Che, Me Mudaré

My time in South America has ended. Although I blogged little about my adventures in Buenos Aires, I composed a poem about ordinary yet meaningful reflections that defined my experience. Lo siguiente es un homenaje a la ciudad que ya extraño. The title means, "Hey, I'm Moving." Native Spanish speakers have told me that the poem is uniquely descriptive and lyrical. I fear an English translation would lose this musical rhythm, and consequently have not included one.

Che, Me Mudaré

Para los bonaerenses es su provincia.
Para los porteños es su ciudad.
Para los argentinos que restan es su capital.
Para mi, Buenos Aires no es un lugar, sino una mezcla de sentimientos, sonidos y sueños.

Un cruce de esquinas y momentos cuando mi destino chocó con un destino:
Peña y Uriburu, bajo un diluvio, cuando recebí las primeras llaves para abrir esta vida nueva.
Florida y Mitre, los jueves a las 18:30, sentado en el segundo piso tomando un café y conversando con mi pareja de intercambio.
Calle 5 y Calle 6 donde sentía el temor de meterme con la frontera de la villa 31.
Santa Fe y Riobamba donde observé un cacerolaso antes de juntarme con los demás. Marché a la Plaza, tapa y cuchara en mano. Los golpeé al ritmo de ser un argentino animado y armado con la pasión de protestar.

La pasión se convierte en la rivalidad, una especialidad de esta ciudad.
De Boca y River, Freddo y Volta, Nación y Clarín, bondis y tachos, centro y suburbio, soberbio y decente, lomo y bife, tinto y blanco, la movida y la aurora.

En Buenos Aires vivía días de dos horas.
Dos a la mañana en la sala de musculación, entrenando.
Dos a la tarde en un aula con mujeres listas, hablando una lengua viva.
Dos después en un café, leyendo obras de escritores en español.

Un día en que si no hoy, hay mañana, y si no mañana, pasado mañana está bien también.
Una ciudad de onda, con sedución y sin presión.
Servicio no punctual, sino relajado al lento paso de un tango.

Algunas veces los pasos aumentan. Los cartels me advierten:
Sólo en efectivo
Colabore con cambio
No hay monedas
No se vaya sin factura
Cierre la puerta
Descienda por atrás
Mantenga distancia

Está alerta por acá.
Mirá por donde pisás, no sólo por las veredas agrietadas.
Entre robos y paros, demonstraciones e inundaciones, hay un menú de los quilombos del día.
Sueldos fijos, precios subidos, monedas desaparecidas.
El coro de bocinas Microcentrinas, la sirena de SAME, el silbido del Subte.
El humo de un 60, la neblina del campo.
¡Pará!
A pesar de respirar días difíciles, el mal olor se transformaba en un buen amor.
Aires siempre eran Buenos.

Tal vez sea optimista con placeres sencillos:
El beso de encuentro y partida.
Una gota de Persico con coco y dulce de leche con brownie.
La aroma del maní garrapiñada flotando en el aire.
La sensación de verde en la Plaza San Martín, cubierta en las hojas y la mansarda.
Un paseo por el Palacio de Aguas Corrientes donde un suspiro siempre se me escapaba.
Una vista nocturna del Obelisco, el clave blanco anclado en el corazón de la capital.
La madera de la Línea A, cuyas carrozas viejas se desplazan bajo de la tierra.
La luz negra dentro del colectivo 109, viajando por Viamonte a la madrugada
Las calles empedradas con sus fachadas pintadas.
Los graffitis y el arte callejero que busqué a pie por Barracas y Constitución a San Telmo.
El código del lunfardo y las muletillas de “che” y “boludo.”
Los tiempos cuando una señora me llamó “joven” o un camerero me saludó “caballero.”
Los almuerzos ejecutivos con una copa de tinto y dos bochas al final.

Ahora estoy en un café cualquiera.
Me siento solo, pero acompañado con un tostado mixto y licuado de banana – siempre con leche.
Escribo estos pensamientos sobre el volante de “Mi Matute,” mi pizzeria preferida donde pedía en persona una criolla para evitar equivocarme por teléfono.

Escribo como el periodista que no voy a ser,
Como el poeta que no sabía que era.
Palabras, lágrimas y recuerdos llenan la página, fundidos como el jamón y queso en el plato.
Esta es la ciudad que yo veía, donde yo vivía, porteño, por un poco.

El fin de la travesía se acerca.
De Buenos Aires me voy, dejando buenos tiempos y la vida tranquila.
Espera el próximo capítulo.
Extingo este fuego lento que creció.
El humo reaparece.
Pero esta vez huele bien.
Bien dulce.

Kawagoe

Less than an hour from Tokyo, "Little Edo" (小江戸) is a throwback to what bigger Edo might have looked like. A beloved bell tower, the city's symbol, presides over a well-preserved block of distinctive black kurazukuri (fireproof merchant houses). Nearby, dozens of confectionery shops do brisk business from passing sweet tooths. Cherry blossom season is an especially rewarding time to explore Kawagoe´s landscaped temples.

Click here for more pictures of Kawagoe (川越).

The Away Game

During my first year in Japan, I went to a professional baseball game with two students. A year later, I returned to the bleachers, but this time to watch my students take the field. High school baseball in Japan is like college basketball in America: fiercely local and competitive, and more followed than the professionals. Koshien, a national high school tournament, is like March Madness twice a year.

Shin Gakko has a reputation for sporting excellence. For example, women’s handball is one of the top programs in the nation, and a source of talent for the Japanese national team. The SG baseball machine is also a force on the field. Whereas some Tokyoites I met didn’t recognize the city ward (borough) in which I worked my first year, the name Shin Gakko in the suburbs rang a bell because of their success at Koshien. The potential for my students of today to become the professional stars of tomorrow wasn’t a trite exaggeration. This baseball squad was better trained than some national armies. Year-round practice, sometimes twice daily, cultivated a fighting spirit unleashed on a diamond battlefield.

Loaded bats rested on young shoulders. If the well-stocked trophy cases outside of the principal’s office were anything to go by, sports was the pride of the school, its reputation staked to athletic success. A strong Koshien performance counted for more than the exam scores of the other 2,000 students. Some teachers bowed to these crew-cut stars in spite of less than stellar academics, but I didn’t have to force favorites – their receptive attitude towards English made me an instant fan.

At the beginning of the school year, my enthusiasm still bubbly, I imagined myself being that loyal teacher in the bleachers. Visible and vocal, I’d earn a reputation of supporting students outside of the classroom while gaining respect inside it.

Language and logistical barriers, however, sidelined that lofty ideal. Just pinpointing ever-changing game locations proved a challenge. In space-starved Japan, the school’s only field was a fenced-in dirt patch where handball, soccer, track and tennis teams practiced, often simultaneously. As a result, baseball games were held off-site. Those on the weekend were both hours from home and sometimes beyond the reach of public transportation. And reporting to work every other Saturday only increased my desire for distance from school-related activities. Instead of becoming the regular I aspired, I barely made a cameo.

I wouldn’t have even managed one game without active recruitment from Kijo. The second baseman and I had been talking about the upcoming game against Bunryo H.S. for weeks, at a clip of one sentence per day. A morning update from Kijo was part of my routine. I’d punch in at 8:11 a.m. and change into “indoor” shoes that carried me across the concrete courtyard to an 8:15 meeting. Two stories above the courtyard, the 12th grader leaned out of a window to inspect the flood of uniformed foot traffic clomping towards classrooms. I stood out for my size.

“Gooood morning!” Kijo saluted from above. I signaled a silent response. He then cupped his outstretched hand skyward to detect any drops.

“The weather is fine today,” he concluded with a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.

Actually, the sky was a miserable grey, but in Kijo’s world the sun was always shining. He had a class president’s persona – affable and outgoing among friends while respectful and studious for teachers. During a year when I struggled to cultivate classroom interest in English, Kijo was a refreshing exception. He initiated conversation in English, and used proper grammar without perversions. From this window we forged a friendship.

If only he had been my student. Those of my own had no appetite for English. Only running the mile seemed to draw longer faces. Yet among the bright spots of talent, lights few and far between, were those with mitts packed among their textbooks.

“Baseball game against Bunryo is in two weeks,” Kijo reminded with a wave before shifting his attention to a teammate below.

He did more than just remind me. He created a color-coded map labeled in English. It highlighted the way from school to the game with times and transfers for a series of trains unfamiliar to me. Yet my confidence in the cartographer faltered at rural Asaka station, the last stop on my map. A distinction between east and west exits was not labeled among the landmarks. Before I bet on one direction, I saw something familiar, but not from the map.

It was a short navy skirt with gray socks pulled up to the knees. Uniforms were required when attending school-related events, even on weekends, a protocol I suddenly praised. I was relieved to run into Manami at the station. Actually, it was more like I ran after her. I followed her familiar uniform from a distance, hoping she would show me the way.

At first I thought she sensed the stalker in me, leading me in circles through the station. It turned out she was just as lost, so I blew my cover to combine our resources – my illustrated map with her native tongue. Although in Kijo’s grade, she didn’t share his fluency. After six years of study she couldn’t string together two words in English.

After walking for 15-minutes in silence, a stadium came into sight. Manami and I entered side-by-side, dropping the jaws of the student ticket takers and drawing stares from parents handing out programs. I smirked off the attention as Manami led the way to our seats.

Inside, school supports took sides. Each section fired up its team with a repertoire of chants, honking trombones and pails of water sloshed on supporters after a run scored. I recognized Shin Gakko students and their band along the third base line. Not sure if off-duty teachers were welcome in the cheering corral, I tagged along behind Manami to the general seating and parent area behind home plate where two of her friends were waiting. The bands blared fight songs to introduce what would be a battle of a game.

Emerging from the dugout in uniforms crisp and white, these teenagers looked like minor leaguers taking the field. A scoreboard flickered to life, and a female announcer introduced the first batter to one-sided applause. Speedy centerfielder Shintaro Nishida stepped to the plate. The hardened looks on players’ faces spread to the spectators. Lines were drawn; everyone dug in.

Shin Gakko knocked in four runs that first inning, but I didn’t recognize any of the batters. Although I taught a number of students on the team, most were sophomores who went through the same punishing drills during daily practice, but watched their elders compete until age privileged them to perform. Kijo, although a senior, seemed not to be in the lineup, but I spotted his white smile around the dugout high-fiving teammates who had scored.

During the 7th inning stretch, players raked the dirt infield. In the stands, mothers busied themselves dispensing paper cups of tea to thirsty supports resting their voices that had quieted since the first inning outburst; we were now down by a run. An offensive reawakening in the 8th inning, however, prompted me to write this column for a newspaper designed for non-native English speakers.

After the game I sought out Kijo to congratulate him on the victory. Before I could get to the throng of players, I bumped into
Principal Ouchy who, in his standard suit and tie, at first didn’t recognize me in a backwards baseball hat and jeans. Elation from the late-inning heroics masked any grumble of disapproval. After all, his school’s reputation was safe for another week.



After recording the final out, Shin Gakko's team (in white, left) rushes to the batter's box where both teams will bow to each other.

Snow Gleaming

A year ago I called in sick to work while boarding a plane to Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island. I was bound for frosty Sapporo, the site of an international snow sculpture festival and the hope of the eponymous beer. During my week up north, I detoured to the fishing port of Otaru, which was holding its own wintry festival that I recently wrote up below.

A Year When...

Finally I got up. The Germans, Israelis, Bolivians and Argentines were already on their feet, glasses held high with anticipation. We gathered around folding tables littered with cow bones and side dishes reduced to lettuce shreds and tomato seeds at Hostel Exxes’ year-end barbecue.

Grillmaster Juan Pablo and younger brother Fernando stood armed and ready with shaken bottles of champagne aimed at the group. Paula, one of the Bolivian girls who later dragged me out to Club 21, leaned over to say she couldn’t wait to bid despedida al año 2007.

On TV, a man wearing a funny hat was also excited. Jumbo purple numbers ticked down over his face. 10…9…8…I wished for an action movie ending. The kind where the cord is cut, the code is cracked. In this intervention of mine, time doesn’t expire; it rewinds. Sand defies gravity and refills the empty hourglass of 2007.

Someday, after many more inversions of the yearly hourglass, after double knee replacement surgery, and after white hairs have rooted in my ears, I will wish upon time to transport me back to the year just passed.

A year when I operated cell phones in three different languages.

A year when I spent more time abroad than most people do in a lifetime, but managed to reconnect with friends and family at home.

A year when I took almost 12,000 photographs of global subjects as diverse as a sign of democracy in a repressive regime
to the world’s leading icon of liberty.

A year when I switched countries like TV channels.

A year when I had a full-time job for just three months,
but never worked harder in my life.

A year when English was often my second language.

A year when not only did I follow dreams, but lived them in vivid colors. In vivid cultures. In vivid company.

A year when, if only for a day, I considered life as a single father.

A year when every calendar page was torn off in a different city,
a different county.

A year that began on the quiet Indonesian beaches of Gili Air and ended at a festive Argentine asado in the city of Salta.

A year that was 2007.

My Hollywood ending never materialized. Now in 2008, I’ve surrendered to the measured march of time, but remembrance remains forever mine. Crisp photos. Fresh flashbacks. Lessons of life indelibly etched in my memory.

I have many people to thank for inspiring me during journeys far and wide, but gratitude shouldn't be expressed as a laundry list. Some can’t read English. Others can’t reach a computer. To you who do, I post this at the risk of coming across as maudlin, even arrogant. To the contrary. Had you viewed the year through my lens, you too would wish 2007 eternal.

JANUARI: GILI ISLANDS ❖ INDONESIAN PARADISE


2月: JAPAN ❖ SAPPORO SNOW FESTIVAL


3月: 東京教師のたいしょく ❖ EARLY RETIREMENT


TAGU: MYANMAR ❖ PROFOUND SIMPLICITY


พฤษภาคม: THAILAND ❖ BANGKOK & BEACHES


JUNE: NEW HAMPSHIRE ❖ COLLEGE REUNION


7月: 東京最終ツアー ❖ TOKYO FINAL TOUR



ÁGÚST: ICELAND ❖ RAW BEAUTY


SEPTEMBER: NY ❖ HOME AT LAST


OCTUBRE: ARGENTINA ❖ ADVENTURE ANEW


NOVIEMBRE: BUENOS AIRES ❖ DíAS BUENOS


DICIEMBRE: SALTA & JUJUY PROVINCES ❖ DREAMSCAPES

Feliz Año Nuevo a todos.