* this entry from 1/31, pictures added to earlier posts *

R.I.P. Chanklas, Chacabuco
From out a barber shop, a man sings, it sounds opera-esque. Down another street, two black puppies jump out a shopping cart, one flops on its back, allowing its belly to be rubbed. Around the corner, a tiny store displays colorful fruits in old wooden boxes with peeling paint. It is here, while fruit gazing, that my shoe encounters a bump in the sidewalk. I trip, the leather strap -- the essential part of the shoe -- snaps. My favorite flip-flops from India meet their demise.

A middle-aged woman carrying a plastic bag witnesses this. She approaches, inquiring if I’m okay. Pointing to her white shoes, she offers them to me, but expresses concern that they are too big. Thanking her, I say, no problema, my hostel is near. She asks me if I have elastic. I hand her a hair band from my wrist. She inspects my foot, touching it with her hands, and motions for me to wrap the elastic band around my foot and my shoe. I tell her Thank You, she has a good heart. She responds, I am a mother.


Visiting Recoleta
Today’s mission, Recoleta, an upscale neighborhood of Buenos Aires and home to the Recoleta Cemetery, a Saturday Hippie Fair, and free weekend-admission to the Museo Nacionales de Bellas Arte. Accompanying me on my first trip into town, Monkey (I’ll introduce the expedition team in a future blog).

Riding the subway there: The subway’s walls are lined with blue & yellow ornate tile. On the C-line a young boy places red scissors for sale in passengers’ laps. He leaves them there a moment before returning to pick them up. On the D-line a small girl, perhaps five years of age, walks solitary down the aisle. With her palm up, head tucked low, and belly protruding she begs for change. At Pueyrredon, I pop above ground.

Recoleta Cemetary: Cross studded domes and archangel statues, neoclassical pillars and simple stone, rusted iron gates and cobwebs, like fancy lace. Within Recoleta Cemetery resides some of Argentina’s most prominent figures, among them Eva Peron (Evita), the second wife of President Juan Domingo Peron. The cemetary's intersecting alleyways creates the ambience of a neighborhood, one in which the homes are mausoleums and the pets, stray kitties.


Walking Back: (Prilidiano) Pueyrredon, whose artwork was displayed at the art museum is also the name of the street that leads to the D-line Subway. Along the way, a small boy tries to catch a puff of dandelion seeds. They float upward above his reach and in towards the main street, past the magazine vendor, the store awning and on over the bustling traffic where it joins a parade of fellow dandelion seeds moving with the wind.


Permaculture, Ostinatto
It's evening. To keep in line with my budget, I've attempted to cook milanesa. It is while eating the resulting clump of batter and beef, that I meet a fellow hosteller. His dinner, a small case of vegetables. He shares his tales of farming coffee beans in Hawaii, of wandering into the worst barrio of Popayán, and he also shares the concept of Permaculture.

From what I understand, permaculture (permanent agriculture/permanent culture) is a sustainable style of living. He describes the concept using grey water (sink water) to illustrate. If biodegradable dish soap is used to wash dishes, then the grey water can be redirected to supplement a garden. If all the community can follow the same method, than a larger garden can be sustained. And a larger garden would be able to supplement the whole community. It makes me consider who/what is affected by my non-biodegradable laundry detergent and all the little things I take for granted.

at the moment...
I'm sitting on the Hostel's rooftop terrace. It's a little past 0:00. My watch announces the time on the hour every hour with a beep. I'm trying to catch up with the blogs which are a few days behind :(
PS. Here's my local number 011+54+(15)+5602-6190
Feeling a bit homesick, okay goodnight :)