a poem by Dean Young

Clam Ode

One attempts to be significant on a grand scale
in the knockdown battle of life
but settles.
It is clammy today, meaning wet and gray,
not having a hard, calciniferous shell.
I love the expression "happy as a clam,"
how it imparts buoyant emotion
to a rather, when you get down to it,
nonexpressive creature. In piles of ice
it awaits its doom pretty much the same
as on the ocean floor it awaits
life's bouquet and banquet and sexual joys.
Some barncles we know are eggs dropped from outer space
but clams, who has a clue how they reproduce?
By trading clouds?
The Chinese thought them capable of prolonging life
while clams doubtlessly considered
the Chinese the opposite.
I remember the jawbreakers my dad would buy me
on the wharf at Stone Harbor, New Jersey;
every thirty seconds you'd take out
the one in your mouth
to check what color it turned.
What does this have to do with clams?
A feeling.
States of feeling, unlike the states of the upper midwest,
are difficult to name.
That is why music was invented
which caused a whole new slew of feelings
and is why since,
people have had more feelings than they know what to do with
so you can see it sorta backfired
like a fire extinguisher that turns out to be a flamethrower.
They look alike, don't they?
So if you're buying one be sure
you don't get the other,
the boys in the stockroom are stoners
who wear their pants falling down
and deserve their own Gulliver's Travels island.
The clam however remains calm.
Green is the color of the kelp it rests on
having a helluva wingding calm.
I am going to kill you in butter and white wine
so forgive me, great clam spirit,
join yourself to me through the emissary
of this al dente fettuccine
so I may be as qualmless and happy as you.

absurdities of day to day life.

Yesterday, my roommate, Andrew, alerted me to the fact that there was some dog shit on his balcony. I thought, that's odd...why would Luna  choose his balcony to go? I was home all day--she would have just let me know she had to go in her normal fashion. Or if anything, she would have gone up to the roof.

As it turns out, there is a bag of shit hanging in the tree over Andrew's balcony. What does this mean? Someone took the effort to throw it up there from the street, wtf. The real question is, WHY? Someone trying to mess with the foreigners? Hmm.

And I thought I was Bohemian.

Twenty-six days in Buenos Aires to go. I wish I could say the way I phrased that is misleading, but it’s not. Slashing the calendar with fat sharpie X’s isn’t what I actually do, but there is something like that going on in my head. During the sweaty, humid hours of the afternoon, I can often be found mentally packing my suitcases, deciding which books to sell to the local English bookstore, which clothes I cannot possibly bear to wear for another summer and will leave in a bag on the curb for the cartoneros to discover, with more dueling excitement and fear than I can handle about restarting my life yet again.

Almost out of money, I think that while I hang out in Milwaukee for a month or two before moving to Portland, I inevitably need a job. Maybe I’ll find a job serving somewhere in the suburbs, or delivering pizza for six weeks. Is it worth the hassle of training and finding a job for such a short period of time? Yes. Aside from money, I’m also bored out of my mind. There is only so much reading and writing a person can do in a day, every day. I don’t think I can take it anymore.  The life that I want to lead outside of writing, full of hanging out with friends and thrift shopping and whatever I want to do at any given time requires not only a respectable bank account, but some contrast. My life as all play and no work has kind of dulled my edges. I want to work seven days a week eight hours a day at some shitty job for awhile until I can fully appreciate time off again. Sheesh. Buenos Aires has done me right on several accounts (great tan, a little self-discovery, writing time, inspiration, good old overall life experience)but now I’m ready to move on. More than ready.

As it turns out, I’m sick of restarting my life. I just want to live in a place and stay there. I want some stability, a car, a dog park for Luna to chase squirrels, a comfortable bed, maybe an internship at a local literary journal on top of the job I plan to have, be it teaching for 13 weeks at a summer reading institute or serving at a posh sushi restaurant.  

En route to all that, I even get some more quality time with my family, which I felt was cut off right when I started to get to know all of them again. I know I shouldn’t be counting down the days left in South America, because who knows when I will be back.   I’m not counting them down, exactly, but I can’t wait to go home.  

Some Words on Restaurant Culture

I have been a server since I was 18. My dad is a bartender.  I have aunts and cousins that are servers. My sister is a server. My other sister was a server. My life has kind of been surrounded by life in the service industry, which compounds based on my own 7 years in the business, making friends with my fellow servers, bartenders and kitchen staff. So of course, I have some pretty strong opinions about the subject, especially where tipping is involved.

Last night, Brandon and I went wandering around looking for a place to get a beer, preferably with a happy hour price. At our first stop, El Hipopotamo, we waited for about 10 minutes at a table, and no one came to take our order. It wasn’t particularly busy, so maybe we should have been thinking what the eff? but that is typically what a person can expect at restaurants in Buenos Aires. We know. We weren’t too pissed about it, but nothing on the menu looked cheap enough to wait any longer, so we just decided to leave. We went to a nice, green, vegetarian restaurant that we’d been too before (and received great service, for Argentina, anyway).  I thought I remembered them having a 2x1 special on certain drinks, so it seemed like a good plan. When I asked the waiter about the 2x1s, he seemed to have no clue what I was talking about. We sat down anyway, to think, or give up and just stay, not really wanting to wander around anymore. But after another 10 minutes of no one coming to the table (this is a SMALL restaurant, almost no other customers), we left. By this point, we were frustrated (I wanted a damn drink!) but didn’t want to go to the store and buy beers and drink them at home like we always do, thinking that would make us feel defeated.

We wandered a little longer until we found a cute little Middle Eastern restaurant with an appetizer plate of falafel and hummus advertised on a chalkboard for only 30 pesos, plus the beer prices were reasonable. Stopped in front of the restaurant for only a couple seconds, and a young guy came out to coax us into the empty restaurant (it was too early for dinner, that’s why all these places were empty, no reflection of the quality). He seemed nice, we’d probably get prompt service, so what the hell, we went in. We got out beer right away, but we were quickly informed that the appetizer plate advertised on the chalkboard was a lunch special. Really? Then why don’t you put the chalkboard inside??? Now I was starting to get angry. All we wanted was a simple, good time without having to spend too much money. Whatever, Brandon ordered some hummus and we sat there and had a nice conversation until the miniscule portion of hummus and bread was gone, our beers drained. We sat there watching the waiter talk on the phone and laugh with some woman up at the counter for 10-15 minutes before another employee, the cook I think, came over with our bill. A bill that charged us an extra fee, a cubierto (common in nicer restaurants), supposedly for seating and the bread they bring at the beginning of the meal. I’m not a fan of the cubierto, mostly because the bread they bring over isn’t worth it, and more than that, don’t charge me something without asking if I want it! You know what ended up happening? We didn’t leave a tip. Why should we? The service was horrendous, the portions were small, they didn’t even have the kind of beer we ended up receiving listed on the menu, and the cubierto sure didn't help.

FYI, it’s customary to leave a 10% tip for servers in Argentina, or at least in Buenos Aires. Normally, we do. I’m not sure exactly how much servers make, but it isn’t like in Europe where servers make a good wage and their livelihood doesn't depend on their tips. The wage for most regular jobs here (teaching English included) is quite low, so leaving a tip will really help the servers out, I’m sure. Why then the awful service? Why, at the end of the meal, leave your customers sitting there waiting for their bill for a long period of time?  How could that possibly contribute to their desire to leave you a tip? The worst part is that I end up feeling bad, because in the states, I will always leave something, usually 15% for poor to moderate service, and 20% for good service. Then again, the standards for service in the states are different. If I received service like I usually get here, I might not leave anything. How can someone expect a tip here when they aren’t providing tip-worthy service? You’d think if you’re trying to make a decent living, you’d do what you could to make that happen. It’s kind of maddening.

There are plenty of people in the states who make arguments against tipping—thinking that they shouldn’t be EXPECTED to tip, shouldn’t receive dirty looks when they walk out leaving you $5 on a tab of $100. (This guy in particular is one of those up on his soapbox of anti-gratuity, I’m sure all of his uneducated figures help him sleep at night.) I want people like him to come here and see what bad service is like. I bet I’d be hard-pressed to find even one of them that would find this service acceptable, though they don’t want to tip.

Even in states (like on the West coast) where servers earn a regular minimum rage as opposed to a low server wage (like in Wisconsin, $2.33/hr), if you want someone to wait on you, bring you everything you want, when you want it, and then if something is wrong with it, end up taking all of your negative bullshit like it’s no thang, then you better show it. If you’re not tipping, you’re going to end up with servers like here in Argentina, because who would do that job?? You’ll see who, and you won’t like it. The entire restaurant culture in the USA that everyone knows and loves will be ruined.

Life Without Cellphone

Before Brandon and I arrived in Buenos Aires, and even for a few weeks after, we had planned on purchasing cheap cell phones and talk/text via the pay-as-you-go method, which is a pretty common thing to do, even for porteños. That all changed as quickly as the rest of our lofty Buenos Aires plans—we’ve been cellphoneless for over two months now. TWO MONTHS WITHOUT A CELLPHONE! THIS IS UNHEARD OF!

It’s not as difficult a transition as it might seem. True, I’ve had a cell since junior year of high school, but I don’t really have many people to call here. Actually let me rephrase that: I don’t have anyone to call. Brandon and I are almost always in the same place, so I wouldn’t call him. MAYBE once or twice I was walking Luna and thought of texting him, but of course it would have been something gratuitous and silly (like, omg I just saw a 96 yr old woman on a bike with her little yippy dog looking scared for his life on her lap!). Our friends here either live with us or we easily communicate with them over email/facebook. The general pace around Argentina is much slower than in the states, so it’s never an issue. Plus, one of our best friends here, Michael, lives in our neighborhood, so we run into him sometimes and end up hanging out on the spot. I love that kind of spontaneous social event, anyway.

When I lived in Spain for 4 months, I didn’t bring a laptop with me because I didn’t have one. When I needed to use the internet, I went to campus or an internet café or the library. You’ll probably never guess what happened with that—haha—my internet usage dropped by about seventy-five percent. At home with my host family, my options were always to watch soap operas (ok ok occasionally news) with them or to read. I read Moby Dick, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Catch 22, several Hemingway titles, and many other classics (checked out from the campus library). It didn’t hurt that the library only really had classics available in English, but that’s not the point.

I guess what I’m saying is what you might have thought I was getting at. Maybe I’m kind of a United States brat, but it’s nice to live without constantly checking my phone, wondering what all my friends are up to all the time, at least for a little while. As a result, I spend more time reading, writing, watching movies with Brandon, and just effing relaxing and soaking up everything around me (which I think ends up benefiting my writing). Luna and I walk through Parque Lezama, a large hilly park with lots of benches and trees, almost every day. And except for when it is raining, there are always people just sitting on the benches, not doing anything really, just watching the world go by. They look so happy. It’s rare to see that in the states. 

just effing relaxing

Before leaving for BA, I started to picture myself with an iphone. I think when I’m back in March, I’ll be perfectly ok with a more regular phone, qwerty keypad will do just fine.

Buenos Aires, What Have You Done?

Today's solutions to Brandon’s gastrointestinal problems:

Watch movies all day.

Make guacamole to eat with flax seed crackers (both good for digestive system).

Stop drinking the tap water.

Drink tonic water.

Talk about future plans to go to La Plata, Tigre, and Colonia, Uruguay.

Read him poetry on the terrace.

Manzanilla tea.

Besos from Luna.

All the lights are coming on now, how I wish that it would snow now…

(but actually, not true about the snow...)

This will be my third consecutive year as a Christmas orphan, my fourth in total. But there’s something different about this one, something totally unfamiliar. It has nothing to do with being out of the country—my first Christmas away from my family was spent in Spain. It’s the season that’s different. As I sit on the terrace in my bikini listening to Christmas music that talks about snow and cold and certain kinds of trees and hot beverages, I feel in many ways estranged. Don’t get me wrong, I love summer. I LOVE summer. Nothing about skipping winter fills my heart with sadness. There is just a part of my brain reacting with alarm, like I’m effing with the senses somehow, celebrating the holiday season on the terrace in a bikini or my favorite white summer dress while drinking hummer’s that look like some kind of paradise drink with their fresh red grapefruit garnish. Where’s the egg nog? Haha, I bet some locals would laugh at you if you told them you wanted egg in your beverage.  (At least the red wine is familiar, though! Argentineans drink red wine year-round.)

For the past two December holiday seasons, I celebrated with my MFA community.  We had little potluck parties and festive events of all kinds to keep us warm and full of cheer. It was cold and one year, overwhelmingly (and gorgeously) snowy. Just like I’m used to. When I was in Spain, my then-boyfriend travelled over the Atlantic to spend the holidays Eurailling across Western Europe with me, a whirlwind of excitement and fun to distract from the lack of normal holiday activities.

This year, Brandon and I are in good spirits, despite some amount of homesickness or a community of good friends/family to celebrate with. This week we’re going to a nearby store to buy a little tree which we will adorn with lights; I’m sure it will make our room look cozy and festive. And we’ve been busily downloading Christmas movies to sprinkle into our usual routine of evening features (mostly new movies or Dexter). We attended a great Chrismakkah party on Saturday, a heavenly feast and enjoyable times had by all. We’ve already made latkes once and plan to make them again, a wonderful Chanukkah dish (potato pancakes). And for Christmas Eve/Christmas Day, Brandon’s family so generously put money into his bank account so that we’ll have presents to open with them over Skype. The rest of those two days will probably be spent making a gourmet Christmas feast for two (or three, yes Luna that means you) and watching our Christmas movies. I love Christmases with Luna. She’s mi hija, mi amor del mundo. It makes me feel all warm-fuzzy inside.  AND I bet I’ll be Skyping with my family when they gather at my parents’ house, my young niece and nephew excitedly opening their gifts. 

Also, a special  Merry Christmas to me—my parents are paying off my Huge Grad School Bill within the next few days. Most twenty-somethings aren’t that lucky; enormous loans will be hanging over their heads well into adulthood as they struggle through the sinking economy looking for any possible way to keep themselves afloat. Maybe my parents don’t know how grateful I feel for their generosity, but I’m forever indebted to them, especially for a wanderlust writer like myself. I don’t want to one day look back on my life with regret, thinking of all the things I didn’t get to do (like live in Buenos Aires and work on my book!) because of monthly student loan payments. I know that happens to people, and I’m sorry for them.

So, the snow’s not coming down. I’m not watching it fall. But it’s still Christmas. This year, I’ll be working on my tan.