Old, Gray Writing

Spanish is very easy,
just say everything with "ere".
If you were a tailor at home
here you’re called "sastrere".
Forty years in the country
you’re called "extranjere”.
Have a wife and children in Europe
here you’re called "soltere".
-from Jevel Katz’s ‘recipe’ for recent Jewish immigrants in Argentina

*sastre: tailor; extranjero: foreigner; soltero: single

I ‘m in the Yiddish archives in Buenos Aires Argentina. I leaf through the transcripts of Jevel Katz’s Yiddish songs and find myself thinking that the troubadour’s advice from the early 1900’s is still oddly on par. I consider some of the truths he points out; no matter how long I stay here, no matter how much I work on my Porteño accent and slang, I’ll always receive that strange mix of condescension and astonishment that the people of Buenos Aires have for foreigners. Twenty minutes into a conversation in Spanish, someone might decide to ask me,
“So, do you understand Spanish then?”
“Yes, I speak Spanish.” (How else have I been responding to you for the last half hour!?)
“Oh, so you speak a little Spanish?”

I also couldn’t agree more about the difference between being “single” and “soltero.” A guy at a bar starts flirting with me and asks if I have a boyfriend. I’ve been coached enough by Argentines to know I should always say yes. He responds,
“but do you have a boyfriend here?”
“Yes, of course, I have an Argentine boyfriend.” (I’m sure that’ll do that trick. In a machista society, they’ll at least respect another man enough not to hit on me.)
“No, no,” he continues to insist, “I mean is he here in this room right now?”

These are the experiences I remember at my low points; not my real low points like getting mugged or stuck in a different city with no money. In the end thse are often great stories. How can I forget the day I saw Calle 13 and spent the night with jugglers in a park?

But getting bored? The mundane annoyances of being abroad? The times you realize you’re not as open-minded or inspirational as you thought you were? The times you hate yourself for not being a better backpacker. Not using time to write, go to couchsurfing meetings, or make friends with a local bartender. The times the guidebook doesn’t give you a step-by-step guide like a recipe in a cookbook of what to do. The time you realize you just kind of miss Cheetos. The times it’s nice to find an old typewritten piece of paper (in rhyme, no less) that lets you know you’re not alone. And that you never were.