16 pesos roughly translates to 25 cents. That’s how much it cost me to get to Tigre. El Tigre is a small town on the Paraná Delta, 45 minutes north of Buenos Aires. Paying for the ride with the scraps in my pocket was a fresh break. In the Netherlands I had to scoff up about 20-25 euro’s for an equivalently distanced ride.
I don’t know if the moving carriage can be considered a train though. I was hustled and heckled by about twenty five different vendors–cookies from the grocery store, Jesus stats baseball cards, homemade electronics, bubble gum, or off-tune guitar chords were just some of the products that were being sold. The salesmen were relentless, but they never came back more than once. Different shops just kept on coming through. Once they had made an offer to everybody on the carriage, they got off and waited for the next train.
I opted to take the city commuter line, rather than the tourist-oriented coastal line. The coastal line might have provided nice views but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see some more of Buenos Aires…or the convincing price.
As you pull out of Retiro, Buenos Aires’ central station, you get a good glimpse of one of the city’s Villas. (Vishha in Argentine/Porteño Spanish–the double L is pronounced as an ‘sh’ sound–Pollo, chicken, becomes Poysho). A Villa is sort of the Buenos Aires analog for one of Rio de Janeiro’s Favelas. Bolivians and Uruguayans began to squat alongside and eventually take over the rail tracks. They plugged themselves into the electrical lines and cables, built houses, and set up their own community. Alongside the tracks there is a shanty town, a mixing pot half complete houses, tin roofs, laundry lines popping through caving roofs, or cardboard signs for schools.
The poverty was immensely visible. But it was exacerbated by the Buenos Aires Lawn and Tennis Club that was over a fence and through a thick brush beside it. The red clay and grass courts define the club that hosts Buenos Aires’ professional tennis tournament were first set up for the city’s elite. Yesterday though, the place was eerily empty as the train rolled on by. Directly next to first world amenities is a third world shanty town.
Tigre had a similar aesthetic to the Withlacoochie River and Okefanokee Swamp that I canoed last spring break in Georgia and Florida back in the states. The banks of the rivers were lush and green, but then the water was thick dark and ominous. As far as I could tell though, there were no alligators like in the Withlacoochie. However, chemicals, trash and pollution were stirring beneath it’s depths. The river that passes through Buenos Aires is one of the top ten most polluted rivers in the world.
Tigre is the home of all of Buenos Aires’ antiquated rowing societies. There are about 18 that each have their homes along the main drag of the delta. Most of the city was shutdown on Monday when I was there, their real rest day after the hustle and bustle of the Sunday market places. Todo estaba cerrado.
El Tigre is situated on an island thats created by several small streams and rivers. The whole area is lowlying and especially vulnerable to floods. Last year Tigre was hit by ‘sudestada’ the Spanish word for floods from coastal storms. Everywhere I walked yesterday was under a meter of water last September.
Ayer, yo fui a un evento se llama la fuerza bruta. Fue muy ruidoso. Pero en general, fue un evento spectacular, un poco como de ‘el grupo de hombre azul.’ Hubo mujeres que estuvieron bailar encima de mi y los actores tocaron música con tambores y cosas electrónicas. En Buenos Aires tambien, Emily, una chica que está un estudiante de Bowdoin y va a graduarse este año. Yo y Emily fuimos a la Fuerza Bruta.
Después del concierto, sentamos a una mesa cerca del Cemetario de Recolata y tomamos una bebida. Hablamos sobre amigos en los estados unidos y comimos nachos! Que bueno!
Mama…cierra su orejas y ojos…!!!
Este mañana, yo anduve una motocicleta por la ciudad detrás de Paddy que manejó esa. Fuimos al banco para cambiar mi dinero. Los calles de Buenos Aires son locos, y yo tenía miedo cuando manejamos por el avenida de Santa Fe.
Pero, todavía tengo mi cabeza. Que suerte!
Antes de mi clases de español, yo busqué por un restaurante que se llama un buen libro. El restaurante tiene un sandwich muy famoso porque el sandwich es largo y grande y parato. Pero no pude econtrarlo. Que lastima!
Después de clase, yo estaba caminado por el avenida de 9 de julio y yo compré dos libros. Una la página está en Ingles, y el otra pgina al lado está en castellaño. Es muy bueno para aprender. Con una chica de Geneve, en pais Swiss, que yo encontré en la tienda de los libros, yo volví a mi Barrio. Yo voy a descansar un poco sobre un sillón y después, voy a pensar como que yo quiero cenar.
Tambien, mi amiga de mi apartamento limpió todo de mi dormitorio y tambien sacó mis ropas en la lavaropa. Yo traje ella flores. Que linda!
Yo soy muy divertido para escribir todo de esto en español. Woof woof.
In the past 23 years and 19 days of my life, I’ve gotten used to turning people’s heads as they pass by me on the street.
My striking good looks are currently highlighted by a dirty mustache and hair that’s getting longer and shaggier by the day. My attire consistently includes four t-shirts that reek of mildew. I fear that people are no longer tracking my swagger down the street with their jaws-dropped and drooling. Rather, the recent behavior looks like frantically digging through handbags for gas-masks and scanning the streets (and sidewalks) for the closest motorcycle to hop on and zip as far away as possible.
I’m a dirty traveler with a mustache. I’m loving it.
Doing laundry has been a particular challenge for me here in Buenos Aires. Drying your laundry is dependent on sunny weather so that it drys quickly after you hang it outside of your bedroom window. Its been unusually damp and rainy for most of the ten days I’ve been here. I’ve neglected to consult the weather report during my laundry routine. But I’m learning.
Today I swing by Proyecto ‘Ace, the artist residency I’m going to work at in January. It’s a beautiful space, really well put together with an impressive print-making studio, a gallery space, and a small tower studio. There are currently a few South and Central American artists that cycle through there. I’m going to be joined from a young female artist from Turkey who just graduated from Parsons in New York. The roof has an tiled terrace which will be great to catch some sun during the hot summer months. They’ve invited me to come by there and work for three weeks in January. I’m excited to take the influences from my five months of this experience and just have a concentrated period where I’ll be able to make some paintings. It will be exciting to see what it’s like to treat painting as a real job–the studio opens at 9 and closes at 6. After, it’s my impression that all the younger artists get together for food and drinks. Should be fun
The energizer bunny is part Argentinian. These people don’t stop all night long, especially when Clarity is playing. EatSleepRaveRepeat. This Saturday I went to an all night electronic music festival set in the ecological reserve of Buenos Aires. The ecological reserve is an amazing space set aside for wildlife right next to the city. It’s great to go for runs and just escape. Buenos Aires is pretty wild, you can just cross over an avenue and you get to a part of the city that looks distinctly different from every other neighborhood, or barrio.
On Friday, I met Chris, a rugby friend of the Bowdoin Rugby Godfather, Andy Palmer. Andy and Chris went on tour in New Zealand together after they graduated from Bowdoin and Dartmouth, respectively, in the early 90s. Chris picked me up from a Subte (subway stop) a little north of the city and we drove through the city to a bar in the barrio called Palermo. Chris drives the way I imagine he played rugby. He said himself, “if I saw myself driving around Buenos Aires, I would probably be out on the street brawling with him. I drive like a total asshole.” We were weaving in and out of traffic, but getting to where we needed to go with intent and purpose.
Chris owns a couple of businesses down here in Buenos Aires. One of them is a vending company, so we went to a bar that uses his machines. Chris told me a bit about Buenos Aires, highlighting the financial mistakes that the Argentine government is making right now. The government is printing off a lot of money, so the inflation rate is extremely high and Argentines have no incentive to save their earnings. One way to bypass saving is to buy luxury cars and save income in material assets rather than in accounts in the bank. Down here, cars retain about 95% of their value over three or four years. But now, there are hundreds of thousands of more cars on the streets, but no new roads. Congestion is becoming a bigger and bigger problem. This method of savings does not align with environmentalism either.
The government’s monetary controls also messes with US dollar-peso conversion rates. The government exchanges dollars for 5 pesos, but the actual Argentine value of the dollar is about 10 pesos, so if you bring dollars directly into the country, you’re twice as rich. I wish I knew this when I came in.
Chris also mentioned the corruption in Argentina. He told me about one of his factories in the outskirts of the city where the municipal laws conflict with the regional laws with conflict with the national laws. The laws contradict each other and sometimes a certain party needs to be paid off. He told me that school children in Argentina were interviewed about how they felt about stealing or lying to make more money. 65% of them saw no problem with it.
One of his other quotes was “Argentina is the best country in the world with the worst 40 million inhabitants.” It has amazing natural features and boundless resources, but it has a disorganized and corrupt government.
I saw a prime example of how ‘wild, wild west’ it is down here. We parked outside the bar in Palermo and as we exited his VW pick-up, he was approached by a raggedy, seemingly homeless guy telling him to pay 100 pesos for the parking. There was no meter, no parking sticker…nothing. I was confused so I asked what was going on. He told met that the guys there will scratch up your car and steal you hubcaps and maybe even smash some windows if you don’t pay them. They pay a part of their earnings off to the local police so the police turn a blind eye to it.
Buenos Aires, not like home.
Nevertheless, Chris summarized by saying the benefits of living in Buenos Aires outweigh all the nuisances. At the moment, I totally agree. It’s great living in a place so out of my element. People are especially friendly, at the moment, I’m amigos with the fruit, vegetable, and egg vendor down the street, the manager of the cross fit gym, and a guy who sells me empanadas every afternoon close to where I’m taking spanish classes.
It’s wonderful feeling completely at home in a foreign place. I’ve been away from home for quite a long time at this point. My argentine roommate, Maria struggles to believe that I essentially left home at 14 for boarding school. Here in Argentina, it’s common for children to stay at home until 28 or older. Maria just left home three years ago and moved into this apartment around the corner from her parents.
For almost a decade now, I’ve been, and felt, pretty nomadic. My Watson year is adding some sugar to the benefits of quickly adapting and place-making. So, it’s nice building myself a nest in a semi-permanent location.
I’ve gotten into a routine. Working out at a cross fit gym, taking spanish classes, exploring different barrios–conciously not taking any pictures so that I’m not a target to be mugged. Just about every night, I go to this place Freddo for ice cream just about every night. Today, for example, I got 4.4 pounds of ice cream for 13 dollars. #worthit
I’ll start taking the camera out sometime soon and share some shots with you. I hope this pleases those of you who have accused me of being lazy and not keeping up with the blog. Admittedly, yes I’ve been lazy. But life is good. Hope all is well up there.
It is so much more fun learning Spanish in Buenos Aires than it was when I took mandatory classes in high school. I apologize if you’re reading this, Ms. Ramos. It’s nothing against you.
You’re required to use your spanish all the time. Everywhere there are opportunities to practice. I think I’ve been doing really well. Between understanding social cues, and using other words I know to vaguely describe what I’m getting at, I’ve been able to roll with the punches. The winning ticket so far was when I described a cow as ‘carne con vida.’ (meat with life). I have no problems in stores or restaurants. After three days, I can definitely sustain a conversation for a couple of minutes, which is an improvement from the plane ride over here, where I struggled to get string of words out. I was able to do this: (No google translate–I promise). Woo-ing las Muchachas 3 days in. An incentive to improve.
On Halloween, I went to Recoleta Cemetary. Just a coincidence that I went to a cemetery on Halloween. I did not intentionally plan that. This cemetery is unlike any other I’ve ever been do. It’s like walking through a small village. Rather than tomb stones, there are vaults and mausoleums where family coffins are just stacked one on top of the other. Some are modern or ornately decorated. In others, the rocks are cracking, crumbling and deteriorating from decades of neglect.
It was the burial ground of Buenos Aires’ elite. The cemetery contains the graves of multiple presidents of Argentina, Nobel Prize winners, the founder of the Argentine Navy, and a granddaughter of Napoleon. Just to name a few people.
I’m really digging the vibe of Buenos Aires. It’s rained 3 of the four days I’ve been here but that’s okay. Today the shine shined bright and warm. I went to explore a more beat-up, but colorful neighborhood of Buenos Aires called La Boca. La Boca is home to the Juniors, one of the biggest football teams down here backed by the blue collar population of Buenos Aires. Boca Juniors are to Buenos Aires as the White Sox to Chicago. The north side, white collar barrios of BAs stereotypically support River (The Cubbies would be the analog). Apparently the neighborhood is absolutely nuts when the team is playing. This Sunday they were away.
La Boca had a surprising amount of stray dogs wandering around the streets. I really wanted to pick one up. Unfortunately I can’t supply pictures because I haven’t taken any yet. I want to get a feel for the place before I go strolling about with a camera, or any other stuff that’s a call to get myself mugged.
I walked all the way from La Boca back to my house, about 4 or 5km. I walked through a market so I was able to catch a lot of tango, drums, music, and practice quite a lot of small talk with a few Porteños. At one point I sat down for a choripan–a delicious meat (you pick the type you fancy) sandwich with chimichurri–a herbally, oily dressing–and an assortment of toppings, and got real buddy buddy with the restaurant owner. In general the food down here is top quality. The meat is phenomenal. You can get some really delicious meals for a decent price as well.
I’ve got to give a shout-out to Bowdoin Rugby. Today they played New England College in the finals of the New England Rugby Championship. They fell 55-5 to NEC, a team that gets almost $100,000 a year to put towards rugby scholarships and should really be playing up a division. Still, second in the region. Not too shabby.
I’m super proud of the seniors who led the team to such a successful season. After last year’s heartbreak, having the season cut short, it’s great that they boys got to show the league whats up. For the past three years, Bowdoin Rugby has not lost in regular season play. With the second place finish, Bowdoin qualified to play in Northeastern’s. They face up against Union College next weekend.
I’ve got a story to tell. Travel here was notable.
On the train ride from Roma Tiburtina to Fuimicini Airport, someone was having serious gastro-intestinal issues. This was not any normal fart, in fact it was one of the most awful smells that has ever been registered in my brain. That’s saying something after spending the past four years with a bunch of dingos on my college rugby team, where a lot of off-putting smells were produced from a whole lot of off-putting activities. This smell was so potently rank that it sent the whole 60 seat train carriage spasming in their seats. I’d imagine that this would work better than tear gas. My fellow sufferers were grasping at their arm rests with looks of desperation. At one point I played would you rather…have a broken arm from jumping out of the train buckling through Rome at least at a 90kmh tick or deal with this stench produced just about on cue every 4 and a half minutes for another half hour. It was like opening the drawer of the fridge where you keep wet spinach that’s been soaking there for over a year. Or quiche. Disgusting, messed up quiche.
I’ve never seen a more chaotic plane boarding process than watching the Italians and Argentinians mob their way onto the Boeing 777. Woah nelly. The plane is right outside and the pilot is hanging out in the corner back there. Lets all cool down a second. People were so frantic to get on board that they were trying to sneak in through the first class ‘sky lounge priority boarding’ entrance. The whole scenario reminded me of the part in Titanic when everyone was fighting for survival and trying to get one of the last spots on a safety boat. I just sat back and watched this hollywood quality entertainment unveil before me.
I’d relate to the commotion if everyone was rushing to get to their first class seat where they were served champagne and strawberries from the vine. But, the 99% of us were not heading into la la land. People are pushing and shoving to sit in a sardine can for 14 hours? Shit. Their vacation must have really been a downer. Maybe these plane-boarders were just trying to get as far as possible from the man with the seriously diseased GI tract. I understand now.
I was sitting directly over the wing of the Alitalia 777 on the window next to a Argentinian couple. I tested my spanish to set a benchmark. I determined it couldn’t get any worse. Which is good. There’s room to improve. My spanglish though, I was very proud of my spanglish. I understood about half of the words that they were saying to me, and I was able to convey about a quarter of my thoughts to them, so all in all we had about an eighth of a conversation. And that’s pushing it.
The flight was bumpy. The whole way. I was like baby trying to sleep in a cradle that was being rocked by a gorilla. I got some good sleep, although patchy, and the 14 hour flight went by quicker than I had imagined.
At one point, I just stared out at the stars from the cloud-top perch of the airplane. Up above the clouds, the universe was bright and crystal clear. The galaxies were illuminated. Below me was an abyss. A vacuum of darkness. The Sahara desert. I was in the midst of peace and quiet of the sleepy plane cabin yet I felt so rampantly and completely alive. It was one of those moments. Then the gorilla came back and rocked me back to sleep.
The sun caught up with us once again and rose over the horizon after an extended period of night. I looked down below the massive wing into South America. Mountains, lakes, large features, and unpopulated terrain. I got a glimpse of Montevideo and the plane braked and descended quickly into EZE airport. I got a flyby past Buenos Aires and landed safe and sound. The cabin erupted in applause when we landed. Is that an Italian thing to do? Or just an elderly person thing to do? Or was it because it was such a long flight. But a computer mostly did it anyways, right? Anyways, I was surprised by the applause. I didn’t clap. But thanks Mr. Pilot for taking me across the pond safely.
I got in line in passport control. Waited in line for ten minutes, sort of sleep walking. I got to the booth. Hola, como estas? I said with a big grin, proud of myself for sparking off a conversation…correctly. Nailed it. We went through the regular passport control conversation. Then he said, Have you paid your reciprocity tax? All of a sudden I got this flashback to reading about Visa requirements for Argentina. You don’t need to register for a Visa, you just need to pay your way into the country. $150 bucks. Oh man. No, silly little David forgot. Follow me, he said as he got out of his official booth and escorted me through a long corridor and into a holding cell.
The holding cell was a blank room with three chairs, one already occupied. The room was just big enough to fit a mini-cooper snugly, the plaster on the walls was chipping and revealing concrete behind. There were 9,312 grayish tiles in the room. Yes, that’s how long I waited.
When I first came into the room, I wasn’t really sure what I was doing there. My passport is a little sketchy. My picture is from when I was 15 and I have an Indian, a Chinese, and a Kenyan visa in my passport (even though I have never been to Kenya nor do I have any plans to head in that direction) so I’m sure I seem slightly odd to immigration officers. Was I going back here to get interrogated? Bring it on. But when I got into the room, there was already a guy there. He was a Brit, built like a rugby player–a tight-head prop (lineman for the football analogy)–who looked as mean as a gator. He looked like a trouble-maker so maybe in fact I was being detained for something.
But it all came clear when I sat down next to him and he said to me in a cheery british accent, mate, I’m guessing you forgot to pay the visa too ha ha he. He was all clad up in a nice suit, and he started laughing about how he got to miss out on the boring business meeting he was supposed to be present for in the city center. He got sorted out in the first five minutes I was there, but he told me that it takes a while.
I had to wait a long time to wait and get it all figured out. The whole time I was really worried that someone was going to pick up my bag and run off with it. The saving grace was that nothing in my checked bag was more valuable than the bag itself. In Italy, I put it down on the street outside of a car mechanic’s garage so half of the bag is stained a different color and reeks of gasoline. That was likely a deterrent. Good move Davie!
Into the holding pen strolls another character, Rory. Rory is a tan and long haired surfer bro who just landed from Hawaii. He pulled the smart move. Rory admitted right away to the border guards that he hadn’t paid the Visa, so he was ushered past the 10 minute line (great move) and right into the holding pen. He had a Dakine backpack with a miniature skateboard attached to it. For his whole trip he’d packed up in two small backpacks. A leather jacket hung around the straps of one of them. This guy was very clearly a boy in a man’s body. Awesome. We got to talking. He was especially free-spirited and care-free. His aura led me to believe that he was used to a certain type of lifestyle. Even the biggest ski-bums and surfers I’ve met aren’t this chilled out. Maybe he’s a celebrity, I thought. It turned out that I was, in fact, sitting next to Rory Bushfield!
Rory Bushfield is a Canadian professional skier, filmmaker, and reality star. Bushfield is a former member of Canada’s World Cup team, skiing moguls. He has also competed in slopestyle skiing before focusing on backcountry skiing and filmmaking. (wikipedia).
The detainment cell was sort of like hanging outside the principals office, waiting to get told off for pouring chocolate pudding on the blonde girl we had a crush on, hoping that this would make her fall madly in love with me.
I later found out that Rory Bushfield was the husband of Sarah Burke, the skier who tragically died last year after a half-pipe accident. He is traveling around the world, living his life to the fullest, the way he knows Burke would have wanted him to live and the way he would have wanted her to go on if he had a tragic accident himself. I have a profound respect for Rory. It was really pretty cool to get to spend time with him.
In the rush after they finally released me, I was so flabbergasted that I forgot to realize that the Argentinian border control never gave me my credit card back. It’s stuck at the Alitalia office in Ezeiza Airport.
One of the border guards, who seemed earlier like he was getting off on giving me a hard time, turned out to be my number one fan after he released me from the cell. He had read the letter from the Watson HQ explaining who I am and why I was doing so much concentrated traveling. The guard started asking me questions about how my trip was going and what I was excited about later. He helped me find my bag, which at this point was in the unclaimed baggage department, he walked with me through customs, and even waited for me when I went to the bathroom. The whole time we just chatted. It was pretty strange. He was just about my age so I didn’t think he was asking the questions in a suspicious, border guard kind of way. But I was considering whether this was some sort of cross-examination. After I got through customs he said, okay, I have to go back to work now. Nice talking to you. Buenos dias. That sealed it. I think this guy was genuinely interested.
A slew of conversations ensued after and set a great, positive first impression of Argentinians as friendly and talkative. This was extremely refreshing after the ‘mind your own business’ attitude of southern Europe. After I left the terminal to find the shuttle, there were two middle aged women who were asking me questions in Spanish. They didn’t speak any English and knew I didn’t speak much Spanish, but they were determined to have a conversation with me. With sign language, and a little bit of acting, we got somewhere. It made waiting in line for the shuttle quite pleasant. One of them told me that I looked like Prince William. Thanks. I get hit on my older women much more than girls my age. Why?!?
Yesterday, my first day, was great. I found a spanish school, took the placement test, and passed into a intermediary-beginner course. I get to start tomorrow, jumping mid-week into a course rather than needing to wait until Monday. In the afternoon, I went to a free trial of a cross-fit class. It was entirely in Spanish. I misunderstood the work-out. I thought we had to do 5 rounds of 15 push-ups, 10 pull-ups, 5 box jumps within 17 minutes, but it was really just as many rounds as possible in the 17 minutes. Oops. I went really hard at the beginning and was gassed by about the 12th minute and got pulled out. Embarrassing. First time doing cross-fit is rumored to be tough. Tougher doing in a foreign language.
My roommates are awesome. Two are from Buenos Aires, Paddy and Maria. Maria is going to be a great spanish coach. We sat down for a bit in the living room and she refused to speak or let me speak English, which really is great. Paddy and Maria are both in their early 30s but they are welcoming hosts. The living situation here is great so far.
Maria
Paddy
Like many people in my generation, I’ve been playing a lot more Lou Reed and really digging in after his death. What is that about being an artist? Your recognition takes off once you hit the grave.
Here are my thoughts so far.
The most amazing this about this fellowship is that it throws you into situations you are entirely unprepared for and the challenge is to make some sort of structure for yourself out of the madness. It happens so many times in a concentrated period and allows for education, growth, self-reflection, and just awareness.
You’re thrown out onto slippery, uneven ground and look for your footing. I walked out onto the streets of Buenos Aires yesterday. The language barrier is intimidating. Toilets are whirlpooling the other way The whole place had this crazy flare. Very much a different world. I look forward to seeing how I grasp ahold of life here.
It’s an odd feeling leaving for a big trip when you’re already on a big trip. There’s no chance to walk through the house ‘one last time’ to savor all the sights and smells, no big hug with the canine, no run upstairs to make sure you packed your underwear, etc. I just crushed some tomatoes from Adolfo and Catarina’s big bowl of cherry tomatoes and made sure I had my passport.
A lot of the excitement and anticipation I was feeling back home before leaving for the Netherlands is back, baby! I got pretty drained the past few weeks hopping south through Europe but I feel invigorated and ready to go.
I went into Rome today, walked around for a bit. There were hoards of people around the Vatican because the Pope was talking in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. I got intimidated by the crowds and retreated back to go to sleep. 3 weeks on the move and I’m beat! I could have spent a lot of time and energy digging into Rome this weekend but I think I have to weigh the costs and take advantage of an apartment to just chill out before putting this first quarter of my fellowship to bed. Still the city is built around Roman Ruins. Sooooo coool. I got some of the sights just by sitting in the bus and looking out the window.
I think I found a place to stay in Buenos Aires for November! Which is great. Also, the Bowdoin Rugby godfather, Andy Palmer connected me to the Dartmouth Rugby godfather who is posted up down in Buenos Aires. I think he’ll set me up with a club to train with. I’m getting excited to jet down to South America and get my cowboy on.
I’ve been rocking out with the agua colors recently. Really fun. I have an awesome little pocket set. They are much more fun than I had imagined. These really look better in real life. Its a bummer sending you a snapshot but just get excited to see fo real.
This is my friend Sarah Diamond. She is crushing a pastry like the champion that she is. The pastry kind of looks like a cigar, or poop. Sarah can decide and email me the title when she decides what she wants to be mouthing.
These are boat builders in Copenhagen. Completely unintentionally, the painting kind of turned out like the DVD cover of one of my all-time favorites. I knew I recognized the painting I just made from somewhere. Weird.
Torcello, Venice Lagoon. Charles Bridge, Praha
There’s some other stuff I’ll clean up/finish up and send your way.
There is a myth about Bruces and spiders. No male Bruce is ever allowed to kill a spider.
To keep the story short, one special spider pumped Robert the Bruce (King of Scotland) up so much that he fought all the British out of the highlands and won Scottish Independence. As I’ve been told, it’s terrible luck to kill a spider. I’ve never intentionally killed one. Although I heard a rumor that you eat at least a spider a year in your sleep.
There are no rules working the other way though. The spiders of Venice ate me alive. And I probably ate a half dozen of them considering I definitely had some crawling on and biting my face.
Buckle up. It’s going to be a long one. It has been a while and I have a lot to catch you lot up on. Even my older brother Benjamin, who is as easily entertained as a 6 month old kitten, has been asking me why I’ve been so lazy. More recently the question turned to, ‘are you even alive?’ The answer is almost. I’m a tattered carcass eaten up by the creepy crawlies in Venice.
Here I am. In Rome. I clawed my way out of the Venetian lagoon alive with four spider bites on my face, (one right under my eye which looks awesome). My hands, arms, and shoulders are lumpy, an incredible gnawed up topography that’s making the alps look down jealously.
Yesterday was my birthday. Happy birthday to me. I did something I hadn’t done before so I ate squid. I didn’t like it that much. It wasn’t fried-up and delicious like calamari. It was a whole squid. I would have had more fun eating a series of erasers. Add some butter and lemon and it would have tasted the same. But whatever. I ate squid.
Venice should not exist. It’s beautiful, but at the same time it’s hideous. It is a theme park for tourists with too much money and too little creativity to think of a more original place to spend their vacations. Venetians, besides the trattoria owner where I ordered squid, are rude and mean to tourists even though the whole city is propped up by tourism.
And that’s about all the city is propped up on. The city’s foundations are built into mud and most of the buildings lean one way or the other. Some lean a lot, like the a church tower near the Piazza San Marco.
I don’t like tourists. Even though I am one. But I’m different. #2chainz
Either way. Venice is beautiful. I won’t argue there. The uploader is being fussy. I’ll update this post later with more pictures.
It’s a great city to look at thinking about how cities can function on the water. There are no roads in Venice. Every daily necessity, post and packages, construction materials, beer, wine, vegetables all need to come in on boat through the canals. The only roads are waterways and it was really interesting to see how the city got by with services brought in via agua. It’s funny to think that Venice isn’t doing something special, rather it’s just sticking to a historical method. For centuries, waterways were the lifeblood of cities. The horse-less carriage took over and developed into lorries and 18wheelers, but in Venice, the traditional way remained. There is just no other possible way to do it.
There is water everywhere. creeping up against the stone banks of the canals. Storefronts have special fittings to slide boards in and keep water out if the tide breaches the streets and there are temporary elevated walkways that can be installed when the streets get flooded. Otherwise, you just get wet. Here are some great pictures showing Venetians making the most of the tides and rising seas: here.
Besides small scale adaptation, Venice is completing the MOSE project, a large scale flood barrier designed to isolate the Venetian and the surrounding islands in the lagoon from the Adriatic Sea and keep the water level surrounding Venice lower than elsewhere.
Bonkers. It’s all underwater so there wasn’t anything for me to go see. This youtube provides a sound explanation, though.
Where there is a will, there is a way. Venetians have a will to keep that place around. As Lonely Planet puts it, “You may have heard that Venice is an engineering marvel, with marble cathedrals built atop ancient posts driven deep into the barene–but the truth is that this city is built on sheer nerve. Reasonable people might blanch at water approaching their doorsteps and flee at the first sign of acqua alta (high tide). But reason can’t compare to Venetian resolve.”
Before Venice I was in Berlin, probably my favorite city I’ve seen so far. Here’s what I wrote on the plane about the trip:
I’m typing this out 25,000 ft above Germany. The cabin is turbulent, rumbling around in the evening wind and rain. Sitting in the very back row in the window aisle, I’m looking anxiously around at the joints of the EasyJet doors and hoping that the budget airlines use non-budget materials.
Below me is Berlin, an absolute ogre of a city. I mean ogre in the sense of donkey-loving green-knight rather than rip your eyes out and pop them in a martini ogre. It is a city of layers.
Berlin is a city that is condensed with history. The history has left it’s mark on the architecture and has visibly scarred the built environment. From bullet holes to cold, boring soviet architecture to Prussian Palaces, you can see signs of Berlin’s history everywhere.
You see the city’s attempt to move on from its more recent horrific historical episodes in many ways—through amazing memorials and museums—but mostly through the vibrant culture that has emerged out of the dust and rubble. The city is not rich—it’s struggling to find the funds to rebuild the central palace and the project has been delayed for almost a decade. But the city is culturally rich. It is stocked with young people, artists, photographers, filmmakers, musicians, or graffiti artists. Here are some examples from the Mauer Park Flea market. It’s such a vibrant place. Scenes like this were easy to stumble across.
I was lucky to get to know a Berliner, Mustafah who moved from Brooklyn to mesh into this artistic haven. Mustafah uses the city as an access point to reach all corners of the earth and shoot photographs for his project highlighting the misuse of water—the world’s most precious resource.
Mustafah Abdulaziz has spent the past couple years creating a portfolio of photographs that show human interactions with water all over the world. Ranging from shooting cholera outbreaks in Sierra Leon to documenting religious customs on the Ganges, Mustafah is attempting to create a comprehensive overview of water related issues all over the world.
Sounds similar.
I first heard about Mustafah after seeing some of his pictures in an article in the New York Times when I was doing some research on Varanasi, India.
I really liked the work, incredible stuff, so I went to his website and learned more. See his work here. I got in touch, just tossing out an email and hoped for a response. He got back to me quickly, saying he was off shooting in Pakistan and would write me in full when he got back to some spectrum of normalcy.
We met in a café in Berlin and shared our stories. He’s only a few years older than me, maybe 26 at this point. I am a guy who is just jumping into the real world, and diving into my first project solo without guidance of professors, teachers, or formal structure of school. I was most impressed seeing how laser-focused and driven Mustafah was about his artistic pursuits. As someone who is just knocking on the door of the art world and peering in, it was great to see the impact that dedication and passion can bring to what you’re doing.
I’m sure Mustafah and I will connect and talk further as we both get down with our projects.
Some other highlights of Berlin:
-Daniel Libeskind’s addition to the Jewish Museum. I’ve never had an emotional response to architecture before. The garden of exile is on a sloped ground, but huge rectangular pillars rise off the ground, creating odd angles. We are used to 90 degree dimensions walking around space. In this garden, the angles are skewed. Just walking around for 3 minutes made me feel so nautious I had to go inside. At the end of the hall of the holocaust, you enter a giant chamber that is traingular and four stories high. It is the same temperature as the air outside and has one slit at the top to let in natural light. But, it’s not the cold air in the chamber that makes the experience chilling.
-Walking tour. A British guy gave me and some other people in my hostel a free walking tour (you pay by tipping). He rattled off amazing facts about Berlin as we walked around the historical sites. Amazing stuff. Got me curious. I definitely want to start reading more about the history of Berlin.
-East Side Gallery. The largest remaining section of the Berlin wall no longer separates Berliners, but brings them, alongside flocks of tourists to see the largest outdoor gallery in the world. Graffiti. But you don’t need to go just here for cool stuff to look at. There is graffiti all over the city.
Believe it or not, I’m 3 months into the year. So I had to write my first ‘long letter home’ to the Fellowship HQ:
Cities@Sea 