Sunday Springs

The plaza on Sunday is much different from the other days of the week.  Gone are the young men offering to help park, washing your car while you're away (with the expectation of a tip if you are inclined to keep the integrity of your auto).  Two-wheeled bikes are replaced with tricycles and strollers.  Girls on roller skates replace boys on skateboards.  Joggers disappear with the appearance of dog-owners holding long leashes.  The police presence even seems to dissipate.

Blankets are scattered on available ground that is not already taken by small football matches.  Swings are full, see-saws occupied, and trees are taped with water-colors by Alma or Sabrina.  Mate is present during the week but on Sundays every small collective has the calabash gourd and accompanying thermos.  Meriendas of medialunas appear here and there with the facturas disappearing with each walked round.  Nearby cafes are full.

The pace of walking the block slows to "tranquila" and the power-walk workout gives way to people-watching and leash-dodging.  Questioning eyes are drawn to the solo walker who's obviously not local.  Sunglasses help though only teens seem to use them.  A bulldog is jerked back from close contact by an owner wearing a "United Kingdom" shirt.  I wondered if he sensed he was near another native English speaker.

As the sun sets, the dusk hour doesn't have the Lucinda Williams Sunday sadness.  Instead it seems hopeful and the Latin beats go on.

Pollo de viento

Last night I thought I was sleeping in a tornado but it's just the spring windy season.
There are good rest nights and bad rest nights.

Today I thought I was ordering pizza but instead ordered a small pork breast (pechito).
There are good language usage days and bad language days.

Step by step with a good sense of humor, an open diet, and a decent resting pulse rate.

Week one.
Take two.
Check.

YogaTo Learn

Scene I
[A woman and her boyfriend rings the bell of an upstairs yoga studio and boyfriend explains to confused receptionist that he understands the classes are only for woman but could we come up for questions.]

[Couple enters yoga studio and conversation ensues in Spanish.]

Me:  Hi! How are you?  I'm interested in taking a Yoga class
She:  Good!  Do you have a preference for time?  Type?
Me:  Iyengar.  I took classes for many years but lately not too much.
She:  Okay.  [Gives overview of various classes.]
Me:   [Nods]  I am a church.  Let me apologize for my Spanish.
She:  Are you from England?
Me:  Yes.
She:  I can speak in English.
Me:  Great!

Scene II
[Insert conversation about yoga, more details on classes, attire, my asking if I needed a yoga mat, my boyfriend's translation of various items including a yoga mat, and an ensuing reservation for a class.]

Scene III
[Woman and boyfriend exit studio to buzzing of exit bell.]
Him:  Are you excited?
Me:  Yes, I think it will be fun to try a class.
Him:  Why did you say you were from England?
Me:  I was under pressure.  I already said I was a church.
Him:  [Laughs.]  That was pretty funny but you did great!
[Couple continues walking down street.]
Me:  Why did she keep saying classes "for my age"?
Him:  Because she thought you said you wanted "Younger classes"
Me:  Why?
Him:  It's "a-sh-engar" here not Iyengar

[End Act I]

Pick-up on Aisle Tres

A supermarket in the suburbs of Buenos Aires on an early Saturday evening is not for the faint of heart (or the impatient).  This is one of the peak shopping times and buggies are moving through the aisles like bumper cars at Dollywood with the occasional "Permiso" to signal a turn.  Carts with the most items seem to have the right of way and wayward gringas in awe of all the varied products and vocabulary are the least of these in the order of aisles.  The queue to pay could easily add thirty additional minutes to your trip but affords additional opportunities to dodge carts.

It's wonderfully chaotic.  I continue to be mesmerized (and nearly run over) each trip.

I Love You Like Biscuits and Gravy

My kitchen smells like bacon.
It should have been fried but I baked it and set off the smoke detector.
I nearly gave you a heart attack.
Biscuits made with love and a prayer.  Gravy made with a miracle.

My living room smells like candles.
These should have been already been burned but I've been moving them around for ten years.
I didn't want to let you go (at least subconsciously).
I should send a note to Pottery Barn with a kind product comment about longevity.

My garage smells like charcoal.
Ashes lingering on the ground from coals taken all the way back to dust.
I was fine with letting you go.
Dinners made with a head lamp, mild burns and mosquito spray.

My office smells like film.
Negatives discarded with old prints.
It took deep breaths to let you go.
Memories, reminders, triggers, anchors cut loose with a garbage bag.

My bedroom smells like you.
It's what makes the house seem empty.
I won't let you go.
Love notes savored in moments between plane rides.