scraps of paper from dinner.

Cafayate. Eating a large steak. A big tenderloin. Tomato salad for balance. A bottle of vino tinto. Local fare.

8 tables stradle the sidewalk. Pedestrians, of which there are few, walk between us. A table of two men, side by each, sip their remaining beers. One smokes. He is large. Round belly. Red faced. A cropped mullet of slicked white hair. A handle bar stache, trimmed, with the edges touching his chin. He wheezes before his lighter can strike a spark.

An Argentine resembling a short Tom Selleck asks for change. His shirt, tucked in, but buttoned only at the lower half. Cowboy boots covered by tappered jeans. Salt and pepper hair combed back and covering the ears. A tightly groomed moustache accompanies his upper lip. He feels good about himself. He runs the hotel I stay at. I've only used the bathroom in the hotel three times and each time he was occupying the one man room. A one man show of him. Combing his hair with the door open. Shirt off. What the fuck!? Either get out or shut the door and lock it. Stop playing dress up in your own mind. They are no longer casting for Three Men and a Baby. You fail.

Boots clap the tiled sidewalk. A bombshell passes. All Argentine. Long, slender. All I see are legs. Her eyes are curious, but non-wandering. I stare. She wins.

Three modern cowboys sit to my left. Their motorbikes parked an arm's length away. A Honda CBR and two Yamaha R1s. Can only imagine their ride. Wide open well paved two lane desert roads. Scenery like the Mojave. Layered rocks of red. Rusting iron ore. Some copper green oxidizing in the mix. They sip water. I sip wine.

I cut off a thick slice of steak. Juicy. Salty. I refill my glass. I still have half a bottle left.

A puppy perched with patience in the passageway. Hoping his youthful eyes of desperation will draw the scraps of sympathy.

I want to say its a Mariachi band, but think that may be wrong. Is that only in Mexico? Still, it sounds similar. Guitar strums. Ranchero singer follows. Voice of deep Spanish pride. Telling stories from his Grandfather's eyes.

Salt & tomatoes a natural compliment. Tomatoes on grilled beef even better.

The puppy, ignored, moves on.

Chivalry courts the air.

A ponytailed girl, pink pants, rides her bike with one hand. The other sports a melting icecream cone. She follows blind her father's leading shadow.

A boy, no more than three, sits in the rear child's seat of his mother's bike. Arms stretched in celebration. He wears the jersey of a Boca Jr player. His Mom walks the bike home.

The band picks up tempo. Mr. Handbars pours more beer. His right hand stomps the tune in an off-beat fashion. Cuttlery bounces with a metalic clank. The man at the table behind him has his arms crossed. His upper hand taps the same beat.

I feed the puppy. He is veiled under my table's cloth. Starving, he accepts a dropped scrap. Gentle, but hungry for more. He waits. He looks up and licks his chops. His face is all eyes. I hold a 2nd piece in my fingers. He approaches and takes. Two bites to straighten his hold on the meat, then he swallows whole. No time to taste. I'm sure he'd like to, but he is most concerned with consumption rather than enjoyment. Eat to live. His hair is wirey. He can't weigh more than 10lbs. A puppy fending for himself. I feed him all my gristle, scrap by discarded scrap. He accepts it all. All consumed in two bites. I grin. He's likely to get sick from so much so soon. He'll figure that out himself. Part of fending for oneself.

The vocals pause. The band stops. The vocals speak. A joke is told. The wit caught and the crowd laughs. It spills onto the street.

Two young couples dance. They move so well. A courtship of twirls. They strike envy in the aged patrons. They must be hired help. He spins quickly to show her his moves. She is provacative and turns each time the man holds too tight a glance. He is the lead, but she is the tease.

A father passes, shouldering his daughter. Son walks by the side of his mother, holding her hand. A family, together. Heading home, together.

I order a cortado. Small espresso with milk. I'll put a cork in the wine - now only a quarter left - and move on.

*******
dinner does not always have to be a group affair. sitting solo in a foreign town is often entertainment enough. company is welcome, but in its absence a pen and paper will suffice.

Salta, Argentina: a break from the city

I needed a break from Buenos Aires. I may sound like a jerk, but it's true. Too much of any city without honest priorities requires a change of pace.

Buenos Aires is a tremendous amount of fun. Its a great blend of cosmopolitan charm and urban grime. The daytime pace is tranquilo and matte fueled, yet the nights are their own beast. Dinner only becomes a thought by 10pm. By 2am the bars and clubs are filling up and at 4am the crowd is starting to debate the next venue. If you're out, its normal. By six in the morning the sun grows and couples desperately grope each other and the fleeting night. Yet its a draining and empty feeling to cab home and know the starting day will be largely lost to sleep. The past weekend of Thursday to Sunday was extremely entertaining, but come Monday I needed a retreat to the countryside. Initially, I was leaning towards Mendoza, but took the suggestion of a friend to explore Salta. My options were a 2hr plane ride or an overnight bus. An easy choice, especially seeing I only have a week left in Argentina before taking off for Africa.

There was little planning to the trip. I had read only a few articles on the city of Salta and a couple more on surrounding area. I simply wanted to explore. I stepped off the plane and was struck by the wide open sky, bright sun and still heat. Its only mid-October, but its scorching in Salta; surprisingly warmer than urban BA. By midday I was checked into a hostel and ready for some lunch. Accompanied by only my camera and my novel at the time, ''The Road'' I found a terrace for coffee and empanadas.

A commonality of South American cities/towns is they they all host at least one central open plaza. An urban span of trees and grass designed for idle time. They offer a short cut across the block or a place to sit in the shade. Usually, some statue stands in the center.

Following lunch I attempted, once again to check out a polo match. Once again, my plan was thwarted as there was no match scheduled for the day. However, I did get to see a few players and horses practice on the pitch which was still impressive.

I backtracked to centro and rode a gondola up to the city's lookout. A very worthy 15 minute cable ride up. The peak boasted an elaborate waterfall of multi-stages, a cultivated garden and a large cross, which is seemingly pre-requisite of any urban hill in South America. I stayed for a couple hours and watched the sun set behind a range of mountains along Salta's western sprawl. One by one the streets lights began to shine.

Dinner was a group asado back at the hostel. I grilled a beefy tenderloin and ate an excessive amount of blue cheese while reading further into ''The Road.'' It was tough to socialize. I wasn't feeling up to the hostel small talk. Perhaps I would have chimmed in if someone from the mini-UM started the conversation with something interesting like, ''I knew a ninja once...'' Nobody did. All the better, my bus to Cafayate was at 7am.

*******

The bus was jam packed. A few had to stand and they swayed listless. The ride was a dozy 4hrs. I completed ''The Road'' in between slumbers. An eerie novel set in post-apocolyptic America. A striking tale of Father and Son, their loyal bond and the emotional hardships of persevering for an uncertain tomorrow. Cormac McCarthy describes scorched landscapes covered in ash. A vast sprawl of desert. It was stirring to read the final pages while watching the parched terrain roll by from my window seat.


*******

I now find myself in Cafayate, Argentina. A small town in the northwestern province of Salta, edging the borders of both Chile and Boliva. Its dry, desert hot and sits at an altitude of 1,500m - ideal growing conditions for grapes, especially the Malbec variety which thrive in the cold nights of higher altitudes.

I arrived at noon as the town lay active only in siesta. After walking a few central squares, I spotted an empanada shop. I ordered a variety of 6 and a liter of cola. Following, I rented a bike from across the street and spent the balance of the day navigating the back country roads and tasting wines from 5 different vineyards.

Cafayate offers a wide selection of local wines. Better yet, most of the vineyards are easily accessible by bike. Really a perfect town for wine tasting.

Tomorrow, I'll explore more of the surrounding area. There are sand dunes, mountains of layered colours and ancient cave etchings.

*******
I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Cafayate, Argentina. I've just cracked a Quilmes and have a cheek full of coco leaves. I'll soon go eat dinner and continue reading Cormac McCarthy's ''Blood Meridian.'' I'm one chapter in and already it starts will a tone of graphic aggression. Still, I can tell it will entice. He writes with such a unique prose.

I was introduced to Cormac McCarthy in a backwards sort of way. I had no idea it was he that wrote ''No Country For Old Men'' until after mentioning his name to a friend. I learned about him through a singer/song writer named Ben Nichols. He recently released an album called ''Last Pale Light in the West'' which he wrote based entirely off ''Blood Meridian.'' Its an acoustic solo album in which Nichols' voice sounds appropriately like whiskey.

BA Street Art

Buenos Aires boasts some impressive graffiti. I've explored a number of neighbourhoods and have taken a few pictures of the street art. I will continue to update my albums with more works from different areas.

In the meantime, take a peak at the first installment. GRAFFITI in BA

Sultans

Ever done something stupid? Stupid only in result, but fantastic in the moment. I have. In fact, the most recent example occurred last Friday night out in Paris, Ontario. Matty invited me to join an annual golf tourney with his boys. I was keen.

We were to golf on Friday, have dinner back at the rented mansion, play the odd hand of poker, engage in a couple of night cap cocktails and retire early like distinguished gentleman.

By 10am on Friday everything was going to plan. Matty and I were pretty pleased with ourselves for waking up and making the 2hr drive out to Paris with plenty of time to spare before the scheduled tee times. We walked in the front door of the large estate situated on the 9th green and found a group of men already worse for wear. Apparently, the little bulls pulled out a few more stops the night prior and were just rousing. I sipped my Tim Hortons coffee and ate Doritos while the group pulled it together and told stories of the previous night. A few were in visible physical pain. One was icing a sprained inner knee. Another claimed to have cracked ribs. Not sure anyone believed him, until he started coughing, wheezing & tearing up in agonizing pain. The boys laughed their way to conviction. Sultans had already claimed two victims and the golf hadn't even started. The tone was being established.

By noon we had made our 11am tee time. Coffees and gatorades offered minimal salvation. I plugged in my ipod to the portable speakers. Biggie's '10 Crack Commandments' while the rules were being explained. Rural Alberta Advantage for the first few holes. At least we had some music to disrupt the awkward silence of focus. This wasn't the day to show weakness. Weakness to the cold, weakness to a hangover or weakness to a ribbing. Today, a steely resolve of 'go fuck yourself' was vital.

By 5pm the last foursome - reduced to a stellar twosome of B.Joel & Curry - putted home. Surprisingly, the round of Golf had only taken a couple of prisoners. One, had an absolutely impressive breakdown, a total failure to remain impervious. The Sultan's third tally.

I'm often impressed how quickly a group of guys can retreat to nap time. Heads down and driven, they'll avoid any eye contact with all friends who may question their direction and start agitating unnecessarily. By 5:30 the house was a ghost town. MLB playoffs were on the big screen and once again, I found myself eating Doritos. Yet this time, M.Brady offered a science lesson by lighting a Cheetos cheese snack on fire. If you've never tried, I suggest you do. An impressive fire starter should one find themselves stranded in the forest.

I was trying to get support for a side trip to Kitchener/Waterloo for their Octoberfest, which is apparently the largest in North America. I did manage to locate a couple of vans and drivers willing to drive the 20 of us, but thank the baby jesus we stayed put in the Mansion.

Dinner was served around 7pm. Juicy steaks, a heap of side salads and a case of fine Argentinian wines. By this point we were all getting back on track, yet once the plates were cleared the wheels came right back off.

The danger started once that first beer was accidentally spilt on the tiled kitchen floor. A slippery liability of fun. How could you not want to slide across in your tennis shoes? Better yet, on your chest like a penguin. Too hard to resist the Slip'n'Slide. For the sake of us all, I wish I did. My out of the blue 4th slide came following a fastball strike by CC Sabathia to close out the 6th inning. How could you not be fired up! Add some more beer to the floor, get a running start from across the dinning room, jump, land and let'er rip! I slid all the way to the far wall and knocked myself right through it. Despite knowing the pain this would cost my bank account, I found it tough not to immediately laugh. My shoulder just body checked a giant hole in a rented mansion. Check that off the list.

The wheels didn't get put back on until I lay down to sleep in the early morning. All good healthy fun. I awoke to Matty's voice walking upstairs and I quickly got out of bed, put my jeans and shirt back on, grabbed a gatorade and waited in the car. The owners were just pulling up on their golf cart to see us off for our 11am check-out and to ensure there had been no damage. It was time to leave. Sultans was over for another year.

Again, thanks for the invite. Thanks for all the heart to hearts. Very much appreciated. Until next time gents. Stay healthy & keep your heads up.

Home

Its good to get home. Good to get grounded.

I flew back home from BA for a quick 8 day trip, which felt like a month. Matty and I were both home for Thanksgiving and our Mom's surprise birthday party. We spent 5 days up north at the cottage in Haliburton re-building docks, winterizing boats, chopping wood, stacking wood and burning wood. We likely confirmed that the Brady boys haven't evolved beyond the caveman realm as our pyro genes live strong. There is something incredibly satisfying about cutting limbs, clearing brush and setting it all on fire. A productive destruction. I'm certain that most city stresses evaporate, like steam from a wet log, once the work clothes are on and the fire is blazing. Fortunately we managed a few solid days of outside cleanup work. Early morning frosts caked the ground, signaling winter is fast approaching. Glad that Matty and were both back to help out.

One of our projects was to rebuild a section of the docks before putting them away for the winter. On our property, its essential to do such chores in the fall when the lake's level is at its lowest and the beach its widest. Makes for a better job site. Plus, building on the beach meant we could also light a massive brush fire and be close to stoke it. Multi-tasking in the countryside.

The Boys banded together, drew up plans, purchased the materials and re-built the dock all within an afternoon. We were impressed, not only by our pace, but by the cooperation between brothers Matt & Scott. High Kicks to celebrate.

Once the docks were re-built Matty and I had to tow them across the lake for winter storage on the leeward side of the island. Pretty straight forward. Matty drove the boat while sipping a well deserved beer. I sat on the docks like deadweight and took in autumn firebush views.

After dropping off and anchoring the docks we decided to go for a last rip around Eagle Lake before taking the boat out for the season. Seemed to make sense. A slow putter, beers in hand. We had gone no more than 3 minutes when Matty looked over at me a grinned. Not an innocent grin, but one with hidden motivation. I knew exactly what he was thinking, so before he could even ask I said, "sounds like a good idea." If it was to be our last boat ride of the season we should at least have a final waterski. Again, seemed to make sense.

He'd agree to drive, as if it was a great sacrifice, so long as I'd agree to ski. "But wait. You already are driving. The water's fucking cold. Like almost freezing cold. How does this make sense?"

"Shhhhhushhh. Its good. Here are the skis," he said while pulling out the two 1991 O'Briens from the hull's storage. Fair enough. Matty had won another argument by shhhushh'ing me.

Fully clothed in my Haliburton tuxedo of double plaid flannel work shirts, blue jeans, a hunting hat with fur lining and ear flaps, I stood up and started putting on the skis. There was little point to feel the water as I'd spent most of the afternoon wading ball's deep in a pair of fly fishing hip waders. I knew it was soprano cold.

I put on a timeless orange Bouy'O'Boy lifejacket, a pair of leather work gloves and grabbed the ski rope and an old football to properly execute the Bundy pose. All I asked of Matt is that he get me up without stalling the engine. Thankfully he complied.

I entered the water and immediately took a leak to delay the onset of hypothermia. Within a minute I was back up on two skis for the first time since my childhood. We ripped all around the lake. Hooting and hollaring past our cottage, by the inn and back home.

My hands stayed numb for most of that evening, but hot damn was it worth it. October 13th, latest ski of my career.

Some pictures from Haliburton.

AC093.

AC093.

We passed over Bogota an hour earlier. Mind you I had zero clue. I woke up from 2hrs of sleeping pill activity on the runway of Bogota. Stewardess' voice, "Welcome to Columbia."

-sorry, where are we?

-columbia.

It was 2:30am. 30mins on the ground and they announce the crew will retire and we'll be put up in the Sheraton. By 3:30 I'm checked in. Sleep to 8:30 and fuel on two cups of Columbian brew.

Managed to hire a cab and drove up to the Museo del Oro. The building was a refurbished 4 stories of slick stone inner halls. Seemed like a relevant time to check out an entire building dedicated to the most celebrated creations of Latin-American gold. Pretty spectacular Masterpieces.

Was out in 45mins. Circled a few historic blocks of downtown. Coffee, no camera. Met back up with the taxi and we drove an upper road with a view of the sprawl of Bogota. Red roofs faded into the hue of urban smog. Stone buildings from the 1700's lined the narrow cobblestone roads of Candelaria. Seemed like each block hosted the eyes of an elder. The Plaza de Bolivar is a wide open square of prominence with buildings of discipline and disciple on each 4 sides.

The graffiti is fantastic. Detailed murals. Wicked colours. No camera. Less words. Some of the better stuff I've seen on my trip through Chile and Argentina. Less sporadic 5-year old set free with a spray can littering single word tags. Tight canvass space added to the seemingly wide diversity of artists. Good presence through the city. Not cluttering.

I was working backwards from 2pm all day. Well, since i arrived at the Sheraton and again after waking up. Plane was leaving at two, or so we believed. It didn't. It took off at 6pm. I'm not one to utter passive lines of indifference, but there are moments when all you can do is hand over control and accept that certain things are beyond you. Seat belt on, sitting in the full upright position aboard a commercial airplane is one such moment. Your completely captive. You are there until it decides you can get off. Now I really enjoy flying for obvious reasons of travel and destinations. Yet, along with renouncing control comes complete downtime to do just about any activity which incorporates sitting. I find myself in states of excessive ambition (3 books and 8 magazines) or utter exhaustion. Regardless, I'm often asleep before we're off the runway. Must be something in the air. I woke up from my early nap, but the plane hadn't budged.

Once again passenger well being was at the helm of the plane and the same ill-two from the original flight were back aboard and independently not feeling well. A man sporting an oxygen mask was escorted off the plane. A lady followed 20 minutes later. The rest of the plane sat, slept or stirred for hours as they located and removed the recent absentees' luggage.

It had been a cool day. Sure we were delayed, yet I couldn't help to think how much better a layover in Bogota is than a winter storm delay in Chicago while waiting within the airport. I was also reminded about the Louis CK rant on Conen. Quality.

The stop was unexpected, but ultimately welcome. I had wanted to visit Columbia and simply confirmed I will be back. First though, I had to make it home to Canada for Thanksgiving with the entire family in Haliburton, Ontario.

By midnight we arrived in TO, 32hrs after leaving BA. Mike was clearly there. Clearly patient. I can only give thanks. by 4:30am we pulled in to the cottage driveway. Past the Brady Lake sign. Took a leak over the ledge into the forest. Opened the door and was welcomed with its own cedar smell and chime. Made a salami sandwich and went to bed with an extra blanket and all the windows open. Amazing how still and quiet a crisp October weekend by the lake can be, especially compared to the summer frogs and forest sounds. Good to be back home for sure.

Columbia

So, I'm in Bogota, Columbia at the moment. Bit of an audible on the flight home from BA to TO for Thanksgiving. Someone got sick enroute. We were a few hours from Santiago and the closest international airport we could land at was Bogata. Sweet. I've always wanted to Columbia. Wish I could have stayed longer. 

I was awoke from a deep sleeping pill induced slumber to find out we had landed and would be staying for 7hrs. Enough time for a nap at the hotel and to cruise around the center core of the city fueled on the finest Columbian blend. 

My flight to TO is boarding. 

Peace Columbia.

Cambio

Getting change in Buenos Aires seems to be a constant battle. One feels a massive sense of pride and accomplishment simply by breaking a large bill into smaller bills. Should you manage to acquire change in coins you are a lucky man, a rich man. Honestly, its bizarre, but true. 

The buses (collectivos) are convenient and cheap. They run 24hrs/day and with a bit of grid studying one can navigate the entire city and its surrounding suburbs. Best of all each ride costs a mere 1.20 pesos (about 30 cents). The issue is buying a ticket (bolleto). Upon entrance, you tell the driver your destination, he punches a button which highlights the amount to pay. The ticket machine is behind the driver. Enter your change and take your ticket. Pretty straight forward. Except when you don't have change. In that case you stand around like a fool and dig into the depths of your empty pockets. Man purse? Rifle through the change pocket. Empty? Pull out a 2 peso bill and ask sheepishly for change. "Monedas, por favor?" Silence. Lesson learned: don't enter a bus without change. 

Fine, get coins for the next time. Its a constant the world-round: virtually every convenient store and restaurant are reluctant to give change. As a result, I find myself repeatedly buying packs of gum, M&Ms, empanadas or unneeded jolts of coffee simply to find coins for the bus. Its not much of a complaint as I'm left wide awake, with a full belly and minty fresh breathe.

However, try to pay with anything larger than a 20 peso note and the proprietor will exhale in frustration and ask if you have something more 'chico.' Its really a vicious circle as the banks primarily dispense 100 peso bills. Now chances are if you've just come from the bank you're sporting a pocket full of 100's and feel flush. Ironically, those are the moments when I feel most destitute. 

Regardless, there you are belly full, breathe minty and pockets jingling. You've figured out which bus to take by deciphering BA's bible, the GUIA T. You deserve a high-five. You've conquered the bus.

What about a taxi? Its more expensive and more convenient. Obviously. However, on a comparative level to any other major city in the world, BsAs taxi's are super cheap. A 15 minute cross town buzz will cost about 15 pesos ($4). Layup. Cheaper than HK! Compared to Tokyo, they are in different stratosphere. A similar distance in TKY would easily run upwards of $30. My lord, with that type of money you can eat like a King in BA (big 'ol juicy Argentine steak and a couple bottles of vino tinto). 

Just remember, don't enter a taxi in BA without small bills. I've done this on a number of occasions and each resulted in the driver getting visibly angry. Granted, I'm sure they are repeatedly getting hit up for change, but if anything that motivation to carry more, not less. Regardless, its 50-50 they will offer you change. If they do, they'll be as slow as possible in the hopes you'll leave from impatience. If they don't, they'll likely ask you to go and get some. 

"Seriously!? But I'm not hungry. I've already had 18 empanadas today and my murse is filled with 6 packs of gum."

I finally stood up to my last driver. I kindly explained I didn't have a smaller bill than 100 pesos as I'd absent mindedly spent my last 10 moments before entering the cab. He was non-too-pleased. He told me to go to the supermarcado, but I refused. I could see he had change in his hands. He had pulled out his wad expecting I'd pay from a 20. "The supermarcado will force me to buy something I don't need and you have adequate change." I could hear the circuits breaking inside his skull. He'd had enough and told me to get out. "Just get out."

I apologized and exited the taxi. However, for the second time in three days, I found myself confused over the most basic exchanges of money and expelled for standing my ground as a paying customer. Why would he forfeit fare to avoid giving change? I'm sure its deep rooted, but for an newcomer its simply strange. The largest bill is 100 pesos. Banks dispense virtually only 100s. Small shops and taxis are reluctant to accept such notes and even more reluctant to give up any of their heavy change. Its bizarre that coins are more coveted than bills. Penny rich and pound foolish. 

Tango

I have just returned from my first experience with Tango. I'm humbled and impressed. I'm not sure what I thought of it prior, but I'm quite sure it was a dismissive scoff. I likely viewed it as effeminate. I have now changed my mind. 

Men lead. Woman add flare. Its fluid. At moments, slow and deliberate, while quick and spontaneous for the balance. 

Most of the woman wore heels, flowing dresses and leggings underneath. One wore a short ruffled skirt, stilettos and black stockings with a dark seam which ran up the back of the leg. Likely one of the most attractive things I've seen. 

One guy with equal confidence and talent sported leather soled white & black pimp loafers. Dancing shoes. All class. 

There will be a second visit.

I got kicked out of Spanish School

I got kicked out of my Spanish school today. Very bizarre. The first time I’ve been expelled from a school and I can safely say I didn’t see it coming. It had nothing to do with indecent exposure or unprovoked cruelty. I was the victim, yet painted with the brush of the villain. I feel like a fool.

I enrolled in Spanish school for the beginner group lessons of 4hr classes each day. I was excited. I figured 20hr/wk at $100 was a great deal, especially because my group, including me, totaled 3. Good student-teacher ratio and all that. I figured I was on the right course to learning.

I was. Then I was blindsided by the illogical truck of South American business mentality. Ok, that’s a sweeping statement and not even remotely fair, but its safe to say that customer service is not a priority down here. Restaurant proprietors feel entitled for you to serve them with your patronage. Taxi drivers wince to offer change. Spanish schools try to gouge their students with registration fees and small print.

Last Thursday, one of the girls in my class announced she wasn’t going to return for a second week. Rather she was going to continue on her travels. As a result, the school manager would have to rearrange our schedule.

 Now, this timetable jockeying manager is a seemingly nice America girl in the most bland way possible. She strikes me as the bandcamp type who never emerged from her shell until she moved beyond her parents grasp. Now that she’s living in BA and fluent in Spanish, she exudes an air of supremacy, but in a confused hermaphrodidic way. Having the genitals of both sexes isn’t something to boast about.

 Regardless, last Friday she mentioned class would change from 4hrs/day to 2hrs/day, but the cost would remain the same. I failed to follow her logic, so decided to ask how that was possible. She replied that 2 students comprised a ‘semi-private’ lesson and that meant only 2hrs/day.

 Ok, but surely there would be certain concessions made. I mean if we divide the lesson hours in half, then the cost should change, right? No.

I was confused how that made any practical sense. More so, I was confused how she didn’t budge an empathetic inch. Rather, she deadpanned me with a look that could only be interpreted as a patronizing ‘I have the genitals of both man and woman.’

 Now, I’m not super familiar with such looks, but I quickly found out I’m not very recpeptive to them either. However, what really bothered me was getting fleeced while being made to feel like the villain. 

I decided it would be best to write an email to the school’s director and ask for some clarity. I think it was clear, stern and honest without being too pointed. The result was incredible. The director interpreted it as a personal blow. She felt I was attacking her school and employees. She claimed to hold the right to admit or expel students. Seeing that she didn’t appreciate my tone she would refund my money for the second week and see to it I didn’t return to the school.

 Well here’s the issue. I wasn’t as concerned about the money as I was about being short changed for something out of my control: the number of students enrolled in my class. I felt cheated. Now I felt cheated and screwed for I would have to search for another school, pay an additional registration fee and most importantly re-establish a relationship with another teacher. 

I decided to go to the school early today to discuss the situation. The response was anything but welcome. Hermaphrodite spotted me on entrance, grunted hello, turned her back and walked into her office. I followed and took a seat at her desk. She quickly pulled out a $100 bill and passed it towards me. I told her I didn’t have the intention of leaving the school; I intended on continuing with my lessons. Afterall, it was Monday morning, twenty minutes before my class was to start and more to the point, all Spanish schools start their new registrations on Monday’s. I was unable to find a new school over the weekend as they were closed. I certainly wouldn’t be able to find one on a Monday willing to let me start that day.

Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine as she tried to maintain a face of authority. She called the Director, spoke in Spanish, exchanged pleasantries, hung up and said there was nothing she could do. The director had spoken. Ha! What a joke.

A paying customer is nothing. She merely wanted to wield her conductor’s wand and call the shots. She was avenging her teenage angst.

I hope she steps in dog poo.

Schadenfreude

I've been in Buenos Aires for the past 10 days. Its a great city and a fun blend of cosmopolitan charm and urban grime. I've wanted to come here for so long and am glad that I finally made it. Even happier to be spending more than a month here and have a chance to connect with the city and explore. 

It's weird, but just about every rumoured cliche I had heard about Buenos Aires is true: the architecture is impressive, the steak tender, the woman stunning, the leather soft and men rock mullets. 

I had not however been warned about the dog's, nor their feces. Its common sight to see a dog walker, paseadores de perros , leading a pose of 5 to 10 leashed mutts. Apparently the pay is decent, but there's not a chance you're going to scoop the poop of 10 dogs each day. No chance. As a result, the streets are peppered with shit. Dog shit everywhere. Worse than Paris. 

Simply walking down the street I feel like Matty-Matty doing his late night hop-scotch 'Stomp, Stomp, Stuffle-step.' I'm working on my dogshit radar so I can stroll the sidewalks and look woman in the eyes without having her smile back because I just stepped in poo. Imagine that!? Man, stepping in poo sucks. 

Thankfully, it hasn't happened to me yet, but I did see a giant douche with a rat's tail mush into a fresh pile. I couldn't help it, i laughed. Just seemed so appropriate. 

Why doesn't English have a word like Schadenfreude? Saying, "to laugh at one's misfortunes" isn't the same.