Breathe the Good Airs

Some days you just focus on breathing through it. Overload of work, people, city, whatever it is bearing down, your breath has that feeling at the end like you just ran upstairs too fast.

I’ve hung out with New Yorkers a lot this month and loved hearing their fresh take on this city. Similar perspectives all around on what's great and what lacks in Buenos Aires.

One comment stuck with me, the fact that people are quiet on the subway. It's a great thing to ride public transport in peace but yes, it's a bit odd to share space with so many silent beings, solemn on the subte, passive transit riders. It reminds me of what made me uncomfortable in European crowds. A sort of submissive group dynamic hangs over like a cloud, everyone obedient and well behaved.

I could probably do with some more of that exact quality though, more cooperative spirit please.

We all have our methods of getting through situations that sting. Today, mine feel like a bumpy ride on a narrow canyon road, winding through the dark, city lights below, danger around the bend. An ex boyfriend used to tell me about riding his skateboard down a road like that, up in the state park outside of LA. He and daredevil peers would take turns at high speeds, seated, like a roller coaster plunge, no security bars. Some days this month are like that, free fall ride on gravel, not sure if I’ll be okay when I stop.

Then I wake up the next day generally pleased with where I’m at and how and when. There’s no clear progression or paper trail to my world here, no climbing of ladders or buying stuff or family planning. There’s only the immediate rush of a romantic city, friends and outings, audio and visual. It’s all very here and now, unsettling for the future and typically Argentine in scope. The future always holds uncertainty in this country, economically and politically, so people plan and act short-term. Hence the lack of investment in private and public projects, immobility of social class, long nights out.

The end of something can be a downward spiral at times on a dark canyon road. It can be a retreat under the covers, a respite from the weight of compromise and responsibility. It can be a calm agreement to take an independent direction. I guess it’s each of those here for me this month in Buenos Aires.

Kasha and I moved into our new apartment yesterday. It’s really nice and in the best part of San Telmo, a half block from a friend’s house. I was lucky to find it through another friend and get on with the spring here in a furnished, easy, one bedroom with tasteful BA décor. I chose it over the huge antique house with cheap rent and English girlfriends. It’s out of character for me, completely, to be here instead but I’d reached my limit of instability. I needed easy, for now.

When I walk in the door I think of my grandma. She spent 40 years or so single in apts like this one in LA, nice, safe, no one to bother her. I have the space here to process this past year of living with someone who didn’t have time for me, which made me mad and then pushed us to an end. I can look forward to a better fit, sure I will, though maybe not in a foreign country.

Living here continues to be new and nice mostly, with adjustments that have to be made. Every day, there is something of the unexpected wisdom found in a different culture, a view of their take on business as usual, not like what you know.

I’m thinking life resembles the speeding canyon ride, in the absence of something to lock you down. When faith weaves in and out downhill and you are alone and human.

I’d like to use a hitchhiker analogy too but I think you feel me already.

(Next blog will be jam-packed with superficial blather about parties, trips, and other playgrounds, promise.)

Pigs, Politics, and Jobs

Apartment hunting in Buenos Aires isn't too difficult, it's certainly cheaper if you do it in Spanish. Craigslist spots are tourist-centric so not that affordable. Classified ads in the Argentine papers have more affordable rates but with San Telmo undergoing gentrification and intense inflation, rising prices are brutal. So much money to be made on purchasing apts and re-selling. Wishing I was a part of the real estate game.

This month brought two new jobs and the thought of moving, which I'm resisting. You've seen my apt here on the site, it's one of those great, Parisian-style, gorgeous high-ceilinged spots built circa WWI with an elegant entrance and elevator, French doors, wood floors, and balconies - and it's not expensive - never had one of these before. Max and I taking a relationship breather that includes not living together for two months and then deciding what to do next. I might keep the apartment since he likes his old neighborhood better anyway. It'd be complicated with the landlord since I'm not a resident, so it's more likely I'll get a new situation. I have two new super girl friends and one of them wants to move into a big, ramshackle spot together. If we lock down the right dilapidated apt, cheap, we could be in for an adventure.

I started a job with the record label I was writing about before, Zizek. They had a shiny US and Mexican tour and are heading to Europe next. They dropped two new records and the weekly party is on fire. It's an exciting new label and part of the job is working with the website that covers local street art.

Friday was my first day working with this great non-profit that brings travelers in to volunteer in the hood. It's a successful program with ten years behind it and my job is to spread the word and try my hand at some grant writing.

Voluntario Global brings people in to tutor in after school programs and adult education, to work in the Bolivian and Paraguayan kitchen that makes lunch for students and staff, or to work in the independent radio station on the site of a factory recuperada that acts as an indie publishing house. People get to work on projects in the BA version of the projects/favelas/shantytowns and connect with disenfranchised locals in a safe context.





Fashion week and the independent music festival have hit along with the international tango fest, which I missed again this year - oops. But really, don't sleep on the tango, yo. It's some hot couples dancing, intimate business with cool clothes. Made it to an actual fashion show for once which wasn't too exciting, as expected, but it was fun to go with friends.




Biggest news is my new chrome cruiser with the XL handle bars. Also the closing of my favorite local spot, Natalia's restaurant Macama. Luckily her mother's bday party in her hometown proved a happy distraction, dancing to cumbia all day on the back patio.








I got in the kitchen this past month to make brunch as a last ditch effort to do my part. I wrote them up in Time Out, put up a Wordpress page, the only thing left was pancakes and Bloody Marias. But they were resigned to shutting down. Restaurant biz is notoriously hard and there was the fact that Natalia has never really drank any alcohol or coffee so the place was kind of starting off with a handicap. Pasta revenue doesn't pay the bills I don't think. Especially here where cream sauce means a carton of cream poured over spaghetti.


One night soon after Max broke up with me, I went on a date with a guy who got in touch with me online. It was a blind sort of date and I was surprised when he showed up smoking hot. We went to see a friend's band play, at a small-ish spot in an out-of-the-way neighborhood. By total coincidence, Max's homie knew someone else in the band and he showed up at the same small party. I introduced him to my date. My friend and his girlfriend were amused by the telanovela of it all.

There was a visit to the Feria De Mataderos, some art exhibits, and, of course, the broadcast of the DNC. Me and 300 other Americans at Sugar, the meat market in Palermo, stopped checking each other out long enough to pay close attention to Barack Obama's speech and be appropriately moved and wowed.

Cumbia Article So Glossy and Fly

Two weeks in LA in the sun is never a bad thing and I'm back in the winter less pale and excited about the dope article that's in the current issue of Urb in The States. It was massive to write and fun to get to see some more of this city where I live and to get inside a fresh music movement I'm liking from the dance floor.

The article lives online too, Synths of Resistance: Argentina's Digital Cumbia, but it's so good in actual print! Real-life zine reading is more literary, less cursory or something. Just you and the pulp from the tree, getting down.


My head is full of visuals and audio from driving around Lost Angeles, getting to meet new progeny and seeing adjustments in the landscape. Best part of the trip for me, homies in the hometown, of course. Max's favorite moment was recording with Dr. Oop and Nucleus in the Victorian neighborhood of USC. There was some kind of ill connection between the four of us, for his first West Coast jam. There were cardboard boxes and finger snapping for beats, the acoustic guitar we'd bought to bring back to Gustavo, and Nucleus' storytelling that included tales from Fairfax High. We had a Fairfax moment, punctuated by a question.

Nucleus: "You went to Fairfax too, oh, what year did you graduate?
Eve: "'91" (chant-style, represent)
Nucleus: "That's the year I was born!"




Yes, I was celebrating a distinguished birthday that week, with stylie girlfriends in glorious LA backdrops. But my presents were toys, our pasta included pumpkin, wine-soaked strawberries and mascarpone stood in for cake, and there was a squabble between the girls and the security guard on the hotel roof. Toothy grinning, middle thirty came in alright. Thing is, every bday needs to be appreciated for the moment of exactly where you are at, never to repeat. For the age-haters, there's the fact that next year will be older, so this year is youthful in comparison with what's coming, right? I'm feeling lucky for the past year's fun, appreciate the hard knocks for sensibility earned, looking forward to what's headed my way, wide-eyed, anticipating the best possible scenario because why jinx yourself, boludo?

One foot here and one still in NYC, I ran through LA enjoying the weather, KCRW, and old friends and family who remain Angelenos and proud. Pick up that homespun Urb then, Hollyhood, and soak up something from South of Mexico. Argentine Cumbia's Zizek is in LA with shows this weekend, Saturday at the Echo and at the Getty Sunday.

I keep meeting people who live between Buenos Aires and the US or Europe and I'm thinking about why we do it. Right now I choose this city over the glowing American West Coast or fabulous Sexo in the City NYC and over any other foreign address. Like the rest of the expats I meet, I live here for the onda.

I checked in at the gate at LAX with the Chilean airline LAN, always LAN, never Delta, and was reminded why the crumbling streets of BA come in first choice. The continent is one big cooperative and this city likewise. Maybe I was around too many hippies as a kid, the people and lifestyle fit me. Every stranger is almost your friend, no phony smiles, no tense, overworked undercurrent. People live the good life in BA, without multiple trips to the mall. People treat each other right, have time and peace of mind to think. People know who they are and generally what they want and act like they know. When a CIA-induced coup murdered President Allende in the 70s, Argentina had just voted in socialism, so you get me. If the coup hadn't been successful, the nation never would have been taken over by the military dictatorship that swiftly annihilated 30,000 Argentines under its rule. Thanks to imperialist intervention, politics have remained in the hands of greed. But the society at large is still a co-op.

In 2008 as a foreigner, it's an amazing place to set yourself up for success, even if the economy is a poo butt. They're living what is our American heartbreak, they're back when it didn't matter how much money you have access to, when people were polite and walked the little old ladies across the street, when we spoke to neighbors.

The pace and style here explain why retro is nostalgic rather than moldy. For me, here and now is the good old days. Here, you can go to the hospital without approval from bad guys in insurance. Groceries are getting more expensive but they're still within budget, all organic and fresh from the local farm. People pat the heads of stray dogs and random passing toddlers and no one is scared to touch each other. It could inspire us Yanks. It's always a shock jumping between worlds, but I'm glad to get back to the underdeveloped and go raw like Ol Dirty.

Winter in Buenos Aires

Elevator music in the Buenos Aires supermarket and I remind myself there's more to South America than the one-block radius where I spend most of my time. "And I keep wonderin' who's holding Donna now" fills the produce aisles and the aisles of wine priced at $3. I wonder which cut of steak, out of the 50 plus offered, would be make the best companion for a "guiso de lentegas," Argentina's winter lentil stew.

It's cold every day - early 40's mostly but the difference is no holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, nope. South America celebrates the holidays at the beach in the middle of their summer and that means nothing to break up the cold and gray. Except a visit to California.


Max and I will be in LA for my cousin's wedding. It's his first trip to the US outside of NYC. It's my escape from the cold - which I didn't mind in New York City. But that was NYC.


In Buenos Aires there is inflation and protests, cold, and soccer finals. This past month I wrote a feature article on digital cumbia for Urb Magazine and went to a very musical BBQ. Everybody here seems to be able to sing, play the guitar, rep decent on the drums. Really big on sing-a-longs - men showing off their vocal ability and guitar chops for other men, I mean straight men. It's not the dancing-est culture, but they're not quiet folks. People here give me a run for my yapping.


Super highlight was a visit from my parents. They're official Buenos Aires fans now. They went big - tango, steak, gauchos, tourist traps, boho circus, getting down with the locals, I wore them out before they did me.


After riding around with the king of Gangster Cumbia, I was reborn as a cumbia villera fan (Argentine urban music, the local version of hip hop) and got to immortalize the genre in English in the current issue of Urb magazine. First feature, printed joint! I also contributed articles to Time Out Buenos Aires. Since everything else I do is digital, it'll be nice to flip pages and cut out paper for the scrap book, right?

My day job is getting more interesting as adult social networks take hold. And a friend in London and I decided to try our hands at a themed blog.


If you're in LA, I'm excited to see you next week. NYC is looking like September, much as I should hold on to my pesos, I can't help it. I'm an NYC addict in need. Only thing that'll keep me from it is Colombia. Colombia or NYC? There's a lot of Colombia in Queens.