more politics.

Fun fact I learned today: graffito is the singular form of graffiti. Who knew?





Yanks out of Latin America!












Uniforms warp men and make them crazy.















We're here to protect you.











Freedom to choose! Free, legal abortion!

...which is why you're speaking English?

Let the capitalists pay for the crisis.

hola, vecino!

On one side of our little apartment: headache-inducing electropop that pulsates no matter the time of day.

On the other: delightful live jams from a band that plays rock, soul, tango, folk, and anything else your ears are interested in.

Clearly we had no choice but to play favorites with our neighbors, and became friends with Jose* and Agustin, two music students who never fail to delight us with beats and were kind enough to overlook our pathetic Spanish and include us in their group. Which is how we got to their Peruvian bandmate Alvaro's house on Saturday night and spent many moons participating in the following activities:

1. Singing Rolling Stones, Ray Charles and Michael Jackson really loudly while they backed us up with several instruments at once

2. Listening carefully while they taught us Argentine/Peruvian folk songs

3. Learning new words (sacacorches=corkscrew)

4. Letting Agustin look past our utter lack of rhythm and teach us his new passion, tango dancing

5. Being really, really content with life

*Jose lets us call him Vecino (Neighbor) and nothing else, which is also kind of him. We thought we might be freaking him out a little by our enthusiasm until he told us that the previous tenants in our apartment were two old drunk people who fought all the time, threw bottles of whiskey off the balcony and buzzed on everyone's doorbells at 5 am. It hasn't yet been confirmed that he was comparing us favorably to them, but just wanted you to know the classiness level of the building we're living in.

¿me saca la foto?

some things never stop being funny

Try to look at this and not laugh, I dare you. I don't care that it's from the Louvre.

la boca

We were at La Boca today, just two travellers and their new friends staring into the dirtiest river known to mankind. A thick layer of sludge and trash crept up around the edges where the water met the land, and we peered down at the brown water bottles and other refuse that people had tossed over into the water.

"LOOK! A sign of life!" Marlo squealed.

A tiny, lone tadpole was struggling for his survival, swimming as fast as his little tail could take him against the outward pull of the river.

We spent a few minutes cheering him on, quite proud of the little guy for his spirit.

public love affair

Dear Marlo’s Birthday Dinner,

I did not know what true love was until I met you. Thank you for opening mine eyes.

Provoleta, remember when we didn’t know each other? When you were just being an appetizer of fried cheese and I was doing my thing and our paths never crossed? I now consider those days the Dark Ages. I want to get my PhD in the art of frying cheese and my final thesis will be a book of sonnets dedicated to you.

Oh papas fritas, I’ve known you for a long time, but your face is more beautiful when you crowd out all the table space that would otherwise be dedicated to green vegetables (I used to be really into green veggies, papas fritas, but I’m leaving them for you. I am). You are large, in charge, and ready to party. I respect that.

San Telmo wineries, the consistency with which you have delivered vino tinto to me time and again has not only earned my trust but also my love. You’re cheap, but not in a trashy way, don’t get me wrong. I can’t imagine a dinner without you and don’t even want to think about what it would be like.

Marlo’s Birthday Dinner, these are all side qualities that don’t mean as much to me as the main event: carne a punto. Oh, super rare steak, where do I even begin? You are the size of my head, you are so rare I want to ride you home instead of in a taxi, and remember when you put on that chimichurri sauce and my taste buds wept openly? That was a little embarrassing but worth it because I think I’m in love with you, bife de lomo. I really do.

And just when I thought our chance had passed, you went and saved the best for last! FLAN WITH DULCE DE LECHE that was like unicorns and sunshine leaping directly into our mouths. Fairly certain I saw angels blow kisses onto every delightful spoonful.

Marlo’s Birthday Dinner, at the end of the day, I’m just a girl, standing in front of a massive feast, asking it to love her as much as she loves it. Run, no, roll away with me! We were meant to be!

Un beso,
Laura

in over our heads.

Here’s a story about the time Marlo and I decided to get creative with what we call “The Budget.” Let it first be known that despite a few too many empanadas and café con leches, we are doing quite well in sticking to our budget in the most expensive place in South America. Let it also be known that we walk everywhere and that can be exhausting, ok?
We had spent a ridiculous day in Palermo. We wanted to see the Islamic Cultural Center and just happened to arrive there at the exact same time as two busloads of old ladies. These were not your average old ladies; they were exactly who we want to be in our eighties: well-dressed and obnoxious. They had no idea what was going on, and our tour was punctuated with loud questions like: “What happens if you are walking down the sidewalk when it’s time for prayer?” and “What level of heaven can women get to?” (Dear Elderly: get your world religions straight). They also enjoyed barreling into us to get a better view of the prayer room and interrupting us when we were trying to ask questions ourselves. Ok, ladies, just because you speak better Spanish than we do doesn’t mean we can’t have a turn too! Shoooot.
Exhausted by old women, we headed for the Planetorium to see what kind of space show they have (my dream jobs that will never happen, in order of likelihood: 1) paleontologist 2) next Stephen Hawking) 3) Olympic figure skater). It was our lucky day, because an entire school had gone on a field trip to the exact same showing of History of the Universe! So in one fell swoop we went from battling cranky old bats to battling 8.3 million middle schoolers with ice cream cones (and thereby becoming the cranky old bats ourselves). Of course, as soon as the show started and we spent a few minutes whispering about how much we hate kids, we promptly fell asleep and missed the whole thing. We woke up in time to get a rundown of all the planets, make awkward eye contact with a middle schooler who judged us for snoozing and call it a day.
Ok, so knowing about all the extra work we had done that day dealing with various age groups and coming to terms with our own misanthropic tendencies, could anyone blame a girl for peeking into a fancy bar on the way home and thinking, “Martinis would be a good life decision right now”? I think not! With the helpful encouragement of my friend Marlo, we walked into the fanciest bar in downtown Buenos Aires and ordered two dirty gins with extra olives.
About halfway through our drinks, we took a looksy and noticed that we were the only people in the bar not wearing suits, the only people under 40, and the only women.
“What the hell. Did we just walk into a gentleman’s club?” Marlo hissed at me. Wide-eyed, we took stock and saw no strippers, decided to finish our drinks and take our mismatched travelling outfits out of there. This is about the same point in time when we began to realize that we probably couldn’t afford to pay for our martinis. Whoopsy! Real panic set in as we came to new awareness that this was no dive bar and we tried to remember how to say “WE CAN WASH DISHES! DON’T PUT US IN JAIL!”
At this point I’m sure you’re very nervous for us but fret not, I’m not writing this from the back of a kitchen in the business district. Luckily, conversation was begun with two suits at the bar about relative merits of local fútbol teams, and we somehow ended up on their tab. Thanks, business dudes in a fancy watering hole. Sorry for treading in your territory, we shall not make the same mistake twice!

la felicidad

Buenos Aires is not an aptly named city. As soon as your plane lands, the "New York of South America" hands you a fine film on your lungs and a halo of smog, like getting lei'd on Oahu. The grime follows you around (save for brief respites if you can get to a Palermo park) and relentlessly reminds you that you are trading being clean for being in a place that is always alive. Last weekend, the two of us welcomed with open arms the rolling clouds of a three-day storm that blanketed the city with cool rain, kept us up at night with pounding thunder and brought lightning that criss-crossed the sky with astonishing frequency. We put on our jackets and happily took advantage of an October weekend that felt like home (except that people don't have rain gear here. They still wear their pretty clothes and just carry an umbrella).

You always expect to be happy when travelling, but sometimes dirt wears you out before you're ready. And other times, an endless summer storm comes along and makes you feel peaceful again.

Other things that have cleared the smog the first two weeks:

• Last Thursday, I found myself at a tiny restaurant eating pancetta out of a pumpkin and discussing politics and religion with a bilingual socialist revolutionary. I met Diego at Cafe Victoria (this is the view, which I will never cease to be delighted with) and we met up for coffee/dinner not long after. Diego is a fascinating character with the energy of a kindergartner and the drive of Eugene Debs, who went from being "a Christian militant to an atheist" because he couldn't justify the world he saw with the world Christianity presupposes (I'll have to write about that conversation another day). As we chatted in the corner of the tiny restaurant, a pinstriped and graying man walked in with a gorgeous blonde and belted out a perfect note, which was promptly matched from behind the bar by a dusky voiced woman with long hair and a massive grin. The warmup notes then turned into a full-fledged tango show for a restaurant that was empty... besides us. My Malbec swirled in the glass, the music filled in the cracks between the bricks, and I realized again what a lucky girl I am. "Para ella!" the woman called out, gesturing to me, la americana, and the guitarrista struck up a folk song to wrap up. Yep, nights like this are how I can justify quitting my job...
  
  
• Marlo and I got cool again when we stayed out till 9 am. No one needs to know that it was an accident, or how excited we got when we left the party to discover a light sky. Our throats scratchy from smoking hookah, our ears ringing from the Colombian band that changed our lives, we got so energized from our all-nighter that we dragged Martin across the city on foot to go see the Floralis. GREAT PLAN, ladies. We were so tired by the time we got there that we had to taxi home. So much for being 19 again.
  
• I was wandering the side streets in San Telmo for some quality time with my camera when I glanced up and got a wave from a guy standing on his front porch, a wrought-iron jut peeking out of a wall full of flowers. It was such a beautiful building but I was too shy to take his picture, so I just grinned and kept walking. Halfway up the next block, I heard someone calling to me so I turned around to see the same fellow jogging towards me. Picture a young, Argentine version of Cosmo Kramer and we are on the same page with Esteban. He ended up walking me back to my neighborhood (don't worry ya'll, we took main streets to avoid creepstering) and I was pleased to finally meet someone who didn't speak English. For a mile or so, we had the most pleasant, unexpected chat about the relative merits of working vs. travelling ("Pero no tiene ritmo!"--"Without work, there's no rhythm to life!"). I told him how much I loved the architecture in the city right when we hit a block surrounded by bland, terrible apartments, and we laughed at how 1970s architecture was nothing to write home about. "But it's also a sad city," he explained. "All of our beautiful buildings are just imitations of the same ones in Europe; we are always trying to copy other people." How nice it was, to take a walk and have a chat with someone I'd never met before and would never meet again, and not worry about places to be or time to be spent doing other things.

Another week and a half left in this massive city of dirt, and I can't wait to see what little storms await us next.

conversation, with cigar.

last tango in san telmo

Sundays in Buenos Aires would make one wonder whether all 3 million inhabitants are just figments of Argentine imagination; the city is silent, cafes are closed, even the usual rush of cars that defies lane-use and traffic laws seems to be mellowed out.

But if one were to wander into San Telmo, the artsy quarter just south of downtown, Buenos Aires would burst into life again. A vibrant street market is centered on the Plaza Dorrego and trickles out along the brick streets in all directions, winding its way through antique dealers leaning out of their stores, tango dancers who have taken over entire intersections, old men standing on boxes singing their bow-tied hearts out, Rastas selling pipes and dread beads, sheets covered with mate bombillas (some original, some with Homer Simpson's face... how that character became an international icon is totally beyond me), photographers selling prints and bedraggled moms selling the cheap plastic stuff you can find in any city in the world, tourists being loud, tourists being quiet, men pushing carts with popcorn kernels for a quarter, and the sex of Tanghetto pulsating throughout it all.

Buenos Aires comes here for Sunday, and if you don't follow suit, you'll have the whole city to yourself... but would you want it, without all of this?

"Quien quiere bailar?"

toby, give her strength

I don't care what country you're from, this man is a douchebag.


The good part about moving to the new hostel a week ago was an Argentinian real estate agent named Martín, who has eyelashes that could sweep your whole house. Martín got us our little apartment and has been entertaining to hang out with/ fun to look at ever since. We cooked for him and his Uruguayan/vegetarian roommate Urux in what could be called the ultimate bachelor pad (not in a positive way) because these fools have NOTHING besides a bean bag chair, a table and a photo of Che Guevara. I thought Marlo might lose it when she was trying to light the stove with crappy matches and had to pray to the gods of Americana for the will to continue (“Toby Keith, give me strength”). Our tune changed preeetty quickly after dinner, though, when the boys asked if we wanted
a) More wine*
b) Ice cream
OBVIAMENTE. Martín then picked up the telephone, made a couple of calls, and within 15 minutes we had a massive tub of helado and two bottles of Malbec at the front door for less than twenty bucks. “We are NEVER LEAVING this blessed land!” Marlo whispered, her eyes getting watery as we tried to control our emotion. Es la verdad: one’s tune can change about a new country with just a well-timed bike delivery.



*This wine business is no joke. I can’t decide if it’s a problem that we are consuming half our body weight in vino every night, but if the situation calls for it and you are surrounded by $2 bottles of the world’s best Malbec, it’s really hard to remember what they taught us in DARE.

getting mugged on week one? no gracias.

After the infamous “Random Guy Getting to Third Base on a Spanish Sidewalk” incident of 2005, I have NO TIME for people trying to mess around with me when I’m trying to get from Point A to Point B in a new country. It really pisses me off more than most things, because a) I don’t want random strangers touching my lady parts/taking my stuff and b) I think it’s pretty low to try to take advantage of a tourist in the first place. Before we left, my doting father reminded me of the “mustard trick” where the unsuspecting tourist gets squirted with a condiment, and then in the fluster of getting cleaned off also gets cleaned out. And sure enough, some dude actually tried this on us as we trekked down Callao with all of our earthly possessions on our backs. I saw some green slime squirt us from about waist level, and it landed all over—our backpacks, in my hair, on our clothes. This stuff was potent and gave us a headache almost immediately, and a mustachioed Che with a Kleenex magically appeared to help—except he wanted me to take off my backpack and Marlo to not stand nearby. YEAH RIGHT BUDDY! I stole his Kleenex and we moved swiftly on, amazed that someone would actually try that maneuver on us within three days of landing on the continent and also assume that our backpacks were worth taking (if they want my ratty Pumas and cutoff shorts, by all means, lighten the load).

End of story: I was feeling pretty good about not having our stuff taken when we got to our new hostel and decided to rinse the creepy chemicals out of my hair. When I tried to turn on the little hotel hairdryer in the bathroom, I blew the fuse for the entire building. Hi, Buenos Aires! We have an interesting relationship so far!

applause please

In Spain, the "hola guapas" annoyed me muchisimo, partly because their gutteral attempts at hitting on passerby struck me as lacking a certain necessary panache.

But leaving all Western feminism aside, who could argue with a place where a trio of men sitting on a step burst into applause at your presence as you walk by them? You just can't argue with that.

paging banksy

One of my most favoritest things about my favoritest places is the incredible political graffitti that starts to speckle the walls after many years of chaos... (addendum: i have been chastised and called elitist for not translating these. It's nice to know people care. Translations added, thanks Uncle Pime!)

"Revolution in the plaza, at home and in bed."

"It's the Vatican's fault."

"Are we really in a democracy?"

"The pencils keep on writing..."

"Victory for the Palestinian resistence"

"Where are the Disappeared?" (This building contains military history; the question was not randomly placed!)

"Effing Peronists!"

"Revolutionizing memory, constructing the future."

"Where is he?"

"Women standing to face crises!"

someone give us a house, please!

Ok, ok, the ghetto is glamorous in the movies but when you accidentally live there in Buenos Aires, it's not as fun. Traipsing all over town to find apartments in legitimate neighborhoods is a) good for the glutes and b) really hard for two girls who like eating cheesecake and sitting down a lot. Today we tricked our new friend Jamil (born on Caye Caulker in Belize, raised in Guatemala City, yoga fanatic) into wandering around with us into Palermo.

Jamil, two miles in: "Ay Dios. I should be doing less meditating and more exercising."

This is Jamil's face after he saw Amy Winehouse in her drogaddiccion phase. Emotion was palpable. It was like telling a kid there's no Santa Claus.

Luckily, covering dozens of miles on foot was worth it. We now have an apartment to live in starting on Monday and the happy memory of a cute little Argentinian boy who gasped, "MIRA... que lindo vestido!" to his mom and swung around to watch Marlo's long dress swish by him. At least someone around here appreciates the fact that we brought cute dresses!

deudas y prestados.

Rick Steves says the only thing that means anything when travelling is the people-- you can buy a ticket to Dubai, Dublin, or Fez and if you never meet a new person or hear a new story, you aren't really travelling because your mindset hasn't been altered at all. Conversely, you can cross the street and hear a new story from your neighbor and consider that travelling.

So interesting people and their stories are most of the appeal in clicking "purchase" on a shiny new plane ticket. Our first was the gorgeous blonde sitting next to us on the plane from DC, an Argentinian who used to work for the World Bank (I suppose I knew that people from all over the world work for the World Bank-- it makes sense, right? But it also surprises me when people from Latin America admit to it!). So I had to ask her how socially acceptable it was for her to admit to such employment. She laughed a little.

"Right, well I think the thing is that most people don't know that the World Bank and IMF are sister organizations. Argentina's default on their IMF loan in 2001 caused massive discontent and in the public mentality, the IMF was just the devil. Just terrible. But since most people didn't know how closely connected the two organizations are, it wasn't an issue for me. And also I was running with the international finance crowd in DC for most of that, anyway."

Unfortunately our plane landed before I could ask her more. I wondered if she really thought that the IMF truly knew better than Argentinians on the issue of national economy. And if she didn't, how did she feel to be gainfully employed by what is essentially the same organization that was causing such economic chaos for her country? I laughed to myself when I thought of Argentina telling the IMF to take a hike.

Last night, after wandering down the Avenida 9 de Julio (supposedly the largest street in the world-- and learning how to walk on it is a lesson in putting your life on the line), we found a cafe in the shadow of the Obelisk. As usual when Marlo and I start laughing really hard, we found new friends, and in this case it was the owner of the bar. Howard spent a long time in California and likes speaking English because he's "so hard-headed." He wanted to help us find an apartment and insisted we come back in the morning, "but not before ten! Americans work too hard; it's part of the reason I came back here. Let's enjoy life more and work less, ok?"

Don't have to tell us twice!

So having early afternoon cafe con leche at the cafe today found us in the middle of businessman lunch hour. A bearded accountant started chatting with us from an outside table and I couldn't resist asking a little more about the economic woes of his country. After throwing up his hands in frustration at the "six presidents in five days" and "inflation that just wouldn't get under control" and the way the president just can't seem to get a grasp on things, the conversation turned to America, and this man and I had a little disagreement (Conversation paraphrased. My business Spanish could use some brushing up).

"America is so GREAT! You can have anything you want!" he gushed, looking a little weary after recounting the last decade of Argentine economic insecurity.
I snorted. "De veras? Is that really such a blessing? It's fake money we're using, and I don't see how having massive credit crises on an individual level is any better than having it happen with the government, because people have nothing to fall back on."
"No no, it's not the same. How old are you? At 25, Americans can have a house, a car, a spouse and kids, no problem. It's not like that here. The peso used to be pegged to the dollar at a one-to-one rate. Now, no one your age could even think about getting a house, because one day the peso is worth a dollar, the next it's worth four. How can we rely on a system like that?"

So what do we think about this? I have to admit that despite the skewed and selfish way most Americans view money (and our right to have material items), the mentality of freedom with money, based on the reliability of knowing your dollar will still buy the same thing tomorrow morning, is unparalleled in most places. But is it worth it, in light of what this past year has shown?

PS. Marlo's blog is a lot funnier than mine. She can be found at http://www.putacandleinthewindow-marlo.blogspot.com/ telling jokes about the people in our hostel who are a total grab-bag of randos.

affluent travelers.

Someone actually buys this magazine. Doesn’t that just make you want to throw up onto their cashmere pashminas as you walk by them in first class?! And then pity them for the watered down experience they are about to have in their resort villas?

Ok, the fact that Day One happened at all was a Christmas miracle. I haven’t been so nervous for an event since... well, since getting my shots for the trip, and I almost made my dad turn the car around and get back on I5 when we got to the airport. I know, I know, we “wanted” to come on this “trip of a lifetime” that’s going to be “so awesome” but truth be told I think we both were pretty much ready to call it quits before we even left. But sometimes you just gotta put aside your personal issues with nervousness, be a big girl and get out your passport.

As we waited at our gate at SeaTac, the faraway yapping of a tiny lap dog filtered through the murmur of voices and insistently reminded every traveler in the N gate section of his little whiny existence. Once we boarded, I was delighted to discover that the lap dog was now directly behind my seat and would. Not. Shut it. You know how cute and witty that Taco Bell Chihuahua was? Farce. False advertising. As this little guy’s relentless yapping now filled the plane, I also became acquainted with the other members of his party: two kids under age 3; one of whom was so frustrated with the flight that his only recourse was to repeatedly kick the back of my seat throughout an entire airing of “Night at the Museum” (excellent work, United!), and another who was too young to do anything but wail. Next time I book a flight I’m going to watch out for the little “you will hate your life in this seat” icon so I’ll at least have fair warning.

Exhausted and only halfway into our trip, Marlo and I boarded our Dulles flight buoyed by just the basics of airline travel: sleeping pills for me, Xanax and red wine for her*, and my mom’s caramel corn for both of us. Peace out, America North! BUENOS DIAS, AMERICA SOUTH!

*RIP, DJ AM.

relativity, family-style

Alzheimers homes don't smell very good all the time. The conversation isn't always quick-witted (although sometimes it will surprise you). And they can be both wrenchingly lonely and quietly encouraging at the same time. These are all things I thought about as I sat on my grandpa's bed on Saturday, filing his nails and making him eat his sweet potatoes.

My mom's father Eugene is 92 years old and, according to her, "a 7.5 out of 8" on the dementia scale. Generally my mother goes to visit and take care of him alone, which I hate, but she goes cheerfully, which I admire. This weekend, the three of us trekked over together. Part of me thinks I was going to say goodbye to him, and a smaller part is a little hopeful that I was. He just seems to be outliving himself, and it's a difficult thing to watch.

In April, before my sister left to begin her life as a Faux-rean (that sounded better in my head than it looks written down), we went over to spend Grandpa Gene's birthday with him. It was an event that was exceptional only in its unexceptionalism. We sat at a dining room table. We chatted about our day. We laughed and wished birthday wishes for his upcoming year. It was as if we had been catapulted back in time, years ago, when his wife and my grandma was still alive and we sat conversing idly at a table about nothing and everything at once. You know, like families do.

Our food arrived: chicken breasts for us and unrecognizably-chopped-up chicken breast for him. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered to himself as he poked at the plate listlessly.

I have to say the following things about my grandpa: he can be one of the most crotchety, cranky people I have ever met, and he is universally popular no matter where he goes. Grace, the sweet Mexican girl who works at the home, came in repeatedly to make sure my grandpa had whatever he wanted. Rather than eating dinner, he drank three hot chocolates in a row, with whipped cream, brought to him by the doting waitress who wanted to make sure everything was perfect for him.

"He's a very special man," Grace grinned affectionately. "I want to be sure to show him extra care. I don't have parents, and I don't know what it's like, to have to take care of someone older."

My dad, as he does at any mention of a life story, tuned in. "Oh no. What happened?"

"They died when I was eight, in a car accident in Mexico." She placed more bread in front of Gene.

"I have five kids of my own now," she smiled bittersweetly, "and I wish they could have known my parents." She left to get more hot chocolate as the three of us sat, a little stunned, feeling the need to observe some silence for her decades-old loss.

Yes, it is difficult to watch someone you love grow old and lose track of the person you once knew. But Grace reminded us that even those things, when viewed correctly, are blessings: my mom still has a dad. We have had a grandfather who, 20 years ago, shaved his mustache so he could kiss us goodnight, and who taught us how to dance and drink McDonalds coffee and play Pavarotti on his record player and take long walks in his apple orchards and cook an egg in the microwave and love your spouse immensely. I'm grateful for everything his years have contained, and especially grateful for the fact that he has gotten so many of them.

it's cold out!

The past two years have been a humbling opportunity to meet and work with some phenomenal families whose stories exemplify so much courage. One of my favorites, a sweet Latino clan with four kids and a resilience that won't quit, seems to keep getting knocked down. Last winter's blizzard meant no access to the food banks, the recession meant a shortage of day labor opportunities, and now the kids all have swine flu and the electric company shut off their power. They need to send in at least $500 to Seattle Power so the kiddos can have some heat and start to get better, and while I wish I could provide them more than just a BandAid, right now it's the only thing we can do. Please consider making a donation; even a few dollars will go a long way for them right now.
Let's get their heat turned back on!

roomies.

How do I love my roommates? Let me count the animal-socked ways.

distraction.

I just made a fort out of pillows and ten years of Vogue magazine. Packing is sooo hard, ya'll.

Zac's a Dad!

Dear Zachary D. Stroud:
You're welcome.
Sincerely,
Laura M. Huysman

Travel Short- Sarajevo Taxi

"We are so thankful for you," our acid-washed denim-clad driver, who could not have been more than 18 or 19, gushed to us. At that time, our three faces, dusty from the bus ride from Dubrovnik, represented the US State Department circa 1995. "Bill Clinton, yes! But..."

He trailed off, lost in thought and deeply concerned for his poor country. He wanted to defend it, to share the righteous indignance at what little Bosnia had seen, wanted to express the injustice of the war to this carful of women who had not ever seen or touched real injustice. It's not our fault that we don't know what war really means, who, for all our well-meaning curiosity, could not and most likely would not know what it was like for those four years in the city as it was bombed, what it was like to lose family members and friends, smell the sulfur as a thousand years of literature burned to the ground.

"But why not more?" his flat palms tapped the steering wheel with the restrained frustration of someone trying valiantly to maintain politeness in front of new friends. "Why not sooner? Where were you when the Serbs were-- how do you say it-- firebombing us? and our history?"

A raised pair of shoulders looks remarkably like a passive shrug, but we didn't know what else to say. It was the raised shoulder of solidarity, of wishing that decisions made deep within the state department were not determined by the skin color of the people at hand, or the trade options to consider, but the fact that little kids were dying on the sidewalk somewhere and we had the money to make them stop it. We didn't feel equipped to articulate our thoughts on this to our young driver, who was probably dodging mortar shells while I was searching for conch shells on a Hawaiian beach.

I think one of the most interesting and important aspects of arriving somewhere is to find out where your reality intersects with others, and to keep building on those little points of light until you find some semblance of the truth. But sometimes it's also important just to be quiet.

-July 2007

how to report a dead bird.

If you live in Seattle and there is a dead seagull in front of you, you need to go here:
http://www.doh.wa.gov/ehp/ts/Zoo/WNV/reportdeadbird.html

But before you do, make sure Marlo hasn't already reported the bird you are looking at. She has a new goal to be famous by becoming the city's primary dead-bird-reporter. For some reason, finding this link made my stressful day seem funny.

i love seattle hip hop, part deux

To round out a great week of live shows, we found ourselves at a biofuel warehouse in Fremont last Thursday to celebrate the launch of Clockwork's new label Designated Hitters. It was a private event meant to get the funds together to rent out 131 (formerly DV8-- someone told me that changing the club's name is a marketing ploy, but I think it's just annoying) to hold a benefit for Big Brothers Big Sisters on Halloween!

Shucks. Is there anything better than hanging out with a bunch of tattooed rappers with hearts? It was like being in an episode of that show about how Snoop Dogg is really a family man. Their manager literally cried into the microphone about the power of mentoring while we hung around the back and drank free wine. Cheers! It's for the kids!

A few things about Clockwork:
1. Isaac sounds remarkably like a Bone Thug. This guy is unreal.
2. They released their new video for Hold On which is gor.geous. and shot right here in lovely Georgetown!
3. They are playing with Darwin (of aforementioned Lion King fame) and a bunch of other people at the new Crocodile on Oct. 8. See you there.



In conclusion, here is a cute picture of a kitten.

prep.

South America is exactly one month away. Departure feels imminent, but first there are shots. There are visas. There are verbs to remember how to conjugate so we say "catch a bus" instead of "have our way with a bus." There are hippy names to invent for ourselves so we can fit into the place we're living in Buenos Aires (we saw pictures of bongos. People who are not Matthew McConaughey still play the bongos! I'm as shocked as you are!). From now on, please refer to us as "Moon Flower" and "Peace Wart."

Last week, Marlo spent the 8 am hour buying "underwear we can wash in a river that will dry in ten minutes!" and tear-away Adidas track pants. People keep asking us how prep is going-- at this point, six months in South America is looking like a camping trip with Kopachuck Middle School, Class of 1998.