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  Piterwilson 1:55 am on November 19, 2010 Permalink | Reply  

  Hypnotherapy is for people who are open to it 

  The second alternative medicine professional i was taken to, was the hypnotherapist. She told me to try and make my mind go into a blank and to think of nothing at all. Up to that point the only way that that had ever happened was when the doctors of the SOMA clinic in Medellin put me out with some heavy drugs while they were scrapping off a sample of my rib cage bones just a couple of weeks before. I was 19 years old, socially inept, and as expected, the hypnotic session quickly degenerated into me blabbing out some fantasy i must have had about my girlfriend’s sister. My mother was present in the room. I had unexplained tumors in my body, i had undergone exploratory surgery and countless other seemingly medieval medical examinations and apparently all i managed to think up at that moment was this girl wearing a taparrabo (an indian’s thong), a feather in her head with her skin fully covered in gold dust. The therapist said that this girl would be an influential person in my life. Regrettably she wasn’t, we barely ever spoke and i only saw her once again after me and my girlfriend broke up. We were both standing in line to pay for our medical insurance and we had small talk about my ex and how she was still living in Bogotá after her time in Europe.

   

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  Piterwilson 9:14 am on November 12, 2010 Permalink | Reply  

  random pretty expats 

  That night I attended a dinner party in honor of a handful of expats fleeing Buenos Aires that week. After having spent in average a year here, there were mixed feelings about the experience but no one regretted coming and despite the close proximity experienced no one was crying about the loss of friends made in this transitory stretch of time and why would they. We said our goodbyes over chili con carne, empanadas, way to much Malbec and a half way finished vodka someone brought breaking the Porteño themed night like a tourist wearing an ‘urban font’ print t-shirt, fanny pack and a white baseball cap in a city otherwise inhabited by stylish and decadent Italian-Spanish immigrants’ descendants.

  During this dinner party, and as if we hadn’t had met enough people we wouldn’t really see again, we were introduced to each other’s other friends, a sort of Logical Disjunction of our friendship circles. One of such acquaintances was yet another American girl named Elizabeth who after the ‘where are you from/what are you doing here’ chats had been done with, begun to speak out vividly. Her Spanish was broken and sounded like a drunk sailor but her spirit and peculiar choice of words made all other conversations halt to focus on her stories about being a dancer, about her experience studying in the UBA, about getting lost in what she called the ‘street porteño scene’ and how she loved every minute of it.

  Men present were smitten with her, their attention focused as she continued to deal with different conversations at once. Someone please tell them where is the lid to remove the batteries off this chatter box. Someone find the turn the off switch. So much for latin lovers and dramatic chamullo porteño. The other girls tried to steal the conversation away a few times but gave up after a number of failed attempts. Those with boyfriends present leashed their men and made their exit.

   
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  Piterwilson 7:04 pm on November 11, 2010 Permalink | Reply  

  Tango… who knew? 

  The somber face of a blond older Argentine woman greets us from behind her counter on the ground level of Confiteria La Ideal very close to El Obelisco of Buenos Aires. The whole place is an antique and the counter is tall and it looks more like a priest’s altar and it’s made of some old looking wood that like all of the decorations inside the building manages to retain its shine and beauty intact since the 1910s, the era in which this place was founded.
  Me and my Canadian ladies had gotten there in time despite fears to the contrary. As a matter of fact, we were 15 minutes early. Just a while before we had gotten distracted gazing upong an ocean of Palermo houses, complete with the high tidal waves that are the random high rises, from the bridge of a tall ship that is the rooftop of Amy’s rental flat in Plaza Güemes where Gabrielle and myself watched in desbelief at the 360 degrees unobstructed view trying to recognize in which direction was our house, or the Botanical Garden, el Rio de la Plata…
  We made our way up the stairs and into a large melancholic, decadent and beautiful ballroom with tall ceilings and extremely decorated brass lamps glowing yellow light.
  We were greeted by a man wearing a tigh black shirt with matching black pants and mustache and ponytail and for a moment there I felt like I was watching an slightly obese but kinda blond Ruben Blades… or the president of Nicaragua Daniel Ortega if he ever wore nice smooth clothes and learned to comb his hair.
  As he approached us, I quickly let him know that we were looking for a table for three to what he replied “I’m the dancing instructor and the ballroom will be ready soon, where are you from?”. I replied with my ladies’ place of birth followed by my own and soon we were seated at the very edge of the ballroom, zipping on malbec and watching old couples dance Milonga. These old lovers gave it all and were frequently trying to outdo each other and from the looks of their frames it was impossible to predict the grace and speed of their movements. As I sat down I was still embarrassed to have mistaken our instructor for a waiter and because I was the only person wearing sneakers. Amy’s big bright brown eyes and huge smile were shinning with joy and anticipation and the three of us sat and waited for our first serious Tango lesson to begin as her rays of happiness descended upon us and made my soul feel warm.