For those loyal readers of last year's odyssey (good lord, it really has been a year!), there is a new one:
"Heart of America" in January '07 is online for your reading pleasure. More to come soon, I hope!
-Siempre,
Thea
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Monday, April 07, 2008
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
That Springtime Feeling
I love that feeling of...
...wait for it...
...anticipation!
There's something magical about that moment in time when something is *about* to happen: when possibilities abound, when beauty and excitement lie dormant, just barely out of sight. It’s the time of year when life is almost ready to begin, when the cold sleepy earth is rolling around in its warm comforter, thinking about throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed. I’ve got to admit that the sensation is infectious, and lately I have found myself buzzing with a vague sense of anticipation, but I can’t quite figure out what I’m waiting for.
It's been several years since I’ve had a complete set of seasons. Since I graduated from college in the spring of 2004, I haven’t had a proper temperate growing cycle. The Wet/Dry seasons of South Florida in no way resembled the “standard” four seasons of the mid-Atlantic; spring manifests itself as a gradual warming followed by flocks of migratory college students in their pale winter hues signaling the 40 day extravaganza on South Beach known as Spring Break. Then last year I just barely missed spring in South America: the weather heated up right after we touched down at EZE.
Winter in New York was pretty mild this year, for which I am eternally grateful, but it was still winter. The endless grays of sky, street, and dirt make for a soporific palette, and the shortened days do not exactly inspire one to leave the shelter of a cozy apartment. Social schedules slow and friends go into hibernation as the winter blahs set in.
After the first nice weekend in the city, I leapt on the chance to get Fiametta out of winter storage. As I froze my ass off driving the wind-blown Manhattan Bridge, I held tight to the handlebars and my mental image of how it’s going to be in a few short weeks when the sun is shining and I won’t need three layers of insulation. It’s so close—I totally didn’t care that I couldn’t feel my hands when I got to work.
Then, inspired by hints of spring popping up around the city: summer concert schedules, leaving work when it’s light outside, early crocuses in miniature brownstone gardens, I became a member of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. It was just a little too cold to wander through the gardens, but I toughed it out with my camera, giddy over the tiny signs of springtime that are starting to appear in corners of the park. The daffodils are up, sending green spears through the blanket of dry autumn leaves that covers the grounds. One or two early cherries are blushing pink, tentatively putting out buds and preparing for the festival in May. There are some brave clusters of violet crocuses pushing through the cold ground.
The gardens aren’t showy yet, and the irises and tulips are still locked tight in their winter homes. But it’s easy to appreciate cabbage-sized irises and vibrant tulips. It takes a little more time and effort to notice the beauty of a garden that is still in transition; to see in the present the beginnings of beauty and know that in the future something great will come of it. That sense of possibility is almost better than the actual culmination. This place will be stuffed with people when the dramatic bulbs reach their full flower, but I get to have this embryonic garden all to myself. It’s my own secret not-yet-fully-formed place, and my imagination fills the gaps, populates the bare mulch with phantom roses and peonies.
The chill eventually penetrated my extremities, and eventually I had to take refuge in the heated greenhouse among the tropical plants that grew outdoors at my old home in Miami. After a brief respite I was back outside searching for the next sign of spring.
I finally found it in the formal marble courtyard at the north end of the park: walk of magnolias, in full blossom. These fragile blossoms decorated the otherwise bare trees alternately with fuchsia and snowy bursts. Magnolias are special, because you have to catch them early. The satin flowers bruise easily, especially on the deciduous versions with smaller more abundant blooms. If you wait too long, there’s nothing but a browned, smelly mess of petals on the ground, not very picturesque. But if you catch them early, magnolia blossoms are sweeter, more delicate than a rose.
I’ve met some interesting people lately, and kind of enjoy the excitement of first date. There hasn’t been anything life-altering, but I think it’s good to be “out there,” even in my own timid fashion. If nothing else, it makes for funny stories in the office.
I don’t like winter, but like so many things in life, intense feeling and emotion is the product of an interesting juxtaposition. If you only ever have summer, there’s nothing to compare it to, and you take those perfect sunny days for granted. If there were no winter, would we care about spring? Probably not much. You can’t have a spring without going through the dreary cold. It’s mother nature’s reward for sticking it out through the shitty times, and I’m ready to cash in.
...wait for it...
...anticipation!
There's something magical about that moment in time when something is *about* to happen: when possibilities abound, when beauty and excitement lie dormant, just barely out of sight. It’s the time of year when life is almost ready to begin, when the cold sleepy earth is rolling around in its warm comforter, thinking about throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed. I’ve got to admit that the sensation is infectious, and lately I have found myself buzzing with a vague sense of anticipation, but I can’t quite figure out what I’m waiting for.
It's been several years since I’ve had a complete set of seasons. Since I graduated from college in the spring of 2004, I haven’t had a proper temperate growing cycle. The Wet/Dry seasons of South Florida in no way resembled the “standard” four seasons of the mid-Atlantic; spring manifests itself as a gradual warming followed by flocks of migratory college students in their pale winter hues signaling the 40 day extravaganza on South Beach known as Spring Break. Then last year I just barely missed spring in South America: the weather heated up right after we touched down at EZE.
Winter in New York was pretty mild this year, for which I am eternally grateful, but it was still winter. The endless grays of sky, street, and dirt make for a soporific palette, and the shortened days do not exactly inspire one to leave the shelter of a cozy apartment. Social schedules slow and friends go into hibernation as the winter blahs set in.
After the first nice weekend in the city, I leapt on the chance to get Fiametta out of winter storage. As I froze my ass off driving the wind-blown Manhattan Bridge, I held tight to the handlebars and my mental image of how it’s going to be in a few short weeks when the sun is shining and I won’t need three layers of insulation. It’s so close—I totally didn’t care that I couldn’t feel my hands when I got to work.
Then, inspired by hints of spring popping up around the city: summer concert schedules, leaving work when it’s light outside, early crocuses in miniature brownstone gardens, I became a member of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. It was just a little too cold to wander through the gardens, but I toughed it out with my camera, giddy over the tiny signs of springtime that are starting to appear in corners of the park. The daffodils are up, sending green spears through the blanket of dry autumn leaves that covers the grounds. One or two early cherries are blushing pink, tentatively putting out buds and preparing for the festival in May. There are some brave clusters of violet crocuses pushing through the cold ground.
The gardens aren’t showy yet, and the irises and tulips are still locked tight in their winter homes. But it’s easy to appreciate cabbage-sized irises and vibrant tulips. It takes a little more time and effort to notice the beauty of a garden that is still in transition; to see in the present the beginnings of beauty and know that in the future something great will come of it. That sense of possibility is almost better than the actual culmination. This place will be stuffed with people when the dramatic bulbs reach their full flower, but I get to have this embryonic garden all to myself. It’s my own secret not-yet-fully-formed place, and my imagination fills the gaps, populates the bare mulch with phantom roses and peonies.
The chill eventually penetrated my extremities, and eventually I had to take refuge in the heated greenhouse among the tropical plants that grew outdoors at my old home in Miami. After a brief respite I was back outside searching for the next sign of spring.
I finally found it in the formal marble courtyard at the north end of the park: walk of magnolias, in full blossom. These fragile blossoms decorated the otherwise bare trees alternately with fuchsia and snowy bursts. Magnolias are special, because you have to catch them early. The satin flowers bruise easily, especially on the deciduous versions with smaller more abundant blooms. If you wait too long, there’s nothing but a browned, smelly mess of petals on the ground, not very picturesque. But if you catch them early, magnolia blossoms are sweeter, more delicate than a rose.
I’ve met some interesting people lately, and kind of enjoy the excitement of first date. There hasn’t been anything life-altering, but I think it’s good to be “out there,” even in my own timid fashion. If nothing else, it makes for funny stories in the office.
I don’t like winter, but like so many things in life, intense feeling and emotion is the product of an interesting juxtaposition. If you only ever have summer, there’s nothing to compare it to, and you take those perfect sunny days for granted. If there were no winter, would we care about spring? Probably not much. You can’t have a spring without going through the dreary cold. It’s mother nature’s reward for sticking it out through the shitty times, and I’m ready to cash in.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Online dating is strange
In a flash of extroversion, and immediately preceded by several disappointing potential romances, I joined Match.com...along with thousands of other single New Yorkers.
I've decided that I deserve someone interesting, engaging, cute, and available--all qualities that I am assured NOT to find in some bar in Manhattan. It's been about a week now but seems like much longer than that: the ups, the downs, the nervousness, the drama! Well, not so much drama I suppose.
One date down, and the search continues.
What am I searching for? That remains unclear.
I continue to send witty emails to intriguing guys, but I haven't quite figured out the protocol for this new world of cyber-flirting. I am not a fan of the "wink," as I see it as basically a cop-out: if you think someone is cute and interesting send them a damn message. That said, I did wink at someone yesterday, and they winked back. What this interaction means, no one knows.
The most bizarre part of this whole deal is the anonymity that it provides, in contrast to the clear expectations of outcome. I had a totally lame date this weekend with a perfectly nice guy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet it was just kind of like meeting some acquaintance from college to catch up on superficial stuff. As it was my first date in about 4 years, I didn't really know what to expect, or how to interpret certain interactions. In the end, prodded by well-meaning friends, I sent him a message about meeting up for drinks. Shockingly, he wrote back exactly what I didn't have the courage to say:
"Nice to meet you, but I really didn't feel any spark, so let's just leave it at that."
Okay, so he might not have said those exact words, but you get the point.
Completely honest, and in a city of nearly nine something million people, we'll never run into each other, and it'll never be awkward! How liberating. This whole "directness" thing is strange to me, and will take some getting used to. We were on a date, this was clear. There were expectations of attraction and "chemistry" (whatever the fuck that means), and there really wasn't any. So it didn't work, and we both move on to other options. Then I realized, I don't even know this guy's last name--and what's more, I don't need to! Everything is so factual, cut and dry, with none of the bullshit that goes along with "dating" in college...
...we're hooking up but we're not dating...we're dating, but we're not exclusive...we're hanging out and we're dating, but we're not hooking up...we're studying and I wish we were dating but we're not...
There's none of that here!
It's a crazy world out there, the New York singles scene, but this seems for the moment to be the best way to navigate through uncharted waters without capsizing in an overwhelming sea of uninteresting assholes. I haven't quite gotten my sea-legs yet, but I'll get there eventually.
oh, and P.S. 2008 is shaping up to be the bizarre Japanese connections year. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.
I've decided that I deserve someone interesting, engaging, cute, and available--all qualities that I am assured NOT to find in some bar in Manhattan. It's been about a week now but seems like much longer than that: the ups, the downs, the nervousness, the drama! Well, not so much drama I suppose.
One date down, and the search continues.
What am I searching for? That remains unclear.
I continue to send witty emails to intriguing guys, but I haven't quite figured out the protocol for this new world of cyber-flirting. I am not a fan of the "wink," as I see it as basically a cop-out: if you think someone is cute and interesting send them a damn message. That said, I did wink at someone yesterday, and they winked back. What this interaction means, no one knows.
The most bizarre part of this whole deal is the anonymity that it provides, in contrast to the clear expectations of outcome. I had a totally lame date this weekend with a perfectly nice guy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet it was just kind of like meeting some acquaintance from college to catch up on superficial stuff. As it was my first date in about 4 years, I didn't really know what to expect, or how to interpret certain interactions. In the end, prodded by well-meaning friends, I sent him a message about meeting up for drinks. Shockingly, he wrote back exactly what I didn't have the courage to say:
"Nice to meet you, but I really didn't feel any spark, so let's just leave it at that."
Okay, so he might not have said those exact words, but you get the point.
Completely honest, and in a city of nearly nine something million people, we'll never run into each other, and it'll never be awkward! How liberating. This whole "directness" thing is strange to me, and will take some getting used to. We were on a date, this was clear. There were expectations of attraction and "chemistry" (whatever the fuck that means), and there really wasn't any. So it didn't work, and we both move on to other options. Then I realized, I don't even know this guy's last name--and what's more, I don't need to! Everything is so factual, cut and dry, with none of the bullshit that goes along with "dating" in college...
...we're hooking up but we're not dating...we're dating, but we're not exclusive...we're hanging out and we're dating, but we're not hooking up...we're studying and I wish we were dating but we're not...
There's none of that here!
It's a crazy world out there, the New York singles scene, but this seems for the moment to be the best way to navigate through uncharted waters without capsizing in an overwhelming sea of uninteresting assholes. I haven't quite gotten my sea-legs yet, but I'll get there eventually.
oh, and P.S. 2008 is shaping up to be the bizarre Japanese connections year. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Oh, February.
Traditionally February is a harsh month for me. Though G. denies it, I have never had a good Valentine's day regardless of my relationship status, and I was expecting more of the same this year. The ominous weather earlier in the week seemed to indicate as much, and I prepped a somber all-black outfit suited to my funereal mood.
I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.
Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.
So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.
The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:
I like that.
Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.
Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.
February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.
I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.
Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.
So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.
The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:
I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness in it.
I like that.
Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.
Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.
February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.
Monday, February 04, 2008
It has recently come to my attention...
...that I have sorely neglected my dearest of blogs. My unfinished South American writings languish on my hard drive, waiting for a polish, some cleaning up and a place for display.
Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.
I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.
Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.
Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.
I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.
Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Starry Night
Greetings everyone! I know that it's been quite a while since I've posted anything, and for that I make no excuses other than to say that it's been a little busy lately.
For those of you looking for the conclusion to my South American Odyssey, fear not. I've got several things waiting in the wings and will back-post them so they appear after the current stuff.
As most of you know, I'm now in New York with a new job, and I move into my new apartment in Brooklyn today! I'm ready to have my own digs again and get settled into a routine.
I’ve been reading a lot of modern British fiction lately, mostly on the subway to and from work in Midtown, and am starting to think that I should design a course about it including my recent reading materials: Atonement and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, Virginia Woolf has been on my mind as well, adding another dimension to the turbulent consciousnesses at play in my fictional frame of mind. With this as a caveat, today was a good day.
I haven’t had a good day in a while. Let me qualify that to say that I also haven’t really had a bad day in a while. I’ve been floating, carried along by the tide of my life and its responsibilities, without much of a thought to how I was really doing. The shock of moving to New York is starting to wear off, and the multiple new elements of my current life are becoming familiar with varying speeds. Getting used to being around Rachael and Mandi took nearly no time at all, as was expected. Equilibrating to the subway, life in the big city, and the logistics of life without cars and box stores took a little while, but it was the good kind of adjustment. I finally deposited a paycheck in the bank, for the first time in nearly 12 months, alleviating near financial disaster and credit card debt.
Then today, I finally got comfortable at work. Not only do I feel more confident in meetings and have started to express my opinion, I've had some real conversations that made me feel more connected to the people at the office, and I bonded with the interns about traveling and Harry Potter. I’m in this bizarre age no mans’s land at work: the interns are all several years younger and still in college, but most of the staff is 30+. Makes it a little harder to find immediate common ground, so when something does come along it feels good.
And I can tell you it feels pretty fucking good to have an apartment.
It’s small, and my bedroom is even smaller (no really, it’s tiny), but it’s freshly remodeled with a phat phridge and high-btu gas range. That almost makes up for the galley-sized kitchen and the room that I’m not even sure will fit a full bed. It’s small, but it’s mine, and I found it thanks to weeks of grueling searching. I discovered it with my own brain and judgment amidst the swirling chaos-filled vortex of the New York City housing market, designed to suck the soul and money out of anyone who dares approach.
Last night, I felt the excitement building as I drove north through Brooklyn from my current “home” near Prospect Park. I passed Grand Army Plaza for the first time and had a (nearly) subconscious flashback of Harry and Sally standing in front of the huge archway after their marathon drive to the Big Apple. Brooklyn seemed to welcome me, and then it smacked me around a little for being wide-eyed and enthusiastic, like any good New Yorker would. Due to nighttime driving and me not being quite aggressive enough in a minivan at traffic circles, what should have been a 10-15 minute drive turned into 25 as I zig-zagged my way towards what I hoped was my apartment. Eventually I honed in on Clinton and Dekalb, snagging a parking space directly in front of my new front door. I sped up the five flights of rickety stairs (not yet remodeled, unlike our spanking new apartment) and found to my delight that not only the electricity and gas were on (I have no idea who has been paying the utility bills), but all the ceiling fans have cute little remote controls on the walls. Throwing open the windows to the cool night air, the first non-rainy non-sauna-like evening that we’ve had in a few weeks, I did a giddy little dance in the living room before taking a couple of loads of my stuff out of the van. The thought of my things in the back of the car sitting on the street in New York had been in the corner of my mind all week, and there was a part of me that kind of expected to come back every evening and see a window smashed and all my stuff gone. Now, that little corner of my mind is free again!
Once I had satisfied my need to fill the blank canvas of the new apartment, I decided that not only would hauling stuff up the stairs be more pleasant on this refreshing summer night, but that being on the roof would be too. I turned out the lights in the apartment, went into the stuffy hallway to make sure that all the locks worked, closed the door and climbed the 1/2 flight of stairs leading to the roof. Pushing tentatively on the door to see how it opened, I swung it wide open once I discovered it had no locking mechanism that might trap me out of the building. Then, I stepped out onto the spongy surface, not sure if I was allowed to be there, or if the old roof would support my weight. I walked over the ceiling of our apartment to compare the view from my bedroom window (not much different than what I see from one floor below), then walked around the stairwell’s skylight and faced south.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn sparkled at me through the clear dry air and I turned slowly to get the panoramic view: the diffuse aura of Manhattan rising mauve up from behind the nearest buildings’ silhouettes, the Chrysler building glowing at me from an alley, and the stars desperately competing with the mass of luminosity produced by this city to sustain its nearly 18 million inhabitants. Then, and only then, did I truly understand that I was now one of them. I live in New York. I whipped back around to take it all in, watched the polka-dots of the Brooklyn Bridge disappear into layers of offices, condos, brownstones, windows, and signs, and then my vision blurred a little as I realized that I was crying.
Dozens of emotions converged in me in that moment when I turned around in circles on the roof of 290 Clinton Street looking at the sky, my new home below, and the boroughs around me. The burden of searching for a home was gone, I was free to begin my daily life. Energized, excited, elated, and exhausted I let myself take a moment to think about all that I’ve accomplished in the past month since I left New York in May, in the wake of a surreal and interview-laden visit. A bit of pride poked its way into my consciousness, followed by relief, anticipation for the future, and a thread of pure joy. And then, as the cool air passed over my tired body, I truly felt the emptiness that I had been waiting for since I left New Hampshire.
Thus far, I have been remarkably successful in staving off that emptiness, keeping it away from my conscious mind with daily tasks, immediate practical concerns, reestablishing connections with old friends, partying in the city, and expressing myself creatively. But when I get tired, stop thinking or stop doing, I fall into old thought patterns worn into my synapses by several years of constant repetition. There on the roof, in the midst of this incredible moment, the feeling of what I have lost became almost as acute as what I have gained. I say almost because that little vacuum of loss is not enough to induce regret or any kind of remorse. I still think that the major decisions that I’ve made recently are the right ones for me, those which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness (thanks Jane). Yet within all that self-satisfaction had almost forgotten that it hurts to have someone that you thought you would be with forever tell you that they just don’t ever see that happening. When that feeling gets to you, it makes you catch your breath a little, like someone punched you in the chest. I know how lucky I am to have other, more pleasant emotions fighting to take the place of that emptiness, but nothingness is a little hard to get rid of.
In the meantime, I've been working on having something to take the place of that emptiness, and the attempt has not been entirely unsuccessful. I've been trying to be responsible, to act like the adult that that I am, pay the bills and make sure the electricity stays on. But in the midst of all that, I need moments like last night on the roof. Life is made for moments like that, and if you haven't had one in a while, then maybe you should think about why.
Things are not perfect, and it will still take some time for me to fully adjust to my new social and geographical context. I'm liking New York, and I love my friends. So right now, I'm here and I'm finding my place in the bustling city. I am here, and yes, Mrs. Ramsay, it is enough. It is enough!
For those of you looking for the conclusion to my South American Odyssey, fear not. I've got several things waiting in the wings and will back-post them so they appear after the current stuff.
As most of you know, I'm now in New York with a new job, and I move into my new apartment in Brooklyn today! I'm ready to have my own digs again and get settled into a routine.
I’ve been reading a lot of modern British fiction lately, mostly on the subway to and from work in Midtown, and am starting to think that I should design a course about it including my recent reading materials: Atonement and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, Virginia Woolf has been on my mind as well, adding another dimension to the turbulent consciousnesses at play in my fictional frame of mind. With this as a caveat, today was a good day.
I haven’t had a good day in a while. Let me qualify that to say that I also haven’t really had a bad day in a while. I’ve been floating, carried along by the tide of my life and its responsibilities, without much of a thought to how I was really doing. The shock of moving to New York is starting to wear off, and the multiple new elements of my current life are becoming familiar with varying speeds. Getting used to being around Rachael and Mandi took nearly no time at all, as was expected. Equilibrating to the subway, life in the big city, and the logistics of life without cars and box stores took a little while, but it was the good kind of adjustment. I finally deposited a paycheck in the bank, for the first time in nearly 12 months, alleviating near financial disaster and credit card debt.
Then today, I finally got comfortable at work. Not only do I feel more confident in meetings and have started to express my opinion, I've had some real conversations that made me feel more connected to the people at the office, and I bonded with the interns about traveling and Harry Potter. I’m in this bizarre age no mans’s land at work: the interns are all several years younger and still in college, but most of the staff is 30+. Makes it a little harder to find immediate common ground, so when something does come along it feels good.
And I can tell you it feels pretty fucking good to have an apartment.
It’s small, and my bedroom is even smaller (no really, it’s tiny), but it’s freshly remodeled with a phat phridge and high-btu gas range. That almost makes up for the galley-sized kitchen and the room that I’m not even sure will fit a full bed. It’s small, but it’s mine, and I found it thanks to weeks of grueling searching. I discovered it with my own brain and judgment amidst the swirling chaos-filled vortex of the New York City housing market, designed to suck the soul and money out of anyone who dares approach.
Last night, I felt the excitement building as I drove north through Brooklyn from my current “home” near Prospect Park. I passed Grand Army Plaza for the first time and had a (nearly) subconscious flashback of Harry and Sally standing in front of the huge archway after their marathon drive to the Big Apple. Brooklyn seemed to welcome me, and then it smacked me around a little for being wide-eyed and enthusiastic, like any good New Yorker would. Due to nighttime driving and me not being quite aggressive enough in a minivan at traffic circles, what should have been a 10-15 minute drive turned into 25 as I zig-zagged my way towards what I hoped was my apartment. Eventually I honed in on Clinton and Dekalb, snagging a parking space directly in front of my new front door. I sped up the five flights of rickety stairs (not yet remodeled, unlike our spanking new apartment) and found to my delight that not only the electricity and gas were on (I have no idea who has been paying the utility bills), but all the ceiling fans have cute little remote controls on the walls. Throwing open the windows to the cool night air, the first non-rainy non-sauna-like evening that we’ve had in a few weeks, I did a giddy little dance in the living room before taking a couple of loads of my stuff out of the van. The thought of my things in the back of the car sitting on the street in New York had been in the corner of my mind all week, and there was a part of me that kind of expected to come back every evening and see a window smashed and all my stuff gone. Now, that little corner of my mind is free again!
Once I had satisfied my need to fill the blank canvas of the new apartment, I decided that not only would hauling stuff up the stairs be more pleasant on this refreshing summer night, but that being on the roof would be too. I turned out the lights in the apartment, went into the stuffy hallway to make sure that all the locks worked, closed the door and climbed the 1/2 flight of stairs leading to the roof. Pushing tentatively on the door to see how it opened, I swung it wide open once I discovered it had no locking mechanism that might trap me out of the building. Then, I stepped out onto the spongy surface, not sure if I was allowed to be there, or if the old roof would support my weight. I walked over the ceiling of our apartment to compare the view from my bedroom window (not much different than what I see from one floor below), then walked around the stairwell’s skylight and faced south.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn sparkled at me through the clear dry air and I turned slowly to get the panoramic view: the diffuse aura of Manhattan rising mauve up from behind the nearest buildings’ silhouettes, the Chrysler building glowing at me from an alley, and the stars desperately competing with the mass of luminosity produced by this city to sustain its nearly 18 million inhabitants. Then, and only then, did I truly understand that I was now one of them. I live in New York. I whipped back around to take it all in, watched the polka-dots of the Brooklyn Bridge disappear into layers of offices, condos, brownstones, windows, and signs, and then my vision blurred a little as I realized that I was crying.
Dozens of emotions converged in me in that moment when I turned around in circles on the roof of 290 Clinton Street looking at the sky, my new home below, and the boroughs around me. The burden of searching for a home was gone, I was free to begin my daily life. Energized, excited, elated, and exhausted I let myself take a moment to think about all that I’ve accomplished in the past month since I left New York in May, in the wake of a surreal and interview-laden visit. A bit of pride poked its way into my consciousness, followed by relief, anticipation for the future, and a thread of pure joy. And then, as the cool air passed over my tired body, I truly felt the emptiness that I had been waiting for since I left New Hampshire.
Thus far, I have been remarkably successful in staving off that emptiness, keeping it away from my conscious mind with daily tasks, immediate practical concerns, reestablishing connections with old friends, partying in the city, and expressing myself creatively. But when I get tired, stop thinking or stop doing, I fall into old thought patterns worn into my synapses by several years of constant repetition. There on the roof, in the midst of this incredible moment, the feeling of what I have lost became almost as acute as what I have gained. I say almost because that little vacuum of loss is not enough to induce regret or any kind of remorse. I still think that the major decisions that I’ve made recently are the right ones for me, those which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness (thanks Jane). Yet within all that self-satisfaction had almost forgotten that it hurts to have someone that you thought you would be with forever tell you that they just don’t ever see that happening. When that feeling gets to you, it makes you catch your breath a little, like someone punched you in the chest. I know how lucky I am to have other, more pleasant emotions fighting to take the place of that emptiness, but nothingness is a little hard to get rid of.
In the meantime, I've been working on having something to take the place of that emptiness, and the attempt has not been entirely unsuccessful. I've been trying to be responsible, to act like the adult that that I am, pay the bills and make sure the electricity stays on. But in the midst of all that, I need moments like last night on the roof. Life is made for moments like that, and if you haven't had one in a while, then maybe you should think about why.
Things are not perfect, and it will still take some time for me to fully adjust to my new social and geographical context. I'm liking New York, and I love my friends. So right now, I'm here and I'm finding my place in the bustling city. I am here, and yes, Mrs. Ramsay, it is enough. It is enough!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Uruguay: the little country that could!
“So what prompted you to go to Uruguay?” My father asked me over the phone from Montevideo.
“Because it’s there.”
Not a fantastic answer nor entirely true. It does have a pleasing rhetorical air to it.
To be more honest, I wanted to see the country of cows and corrida sheep that produces my favorite brand of knitting yarn. No, my woolen adventures in Peru were not enough to satiate a lust for South American textiles. After a good deal of unfruitful online research, I emailed the only address I could find for Manos de Uruguay, the company that produces a fantastic hand-dyed sheep’s wool that retails for around $13 per skein in wool boutiques (I refuse to call them “stores” or “shops” because this implies fair pricing, instead of the ridiculous gouging that occurs in knitting stores all around the country). Unfortunately, the silly people told me to contact their US distributor to buy yarn, not very useful when I’m in Uruguay.
There were a few other appealing features to Uruguay, including its famed beaches; nearly half of the 13 million people in Buenos Aires flee to the resort town of Punta del Este for the summer to sit packed like sardines on the sand. We heard from a fellow norteamericano traveler that Punta del Diablo, a small town on the Brazil-Uruguay border, was a much more pleasant place to unwind from the rigors of the road, so we made plans to speed east once we entered the country and lie around on deserted beaches until it was time to meet a friend of mine in Mendoza.
We bid adieu to Buenos Aires from the Buquebus (lit. BoatBus) which took us across the Rio de la Plata at sunset, then spent our first real day in Uruguay trying to figure out the monetary value of the Uruguayan peso while visiting the quaint colonial city of quaint nomenclature, Colonia. Yet another UNESCO World Heritage site, the old city was mostly filled with bus loads of tourists and nasty mosquitoes, so we chose to languish in the shade of our hostel and wait for a bus to Montevideo. I then noted several mutant mosquito bites, some of which may be the vestiges of Iguazú mosquitoes, which have now swelled into inch-long bumps. A little disconcerting. We’ll see how that goes.
At this point, I was engaged in an email exchange with another yarn company, Malabrigo Yarns, whom I’d stumbled across on some Google searches for Manos de Uruguay. They seemed much more welcoming than the Manos staff, so I hoped that I’d be able to visit their warehouse. Just before we left for Montevideo, I found out that the warehouse wasn’t in the city center, but in a neighborhood of unknown location called El Cerro (lit. the mountain/peak). I didn’t really know what that meant, not being familiar with the local geography, and let it wait until we arrived.
In the beginning of our trip, we ripped out the sections of our general South American guidebooks that related to countries not on our itinerary. Clearly we weren’t going to make it as far north as Ecuador, and it’s not exactly safe to be in Colombia as an Anglo blonde—those pages went in the trash. As we go, we tear out the section of the book for a city, carry it in our pockets, and then leave it behind at the bus station. This keeps our thick books from taking up too much precious backpack space, and gives a wonderful sense of closure to each leg of the journey. We were a little too zealous in our book weeding four months back, not imagining in November that we’d ever get to Uruguay. Oops! Thus, when we arrived in the country, we didn’t even have the exchange rate, let alone a map of the places we were to visit.
Five brochures later I figured out where El Cerro was, and we checked in to a decent hostel in downtown Montevideo. The next morning, I had planned to meet one of the yarn people at 11:00 am at the warehouse, whose location I finally pinned down in the Industrial Center...but somehow we both slept through the alarm until 10:45. Mortified, I write an apology to the company and head off to the bus station to find a way to get out to the Parque Industrial. Several people I asked said flat out that there was no way to get there by bus. One driver, trying to be helpful, told me to take the 124, buy a transfer ticket, go to another terminal, find the connection to Santa Maria, and then ask someone how to get to the Parque Industrial. No thanks, I’ll take a taxi.
Nearly defeated, I was about to throw in the towel when one last email came through from Malabrigo. The person with whom I had emailed for several days gave me the warehouse phone number and the cell of some guy named Antonio. Since the warehouse phone didn’t work, I called Antonio. “¡Hello Thea, how are you! Everything well?” was the surprisingly cheerful response to my uncertain “¿Hola?” When I mentioned that I was trying to get over to the warehouse, Antonio immediately said “Oh no, don’t go in a taxi. I have to go over there this afternoon, so I’ll pick you up from downtown.”
Presto! All of my problems are solved. I scheduled meet him in an hour at a designated street corner, told him roughly what I looked like, and then waited until 2:45. Sure enough, at a quarter to three a small Cheverolet pulls up in front of me and Dave, driven by a forty-something man with dark hair and glasses.
As we would find out in our conversations both to and from the Malabrigo dyeing center and warehouse, Antonio is one of three directors of the company, an ex-architect who couldn’t find work after the economic Crisis of 2001 and started developing kettle-dyed wool for US and European markets. I felt a little bad explaining the way that I found out about Malabrigo (I had never used the product, but Manos de Uruguay wouldn’t talk to me), but the little internet research that did that morning gave me a good feeling about the stuff. There are little old ladies in the Midwest and West coast who go nuts for this wool, so much so that they started about a half-dozen blogs about it! It really is hand-dyed in enamel or aluminum kettles (I know because I saw the pots!), just like someone would do in their own house, which produces interesting variations in color intensity that I find makes amazing garments. Like Manos, they offer several multicolored products, more difficult to dye but also more interesting. I mentioned that I liked the Malabrigo version called acuarela (watercolors), and Antonio humbly explained that he invented the dyeing process that produces lovely watery color transitions. This was the same guy who picked me up on a street corner in the capital just to take me to see the wool warehouse. He had no idea who I was, how much money, if any, I had to spend, or what relation I had to the company.
As we wound our way around Montevideo Bay, we told him a little bit about our trip and ourselves. Naturally, the conversation turned to sheep. I learned a little more about merino wool, augmented later by a fascinating internet history of the originally Spanish merino sheep. D’s own sheep-ey past let him talk shop with Antonio a bit, discussing the plight of the modern sheep farmer plagued by falling wool prices little demand for meat.
It’s clear that Uruguay, while having suffered from the same economic crisis as Argentina, has been much slower in rebounding from it. Construction projects in the city seem to have been put on hold, and the restoration of the historic colonial neighborhood is nearly nonexistent.
Poor marginalized Uruguay, the younger sibling of larger nations, still has a core of emphatic citizens more racially diverse than the population of its southern neighbor, and a strong cultural heritage. I had no idea that tango was as much an Uruguayan phenomenon as Argentine. Carlos Gardel, the über-famous tango singer whose life-sized portrait stood outside the gelato shop next to our apartment in Palermo, got his start in the tango scene in Uruguay before moving to Buenos Aires; the composer of “La Cumparsita,” the allegedly most popular tango in the world, was from Montevideo. I’m not surprised that they didn’t mention that during our tango show at Café Tortoni, the hottest spot for aesthetic and political intellectuals in late 19th century Buenos Aires.
Three cheers for Uruguay: it’s got heart even if it doesn’t have fame. ¡Olé, Olé, Olé!
As our conversation progressed, we followed the horseshoe shaped bay around to the opposite shore, a slightly rougher neighborhood full of impromptu housing and defunct industrial warehouses. Antonio pulled the car into what looked like an abandoned factory. Guess what… it was an abandoned factory. Together with other young businesses, Malabrigo purchased an old meat-processing plant and is in the process of converting it into offices and modern warehouses. We were gently herded into a steel elevator that once hauled beef carcasses up to elevated conveyor belts, feeling quite like livestock ourselves.
We stepped out of the elevator, walked down a snaking hallway and the mood changed completely. What used to be a bare concrete slaughterhouse is now filled floor to ceiling with hundreds of kilos of rainbow wool. Three women stood at tables weighing and tagging skeins as the afternoon sunlight poured into through enormous windows. Overwhelmed by the quantity of wool around me, I stared for a minute trying to process all of the different shades, shapes, thicknesses, and textures crammed on 12 foot high plywood shelving units laid out in aisles down the room. Antonio chuckled at my bewilderment and introduced me to some of the staff at Malabrigo. I wandered about, choosing colors and debating over merino or more traditional wool, while Antonio did his daily walkthrough of the warehouse. He greeted all six of the employees with a smile, clarifying some organizational concerns and keeping tabs on the boxes lined up for export to the US. Once I had my fill of picking out yarn, he offered to show us the dyeing facility on the top floor of the building before we returned to downtown.
[Abrubt segue followed by long tirade against industrial agriculture...can you keep up?]
What I have noticed on my many bus rides through the Argentine, Chilean, and now Uruguayan countryside is that many times animals coexist on the same pastures. The interconnectedness of grazing life is difficult to deny. The domesticated animals are not isolated from wild ones: hawks perch on fence posts looking for prey in the same fields that feed the cattle, sheep and horses. This sense of the natural world, the complexity of a living ecosystem, is lost with the creation of suburbia. In the supermarket, the personification of mainstream American life and a rarity down here in the land of specialty stores, everything is packaged or shrink wrapped and separated into specific categories. It’s hard enough to imagine that the T-bone and the flank steak or the liver all came from the same animal, let alone imagine that cow walking through a field among grub-eating egrets or lying under a shady tree. People have become so used to sterilized, processed food that most don’t even know what to do with a whole chicken.
In South America, with the exclusion of Buenos Aires, its own mini-country, there are urban areas and rural areas. The sprawling housing developments peppered with chains of mega-stores is an American creation, although the disease is spreading. Here, even people who spend most of their lives in a city have some connection to the natural world and things that grow. A businessman might keep horses out in the country, middle class people usually have family that lives on a farm or in a tiny out of the way town. Fortunately, Argentines are still very demanding in the quality of their beef, so the few feed lots that ranchers have established in order to raise profit margins have had little market for their inferior quality product. Back at home we’re not so informed.
In the United States, it is more than likely that the average person never comes into direct contact with nature. My family always went camping for vacation until I was a teenager and my parents constantly garden, so I often forget that there are millions of Americans who have never experienced the real fear of getting lost in the woods at dusk, watched a seed grow into a plant (or wither and die, as the case may be), or seen an animal in the wild. The lack of experience and understanding of the natural world distorts people’s perception of their place in the world, further distorting American culture. This seemingly meaningless absence trickles down into society, changing the way that Americans eat, dress, and move around the world. With industrial agriculture, cows, chickens and pigs are treated like machines than the complex and diverse organisms that they are. Having access to food that comes from real animals that run around and breathe fresh air shouldn’t be a luxury that you can only access by taking a several thousand mile flight. Synthetic fibers comprise most of the textiles that find their way onto shelves. People drive huge cars that churn through gasoline, but they drive them down paved highways in cities, not over gravel roads.
I don’t advocate becoming a vegan, burning my car and wearing hemp clothing, but rather making conscious decisions where and why you spend money. Last week at the Plaza de Mayo, a woman selling a locally produced magazine told me “Every peso is a vote.” Not a new thought, it is an idea that merits remembering. I dropped a big chunk of my budget at Malabrigo Yarns, and although it may be a miniscule portion of their annual revenue, it is a big deal to me. I am glad to support a company that treats its employees well, is run by passionate people who care about their product, who recognize the beauty of doing something by hand. Antonio comes to the warehouse every day to inspect the colors of each kilo of yarn and make sure it meets his expectations. The workers dyeing, packing, and sorting wool had fresh air, natural light from huge open windows, and seemed to be friendly enough with each other to enjoy a laugh every once in a while.
The dyeing facility on the top floor was shockingly rudimentary, with the aforementioned kettles and people meandering about, stirring every few minutes. Antonio mentioned that one of the major renovations they are hoping to have in the near future is a larger drying room: essentially a dehydrator the size of a studio apartment, to dry larger volumes of wool at a time. Business seems to have been good lately, but clearly the Crisis is in the back of everyone’s mind.
As I leave Uruguay, I can look out the window and see clumps of merino sheep scattered over the rolling fields, munching away and sharing the pasture with the cows, just like Antonio said they did. I think about the eight kilos of yarn strapped to the bottom of my backpack and wince a little at the thought of hauling it on and off of buses for another month and a half. But in addition to weight, this wool has a little more depth, a better story than it would as a chemically generated polymer spat out by a petroleum-burning factory. I’m okay with lugging it around for a while. It’s actually an honor.
I don’t know what will happen to Malabrigo Yarns, whether they will be able to negotiate the grey area between economic growth and industrialization, whether it will be able to keep its soul and commitment to high quality goods at fair prices, or if its leadership will end up sacrificing quality for higher production. I’m happy to have seen it the way it is now, and can only hope that my purchase acts as a vote of approval to help them keep doing what they do.
“Because it’s there.”
Not a fantastic answer nor entirely true. It does have a pleasing rhetorical air to it.
To be more honest, I wanted to see the country of cows and corrida sheep that produces my favorite brand of knitting yarn. No, my woolen adventures in Peru were not enough to satiate a lust for South American textiles. After a good deal of unfruitful online research, I emailed the only address I could find for Manos de Uruguay, the company that produces a fantastic hand-dyed sheep’s wool that retails for around $13 per skein in wool boutiques (I refuse to call them “stores” or “shops” because this implies fair pricing, instead of the ridiculous gouging that occurs in knitting stores all around the country). Unfortunately, the silly people told me to contact their US distributor to buy yarn, not very useful when I’m in Uruguay.
There were a few other appealing features to Uruguay, including its famed beaches; nearly half of the 13 million people in Buenos Aires flee to the resort town of Punta del Este for the summer to sit packed like sardines on the sand. We heard from a fellow norteamericano traveler that Punta del Diablo, a small town on the Brazil-Uruguay border, was a much more pleasant place to unwind from the rigors of the road, so we made plans to speed east once we entered the country and lie around on deserted beaches until it was time to meet a friend of mine in Mendoza.
We bid adieu to Buenos Aires from the Buquebus (lit. BoatBus) which took us across the Rio de la Plata at sunset, then spent our first real day in Uruguay trying to figure out the monetary value of the Uruguayan peso while visiting the quaint colonial city of quaint nomenclature, Colonia. Yet another UNESCO World Heritage site, the old city was mostly filled with bus loads of tourists and nasty mosquitoes, so we chose to languish in the shade of our hostel and wait for a bus to Montevideo. I then noted several mutant mosquito bites, some of which may be the vestiges of Iguazú mosquitoes, which have now swelled into inch-long bumps. A little disconcerting. We’ll see how that goes.
At this point, I was engaged in an email exchange with another yarn company, Malabrigo Yarns, whom I’d stumbled across on some Google searches for Manos de Uruguay. They seemed much more welcoming than the Manos staff, so I hoped that I’d be able to visit their warehouse. Just before we left for Montevideo, I found out that the warehouse wasn’t in the city center, but in a neighborhood of unknown location called El Cerro (lit. the mountain/peak). I didn’t really know what that meant, not being familiar with the local geography, and let it wait until we arrived.
In the beginning of our trip, we ripped out the sections of our general South American guidebooks that related to countries not on our itinerary. Clearly we weren’t going to make it as far north as Ecuador, and it’s not exactly safe to be in Colombia as an Anglo blonde—those pages went in the trash. As we go, we tear out the section of the book for a city, carry it in our pockets, and then leave it behind at the bus station. This keeps our thick books from taking up too much precious backpack space, and gives a wonderful sense of closure to each leg of the journey. We were a little too zealous in our book weeding four months back, not imagining in November that we’d ever get to Uruguay. Oops! Thus, when we arrived in the country, we didn’t even have the exchange rate, let alone a map of the places we were to visit.
Five brochures later I figured out where El Cerro was, and we checked in to a decent hostel in downtown Montevideo. The next morning, I had planned to meet one of the yarn people at 11:00 am at the warehouse, whose location I finally pinned down in the Industrial Center...but somehow we both slept through the alarm until 10:45. Mortified, I write an apology to the company and head off to the bus station to find a way to get out to the Parque Industrial. Several people I asked said flat out that there was no way to get there by bus. One driver, trying to be helpful, told me to take the 124, buy a transfer ticket, go to another terminal, find the connection to Santa Maria, and then ask someone how to get to the Parque Industrial. No thanks, I’ll take a taxi.
Nearly defeated, I was about to throw in the towel when one last email came through from Malabrigo. The person with whom I had emailed for several days gave me the warehouse phone number and the cell of some guy named Antonio. Since the warehouse phone didn’t work, I called Antonio. “¡Hello Thea, how are you! Everything well?” was the surprisingly cheerful response to my uncertain “¿Hola?” When I mentioned that I was trying to get over to the warehouse, Antonio immediately said “Oh no, don’t go in a taxi. I have to go over there this afternoon, so I’ll pick you up from downtown.”
Presto! All of my problems are solved. I scheduled meet him in an hour at a designated street corner, told him roughly what I looked like, and then waited until 2:45. Sure enough, at a quarter to three a small Cheverolet pulls up in front of me and Dave, driven by a forty-something man with dark hair and glasses.
As we would find out in our conversations both to and from the Malabrigo dyeing center and warehouse, Antonio is one of three directors of the company, an ex-architect who couldn’t find work after the economic Crisis of 2001 and started developing kettle-dyed wool for US and European markets. I felt a little bad explaining the way that I found out about Malabrigo (I had never used the product, but Manos de Uruguay wouldn’t talk to me), but the little internet research that did that morning gave me a good feeling about the stuff. There are little old ladies in the Midwest and West coast who go nuts for this wool, so much so that they started about a half-dozen blogs about it! It really is hand-dyed in enamel or aluminum kettles (I know because I saw the pots!), just like someone would do in their own house, which produces interesting variations in color intensity that I find makes amazing garments. Like Manos, they offer several multicolored products, more difficult to dye but also more interesting. I mentioned that I liked the Malabrigo version called acuarela (watercolors), and Antonio humbly explained that he invented the dyeing process that produces lovely watery color transitions. This was the same guy who picked me up on a street corner in the capital just to take me to see the wool warehouse. He had no idea who I was, how much money, if any, I had to spend, or what relation I had to the company.
As we wound our way around Montevideo Bay, we told him a little bit about our trip and ourselves. Naturally, the conversation turned to sheep. I learned a little more about merino wool, augmented later by a fascinating internet history of the originally Spanish merino sheep. D’s own sheep-ey past let him talk shop with Antonio a bit, discussing the plight of the modern sheep farmer plagued by falling wool prices little demand for meat.
It’s clear that Uruguay, while having suffered from the same economic crisis as Argentina, has been much slower in rebounding from it. Construction projects in the city seem to have been put on hold, and the restoration of the historic colonial neighborhood is nearly nonexistent.
“Who knows anything about Uruguay, or Montevideo? Who wants to come here? It’s all Buenos Aires. That’s what happens when you have big neighbors.”Sandwiched between giants like Argentina and Brazil, Uruguay’s economic future has been subject to the fortunes of its immediate neighbors, something that Malabrigo and companies like it are trying to remedy. By marketing its artisanal product to more diverse markets like the US, Europe, and Asia, they hope to protect themselves against an often unreliable South American economy.
Poor marginalized Uruguay, the younger sibling of larger nations, still has a core of emphatic citizens more racially diverse than the population of its southern neighbor, and a strong cultural heritage. I had no idea that tango was as much an Uruguayan phenomenon as Argentine. Carlos Gardel, the über-famous tango singer whose life-sized portrait stood outside the gelato shop next to our apartment in Palermo, got his start in the tango scene in Uruguay before moving to Buenos Aires; the composer of “La Cumparsita,” the allegedly most popular tango in the world, was from Montevideo. I’m not surprised that they didn’t mention that during our tango show at Café Tortoni, the hottest spot for aesthetic and political intellectuals in late 19th century Buenos Aires.
Three cheers for Uruguay: it’s got heart even if it doesn’t have fame. ¡Olé, Olé, Olé!
As our conversation progressed, we followed the horseshoe shaped bay around to the opposite shore, a slightly rougher neighborhood full of impromptu housing and defunct industrial warehouses. Antonio pulled the car into what looked like an abandoned factory. Guess what… it was an abandoned factory. Together with other young businesses, Malabrigo purchased an old meat-processing plant and is in the process of converting it into offices and modern warehouses. We were gently herded into a steel elevator that once hauled beef carcasses up to elevated conveyor belts, feeling quite like livestock ourselves.
We stepped out of the elevator, walked down a snaking hallway and the mood changed completely. What used to be a bare concrete slaughterhouse is now filled floor to ceiling with hundreds of kilos of rainbow wool. Three women stood at tables weighing and tagging skeins as the afternoon sunlight poured into through enormous windows. Overwhelmed by the quantity of wool around me, I stared for a minute trying to process all of the different shades, shapes, thicknesses, and textures crammed on 12 foot high plywood shelving units laid out in aisles down the room. Antonio chuckled at my bewilderment and introduced me to some of the staff at Malabrigo. I wandered about, choosing colors and debating over merino or more traditional wool, while Antonio did his daily walkthrough of the warehouse. He greeted all six of the employees with a smile, clarifying some organizational concerns and keeping tabs on the boxes lined up for export to the US. Once I had my fill of picking out yarn, he offered to show us the dyeing facility on the top floor of the building before we returned to downtown.
[Abrubt segue followed by long tirade against industrial agriculture...can you keep up?]
What I have noticed on my many bus rides through the Argentine, Chilean, and now Uruguayan countryside is that many times animals coexist on the same pastures. The interconnectedness of grazing life is difficult to deny. The domesticated animals are not isolated from wild ones: hawks perch on fence posts looking for prey in the same fields that feed the cattle, sheep and horses. This sense of the natural world, the complexity of a living ecosystem, is lost with the creation of suburbia. In the supermarket, the personification of mainstream American life and a rarity down here in the land of specialty stores, everything is packaged or shrink wrapped and separated into specific categories. It’s hard enough to imagine that the T-bone and the flank steak or the liver all came from the same animal, let alone imagine that cow walking through a field among grub-eating egrets or lying under a shady tree. People have become so used to sterilized, processed food that most don’t even know what to do with a whole chicken.
In South America, with the exclusion of Buenos Aires, its own mini-country, there are urban areas and rural areas. The sprawling housing developments peppered with chains of mega-stores is an American creation, although the disease is spreading. Here, even people who spend most of their lives in a city have some connection to the natural world and things that grow. A businessman might keep horses out in the country, middle class people usually have family that lives on a farm or in a tiny out of the way town. Fortunately, Argentines are still very demanding in the quality of their beef, so the few feed lots that ranchers have established in order to raise profit margins have had little market for their inferior quality product. Back at home we’re not so informed.
In the United States, it is more than likely that the average person never comes into direct contact with nature. My family always went camping for vacation until I was a teenager and my parents constantly garden, so I often forget that there are millions of Americans who have never experienced the real fear of getting lost in the woods at dusk, watched a seed grow into a plant (or wither and die, as the case may be), or seen an animal in the wild. The lack of experience and understanding of the natural world distorts people’s perception of their place in the world, further distorting American culture. This seemingly meaningless absence trickles down into society, changing the way that Americans eat, dress, and move around the world. With industrial agriculture, cows, chickens and pigs are treated like machines than the complex and diverse organisms that they are. Having access to food that comes from real animals that run around and breathe fresh air shouldn’t be a luxury that you can only access by taking a several thousand mile flight. Synthetic fibers comprise most of the textiles that find their way onto shelves. People drive huge cars that churn through gasoline, but they drive them down paved highways in cities, not over gravel roads.
I don’t advocate becoming a vegan, burning my car and wearing hemp clothing, but rather making conscious decisions where and why you spend money. Last week at the Plaza de Mayo, a woman selling a locally produced magazine told me “Every peso is a vote.” Not a new thought, it is an idea that merits remembering. I dropped a big chunk of my budget at Malabrigo Yarns, and although it may be a miniscule portion of their annual revenue, it is a big deal to me. I am glad to support a company that treats its employees well, is run by passionate people who care about their product, who recognize the beauty of doing something by hand. Antonio comes to the warehouse every day to inspect the colors of each kilo of yarn and make sure it meets his expectations. The workers dyeing, packing, and sorting wool had fresh air, natural light from huge open windows, and seemed to be friendly enough with each other to enjoy a laugh every once in a while.
The dyeing facility on the top floor was shockingly rudimentary, with the aforementioned kettles and people meandering about, stirring every few minutes. Antonio mentioned that one of the major renovations they are hoping to have in the near future is a larger drying room: essentially a dehydrator the size of a studio apartment, to dry larger volumes of wool at a time. Business seems to have been good lately, but clearly the Crisis is in the back of everyone’s mind.
As I leave Uruguay, I can look out the window and see clumps of merino sheep scattered over the rolling fields, munching away and sharing the pasture with the cows, just like Antonio said they did. I think about the eight kilos of yarn strapped to the bottom of my backpack and wince a little at the thought of hauling it on and off of buses for another month and a half. But in addition to weight, this wool has a little more depth, a better story than it would as a chemically generated polymer spat out by a petroleum-burning factory. I’m okay with lugging it around for a while. It’s actually an honor.
I don’t know what will happen to Malabrigo Yarns, whether they will be able to negotiate the grey area between economic growth and industrialization, whether it will be able to keep its soul and commitment to high quality goods at fair prices, or if its leadership will end up sacrificing quality for higher production. I’m happy to have seen it the way it is now, and can only hope that my purchase acts as a vote of approval to help them keep doing what they do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)