FRIDAY
It was Friday afternoon and I had plans to go see the Charlie Chaplin film, City Lights, at 7pm at the Centro Cultural Borges. I'd never seen the film before and, coupled with the opportunity to check out the CCB, it seemed like a pleasant cultural opportunity for a Friday eve.
The walk there took about 45 minutes, mostly down Calle Florida. Street vendors in the middle of the pedestrian pathway and stores for mid-range to fine shopping on both sides of the street for blocks and blocks. As it turns out, the CCB is located inside the Galerías Pacífico, which is a shopping mall. Now, the local porteños might tell you that my previous statement is not true, that the CCB is really next to the shopping mall, but, my friends, I'm here to tell you that that the Centro Cultural Borges in Buenos Aires, Argentina, is indeed located inside a shopping mall.
Hence, before I check out the CCB, I take advantage of the consumer-friendly circumstances and do some shopping!
Frankly, I could use another pair of jeans. I brought down two pairs of jeans, along with one pair of corduroys (of no use whatsoever due to the summer weather) and a pair of khakis, but I ruined one pair shortly upon arriving. Open ink-pen in left-hand pocket. For the second time. As luck would have it, however, the Galerías Pacífico houses a Levi's store! I walk in knowing exactly what I want - skinny style, 31 waist, 30 length - but don't know about jean sizes in Argentina. As I peruse the stock all I see are even-numbered sizes. "OK," I say to myself, "Maybe a 30-30 will work." I ask the clerk for said size, but, as it stands, he informs me of the fact that the shortest length available is a 32. This very fact vexes me, since Argentine men are not necessarily known for their height. Not that 32 length means tall person, but, you know, I mean, whatever. Nevertheless, I try on a pair of 30-32, hoping against hope that the dark, denim deities will be on my solemn side. Of course, they're way too long.
By this point, I've still got some time to kill before the show starts at 7pm, so I take the mall escalator up to the CCB. The CCB itself is not much to speak of. Mostly clever quotes and photos of Jorge Luis Borges. Still with time, I end up sitting down in a nearby cafe for an agua con gas and a piece of cake. There's an American couple nearby, and their gestures are as loud as their words, and their words are very loud.
Movie time! The modest theater is like an arctic chamber. The film will be shown off of a DVD with misspelled Spanish subtitles and onto a small projector screen. Directly, the American couple sits down right behind me. As the movie starts, I am sincerely struck by the ferocity of their hyena-like laughter. Yes, the film is very funny. Haha, very funny. Haha, it is to laugh. Despite this distraction, the film is wonderful. The boxing scene especially had me in awe (see below).
City Lights is only 81 minutes. Around the 65 minute mark, the male half of the American couple falls asleep and starts to snore, furiously.
SATURDAY
I have plans for Saturday night. Plans with people I don't know to go out to dinner and then to a play. My main contact for the encounter is a contact of a contact. In her email invitation, she tells me that we will be eating Peruvian food and and the group will be comprised of an art critic, a filmmaker, a photographer, and a chef, so I am intrigued. (Initially, I misread the email and thought that the play would be called "peruvian food first," or something like that. Who holds the blame for this mireading? The world may never know!) We meet up outside of the Abasto shopping center and walk the streets, slippery with rain and dog shit, in search of a Peruvian restaurant. I order an agua con gas with dinner and it promptly explodes all over the table as I twist the cap. I'm used to having waiters open my water bottles for me, I guess. (Please, whatever you do, fair reader, don't ever re-read the previous sentence!) Maybe I'm nervous. I am. But this special congregation of artists is, really, not that special, and, yes, I have had Peruvian food before.
And we're off to the theater! The crooked rain hitting harder the pavement. As we arrive, I try to dry off my wet glasses with my shirt, but that just makes the smudges worse. So, while in the baño, I take advantage of the privacy and clean my glasses with the very fabric of my life: my cotton boxers.
Now, the play is being performed at the Beckett Teatro, which excites me. I ask one of the guys in our group if he's at all familiar with the work of Samuel Beckett, attempting to explain in my slightly slurred (chicha and beer at dinner) Spanish the scene in Beckett's novel, Molloy, in which Molloy has a set number of stones that he sucks on and rotates from pocket to pocket and pocket to mouth in various iterations for a good ten pages or so. As to the logical question, then, of whether it was the best or the worst introduction to Samuel Beckett, I'll respond by simply saying "Yes."
The play we see has absolutely nothing to do with Peruvian food. It's named Angelito Peña and is written by some famous Argentine stage actor and director named Julio Chávez. With reason do we find ourselves at the Beckett Teatro, for Angelito Peña is certainly theater of the absurd, bordering on the abstupid. It starts with a Paraguayan woman reading the White Pages out loud in an under-enunciated monotone. By the end, I'd say I took in maybe 25-30% of what was said. Luckily, it was a short play.
Reviews are mixed within the group. We look for a bar, for a drink. It's raining harder now. We duck into some hippie tango dive for a beer, but most of the group is losing their social energy. One, though, Carla, has a party in mind. I'm down and I accompany her while the others return to their homes. At the party, Carla doesn't really know anyone and I need to pee (and clean my glasses again!). Eventually, Carla runs into someone she knows: a dead ringer for the actress, Chloe Sevigny, named Julieta. Oddly enough, most of the partygoers are aspiring actors, including our Julieta, who is kind enough to show me me the way to the bathroom. I knock. No answer. I can see that no light is on on the other side of the door. I pull and I push as hard as I can on the door, but it won't open. I come back to Julieta and Carla and tell them of my predicament. Can't see, need to pee. Julieta walks back with me and, with the grace of a girl who, in every single way, looks like a semi-famous actress, she slides the door open.
