this world coming to? I'm so disappointed in Delta. Badly done, Delta. Badly done, indeed.

I'm sure I'll have more details to report later... my friend Barb is on her way over to say hola.

Stacy B. Has Left the Building

I have officially moved from New York. The movers came yesterday and carted everything away, and then they delivered all of my stuff this morning to lovely Havre de Grace, Maryland -- home of my storage place and The Decoy Museum.

I forgot how much I hate moving. In fact, if I had remembered how much it sucks, I probably would never have quit my job or planned the trip. Packing is sooooo bourgeois. Even worse, I forgot that when you move, you have to clean the apartment really well...better than I would ever clean for me...or even if my parents were visiting. I spent so long scrubbing down my refrigerator, probably the first time I actually did that in the two years that I lived there. Next time, I'm just throwing out the refrigerator itself, with all the other nasty things that I never used. (Ask me why I had a jar of capers in my fridge for two years -- I hate them, as do most civilized human beings.)

Fortunately, after cleaning out my fridge, it was lunchtime. I swung by Joe's Superette and grabbed some ham balls for lunch and the drive out of town -- it was a sweet way to end my time in Brooklyn. After all, it was a trip to the Gowanus Yacht Club and Joe's on Memorial Day weekend a few years ago that convinced me to move to Carroll Gardens in the first place. (The day was spent outside in the sunshine, drinking pitchers and eating ham balls, which my friend Hector, visiting from out of town, suggested that we hunt down. It was truly one of the most sublime afternoons since the dawn of time.)

I leave for Argentina in less than two days. Now that the move is done, I'm starting to get really excited. One good omen -- on Monday night, as I was finishing up packing my apartment, I turned on the tv and the movie Jamon, Jamon was on. I think it's a sure sign of the fantastic wonderfulness that lies (or is it lays?) ahead.

U-G-L-Y -- You Ain't Got No Alibi

I've spent the better part of today recuperating from last night and starting to think about packing for my move on Tuesday morning. After watching a few tivo-ed episodes of America's Next Top Model and taking my afternoon nap, I have been going through an old box of paperwork I found stashed behind my TV.

Aside from a pile of dusty old bills and boatload of ATM receipts -- some dating back to my clerkship in 2001 -- I've found a few amusing things in the mess: a mix tape my friend Nicole made me during law school, the multitude of telegrams I received for my 27th birthday. And then, there was this souvenir from a trip I took to London in law school:

My friends Alia and Dan and I spent the week in London after Alia won a contest sponsored by Virgin Atlantic and Austin Powers. Anyhoo, we were in a train station in London when we came across this business card laying (or is it lying) on the ground. No idea what prompted us to look down, or to touch anything on the ground of the grubby train station. I mean seriously -- after a week of traveling around in the tube and breathing in the soot filled air, I was afraid that I had the black lung, or that my nose was going to turn black and fall off.

Nevertheless, for whatever reason I not only picked up the card, but saved it for some seven years. I must have known that one day I'd have a blog. I only wish that we had called the number on the card to find out more info on just how ugly we were.

The ugly card reminds me of an awesome business card I saw on the internet this past Christmas:

I should buy some of these to leave at various train stations around the world for tourists to pick up and blog about. (I think of it as paying it forward, just without the creepy Haley Joel Osment part.)

We've Got Tonight...

Tonight, I am heartbroken. I spent the day and evening saying goodbye to so many good friends who are here in New York. It was my last night out in NYC, and I was lucky and grateful to have so many good people around me, who have been friends for many years. Still, I am so very sad about moving from New York, and saying goodbye to everyone. Even though I am doing something so very exciting and living out a dream of mine, I am incredibly upset about the close of this chapter in my life. Change is never easy, and I will miss everyone so much.

If last week the soundtrack to my life was playing George Michael's "Freedom", tonight it is nothing but non-stop Tom Waits. (Picture a montage of me walking along a series of deserted docks, and you'll have an inkling of how I feel).

Oh, Magnum!

My sixth grade english teacher, Ms. Hughes, loved Tom Selleck. On the first day of school that year, she announced herself as "Ms." Hughes, emphasis on Ms., and declared her love for all things Tom Selleck. She was just over five feet tall, with dark tight curls cut into a short Pat Benatar 'do. It seemed strange to my ten-year old self that she revealed her obsession over Tom Selleck -- we were far too young to be interested in Tom Selleck ourselves, and I had the distinct impression that it was all a misdirected attempt to relate to us while teaching sentence patterns for some standarized test (e.g., "I love Thomas Magnum" equals subject-verb-direct object).

When I was in high school, I finally started to see the attraction of Magnum PI. During the off-season for sports, I watched Magnum PI religiously at 3 pm. I wouldn't answer the phone during that hour. I just enjoyed Magnum -- admittedly a strange attraction considering the release of Top Gun and the infamous volleyball scene that enthralled most normal girls my age during this time. In law school, I went to the gym and ran on the treadmill, just so I could watch Magnum PI, my own apartment lacking the civility of either cable or air conditioning.

Unlike many shows that I obsessed over in my youth -- 21 Jump Street comes to mind -- I still love Magnum PI (or "Magnum, p.i." as it is properly spelled). Watching Tom Selleck parade around in his short shorts and Ferrari, or watching Higgins pretend that he's not Robin Masters, but instead just a haughty groundskeeper, is still an antidote for whatever ails me. (In fact, I suspect that my love for Magnum is what indirectly caused the courthouse softball team during my clerkship to wear hawaiian shirts as our uniforms.)

Tonight was no different. I went out this evening -- the first time all week -- and came home feeling a little wonky from the combination of fondue and wine and beer. Never a good idea. But, when I got home, my TIVO was recording Magnum, and all felt right in the universe. After a several year hiatus, Magnum is back on cable on the Sleuth network.

In spite of the wonky stomach, it was a good night. I still haven't done much all week -- excepting my efforts to learn how to dance after watching Oprah yesterday -- and was glad to be out on the town. I said goodbye to another friend this evening, a trend that is the only thing tainting the joy I have otherwise been experiencing since leaving employed life. For our last night on the town, we went to a wine bar on the UES and had some fondue. The people sitting at the table next to us were lawyers, I think, and it was all I could do not to yell "SUCKA" as one of the women was obsessively checking her blackberry at 11 pm on a Friday night. (I had the same urge to yell "Sucka" when I saw a former coworker at a bar on my way home tonight.)

But, I digress. Back to Magnum. If you can't quit your job and run off to the ends of the earth, I recommend adding some Magnum PI to your life. If nothing else, it cures all desire to yell "sucka" at random passers by...well, almost.

I Sound My Barbaric Yawn.

I've been officially unemployed two days now -- I don't count the holiday weekend -- and I have to say that early retirement is truly underrated. I should have done this years ago.

I haven't really done much the past two days. In fact, yesterday I didn't get out of my pajamas or leave my apartment all day. I have taken three naps in the past two days, but I did manage to squeeze in time to read People magazine and watch probably a half dozen episodes of Law & Order. (It's important for one to keep up on current events and the latest legal issues, even when leading a life of semi-retirement.)

All of this is great for me, but it doesn't leave me with much to write. I'm just waiting for the deluge of pithy observations and witticisms to come. I'm definitely going to need to drink more if this blog is going to continue.

Oh -- I forgot to add the other benefit of early retirement -- the chest pains I was experiencing have now been replaced by less worrisome leg pains. So, I no longer have to worry about myocardial infarctions, and can focus on restless leg syndrome or some sort of embolism instead. (There are a lot of health-related commercials on daytime television that are not chicken soup for the hypochondriac's soul.)

Life's Too Good

Just over two weeks before I leave New York and head for sunny and beautiful Buenos Aires, where I plan to lead a lifestyle characterized by frivolity, grass-fed beef, and frequent naps. Check in here for updates on what I'm doing, where I'm traveling, etc.