A Book Review, or Three

I haven't experienced many rainy days here in the South side.  The middle of the night or afternoon thunderstorms that break the heat are more common so this morning's dreary summer weather is a Friday gift. The persianas* are down to guard the windows so it is dark and quiet with the smell of rain from the west that has somehow made it ten floors high.  Visibility is only a couple miles so anything happening beyond a small arc, I just cannot see.  These are the type of days that make me nostalgic.

When I was a kid, I sat by the dining room sliding glass window to watch the rain and read.  In Nashville, I had lots of windows for viewing so just about anywhere was a great spot to read.  Here, the couch near the balcony (with the persiana half-raised) is my best spot to watch the rain, listen to the tires move the water on the streets, and wonder what book I will move through next.

To finish 2017, my company was A Tangled Mercy: A Novel by Joy Jordan-Lake.  In her "Author's Note", she highlights that this book really began with her dissertation research and while she writes that "she ought not even be a candidate to tell this story" (p. 441) , I'm glad she did.  I was unaware of the 1822 Denmark Vesey attempted revolt.  This story line along with the 2015 story of Kate are weaved through this work of fiction as she tries to "honor the memory of those in nineteenth- and twenty-first-century Charleston" (p. 442).   She's originally from the East Tennessee mountains and lives just outside of Nashville, both points that resonated with me and her author's bio (read this morning) made me all the happier that I gave time to her book.  It's discounted on Amazon this month if you're interested to add this one to your list.

2018 began with A Beautiful Work in Progress by Mirna Valerio.  I agree with other reviewers in that at times, there is a lack of cohesiveness or jumpiness to the story as she moves through anecdotes, but her journey is pretty amazing.  She's not your normal size ultra-runner; her heart is much bigger.  I empathized with her start-at-the-back-of-the-pack race days and appreciated her story and at times her struggle to move toward longer and longer distances.  A half-marathon was just about enough for me and I have no desire to run through hard, long mountain trails.  But she does, and it's fun to share the trek with her.

I've also just finished Coming Clean, a memoir by Kimberly Rae Miller.  Her childhood was a mess.  She walks us through what it was like growing up in a family where her dad struggled with hoarding. We have all witnessed "collecting" to various degrees, but this insight into her home life was my first experience to a challenge of this magnitude.  It was an extraordinary story.

I'll spare you my review of The Client by John Grisham and Notes on a Scandal by Zoë Heller for now.  Both of these were "found" books and because they were in English, ended up in my hands.  I moved through them pretty quickly between the two memoirs.

Secret Sisterhood is still a work in progress (like me) and I've just realized that the majority of my recent books were by women authors.  I think I'll have another cup of coffee and find another.

*Persianas are in the top 20 of great home inventions.  They're heavy wood blinds outside the windows that completely block out the sun (for amazing sleep and a cooler home) and keep the weather at bay.  They're also a deterrent for the would-be robber.

Having Cake and Eating It Too

Freshly Washed Measuring Cups and Spoons

After learning the stove ignition, I've been pushing myself a little more in the kitchen but it's sometimes tiring to take a US standard units recipe and convert it to the metric system.  (The conversion itself is not actually the challenge, rather the ability to measure it.)*  So my goal last November was to return with measuring cups and spoons.  

Since then I've been thinking quite a bit about the way I measure.

I hit a milestone the second day this year when I guided a taxi driver from the airport to home and in this 45 minute journey with direction and random conversation, he did not ask that perennial question:  "De donde sos?"  A first.  A relief.

There have been other milestones, measures, that I've been moving forward on paper.  Photos and meetings, and numbers assigned and all the while, I'm learning.

It is quite a different sort of feeling in that in every day, there is guaranteed to be something new.  Perhaps this was one reason I was keen to make something old and familiar.

I converted my typical 8x8" and 9x9" go-to pans to centimeters so I could go in search for a pan.  There were three possibilities and my Spanish is still not to the depth to understand the specific details of metal fabrication for comparison when the sales clerk explains them.  I understood enough to select and he didn't ask me "the question" which was as perfect of an experience that I could have in a store right now.  I think the pan is aluminum.

Saturday afternoon chocolate cake.  

I was alone so any cake failings could be whisked away sans evidence.  Not knowing the exact temperature of the stove,  I sat beside it in the afternoon sun, glistening while waiting for an odor of chocolate that would signal I was safe to open the oven with low risk of a falling cake.  I took a series of photos along the way as I'm prone to do these days, marking another milestone.  

After 35 long minutes and multiple timers, I had a cake.  The cocoa powder was also an experiment because there was only one option available.  The look on the owners face was not reassuring when I said I would use it to make a cake.  I really had no idea how it would taste.  

Making the icing was an adventure sans mixer.  A hand blender doesn't really do the trick but after laboring twenty minutes, it was deemed good enough and the kitchen was covered with light sugar so lingering marks for an earnest effort.  

The cake lasted three days.  

*I'm an engineer so of course it's possible with a scale and other items that I could do it, but who wants to go through all that effort on a Saturday evening for cake?

Now Serving Number ...?

When class is at 9:00, I try to leave for 8:45.  It's risky because it leaves only a couple of minutes to spare for the elevators or greeting a neighbor on the street.  Most Argentineans I've met are generous with time which means in some cases, a pause to walk two blocks with a more senior neighbor might make you late.  Now that I know more people, the probability is going up that this happens more often.

I frequently walk on the same side of the street as the house.  In the morning, there is shade but also more activity.  It is now my habit to look down, left, right, center, down, left, right, center, repeat.  (I'm wearing sunglasses so it doesn't look as awkward as it sounds.  I hope.)  The sidewalk is uneven, often containing gifts from distracted dog-owners or a pop-up construction site.  Some mornings there is a line for the clinic.  When the queue is really long, I've caught myself holding my breath to avoid what airborne contagion might be hovering nearby.  

At the end of the month, the bank will have a line that will force you into the street for a half-block.  A friend has said that she's spent up to four hours in this queue for her mom.  There's a number system so everyone lines up early in the morning to collect a number when the bank opens.  Then the ticket holder should check in every 30-60 minutes to see how she or he has progressed in line.

Shops are just opening so I might catch a gate roll-up.  The bakery is in full swing and the pedestrian street is busy with people heading to and from the train.  The 1964 Chevrolet is still for sale (since at least May) and there's usually at least one Remis driver available on the next corner.  It's peak time for buses so this is the last hurdle before ringing the buzzer that will gain me entry to the building.

Despite all the classes, I'm still not used to the elevator which shoots up like a rocket and stops with a start.  Don't ever open the door early or it might earn you a few good words from the owner.

Life is a Highway

Looking back over 2017, a lot has happened.  In recounting them to a friend recently, I realized perhaps in the context of 2016 or 2015, these (to the third party listener) are small things, taken for granted when we are at home in our home of ten or more years in our native language surrounded by our own things and our friends and family.

Many of these changes of 2017 are more like the progressions of a yoga pose, monitored with intention and celebrated by those who watch both over time and are present in that moment.

I started to drive this week, out of need more so than choice.  My new normal has become walking:  gym, class, farmers market, grocery, church, shops, restaurants.  In a downtown, who needs a car?  This week, however, as I sat behind the wheel of a 2001 Clio adjusting my seat, the mirrors, and the steering column, I tried to remember the last time I drove a car with a manual transmission.  I think it was London almost ten years ago.

I did a quick comparison:  bad traffic in both.  (Confidence-building so far.)  London has left-handed driving but the scales start to tip in the Buenos Aires suburbs with aggressive drivers*, lanes as "suggestions", heavy horn use, and the lack of traffic signals at most intersections.  I took a few deep breaths.  [Here's a great overview of driving in Argentina.]

The car owner gave me the run-down on all the car's nuisances: gear-shift top pops off, demonstration of reverse which I still don't remember, lights on at all times and then I pulled out of the garage.  My co-pilot was great, giving me a running narration through the drive:  traffic from the left, drive straight, traffic from the left, you technically have the right of way, pedestrian, motor bike with no lights, etc.

I only killed the engine once at an avenue, the only time you can expect to have a full stop.  We arrived without incident and I was ready for a second application of deodorant.  Yesterday was my fourth adventure driving.  In the car to my left, who worked to pass me through two blocks, a small girl had her head on the open window ledge and watched me.  She was smiling.  I wondered if she heard me speaking in English or just wanted to watch the woman drive.

*London drivers can be aggressive but I generally knew they would obey traffic signals and pedestrian signals