I just picked up my new passport a few hours ago! I'm bummed I didn't completely fill up my last one but hopefully this new one will be full before it expires in ten years. My initial appointment was for November 3rd at 08.30 but I totally missed it. Unfortunately I was still out in San Telmo and though I could have made it to the embassy I doubt they wouldn't have let me in. Trust me. [Think of The Simpsons episode Bart v Australia where Homer step on embassy grounds then Australia and repeats until a Marine hits him with the barrel of his rifle while proclaiming "Here in America we don't tolerate that kind of crap, Sir.]
A few days after that missed appointment I rescheduled for the 17th of November. This time I went to bed early and woke up in time to shower, eat breakfast and take a cab to the embassy. I showed up early, maybe 08.15 or so and there was already a line of about 60 people awaiting entrance to interview for an American visa. The line for citizens was about three deep and I was quickly called to the window and buzzed through the six-centimeter thick bomb-proof steel and glass door and into the security room. It felt like the US Embassy was the most exclusive club in the city and I knew one of the owners: My name's Arturo and my uncle Sam owns this place! Come on in Sir, no waiting in line for you. America, Fuck Yeah.
They told me my new passport would be ready in 10 working days (on November 30th) but this last Monday the 23rd I received a call telling me my passport was ready! I returned this morning and went through the US citizen VIP line and through the same security hassle but was in and out in 15 minutes. After living in a country notorious for bureaucratic inefficiency it was comforting to set foot on American soil and experience a good aspect of American culture: we get it done!
Ironic, but the federal government--in my experience-- was more efficient here that it's ever been in the States. I have even more respect for the Foreign Service...they've got my back! And after listening to so much anti-American jibber jabber at home and here it was nice to see so many people going through the equivalent of a rectal exam at the DMV just to visit the US. I really am fortunate to have an American passport which gives me access to the entire world without having to wait hours in lines.
Alright, alright enough of this "America, Fuck Yeah!" patriotism.
On a related note: The new passports blow! They're like comic books telling the history of America through cliche images and quotes. Fairly cheesy. Funny thing: under Important Information, Number 6 suggests you avoid violating foreign laws. They could have gone with something stronger like "Don't violate" but instead made the deliberate decision to use "avoid" as if to say "try, but not too hard." Yes Uncles, I will try. But not too hard. SL
26 November 2009
24 November 2009
On Being Robbed (And Not Liking It)
Argentina 1, Uruguay 0. The game was nothing like the epic Argentina-Peru game some days before, but very few games have been or will be as emotional as that game; even fewer will have the collective well-being of an entire nation riding on them. Surely the Argentineans will be celebrating their classification into the 2010 World Cup Finals at the Obelisk, the scene for most of this city's sports-related celebrations. Living only about a mile away (I walk a mile in my sleep-- it's nothing!) I figure it is worth a visit to see a sport celebration close-up-- as a resident of the Bay Area I have never had the opportunity to see anything like this in person (quiet SoCal people!).
So off I go: first unlocking and then locking my apartment door, then walking down a long corridor and finally unlocking and--following the instructions posted on the door-- gently closing the building door. The night is brisk and I'm double-layered against it; I don not have a scarf so I walk with my head down. I head left down Juncal and then right onto 9 de Julio, the main street through the densest part of Buenos Aires. It also has to be the world's widest street since there are at least 24 lanes of traffic riding on it; I say at least because like all good urban Latin Americans, Porteños have a magic way of turning two lane into three, not counting the lanes created by alternatively amazing and intrusive moped, motorcycle and non-motorized cycle riders.
I cross Arenales and then Santa Fe: Trak, the chicken sandwich place on the corner, is closed but employees are milling about desperately removing chicken grease off the walls. After crossing Santa Fe I'm out of my neighborhood and into less familiar sidewalks. This may seem unimportant but knowing where sidewalks have wobbly spots or are missing altogether helps you walk like a local-- that is: fast and confidently. Also, it's good to know where dog owners tend to let their dogs to their deeds. Why? Because it'll be on the ground and, very likely, in your path.
At the next intersection I make a left and head into what's known as the Microcentro. This is a commercial area that I've spent more time in and has people walking at all hours. And as we all know, more people equals more safety. At Alvear I make the trek across 9 de Julio and it takes two light cycles to get across. (If you're old or a n00b three cycles is what you should expect.)
Now I'm walking on the other side of 9 de Julio and it's better if only for the fact there are less dog regalitos (presents, in porteñospeak) on the sidewalk because- as I said before- it's less residential. I can see the Obelisk in the distance and as I walk towards it I'm offered free admission into a bar. I decline because i have no plan on drinking tonight and start walking away but am told they'll give me a free pass for the weekend. I should walk away. But it's a bar, and it's near my house. And it's free.
This "free pass" deal is very common so think nothing of it as I walk in. I instantly know I am not in a bar. And I should walk away NOW. But it's too effin late. I am the only customer and in a matter of seconds I have a girl on each arm and am seated in a corner...all while awaiting the elusive "free pass."
Three orange drinks are promptly served (Fanta I assume; but though I love Fanta I know better than to drink them at a place like this) and am verbally given prices for things illegal in most of Puritan America (and here, also, I suspect.). The girls ask me questions and mention that I look noticeably uncomfortable. I reply that I am (a lie cannot cover up obvious physical discomfort) and continue answering their questions with surprising honesty, the way one only does with a total stranger. I should walk away now. But the drinks mean I owe them money, I am sure of it. Fuck. And I know the $15 pesos in my wallet are not going to cover the bill.
I look around and hope the don't have an ATM inside. They don't and I attempt my first escape:
"I really have to go, ladies."
"Okay, just pay what you owe us." I worried for a second: how long have I been here? What have I done? I hope it was with both of them. Waiiiiit, owe them for what??? Hopefully just the drinks. Crap.
"How much?"
"$40 pesos." Oh good, only $40. Just drinks. Relax, you didn't drink the orange drink. You're good.
"I only have $15...I really just want the free pass. Here, I'll give you fifteen."
"But you owe us forty for your drink." Fuck you.
"Fine, is there a bank nearby?"
"Yes, this woman will take you." Oh, she looks crazy.
The bank is two buildings down, within sight of the massive doorman who will keep an eye one me. The doorman himself has the man and build of a man not to be messed with: boots, a chain attaching his wallet to his pants, a leather jacket and long, wavy hair; essentially a metal guy. I can tell he is the sad type who is not inherently aggressive but because of his size and appearance can only find work as the tough-guy and will play that persona to protect his source income.
The woman escorting me is smaller than me but gives the impression she will push my head into a window and bite my ear off if she thinks I'm going to pull some funny stuff. I walk. The doorman keeps watch. "You know, you're robbing me. That's pretty shitty." The woman mumbled; I don't even think it was in response to my accusation but to remind me she was as crazy as I instinctually thought. At this point running away is an option, but for $40 pesos not worth the risk of a guy in their employ a block down bash my head in AND take my money. So I withdraw $50 and walk back to the bar, cash in wallet.
I foolishly find myself at the bar--well strip club/brothel is what it turned out to be so I'll call it that--again, waiting for change. AH SHIT! Fool me twice, shame on me. The same two girls come up to me again and--pointing at a menu-- claim I owe them for more than a drink. Silly me, it turns out the $40 pesos was just for my drink! How unchivalrous of me to only pay for my drink. I will gladly pay for both of your drinks! Oh, and I owe you for more? Please tell me. At this point I stop listening because I have already decided I am not going to give them more money. (And this, friends, is a little literary tactic called foreshadowing.)
The beautiful Chilean to my left (I know she's Chilean because earlier she asked me if their National Team had beaten Peru earlier (they had); women here may be even more passionate than men when it comes to fútbol) points at three or four items on the menu that I've inadvertently purchased by the mere act of straying in. Saying "I'm not paying" is surely suicidal so I play it cool: "Oh my mistake, she [my crazy ATM escort] didn't tell me. Can someone take me to the ATM again?" Wow, we have ourselves a first-rate sucker right here! Cha-cha-ching! At this point they have $65 pesos of my money, and I owe them at least another $250 (the non-alcoholic orange drinks were the cheapest thing on the menu so $250 is a conservative estimate).
Here we go again. My escort leads me out, again asks the bouncer to keep an eye on us and makes a right out the front door. But I make a left. First I walk, until the crazy woman realizes I'm not following and turns around to see me a good ten meters away. She rushes back to the doorman who intends to give chase but stops after a few steps. Chasing someone on a semi-busy street is not good practice anywhere at any time but I've met too many people in Buenos Aired who have been robbed in plain daylight while passersby make no attempt to interfere or stop the thief. I make the first left at Cordoba) and do a speed walk that might qualify me for the next Summer Olympics (I'm awaiting an official ruling from the judges.)
In my full-retard sprint-walk I wonder if they have guys in the neighborhood ready to pull guys like me into a corner. This being a city of dark doorways where people love to stand provides my imagination with plenty of potential Ahhhh this guy's gonna pull me in and kill me" scenarios. Now everyone has me worried: the people in those doorways; poorly-paid security guards; magazine vendors; suspicious-looking men walking alone. But more than anyone, the prostitutes working their corners have me worried. Surely, if anyone on these streets is in cahoots it is them: are they giving away my location for a few hits of paco?
I keep walking down Cordoba towards the old docks and, long before then, Calle Florida. La Florida is a pedestrian mall with shops and lights and people at all hours and is my best bet for getting home. Once I'm on it my only worry are the prostitutes who are on seemingly every intersection. Is my progress being tracked? I keep looking around like I have seen in those History Channel-recreated KGB-CIA face-offs.
After two blocks or so on Florida I hit Plaza San Martin and wind my way beneath its Winter-bare sinuous trees fully exposed beneath the strong moon-lit sky and get back to Juncal. By now I am nearly laughing about being robbed and cross 9 de Julio. I can see my building, but just in case they are watching or I am being followed I go around the block, walking between the French and Brazilian embassies, down Arroyo and up Libertad until I'm back on Juncal and inside my home sweet home.
I never did make it to the Obelisk. And they never gave me that ephemeral free pass. Will they recognize me when I walk by? We'll find out soon...it's on the way to some good food places and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some two-bit whores and an overweight douche with bad hair stand between me and some superpanchos and gyros! SL
So off I go: first unlocking and then locking my apartment door, then walking down a long corridor and finally unlocking and--following the instructions posted on the door-- gently closing the building door. The night is brisk and I'm double-layered against it; I don not have a scarf so I walk with my head down. I head left down Juncal and then right onto 9 de Julio, the main street through the densest part of Buenos Aires. It also has to be the world's widest street since there are at least 24 lanes of traffic riding on it; I say at least because like all good urban Latin Americans, Porteños have a magic way of turning two lane into three, not counting the lanes created by alternatively amazing and intrusive moped, motorcycle and non-motorized cycle riders.
I cross Arenales and then Santa Fe: Trak, the chicken sandwich place on the corner, is closed but employees are milling about desperately removing chicken grease off the walls. After crossing Santa Fe I'm out of my neighborhood and into less familiar sidewalks. This may seem unimportant but knowing where sidewalks have wobbly spots or are missing altogether helps you walk like a local-- that is: fast and confidently. Also, it's good to know where dog owners tend to let their dogs to their deeds. Why? Because it'll be on the ground and, very likely, in your path.
At the next intersection I make a left and head into what's known as the Microcentro. This is a commercial area that I've spent more time in and has people walking at all hours. And as we all know, more people equals more safety. At Alvear I make the trek across 9 de Julio and it takes two light cycles to get across. (If you're old or a n00b three cycles is what you should expect.)
Now I'm walking on the other side of 9 de Julio and it's better if only for the fact there are less dog regalitos (presents, in porteñospeak) on the sidewalk because- as I said before- it's less residential. I can see the Obelisk in the distance and as I walk towards it I'm offered free admission into a bar. I decline because i have no plan on drinking tonight and start walking away but am told they'll give me a free pass for the weekend. I should walk away. But it's a bar, and it's near my house. And it's free.
This "free pass" deal is very common so think nothing of it as I walk in. I instantly know I am not in a bar. And I should walk away NOW. But it's too effin late. I am the only customer and in a matter of seconds I have a girl on each arm and am seated in a corner...all while awaiting the elusive "free pass."
Three orange drinks are promptly served (Fanta I assume; but though I love Fanta I know better than to drink them at a place like this) and am verbally given prices for things illegal in most of Puritan America (and here, also, I suspect.). The girls ask me questions and mention that I look noticeably uncomfortable. I reply that I am (a lie cannot cover up obvious physical discomfort) and continue answering their questions with surprising honesty, the way one only does with a total stranger. I should walk away now. But the drinks mean I owe them money, I am sure of it. Fuck. And I know the $15 pesos in my wallet are not going to cover the bill.
I look around and hope the don't have an ATM inside. They don't and I attempt my first escape:
"I really have to go, ladies."
"Okay, just pay what you owe us." I worried for a second: how long have I been here? What have I done? I hope it was with both of them. Waiiiiit, owe them for what??? Hopefully just the drinks. Crap.
"How much?"
"$40 pesos." Oh good, only $40. Just drinks. Relax, you didn't drink the orange drink. You're good.
"I only have $15...I really just want the free pass. Here, I'll give you fifteen."
"But you owe us forty for your drink." Fuck you.
"Fine, is there a bank nearby?"
"Yes, this woman will take you." Oh, she looks crazy.
The bank is two buildings down, within sight of the massive doorman who will keep an eye one me. The doorman himself has the man and build of a man not to be messed with: boots, a chain attaching his wallet to his pants, a leather jacket and long, wavy hair; essentially a metal guy. I can tell he is the sad type who is not inherently aggressive but because of his size and appearance can only find work as the tough-guy and will play that persona to protect his source income.
The woman escorting me is smaller than me but gives the impression she will push my head into a window and bite my ear off if she thinks I'm going to pull some funny stuff. I walk. The doorman keeps watch. "You know, you're robbing me. That's pretty shitty." The woman mumbled; I don't even think it was in response to my accusation but to remind me she was as crazy as I instinctually thought. At this point running away is an option, but for $40 pesos not worth the risk of a guy in their employ a block down bash my head in AND take my money. So I withdraw $50 and walk back to the bar, cash in wallet.
I foolishly find myself at the bar--well strip club/brothel is what it turned out to be so I'll call it that--again, waiting for change. AH SHIT! Fool me twice, shame on me. The same two girls come up to me again and--pointing at a menu-- claim I owe them for more than a drink. Silly me, it turns out the $40 pesos was just for my drink! How unchivalrous of me to only pay for my drink. I will gladly pay for both of your drinks! Oh, and I owe you for more? Please tell me. At this point I stop listening because I have already decided I am not going to give them more money. (And this, friends, is a little literary tactic called foreshadowing.)
The beautiful Chilean to my left (I know she's Chilean because earlier she asked me if their National Team had beaten Peru earlier (they had); women here may be even more passionate than men when it comes to fútbol) points at three or four items on the menu that I've inadvertently purchased by the mere act of straying in. Saying "I'm not paying" is surely suicidal so I play it cool: "Oh my mistake, she [my crazy ATM escort] didn't tell me. Can someone take me to the ATM again?" Wow, we have ourselves a first-rate sucker right here! Cha-cha-ching! At this point they have $65 pesos of my money, and I owe them at least another $250 (the non-alcoholic orange drinks were the cheapest thing on the menu so $250 is a conservative estimate).
Here we go again. My escort leads me out, again asks the bouncer to keep an eye on us and makes a right out the front door. But I make a left. First I walk, until the crazy woman realizes I'm not following and turns around to see me a good ten meters away. She rushes back to the doorman who intends to give chase but stops after a few steps. Chasing someone on a semi-busy street is not good practice anywhere at any time but I've met too many people in Buenos Aired who have been robbed in plain daylight while passersby make no attempt to interfere or stop the thief. I make the first left at Cordoba) and do a speed walk that might qualify me for the next Summer Olympics (I'm awaiting an official ruling from the judges.)
In my full-retard sprint-walk I wonder if they have guys in the neighborhood ready to pull guys like me into a corner. This being a city of dark doorways where people love to stand provides my imagination with plenty of potential Ahhhh this guy's gonna pull me in and kill me" scenarios. Now everyone has me worried: the people in those doorways; poorly-paid security guards; magazine vendors; suspicious-looking men walking alone. But more than anyone, the prostitutes working their corners have me worried. Surely, if anyone on these streets is in cahoots it is them: are they giving away my location for a few hits of paco?
I keep walking down Cordoba towards the old docks and, long before then, Calle Florida. La Florida is a pedestrian mall with shops and lights and people at all hours and is my best bet for getting home. Once I'm on it my only worry are the prostitutes who are on seemingly every intersection. Is my progress being tracked? I keep looking around like I have seen in those History Channel-recreated KGB-CIA face-offs.
After two blocks or so on Florida I hit Plaza San Martin and wind my way beneath its Winter-bare sinuous trees fully exposed beneath the strong moon-lit sky and get back to Juncal. By now I am nearly laughing about being robbed and cross 9 de Julio. I can see my building, but just in case they are watching or I am being followed I go around the block, walking between the French and Brazilian embassies, down Arroyo and up Libertad until I'm back on Juncal and inside my home sweet home.
I never did make it to the Obelisk. And they never gave me that ephemeral free pass. Will they recognize me when I walk by? We'll find out soon...it's on the way to some good food places and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some two-bit whores and an overweight douche with bad hair stand between me and some superpanchos and gyros! SL
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