Supposing that once upon a time my blog had readers, I imagine that I have now lost them all. While I'm never in favor of making excuses for oneself, allow me to share a story, representative of my daily life and a good metaphor which I hope you will find telling in why I have not been so dutiful in journaling my thoughts here in the annals of cyberspace.
On the streets of Buenos Aires, the bus is king. Just as the Lion is the King of the Jungle, so is the Colectivo (bus) the King of the Road.
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| FIGURE 1: Little visual helper of what I mean when I say "colectivo". Ironically, this one goes to the Facultad de Derecho where I work. Each bus has its very own, decidedly 80's, unique paint scheme and mind-warping serpentine route that it follows through the streets of Buenos Aires. |
The streets are rarely empty. An invariable consequence of a metro area populace nearing 13 million, most of whom do not drive and get around via public transportation. Traffic is relatively permanent. But traffic means nothing for those that drive these multi-colored variations of the Cheesewagon. When they need to stop to let people off (which is a
blessed thing as those on board are generally close enough to their neighbors to smell what they ate last meal...in various ways) thou best clear the way. Taxis, trucks, station wagons, police cars; there is no match for the King of the Road. As a result, all steer clear of its path.
Now the drivers of said buses, as you can imagine, are a proud type. They see all other vehicle drivers tremble behind their steering wheels. They know the power they hold at their fingertips. They pride themselves on getting passengers to their destinations in a hurry. And they do.... relatively speaking. They come in to and out of stops with lightning speed. What happens within the white dashed lines...well that may be a bit of a different story. But they can come barreling towards the stop at a terrifying pace.
The frequency of the bus swinging by your stop is a mystery. The times that you are in the biggest hurry are the times that it will, most certainly, take the longest to appear. And the times that you happen to leave your house on time, three invariably come all at once. But for fear of waiting for 20+ minutes, one better be on his/her game at the stop.
Having already mentioned that the buses come crowded and knowing the impressive velocity at which drivers approach and leave stops, I shall begin to recount my metaphorical story:
Imagine me briskly walking to the stop along Avenida Corrientes. It looks something like the avenue shown in Figure 2.
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| FIGURE 2: Argentine street which is a representative image of Avenida Corrientes. Imagine me briskly walking along the sidewalk. |
As I make a quick look over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of my bus a mere 1/2 block away. In that same split-second, my legs are engaged in an all out sprint, akin to those observed at high school cross country races at the finish, complete with a grimace and bared teeth. After dodging various bewildered Argentine pedestrians, I arrive at the stop, breathless, but at the exact instant as the bus. Unfortunately, six of my Argentine neighbors have already arrived at the stop and have been waiting patiently on the bus. Panting heavily, I must walk to the back of the line which has formed at the open bus door. Immediately after the sixth and final of my neighbors boards, the driver decides that he has neglected his duty to get his passengers where they need to go in a timely fashion. So he stomps on the gas and reaches for the door leaving me momentarily dumfounded waiting just outside the open door. Not one to be outdone, I bolt again, taking a few long, fast strides and then leap to the step in the doorway, clutching the handles on the outside of the bus as it rockets passed the shop-lined streets of Corrientes while the door begins its well-worn path to the closed position...with my body in the way.
Now. Using the analogy of this instant on the bus, sometimes my life feels like this. It's as though I'm clutching on to the handles on the outside of the bus, dodging the door and praying my hands don't start sweating. Is my analogy slightly hyperbolic? Most definitely. But without a doubt, the last several months since I have written have been FULL. I promise that in my absence I've been up to good things.
As you may have noticed, I have titled this post "The Beso." The custom in many latin-American cultures is to give one or two kisses on the cheek of a person you are meeting, or an old friend that you happen to be meeting for coffee. As common as the handshake is in the U.S., so is the beso in Argentina. Beso means kiss. But not really. It's never lip to cheek contact. Whose lips and cheek would you use at each encounter? That's far too confusing. Instead it's more like cheek to cheek contact with a little smooching sound thrown in by both parties for good measure. Now, my first thought when being introduced to attractive South-American women was: "I can deal with this custom," and then I immediately retracted the statement when I realized that it was also the custom used with men. Uaacckkk.
I can say that since that point, I've grown tremendously in my love for the beso. Argentine custom is that whenever one enters a room, he or she is to greet everyone present with a beso. It's time consuming and sometimes can require one to invoke some twister-worthy body contortions, but it's so relational. I truly have grown to love the custom. So much so, in fact, that when the group of 38 Americans got here a few weeks ago, I found myself on the verge of being offended when their salutations consisted of a mere wave and a "See you later!" The very custom that I grew up with!
It's amazing the way one's perspective can change. I opine that everyone has something that they do better than me; therefore there is something which I can learn from them. As far as the act of saying hello and goodbye, this culture hit the nail on the head. I've learned the custom and I've learned to love it.
Don't be surprised if I beso you when I get back to the States.
