Defensa Street, San Telmo, Buenos Aires

I am writing while coming to terms with the fact that Australia’s 2010 World Cup Odyssey is over.

The tactical calamity of the Germany game proved the exception not the rule. Pim’s tactics for the Ghana game were spot on and our players were allowed to shine until the red mist shrouded us again.

It is difficult for non football public in Australia, that take no interest in the sport save for these do or die finals every four years, to recognise that it is an achievement just to be part of the tournament.

These same people usually follow sports in which Australia is pre-eminent and winning is the norm. Being the best in the world is an expectation. Unfortunately these teams, i.e. The Kangaroos and Wallabies, are big fish in small ponds. Place the Socceroos on the World Stage, a game played by all nations of the world, and we become small fish in a big pond but with the same expectations.

I am proud of our performance.

Football means so much to me because as a child it was my window on the world. The city of my youth, Toowoomba, was homogenous in almost every aspect. The height of Multiculturalism was ordering take away from the local Chinese restaurant. Come the weekend, whether it was my game or watching my Father play, I heard accents and languages I had never heard before. By listening to the stories I discovered why people from one country didn’t like people from another then I saw these same people embrace each other in celebration of a goal or a win.

I saw people that couldn’t communicate with speech walk on to a field and let their feet do the talking. This potpurri of cultures found a common voice. Football was a crucible that melted opposing forces then combined them to make something stronger. Football, for me, has always been a unifying force.

It also started a life long search of discovery. Why did you have to avoid certain topics when the Irish and English were drinking after the game? Why did one guy take umbrage with being called a Serb? One of the benefits of the small size of the city was that the community groups were generally not big enough to form their own teams so we avoided the enclave culture that larger cities suffered.

I could continue about football ad nauseam but I will contain myself by relating the contrast between the disappointment I feel today and the joy expressed by Argentines following their victory over Greece yesterday.

Having missed the Argentine victory over South Korea, for which I place the blame squarely at the feet of two vivacious young ladies from England, Ash and Kathryn, yesterday I witnessed another example of the unifying possibilities football has.

I have been watching some games at a Parrilla owned by Dennis, a guy who moved to Australia when he was 12 only to return, marry, settle and open his business here in Buenos Aires. It is from his Parrilla that I walked yesterday to find the city in universal celebration. The only event I can relate it to is a State of Origin game but this pales into insignificance compared to yesterday. It must be remembered that the game did not determine whether or not Argentina progressed to the round of 16, this was already assured.

Fireworks were released, people were hugging in the street, horns blowing and there was not a face that didn’t display a wide grin.

I was still awake at 2am when the garbage truck came past the hostel. It stops to collect rubbish from the café El Federal next door. This evening the collectors placed a large plastic bottle away from the truck and took turns kicking it into the back. When a kick was successful they wheeled around in celebration calling, ’Palermo goaaaaaaaaaal’, imitating the announcement of Argentina’s final goal, and its scorer, Martin Palermo. I should mention these were the actions of grown men. I can not imagine what the scene will be like if Argentina win the World Cup.

There was a ruckus last night. We have had a French couple in our room. They tried to sneak a friend of theirs into the Hostel. Not a grievous transgression in itself save for the fact that the guy in question had taken 12 'tallies' late one night from Carlos Gardel to his Hostel on the proviso that he would replace them the next day.

He wasn’t seen for days then turned up at the Hostel, promised again to replace the beer and booked in for the night. The couple from our room and the beer thief started drinking in the evening. By 3am, after many beers, he had the bright idea that as most of the night had passed he wasn’t going to stay ‘officially’ but sneak into our room.

Roy, the night receptionist, discovered the ruse and followed them up the stairs, after heated words were exchanged in our doorway, the guy from our room started pushing Roy. I was a bystander, or should I say bylayer, until this point. I didn’t understand the Spanish but when push came, I shoved. I lept out of bed and spun the guy from our room around. The shock of someone else entering the fray was enough of a circuit breaker. With motions I acted out the idea that pushing was not required. The beer thief beat a hasty retreat followed by Roy. I was left with the guy from our room, who reeked of beer, trying to protest his innocence. I made it known that whatever the circumstances, two on one wasn’t following the Queensberry Rules.

It is futile to have a discussion with a drunk so I managed to convey that I would like to go back to sleep.

The female of the couple was jovial enough during their stay, enough to at least say hola. He was ignorant, until the afternoon before this incident, when he managed to convey that they needed an alarm for the morning which I provided and set.

After the disturbance and before returning to bed I briefly thought of turning the alarm off but it would be petty on my part. To add a further insult when the alarm sounded at 7.00am they were too trashed to get up and turn it off. I had to stop the alarm then shake the guy.

I have certainly mellowed with the passing of time.

A Face Only a Mother Could Love

A Dog Walker at Plaza de los Dos Congresos, Buenos Aires.

I’ve heard it said that dogs resemble their owners. Whether this is ‘a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance’ I am not sure. When people choose a pet do they choose one that reflects their qualities or the qualities they would like to possess?

Whatever the case may be in general, it is true, that for the case of a regular visitor to the Café Origen, she has chosen her pet to reflect her own qualities.

The British Bulldog is not well known for being nimble or svelte but it is famous for having a face only a mother could love. So it also holds true that it has been a long time since the lady holding the dog’s lead could claim to have broken into a sprint and her visage, it is being kind to say, is homely.

Taking into account the poisonous relationship between Argentina and England I would have suspected that the breed would be unwelcome here in Buenos Aires. Obviously the ire does not extent to canines.

Dog ownership is high. Considering the density produced by apartment living, it is a quirk I cannot fathom. Dog walkers, employed by those who have neither the time or the desire to walk their pets, are a common sight. Released from the confines of their homes the dogs make merry. The result is footpaths littered with shit.

The desire for Portenos (residents of Buenos Aires) to foul their own nest does not stop here. Everything is discarded in the street. Rubbish is placed on the footpaths in garbage bags in the evening. One of the ways to scrape together a living is to collect plastic and paper to be sold for recycling. So as the bags are placed on the footpath, collectors tear them open to search for recyclables. The remainder is left to the winds.

Trucks come early in the morning and as the bags have been torn, a lot of the rubbish misses the trucks as the bags are tossed in. To complete the job, street sweepers follow the trucks on foot to collect the remainder.

As the city wakes, business owners and residents alike can be found hosing their footpaths and sweeping them clean only for the whole process to begin again.

It is a paradox that personal pride in appearance does not extend to their streets. Buenos Aires is a fascinating city, not despite this behavior, but because of it.

Crash and Burn

RE: Hola

Thursday, 3 June, 2010 10:38 PM

From:

"Ingrid T"

Add sender to Contacts

To:

michael.white01@yahoo.com

hi there :)
just finished reading ur blog (read it 2 times!) and i must say that u should be a writer in my eyes!
what a great way to express urself and play with the words :)
i must say u made me laugh (it was really humorous :)

well ... about the ¨THING¨ sry but i´m definitly not ready for anything with anyone at the moment ...
but yes of course we can meet before i go :) only we have to think when and where ... becuase tomorrow i´m already meeting a friend at day time and then prob. going to another couch surfing event in the evening
Sat. I was thinking that I should maybe go to the art museum (bellas artes) and Recoleta cemetary ... but maybe i can already go tomorrow ... hmm
at that case it would be Palermo SOHO on sat. i guess and on Sun. i´m coming to the fleamarkets in san telmo again :) only with another Estonian girl :) anyway .. if u want to join me (or me with any of my friends) on soame day just let me know nd we´ll try to organize it
now it sucks that we don´t have phones becuase i don´t have internet in Alfonsos/Agneses :(
but i´ll try to go to some cfe in the morning :)
see u!
Ingrid

Love's Labour's Lost

Cominito, La Boca, Buenos Aires.

An insight to the strange workings of my mind…and an example of why I’m still single.

My siesta was broken by the sight of a lady placing her back pack next to the spare bed in our room. Seeing I was now awake, she came and introduced herself as Ingrid, in an accent I couldn’t place. I said, ‘Swedish?’. ‘No,’ she replied, ’I’m from Estonia.’

A moments hesitation on my part before saying, ’Is it near the Ukraine, former USSR.’ The first part she was happy to clarify, ’No it is north of Ukraine. Almost Finland.’ Addressing the second part of my statement her tone changed, ’and yes it was a reluctant part of the Soviet Union.’

She then searched through her bag and produced a small book, ’If you would like to know more,’ she said handing me the book. It was a publication on Estonia. I could tell she had been through this routine many times. ‘I am the unofficial Ambassador of Estonia.‘ I took the hint and as she unpacked I turned the conversation to other matters.  I told her that the craft markets, only a short walk from the Hostel were still on but she would have to leave soon to see them and so she did.

I was determined to make up for my ignorance, so while she was at the markets I read the book from cover to cover and memorised even the obscure details in the Facts of Estonia section. Once completed, I showered and left for the café.

When I returned to the Hostel Ingrid was in the room and I declared I was now an expert on Estonia so she could ask me anything she wished. Having nailed the common questions I stopped her and said, ’Please, you’re insulting my intelligence, ask me something difficult.’ When I correctly answered how many rivers greater than 10 km the country had and the percentage breakdown of Russian, Polish and Finnish citizens correct to the second decimal place, grinning, she closed the book.

I wasn’t trying to be a smart arse but it was my way of trying to correct the fault that I could not even place her country on the map and being so casual with the remark about Estonia being a part of the USSR.

It turns out that Estonia has more in common with Finland, their languages share the same roots.

To give you a better picture, take someone who sounds like Bjork and give her the body of Anna Kournikova, and you have Ingrid. She ran a half marathon in Santiago a month before arriving in Buenos Aires.

Fast forward past Boudjeka’s going away dinner that evening, the next day spent wandering around La Boca with Ingrid then dinner that evening at El Desnivel and you find a group of five people having a drink at The Red Door in San Telmo. Ingrid and I, Alfonso and Agnes (Venezuelan and Latvian, a couple Ingrid knew from her travels) and another Alfonso (Brazilian, a friend from the Hostel). Things were going swimmingly.

As two Argentine girls sat down at the table next to us one spilt her drink. I asked Alfonso to ask her what she was drinking. She told him in Spanish, he told me in English and I went to the bar, bought the Argentine girl the drink and returned to the table and gave it to her. I couldn’t speak to the Argentine girl, so Alfonso picked up the ball and ran with it.

I don’t know if Ingrid had any amorous intentions towards me but I sensed things cool after this. The night continued and for a period Agnes and Ingrid spoke of conditions under Communist rule. It would not have been easy to bring up this difficult past and I felt privileged to hear the reality of the Communist Ideal.

We called it a night and I walked with Ingrid, followed by Alfonso and the Argentine girl, Donnella, back to the Hostel.

I don’t know if things would had been different if the Argentine girls hadn’t appeared. But I hope, if Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost is anything to go by, that I don’t have to wait a year and a day to re-establish a connection.

I’ll keep you informed.