Apart

Buenos Aires truly is a city that never sleeps. At 12:00am on a Tuesday night, restaurants are still packed with people. Maybe it’s that the clubs don’t get going until 2:00am or maybe it’s the constant consumption of mate, a mild narcotic. This city is awake at all hours, full of life. However, there is another side to the city. Amid posh apartment buildings, designer clothing boutiques and up-scale steak restaurants lies a different place; Cementerio de la Recoleta. When we arrive at the cemetery, we are given a map to negotiate the small roadways that twist and turn between expanse of marble and granite mausoleums. Contained within these structures are the bones and decay of Argentina’s most rich and influential historical figures. The miniature fortresses were built to hold the dead for eternity. Each mausoleum is an architectural masterpiece, complete with stained glass windows, spires, ionic columns, mosaics and statues. It is strange to tour such a place, the morbid beauty attract hundreds a day.

A single statue grabs my attention more than plundered tombs and internal stairways that lead into unknown darkness. This statue of a woman (likely the wife of the barrier, morning forever-more over her diseased love) captivates my attention. Her stone face is abstracted by city pollution. She exist both in the purity of the white marble she was carved from and covered by dirt and grime that the world has deposited upon her over the years. As I peer at her, I cannot help but think that her face, her existence is a metaphor for everything. This would appear to be a strong claim: metaphor for everything. In all likelihood, it is too strong a claim.
Her face represents the world we live in: the dirty the clean, the life the death, the good the bad. But all the beautiful and even more so for the expression of surrender she wears.

It is this image that I keep in my mind as Julie and I prepare to part after nearly 6 months of travel together, 6 months of waking up in the same room and sharing every meal. Life leads us in different directions. As Julie ventures forward with her own plans, I continue on with mine. The parting is bitter-sweet. She is a friend like few I have in this world, a person who knows the dark and light that live within me. At the same time, I look forward to the freedom of independent travel. The freedom to continue on without compromise. I morn the loss of companionship as I wish her happiness in her future plans. Life is strange, souls pulled together and than apart. Needs shifting and wants changing. No situation is clear and splits of emotion occur more often than not. I cherish all that has past and all that is ahead. For what is light without dark and what is dark without light? The statue personifies this. Beauty watching over decay.

What will come next? For now, I am on my own. A situation that I find strangely comforting.

Meat Sweats

Asados (grills) occupy picture window, tempting the stomachs and imaginations of passers. The smoky scent drifts down streets, wafting in the hot summer breeze. I should have known that a place called Siga La Vaca (Follow The Cow) might be trouble. I arrive at the restaurant as innocent as a spring chick. All-you-can-eat has never been a problem in the past. The bread is deliscious and I can’t help but eat two pieces. Rookie mistake, but what can you do? The salad bar is lacking on the greens but heavy on the prosciutto and provolone. I dabble.

It is time for the grill. I take my plate to the window and point at the various slices of medium-cooked steak that I desire the most. The grill attendees question my fortitude, I will show them. My plate is packed: shoulder, rump, leg, upper back, lower back, rib, and who knows what else. My plate is stacked with meat, only meat. After taking my seat, I go at it. My mother would disown me should she see this display of table manners. The beef (and maybe a little bit of pork) melts on my tongue. Juices elate my taste buds. Each cut is unique in taste, tender and supple. I marvel at every bite: smoky, slow cooked artistry. Half way through, I wipe a napkin across my brow. This is getting intense. Gentle perspiration turns into a persistent flow of sweat. Who ever said: “woman don’t sweat, they glow,” has never encountered me eating copious amounts of beef.

As I approach the window again, I contemplate bulimia. I have never vomited up food with the intention of continuing to binge. I have never vomited food by choice. I will not lie to you, the thought weighs as heavy in my mind as the meat weighs in my stomach. I am at it again. This time, I cannot taste the subtleties of the different cuts of meat. With my knife I remove small chunks from the greater mass, hoping that my body will not register the addition. I keep going. I tell myself it is delicious. Cognitively, I believe it. Physically, my body is finished. I continue on.

For those who have seen the movie Seven (with Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman) you might just imagine the scenes that are playing in my mind’s eye. Sure I am moments from explosion, I push the half-finished plate of meat away. I am done. The tenedor libre (all you can eat or more literally free fork) meal includes desert. I refuse. The bill cannot come quickly enough. Get me out of this restaurant and into a reclining position!!!

Success, I make it back to the hostel. I am in my bed. Life is bloated, but good. I drift into a meat induced comma. Little do I know the meat sweats that I experienced in the restaurant are only a prelude. At 4am I awaken drenched. My back, forehead, legs, arms and everything else is drenched in sweat. Clammy, sticky sweat. I can’t breathe, I must be running a fever. I feel my head. It’s hard to tell with all the liquid that has accumulated. Is that a purple hippopotamus over there? Oh no. I am hallucinating. I lurch out of bed and throw myself into a cold shower. I fill my water bottle and slowly sip at it, worried at my stomach’s ability to handle the additional occupancy. For the rest of the evening I toss and turn. This is horrible.

2pm the following day, I still have not eaten. Nothing. I am not even a little bit hungry. In fact, the thought of food still repulses me. It is not until 5:00pm that I am able to choke down some carrot sticks. I swear to a life of vegetarianism. 10pm (early dinner by Buenos Aires standards) rolls around and what do I order? The lomo. A beautiful tender juicy cut from the rear of the cow. Soooo delicious.


Post Script: though I had my camera on me for all of my beef eating excursions, I am too week of heart and mind to postpone the moment of ingestion long enough to snap a few shots. Maybe it is better that these moments are not commemorated.