Tag Archives: Argentina

Dies Ist kein U-Boot

Matt Pfarrer’s week started the best way possible. After awakening then brewing his morning coffee, he checked his laptop for emails that had arrived overnight.

One of the subject lines consisted of welcome news. Another article he’d written had been accepted by the syndicate.

The subject of his authorship wasn’t much. Not that he considered any paying topic beneath him. It was a travel piece. Another travel article. Can’t stuff the world with too many of those.

If the destination someplace remote, just known in general terms, or better, only known to a precious few, the activity involved uncovered mysteries or presented adventures, those were the travel pieces Pfarrer enjoyed reading.

So why shouldn’t other readers?

A good writer at least performed the requisite obligations. He or she gave worthwhile restaurant recommendations. Naturally, he or she also dropped in touristy points of interest as well as included one or two quirky sites or customs unique to the residents.

The sort that should visitors participate in would let them carry away more from the experience than gorging on exotic food, swilling drinks infused by uncommon ingredients, and tour some variation of places tourists ought to appreciate because the natives venerate them.

Rare was the travel article Pfarrer ever read that could let readers live vicariously. That stated, he saw himself as one of the most cautious men alive. Nonetheless someone climbing a sheer rockface solely using his or her hands and feet, or a matador able to let his emotions become words spoken aloud after conjuring his inner Hemingway in describing life and honorable death in the corrida, or a deep-water sports fisherman who’d be sufficiently honest in acknowledging perhaps whatever prey he’d hooked might have greater determination to escape than the angler’s own to exhaust then reel in the trophy, now those challenges captivated Pfarrer.

Those were immersive accounts in which enthralled readers. To plant urges in some to partake in them. Or should’ve.

The assignment which Pfarrer had delivered had slight chance of summoning his blood. It dealt with wine. The worst he had to fear was overindulgence and hangovers.

Basing himself in Buenos Aires, Pfarrer had had come down to Argentina in mid-March for his yearly three-month respite from New York. Since Southern Hemisphere seasons were reversed, he’d left the still wintery Northeast, happily forsaking its last slaps of shivering, shoveling, and scraping for the usually mild, though occasional late-summer/early autumn tropical misery that dipped down from the Amazon.

Pfarrer’s wine excursion also served to cleanse his mental palette. The article he’d delivered the year before started off as a good twisty mystery. One that devolved into the worst kind of deception and duplicity. A murder, yes, but a killing that could be held up as a nasty social x-ray.

The part which fascinated, drew interest, derived from beautiful people being involved. The same incident among tenement dwellers living hand to mouth would’ve earn yawns. But since the suspects who might’ve behaved badly were attractive and wealthy, there’s a reader’s natural inclination to gawk at any bearing elevated status in the hope at least one of them would be brought crashing down and pay a demoralizing penalty.

Just the case’s peripheral characters could’ve been absolved. And this only so because neither of that pair was in Argentina during the blood spillage’s hours. Yet this being Argentina the most mendacious subjects had done all they could to ensnare more persons of interest simply to muddy the trail, to mislead or deceive investigators.

In the end, the victim remained dead, the crime itself remained unsolved. A result almost as satisfying as any conclusive one. After a while, speculation would subside but never die. And once believed the matter had faded, a grenade flung from left field would revive interest. The story remained alive.

Upon that article’s publication Pfarrer imagined the letters received from amateur sleuths. As he knew, the more oddball ones invariably would quickly detour from the matter at hand then meander through strange landscapes. And those fevered jottings invariably came from the readers who thought themselves completely rational.

The wine pursuit arrived at just the right moment. Like the woman herself whose scent put him on its path.

Pfarrer had rented workspace in Buenos Aires almost upon his initial arrival years ago. It was one thing to be cooped up, research, and write inside his own New York walls. It was an entirely different animal to have been so boxed in BA. At home he was a city creature. His lifetime there gave him intimacy with Gotham. During his early BA journeys, he at best had an outline of his environs. A squiggly drawn one at that.

Even after his footing steadied, the habit behind “labor” and “home” separation stuck.

Therefore, a workspace. The different walls removed himself from his short-term rental apartment those hours Calliope’s called stirred him. The commutes to and from “his” desk – it, the chair whose open space configuration contained him Pfarrer which called a “cubby” – always revealed some new aspects through casual conversations engaged with other foreigners who shared the premises. Seldom did he meet similarly occupied Argentines inside these temporary quarters.

One of the rarities? Florencia Cardinale. Their receptionist. Her name alone let him find favor in her. After all, wasn’t “Florencia” one of those old-fashioned names that had fallen out of favor? Like Ruth?

A Porteña, she fit the insisted female criteria throughout business offices in Conurbano Bonaerense. Attractive, certainly. Exceptionally feminine, no problem. Those aspects could never be viewed as problematic. Clearly, Pfarrer saw Florencia easily filled the unspoken initial highly visible appearance standard.

Though employers could not flat out discriminate, they used classified ads terminology that told upfront who their enterprises preferred as secretaries/receptionists as well as certain other females employed. Deciphered correctly that meant unless they served as kitchen staff, housekeeping, other positions regarded as menial or in the background, no indigenous, no blacks, no Asians, no fatties needed apply.

If the applicant wasn’t guera, if she didn’t maintain an eye-pleasing visage, seeking employment which cast the enterprise’s first impression was futile.

Under her summer tan, sly Florencia was definitely fair complected.

Funny how that worked. If she sun-worshipped too much at the beach, wouldn’t Florencia’s complexion have exceeded a tolerance level an all but “openminded” employer might’ve judged as unsuitable? Of course, that woman also would needed to have been several times more qualified than any visually verified applicant.

Chestnut hair streaked through with highlights circled Florencia’s head before twisting into a ponytail. A minor bump interrupted a regal nose passed down from some Italian immigrant ancestor. Her brown eyes weren’t luminous though they might’ve asked the right man to mesmerize himself. An unnecessarily vivid shade of red rendered her lips superfluously generous.

Lean, the top of her head just under his chin, Florence’s hips didn’t flair nor did any cantilevers proceed her or ledge trail her. Since their location an office offering sporadic workspaces, she could wear casual office attire. Sensible garments, not gym wear.

His searches having taken him into many BA bureaus, Pfarrer had lost count of how many secretaries/receptionists he’d seen who hadn’t really troubled themselves making full transitions from previous nights’ fab glam into less garish outfits.

Florencia spoke English. Business English fluently. That helped any Europeans finding refuge at the workspace who at best spoke restaurant, bar, and hotel Spanish. After all, doesn’t English allow Norwegians to converse with Poles?

Perverse as it might’ve sounded, Pfarrer enjoyed bruising Florence’s ears with New York Spanish. Despite his alien accent, she later confessed herself glad he made the effort.

Her favorite “New York Spanish” word Pfarrer imported with him into Argentina? Cuchifritos.

Pfarrer kept a checkerboard schedule. Only whenever writing moved him did he schlep from apartment to “office.” Maybe two, three days a week. Tops!

Pretty much Florencia was the sole constant within those walls of his business activity. Owing to the place’s nature, the roster continually changed. While no other freelancers – or as he loved calling himself, a Feuilletonist – like himself took up space there, plenty of specialists representing various fields briefly dropped the quickest lightest anchors. Just through eavesdropping then shallowly ingratiating himself, Pfarrer acquired enough facile knowledge of engineering, agriculture, animal husbandry, and mining by which he could perhaps expand the breadth of items bearing his byline.

And all the while Florencia observed.

Reflecting, Pfarrer would gather her sharp-eyed though from distances. Or rather she’d size up the changing field, shuffle who might best help her, then perhaps strategize what actions might allow her to encroach.

Later, when they became intimate that’s how he described her maneuvering. If she had behaved blatant like bait, their arrangement just would’ve delivered superficial sex. Instead, she’d considered what could be the next steps that might result in a substantial effect rather than take satisfaction in the quick shallow score.

It also helped Pfarrer was solicitous of her. Florencia just wasn’t the “office girl.”

By himself he paid homage at the city’s better known tourist lures. Sanguine heavy portraiture at El Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires (MALBA) let him ask himself whether art along that gallery’s walls had been curated directly through Madrid.

During one of his previous South American escapades, Pfarrer toured an Henri Cartier Bresson photography exhibition. Years later, he couldn’t remember the facility having held it. Fundacion Proa? Or Museo Fotografico Simik? Which displayed the Frenchman’s images?

No. The Simik was too compact. He’d seen the Cartier Bresson pictures in roomy conditions. Besides, the Simik was ramshackle. Better seen as a curiosity shop for gilded imagery as well as devices and accessories from earlier photography eras.

The Frenchman’s black and white contemplations had been mounted elsewhere. However, their insouciance did fit the conurbano attitude.

Delve as Pfarrer did, one destination confounded him. The Hotel Jaures. An edifice renowned throughout the South American Cone as exquisite on the highway to extravagant. It just wouldn’t do for a single male to participate in the pleasure dome’s charms by his lonesome. Such a browse needed arm candy.

While Pfarrer had become acquainted with numerous BA beauties who amply fulfilled the dazzle requirement, even he knew his pilgrimage to the Jaures deserved more appreciative accompaniment. He considered one or two of the foreign women he’d met clubbing and had maintained contact. Though each would bring sufficient bearing with them into the hotel, both would also have something in her background to which she could compare against the Jaures.

That he could’ve done alone by himself. Such an angle left him empty. Instead, wonder whether his companion for the evening should be a woman who likely never thought of herself being inside the Jaures – other than by accident or through the employees’ entrance.

Pfarrer laughed to himself upon realizing the Cinderella aspect. He let his First World attitude retreat. Gradually his thoughts turned to Florencia.

A woman considerably his junior, she nonetheless already carried herself with the kind of gravity he supposed most of her contemporaries might barely ever fully acquire. Not that Florencia was prematurely fusty. Yet she could code switch nimbly. So smoothly as to seamlessly distinguish with whom she interacted and thereby avoid possible confusion, embarrassment, or misunderstanding.

Hers was a behavioral agility Pfarrer had noticed absent throughout the swath of her generation. The country immaterial.

An office cordiality had developed between Pfarrer and Florencia. Or so the writer had surmised once he had overcome his minor sense of superiority. Not that Pfarrer implicitly felt himself her superior, just the fact North-South perspectives so widely apparent between them. He didn’t want Florencia believing herself obliged to him. Certainly, he had no wish to impose obligation upon her.

Nevertheless, of Argentine women met thus far, Florencia seemed the finest one with whom to breach the Jaures. The hotel was a conurbano showcase. Pfarrer wanted to tour it. Entering unescorted struck him wrong. During his time in BA, he’d met casually plenty of Porteñas for him to have selected one as suitable. But he felt the Jaures demanded more than beauty.

The hotel’s renown had him raising standards. Pfarrer couldn’t walk inside with just any woman. She needed to have appeared as if she “belonged” there. Though an easy 40 years her senior, he determined Florencia carried that right countenance. Despite their age disparity, this was South America. The pair might earn glances, a few mildly catty comments, but no high dudgeon umbrage. If presented properly, Pfarrer believed her sufficiently perceptive enough to understand the proposal for what it would be: a basis of research, not a date.

It took no courage for him to ask la Porteña.

One afternoon nearly a month ago, Pfarrer simply found himself at her workstation. Rather than stand there and loom above her, he slid a chair near her station and sat. Since the matter bore no romantic intent, he spoke directly.

An article featuring the Jaures his sole objective. The reasons behind needing a female accompaniment aroused no skepticism on her part. Nor did she squeal teen-girlishly at the prospect. Moreover, a woman beside him might could throw some meat on his bony male perceptions. Superficial as café culture was worldwide, having a Porteña steeped in BA life feeding him locals’-only impressions, he hoped, should reward readers with warmer deeper insights of the Jaures.

A face-splitting smile further brightened her. Florencia overcame disbelief to admit that entering the Jaures as a patroness, not a local to be overlooked or looked down upon, had been one of her dreams. A distant one. The kind requiring a miracle to fulfill.

Pfarrer heard the enormity of his gesture in her response then but only realized its depth later. By way of comparison, he’d understand it as a “bridge and tunnel chick” who’d been invited to ride a coach into Manhattan to be squired inside the Plaza.

But would the outerborough girl have retained the same amount of composure as Florencia? While she rejoiced in Pfarrer’s invitation, it did not render her prostrate.

They arranged to meet. Then, it didn’t bother him she chose a rendezvous outside the Jaures. He’d have much preferred collecting Florencia at her home. But thinking without being informed, Pfarrer considered her decision one that spared him a journey into incognito BA.

On one hand, he appreciated the conscientiousness displayed. On the other, such deprived an explorer of discovery.

Rather than club-showy, she had dressed demurely. Accustomed to seeing Florencia togged in office casual, her mannered attire lifted his esteem of her. She wore a single strand of pearls atop a heritage little black dress with an appropriate pair of fancy sandals. No rings. No bracelets. No bangles. No anklet.

Instead of a clutch, thin bands slinged around the front of her waist. There a small black leather pouch drooped. If she wore earrings instead of the usual studs that pierced her lobes, the mane she kept bound at work had been loosened obscured them. Early evening light darkened the released luxuriance curtaining the sides of her face before ending as a drape hanging between her shoulder blades.

While Pfarrer had appraised her, she had assessed him. She complimented the peacock’s look.

Her stroke pleased him. A tall and broad man, Pfarrer prized himself as one who not only knew how to wear suits, but also knew he looked good in them. Wearing a suit required no art. Just confidence in carrying off the appearance.

The saying is, “Clothes make the man.” No. Worn correctly clothes should project the man.

But then few men could be Burt Lancaster.

The writer had packed two suits for Argentina. Both lightly woven single breasteds. The first black in case he somehow needed to attend a funeral. As he’d aged and matured, Pfarrer more and more adhered to the Fats Waller declaration: “One never knows – do one!?”

On the Jaures evening, Pfarrer wore his other suit, a navy-blue rig. Only black footwear had squeezed into his luggage. Wingtips. Skippies. Clodhoppers. Monochromatic went with everything. He’d had the suit pressed, the white shirt beneath it ironed. Earlier, a bootblack buffed his shoes into gleams. By Argentine standards perhaps his red & blue striped tie as well as the white pocket square (monogramed naturally) peeking from his jacket further confirmed norteamericano stodginess. Nonetheless, some habits while squiring a woman into an exalted address could never be broken.

A lovely woman at that.

Inside that particular Jaures restaurant, iterations of the same sort of Porteña charmed the man whose table she shared or parties she sat among. Just by the serene faces and purrs from the freshly lacquered lips Pfarrer knew little of substance emanated between these diners. Nonetheless as artifice he enjoyed the show.

Pfarrer then turned focus on Florencia. She also scanned the room. But as she mentioned later, her survey encompassed more. Oh, yes, the décor. Its motif. The implements of fine dining spread before them on the table. Flat- and glassware captured light just right to produce glimmers.

Only because of their immobility were periwinkles prevented.

Leaving inanimate objects aside, Florencia studied numerous women within her view. She’d contradict Pfarrer’s contention they were all the same. Yes, each shared commonality. Hair teased and shaped to within inches of splendor. The understated extravagance of their outfits, of course. Every stitch in place. Nothing professed “class” (whether truly inherited or obtained via stylists) more than muted affluence. But beyond their placid surfaces for what he’d mistaken as some kind of kabuki, many of the female diners unsheathed then unleashed sharper guiles and more pointed wiles through feminine stealth than others.

The thinnest stilettos here served the same purpose as angry wielders of machetes would in far less rarefied BA. Where men in every class beat their chests and issued roars from the wild, these oblique women plunged bloodlessly. Done expertly, the victim wouldn’t have realized she’d been thoroughly pierced until reviewing this evening the next morning.

Way too late for mots justes then.

Pfarrer heard her last declaration then was struck by a lightning bolt. Figuratively, of course. He accused Florencia of being able to read lips. An evasive smile followed her eyes away from him.

Question answered, Pfarrer asked whether she could decipher English or other languages in the same manner as Spanish.

That query remained unresolved. The waiter appeared. A boy filled their water glasses. The senior man greeted the couple then professionally solicited whether they desired cocktails or glasses of wine before engaging in what Pfarrer heard as “the Jaures Experience.” No. The waiter did not say that. But during a later date, Pfarrer got a giggle from her after imitating through exaggeration the waiter’s overly competent mannerliness.

The writer would’ve been satisfied with a cocktail. A couple of them, in fact. However, Florencia had grabbed the wine list. She scanned through it. The Porteña found a vintage that would satisfy her crave. She suggested the same to Pfarrer. It had him agreeing once waiter also approved her choice.

During the wait for their ambrosias, Florencia launched a quick thorough discourse regarding wines she found heavenly. Pfarrer just couldn’t keep up. All he gathered of her evaluations, side evaluations, sub-evaluations was his being in the presence of an oenophile. At least in his estimation she must’ve been damned close to having been a wine connoisseur.

Not that he’d know.

After their glasses had been filled and she sipped, Florencia then went on a ramble extoling this vintage. Left to Pfarrer all he could’ve done – and did – was admire her choice. He liked it – but explain why? No.

He acknowledged her apparently extensive wine background. Florencia must’ve misheard/misinterpreted him. She retreated, responded a tad defensively. She wondered whether her youth – not relative to his age, but to the cohort to which she belonged – imposed difficulties in his believing her tastes sufficiently educated then refined?

Where a contemporaneous male of Florencia’s might’ve sputtered, seeking, no, praying for answers that saved him from this tiger trap, Pfarrer simply bent the charge back at her. Calmly, in a measured manner he settled her disputes.

Florencia mollified, he brought the nugget of an idea from the back of his mind. It had weighed on him for several of his prior Argentine sojourns. He’d learned of Rosario, the nation’s premiere wine growing region west of the conurbano. The Andes Mountains defined the region’s western horizon. Now, wine, pfroo-phroo as it was to him nonetheless captivated vast numbers of readers. Wine tasting expeditions hosted by vineyard owners who let visitors commune in their fields could transform the most uptight and stolid individuals into besotted roundheels in no time.

A whole mob of the same in that circumstance would let themselves become human carpets.

Pfarrer knew of Rosario’s likely allure. He didn’t know how he could make that subject intimate, intricate, yet inviting. Until Florencia.

Over dessert he pitched the idea to Florencia. This delighted her. She always wished to have been a more frequent visitor to Rosario. The vintages produced there, the whole terroir in general, could soothe as well as enliven her.

As he did with dinner, Pfarrer maintained if she agreed accompanying him on a Rosario venture, he’d exhibit himself in the most upright manner. That concerned her not a wit. The oddness of her response dissipated quickly.

Florencia would be his guide, his assistant, his go-fer, his whatever, if necessary. The last category amused her in a way he found mysterious. She coyly mentioned payment. He heard the figure as way too low and tripled it.

His revised number momentarily shook her level demeanor.

Negotiations concluded, the pair sealed the deal in norteamericano fashion. They shook hands.

(Noch mehr)

Copyright © 2025 by Slow Boat Media LLC

This Is not a Submarine but Scheme-a-Rama

A couple of afternoons later, Mick phoned. Me being out at the time again exploring the fabulous beauty of Belle Époque Buenos Aires, the Briton left a message to meet. Not where we’d first crossed. No. At an address I suspected housed some likely blind tiger. One west of my apartment. Maybe it was in Once. All the times I’ve visited Buenos Aires I’ve barely been cognizant of respective neighborhoods. Except for Boca. The locals, especially trendy girls, had such demarcations ingrained in them.

Vast a metropolis as BA is, when done through targeted explorations the city is quite walkable. Its melded blocks contrast nicely against distinct enclaves.

I spent little time nor exerted much effort in government or commercial zones. Not one to be cowed or impressed amid edifices initially erected to serve the people but now exist to make them bow. Continue reading This Is not a Submarine but Scheme-a-Rama

This Is Not a Submarine

Back when Argentina ruled as the “it” country for Western travelers seeking as of then “undiscovered” or “neglected” destinations, I nearly could’ve contributed towards the realization of a Rene Magritte moment. Sort of.

The Belgian artist wouldn’t have played a major part in the endeavor. He just would’ve been a reference. The impetus to get the ball rolling as it were. Continue reading This Is Not a Submarine

Dalliances

Matthias believed himself quite fortunate to have been a widower whose children had all entered adulthood. Or else explaining the circumstances which had befallen him to adolescents or teens could’ve been quite mortifying.

He asked himself, ‘Was it an incident? Or a series of misfortunes? Or an exercise in youthful malice?’

At least the English professor could engage the question philosophically. Nora, the other participant exposed, lacked Matthias’ considerable fig leaf. Apart from the pun, fig leaves were exactly what Nora needed. Those and mind wipes, as well as interdicting the bastard who’d swiped the incriminating memory card.

Not solely to cover the naked state she’d shared with Matthias, but to establish distance between the realized gossipy recrimination their private conduct stirred and the preferred mature indifference it should’ve left in its wake. Well, not so private now, though owing to her marital state, certainly illicit.

A university colleague, Nora, had entered a brief passionate romance (romance because affair sounded tawdry) with him occasioned by her husband Fausto. Living up to his name, Fausto was a true macho. Their marriage made Matthias wonder about ardor’s caprice. Continue reading Dalliances

Las Sirenas

    
    Marie Anne Erize Tisseau and Marina Ginestà had a connection. Each now would’ve been tagged an insurgent. Or militant. No. Probably terrorist. Language has undergone so much massaging why call a spade a spade when it can be labeled an entrenching tool? Though the conflicts enveloping both and devouring one were dissimilar, they eventually shared the same depth in their respective causes.  

    Separated by eras, the Atlantic Ocean and clashes, similar impulses must’ve pushed them. Each believed she could be part of a beneficial movement. And each understood the prices victory required might’ve demanded their lives.

    Today that height of commitment solely belongs in the province of religious extremists. What cause will encourage modern men and women to sacrifice their lives if necessary for an idea?

    An idea, not duty. A!–more–>

    Do absolute good and evil (the intellectual versions, not spiritual) even exist today? Unquestioningly so in Ginestà’s time. Many years later when Tisseau strode among us, the old polarities were well on the way to becoming our present-day every shade of gray murk.    

    By coincidence, Tisseau and Ginestà each recently returned to awareness. A newspaper article conjured the long vanished Tisseau the next to last day of 2013. Column inches lent Ginestà an appreciation the first week of 2014. At 94, she recently reached the end of her life.

    Reportage by (Spain) El Pais’ Diego Manrique and Jacinto Antón drew these women from the fog. Or in Ginestà’s case revived her through light and shadow, while Tisseau may have been commemorated in song.

    Ginestà is clearly portrayed. Unless she alerts us from the beyond, Tisseau will stay a good twisty mystery. Mist veils her. She is elusive and maybe all that remains of her is allusive. Conjecture shrouds the tasks which led to her vanishing. Did she also serve as muse for an admirer who became even more ardent as his reticence increased across the decades?

    If Tisseau’s presence tricked one of those heartfelt love requiems from him, he’s not confessing. Neither are those behind her disappearance.

    Tisseau was an Argentine model, Ginestà politically acute and French. Both combated the leading repressive regimes of their times and places. The first woman joined intrigues opposed to her nation’s militarist regime; the second defended Spain against the reactionary Falange.

    The women’s respective causes failed. The rebel victory over the duly elected Republican government not only retarded Spain’s progress by decades, but also emboldened the Axis powers intending world plunder. That much talked about line had been trampled. Could there have been a starker example of put up or shut up than The Spanish Civil War? If the high-minded democracies couldn’t and wouldn’t aid one of their own, weren’t black shirts convinced they too could pick off other weak and disjointed republics?

    Munich didn’t green light the Second World War. Letting Spain become a live-fire laboratory for total war did.

    After withdrawing from Spain, Ginestà bracketed Mexican exile between escaping and returning to France. Postwar she eventually settled in Paris. Indeed, mamie had worn combat boots.

    Again, who can say, or who will ever confess, how Tisseau expired? Since 1976 her physical presence has been completely expunged. The 24-year-old was that figure who walks into the jungle and leaves no tracks behind. But rather than being digested by savannah, the Argentine urban jungle consumed her.

    Thanks to the world’s myriad ideological or religious discords, Westerners are familiar with the shadowy villains slinking among us looking to foment this cause or indoctrinate that creed by whatever method of imposition necessary. Their blood-drizzled objectives make no distinction between bystanders and the particular pillars they insist need razing. To ideologues, there are no innocents. People living as unobtrusively as possible merely bolster their contention. If you aren’t with them …

    Marie Tisseau became an Argentine dissatisfied with her nation’s narrow direction. Now she’s nearly a caricature of a limousine revolutionary. She was that bourgeois baby who agitated for bread and justice, but whose upbringing had delivered her material goods and comfort aplenty. Her concept of “without” was just that. Theory. Elevated roundtable chatter made romantic through the chaotic energy of youth, cigarette smoke, though ultimately condescendingly delivered regarding “the people.”  

    Fighter, militant, insurgent, “terrorist” even, Marina Ginestà is best seen as a recruiting pitch. More pointed than posters featuring Uncle Sam or Lord Kitchener, Ginestà’s pose atop a Barcelona roof in 1936 made an appeal stronger than ¡Sangre y Patria! The Catalan capital as her backdrop, the 17-year-old’s glance summoned without hectoring. Uncle Sam and Kitchener beseeched ambivalent patriots into serving. Ginestà’s easy on the eyes coaxing flatly stated “Boys, this is what you’re fighting for!”

   

Marina Ginestà, Barcelona, Spain, June 1936.

    One must wonder whether Ernest Hemingway ever glimpsed her portrait. With all occurring around him, had her image imprinted itself in Hemingway’s mind? Could Ginestà’s inviting steel have been the basis behind the fictional Maria in his For Whom the Bell Tolls?

    Here’s a backstory: the militiawoman’s come-hither defiance was a setup. Hers seems a contrivance Joseph Goebbels should’ve staged. Hans Gutman, a German pro-Republican photographer had his Edward Bernays’ moment. One he hoped advanced Republican sympathies. In Ginestà, Gutman found the requisite pretty girl. He and his subject climbed to the roof.

    Mediterranean sunlight emphasized Ginestà’s peasant loveliness. A mild breeze ruffled the short black crop atop her head. Barcelonan cityscape provided effective contrast. Yet the scene was incomplete. She lacked an accessory. Clever Gutman appropriated a nearby militiaman’s rifle and slung it over Ginestà’s shoulder. Perhaps the weapon enhanced her allure, and with it the Republican cause. Wouldn’t be the first time an armed woman has been regarded deferentially.
 
    Nothing so martially clear for Tisseau. She and her Montoneros, the leftist assemblage opposing the right-wing junta then ruling Argentina, engaged in asymmetrical shadow warfare. No great battles. No stirring proclamations. No sterling literature. No bombastic sloganeering or music. Given the conflict’s nature, also little valor. Nothing romantic about it at all.

    Unlike the Spanish insurrection, Argentina’s aptly named Dirty War lacked fixed lines and readily admirable leading personages. It was an ideological struggle that dissolved into state sanctioned torture and murder. In reflection, the Argentine government assumed the worst vestiges of what we widely recognize as an organized criminal structure. Due process for a lost number of political captives ran along that dictated by Alice’s Queen of Hearts: “Punishment first, then the trial!”

    Is anyone still alive who can attest what deeds Tisseau performed on behalf ogf the Montoneros? Was she a go-between? Active in a cadre? Or just a peripheral traveler whose prominent profile fit into Argentine domestic intelligence’s crosshairs?    

    Unlike Ginestà’s unwavering fealty to Spanish Republicanism, Tisseau drifted into the Montonero movement. Casually politicized at best, she’d led an idealized youthquake life. Lovely, languorous, and fearless, the cover girl gadded-about throughout early 1970’s Europe.

 


Marie Anne Erize Tisseau, unknown.

    Glamorous, say, an Uschi Obermaier who didn’t reach the next shore, Tisseau exemplified that era’s free-spirited vibe. On occasions – oh, the usual no cash ones – she dipped into larceny. But exquisite larceny! No grubby bank heists for her. More than a flighty personality behind a pretty face, the mannequin nurtured an interest in anthropology. A concentration the least-likeliest thief turned into lucre by smuggling art.

    Doubtlessly the sort of daring-do which further aroused an already besotted tunesmith. Verses, well known ones in specific circles, resound about a thoroughly captivating woman. Do these refer to Tisseau?

    Throughout decades the lyricist has preferred obscuring his muse’s identity. Doesn’t lovelorn cloaking attract our curiosity all the more? On the surface his reticence may appear selfish. Is his one of those manufactured mysteries meant to keep embers alive, the artist’s name in speculation? Or does the songwriter’s silence derive from an instance of a draw so powerful, a loss so raw, that revelation would wrench soul debilitating pain?

    There are some nuggets our human hearts never wish to yield.  

   

What Is Beat?

    Finally watched the film version of On the Road recently. Anticipating disappointment, Walter Salles’ 2012 effort lived down to expectations.

    I imagine when the project was pitched and possible directors were suggested, Salles emerged a natural fit. After all, the Brazilian had done a tender job helming The Motorcycle Diaries, the sort of movie that makes most American audiences eyes glaze over yet rewards patient viewers. You know, solitary figures sitting in the dark interested in more than excessive explosions and stunted adults wallowing in juvenile humor.

Continue reading What Is Beat?

Sinister Sojourns


    Isn’t the best part about movie remakes comparing them against the original? Or given that today’s moviemakers take such license, the “source material.” Title and characters remain unchanged but the newer efforts detour and slalom moments after the premise has been established.

    Recently the 2010 remake of And Soon the Darkness lent me an opportunity to see how far storytelling has advanced. My interest in both films stems from a distinctly modern actress, Amber Heard. She’d been a bunny on NBC’s short-lived Playboy Club. Maybe that program would still be in production if Frank Ballinger from M Squad, and Crime Story‘s Mike Torello and Ray Luca (all characters from TV series also set in early 1960s Chicago) had run tabs there.

    Heard filled out her bunny costume and shook her tail nicer than I remembered happening inside the actual clubs themselves. Of course today I have much greater appreciation of such nuances. Continue reading Sinister Sojourns

Fulfilled Women, Empty Men

 

    Several years ago, the Brooklyn Museum extended the bounds of good taste by exhibiting pulp magazine covers. For those too young, pulps supplied literary thrills and adventures from the late 1920s into early 50s. Labeled “pulps” because the editions guts were printed on coarse paper, the appellation could’ve extended to the covers as well.

    Although glossy, the wraparounds didn’t bother teasing prospective readers about the contents. Rather, lurid covers promised all sorts of dicey situations filled with malevolence. Be assured rare was the denouement that promoted uplift and redemption.

    Some chapters might’ve aspired to The Four Feathers, but none ever neared that level of daring-do.

    The stories were turgid and churning. The covers reflected that assiduously. The Manhattan-based Society of Illustrators just wrapped up its own retrospective of pulp magazine covers. Dames in distress, gunsels, hop heads, fortune seekers, and space aliens were displayed.

    Unlike our contemporary criminal chronicles which mine present-day fears, those long ago entertainments made no effort to hold mirrors against then-society.

    Skip reflection or deep-seated introspection. Just the thing committed for the basest reasons. Which is why I’m so enamored with Argentine crime. Continue reading Fulfilled Women, Empty Men

A Piropo of Nothing

 

    Journalism disabused me of any hero-worshipping. While it is fine to admire and acknowledge exceptional feats, those performing them are just as human as the rest of mankind. Having acquitted themselves well in stressful situations the remainder of us might’ve fallen woefully short, I learned often that more than the feet of such people were made of clay.

    All the more so here in the States. Maybe it’s part of the American character. Maybe it’s possessing an adolescent outlook in a mature bulked-up body, but our culture craves heroes. We’re quick to anoint them, almost as fast to discard them, and on continuous searches for the next one regardless. Continue reading A Piropo of Nothing

Here Are the Conditions

 

Now would’ve been my usual window to visit Argentina and Uruguay. From JFK it’s 10 nonstop hours to Buenos Aires. Seasonal shift makes this an appealing travel time.

Southern Hemisphere seasons are reversed. While northerners are anticipating shedding winter gear for spring wear, southerners are bidding ciao to summer and waiting for fall.

By mid March the worst of their summer has subsided. Cooler zephyrs shove tropical discomfort, particularly its beating rains, back north into the Torrid Zone.

What remains is a somewhat reinvigorated populace taking sweet forever before shrugging off languor. Returned wealthier residents have sunned themselves in Florianopolis, Brazil, or on the Uruguayan coast stretching east of Montevideo. The less moneyed have endured traffic on perpetually clogged Route 2 to bask in the more plebian paradises of Mar del Plata and Pinamar.

Early March, schools have reopened. Students, still restive from the break, resist settling into scholarly comportment. Retailers and office workers perform their tasks by rote, likely continuing so until days require jackets and nights blankets.

By then I’m long gone. I linger there just enough to appreciate the young, slender, fresh, brown-limbed brunettes whose modest apparel forces greater scrutiny of their attractiveness.

While walking along Buenos Aires retail promenades, a man may be deceived by the impression he proceeds in Spain or Italy instead. Women browsing or being served bear little kinship with their sisters elsewhere throughout Latin America. No exotic Brazilian mixtures, slight, if any, notable indio features. It’s as if they’re replicas of their immigrant Seville or Naples forbearers.

Such European beauty notions foster attitudes most North Americans might rightly disdain. That sort of ingrained “lookism” which exalts certain characteristics while demeaning others lessened its grip on us through civil rights and the women’s movement. Two social levelers which haven’t seeped much below the Rio Grande or into the Caribbean Basin.

If they ever realize the incongruity, one hopes they will properly resolve the matter.

The crumbling Second Empire (or is it Belle Epoque?) Buenos Aires streetscape is perfect for aimless wandering or idling. And if one must idle, why not do so behind Ray-Bans at a sidewalk cafe, attended by assiduous waiters? Either way it’s pleasant being among lively stylish people as they go about their business in manners we’d consider performance.

Alive as its days are, Buenos Aires nights pulse even harder.

My first visit, I struck up an unequal friendship with Sophie. It’s designated so because I was a Yanqui. “Yanqui” I can handle. Gringo would be beyond the pale.

A man, my intentions towards Sophie were clear. Dark, good-looking, simmering, rolling r’s ready to erupt, she was bored, underemployed and underpaid. Therefore, we did pleasant things to and for another.

We met at a showing of La Dolce Vita. Serendipity or what?

Sophie had spent time Stateside. To her my allegiance couldn’t have been plainer had it been stenciled across my forehead. We quickly came to an understanding: during our, um, interludes, I wouldn’t insult her and she wouldn’t exploit me. Intentionally. Too much.

Only interludes occur in South America. Episodes transpire here and in Europe.

Sophie led this Yanqui through our first mutual nights. She and coterie of similarly disposed amigas our nocturnal revels quickly acquired were Palermo habitues. “Palermo” will serve as the general rubric for Buenos Aires’ flash neighborhood. It encompasses distinct and subtle districts. We flitted among many.

The girls enjoyed their colorful long cocktails and the opportunity to flaunt Sophie’s butter and egg man. My indulgence allowed them to smoke Marlboros instead of local acrid weeds; to imbibe freely rather than nurse drinks; to make shows of their amiga’s (and by extension, theirs) unexpected fortune. The girls were loud, gleeful, argumentative and fully, carelessly “in the moments.”

Swoon in their company as I did, Palermo, all of them, chafed me. While Sophie and her cohort cackled and capered, we were resented. Or our involuntary audiences smoldered with envy and jealousy. Too often at some seen to be seen scenes I felt the rooms’ merriment ebb around us into muted derision.

I shy from Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires’ glitz trap, and humbler outlying barrios. No need to travel 5,000 miles for badly cut coke rails or present myself as a riches laden, slow-moving galleon for the local Argentine street pirates.

Given choices, and independent of Sophie, or subsequent casual companions engaged, I prefer stalking in two different barrios, San Telmo and Barrio Norte.

Artful decay along San Telmo’s narrow thoroughfares are vivid tableaux of Buenos Aires past. Dusty inviting shops and the elegant but worn residences above them must be repositories of passion, thwarted, squandered, or expended. No doubt if some of those walls could talk they’d yell, toss hair, flare nostrils and utter oaths of inexhaustible love or swear eternal vengeance.

Who the hell wouldn’t want some of that!?

Thus far the best beef I’ve eaten in Argentina or Uruguay was served at Des Nivel on San Telmo’s main drag, Defensa. From the sidewalk this parilla would be nobody’s idea of great shakes. Looking inside even less so. But atmosphere is not an applied cosmetic.

Abutting the entry a grill where the aroma of searing succulent cuts intend to fan passersby carnivore appetites. Constantly on the stereo, Carlos Gardel, Argentina’s national crooner. Before Sirius made such devotionals common, a local FM station committed its airwaves to the 70-year dead singer’s entire playlist. While portraits of Evita and Maradona are absent, there’s no lack of Gardels grinning down off Des Nivel’s walls.

The cat’s an on-key cult.

Unlike San Telmo, Barrio Norte’s esthetics could’ve issued from Anyplace, USA. Other than the Spanish signage, that is.

I’ve found it a fine locale in which to base myself. Two main bus lines run near the hotel. The subway avails a few streets down. Perhaps the world’s showiest bookstore, El Ateneo Grand Splendid, waits less than a block away, while the corner newsstand guy knows I buy El Clarin, not La Nacion.

Baser delights exist a lope (going) and crawl (returning) away. Fortunately, I’m older and more mature now because if I weren’t the Shamrock is the sort of saloon which could’ve had my head and liver racing to see which burst first.

Despite the name it’s not an Irish bar. A map of Eire and an Irish tricolor do not confer echt-ness. Proximity aside, three factors compel my frequent Shamrock attendance.

One, Happy Hours end at midnight. Two, inexpensive drinks. Three, until Argentina’s most recent economic reversal, a great mix of people filled the place. Exceptional as the first two attributes are, the third receives the prize.

Although I believe the Shamrock will always be chockablock nightly from 10 or 11 until dawn, its prior patronage seemed equally balanced among locals, foreigners and us. Lack of Argentines with discretionary cash has reduced their percentage. Without them the room is skewed. They’re the social enzyme.

Most hours I attended English predominated. Didn’t matter from where the speaker hailed, he or she likely spoke classroom English. Meaning they took to heart all the grammar and usage instructions we skipped. Also, patrons are so relaxed there.

Not relieved. Not drunk. Well, not piss drunk. Nor disguising insecurities and desperations beneath false fronts. I mean really pleased to be amid other people who are just as glad to be in such mutual company.

That’s a great nutrient for good times, right? As if the drinks contained an insouciance elixir besides the alcohol already therein.

I can’t explain. However, I do know it overwhelms my inner clock, squashes my already low inhibitions, allowing me to stay upright and lucid among the hardiest until night becomes gray morning. I rarely lasted that long as an undergraduate. In Buenos Aires, I became an iron man 2-3 times weekly.

Should I have hooked up sometime during the night, the best part wasn’t the short eager walk towards my hotel bed. Nor anticipating or entering intimacies in that bed. No. The best part became arriving just as the breakfast buffet began. That early, only the most driven, Type-A, hardcore, hardass visiting executives might assault the exposed pastries or whatever warmed in the heating trays. 

There are no such go-getters in Buenos Aires.

Accompanied by that night’s “little friend,” alone except for the bleary-eyed breakfast staff, we’d grab some medialunas. Coffee for me, always juice for the woman, and claim a table.

Here ending and beginning blurring, the sweetness of the medialunas then never failed astonishing me. Having eaten them at later morning hours, those treats weren’t as tasty. Had they rested hours on some tray one could say they’d gotten stale. But people like sweets. Guests scarfed those things, prompting continual replenishment.

Likely there is solid scientific basis behind my time/place specific sharper sense phenomena. I prefer the mysterious. For reasons unknown, medialunas that hour of morning, under those circumstances, are simply sweeter. Sweeter than stolen kisses.

I overheard one of the best shutdowns at the Shamrock. A young American woman, a college exchange student, had fixed on an Argentine. He was a handsome kid, but wasn’t entirely full of himself. Yet. She was wholesome. Taking in her complete package, bosomy too.

She made strained conversation with him. Proper upbringing kept him polite, though just barely.

Finally, girlfriend scraped the bottom of her intriguing questions barrel. She asked if he could tango.

A crushing little smile smeared his face. He answered, “If I were Japanese, would you ask if I knew karate?”

Before ever visiting Argentina, I bought Paul Pellicoro’s tango instruction book. We have preconceptions of different cultures, no? Between a gaucho herding cattle or assuming a Latin lover mien, no way I was saddling up Trigger! So I hoped Pellicoro could baby me into a heartbreaking rake.

By myself I was ballroom competition ready. Dragooning a local practice partner, telling her “do everything I do except backwards,” tango’s basic eight steps became at best uncoordinated, at worst spastic.

Clearly the brain bone was disconnected from the leg bones.

I didn’t surrender to discouragement. Or ineptness. By the time I boarded my first overnight flight to Argentina, toes and knees more often than not stopped mashing and bumping those of another.

The first milonga I entered was by chance. Having spent initial days gaining my bearings, I felt sure enough to dare a wide-ranging nocturnal sojourn. Wandering got me lost. Even today I don’t know where I was. Had the streetlights been dimmer, they could’ve been gas lamps.

The few pedestrians seen seemed shady. Of course in that light everybody was ill-defined.

A beacon of sorts cracked the night. It lit a doorless doorway, a red curtain sheeting the opening. From inside came the prancing lilt of tango music. Doubtless Rudolph Valentino and Alla Nazimova flashed their heels within.

Inside the vestibule, the doorman eyed then informed me [my translation], “Mister, this is a milonga, not a whorehouse.”

Bluffing but glad, I told him he was telling me nothing I already didn’t know.

Inside reminded me of a basement rec room out of my teens. All it lacked was one bare red bulb hanging from the ceiling. Adjusting my sight, I saw the setting more substantial than the old grind rings.

Couples mostly my age or older scuttled around the floor. I guessed the city’s cool and crazy contingent would wait until the weekend before making their ironic appearances.

The milonga contained no wallflowers. Just seated women waiting to be collected by the numerous hunters roaming the dance floor fringes. I knew etiquette dictated my requests be graceful and should she decline stuff my disappointment behind an “ah, alas.”

First time the rookie got in the box he didn’t strikeout. In these parts we call that good.

Though it suffices, I shouldn’t resort to the word “strange.” But strange it was being partnered with a woman — with women — who knew the steps. Every woman I danced with moved at an impossible ease. And they were considerate, too, because that night, as well as others afterwards, every one covered my missteps.

I read somewhere the author Eve Babitz took up tango. In a perfect world she’d strut her stuff in Buenos Aires while I visited. Naturally I’d hope to stumble across her in a milonga. And naturally she’d accept my offer to tango. By then I’d be more adept though still rely on the open embrace.

Babitz gets mentioned because her writings indirectly affected me when I was still impressionable. Okay. Callow. Looking back, I now understand how powerful an advantage that was. Thankfully Jill, the woman wielding it, treated me kindly. If men had made her suffer, the transference probably would given me issues with women today.

Jill was a huge Babitz fan. No. An acolyte. Bibles she wouldn’t swear on. Babitz, though … a whole stack of her books. Jill was cool then. Memory makes her cooler today.

Those are the conditions.

www.slowboatmedia.com