Crossing Paths

I find it difficult to write when I am in a bad mood. It's not that I want to censor myself or only pen down a bubbly image of who I am and what I think and feel; it is more that I do not like to associate writing with a negative cloud of energy. I haven't been in a bad mood lately, per se, but I haven't been at my best. There is something about the city of Buenos Aires that does not click with me completely. Then again, it took me 6 months to begin to like NYC. That said, we will wait to pass final judgment.

You know those moments when you witness something so wonderful you just have to smile? Those moments that create a secret between you and yourself? Sometimes other people get in on your secret, when they see your internal smile and you lock eyes and share an understanding that what just happened should be preserved, imprinted in memories and tucked away to treasure at a later date. Tuesday night on my way home from volunteering I had a smile-with-myself moment. On my way into the Subte, I noticed signs saying that the station was closed and you had to walk to the next station to catch a train. Despite the signs, however, hordes of people were surging down the stairs, so I decided to follow. All of the turnstiles were blocked off with caution tape, but a security guard had opened a gate and people were flowing onto the platform for free. I waltzed through with them and took a place on the platform. Once my brain registered that there were people waiting for a train that was supposedly not coming, I also picked up a clapping noise that was going on. People all up and down the train platform were clapping in sync. A woman near me asked one of the clappers why she was clapping, and the woman, seeing me looking, told both of us that we should join in; the clapping was to show the train operators that the people are angry and want the train to stop at that station. Minutes later, amidst the claps, a train arrived, slowly inching along and finally stopping to pick us up. I was thrilled. That would NEVER happen in New York. MTA has schedule or route changes and you just suck it up and deal with it. I smiled the whole way home as I eavesdropped on a conversation next to me between an Argentine chef and a Korean visitor whose only language in common was English. In Buenos Aires, though, apparently the people have a good deal of everyday power. It sounds trivial, but the power to clap a train into changing its route is a big deal in my mind.

At breakfast a couple of days ago, the 9-year-old daughter of one of the women who works in our residence hall ate breakfast with us. She walked up the stairs, saw me and Desiree, and ran over and threw her arms around us. Having kids around makes such a difference in my happiness level; my happy energy skyrockets when I spend time with kids.

Classes are all solidly good, but I am not feeling intellectually stimulated here, which is hard. I love to love school. I miss my Social and Cultural Analysis classes that address the problematic elements in every part of society, while also talking about the power of the people and the ways that people rally against oppression. I miss analyzing dominant power forces in regards to culture and being assigned readings that help me develop my own thoughts, or put into words what I can not verbalize myself. Especially in light of the interesting immigration-related, racially charged, class-based, and city dynamics of Buenos Aires, I especially feel the lack of support, the lack of encouragement and nourishment for my brain and soul that I receive in New York.

Today I went to a huge bookstore that used to be a theater. Supposedly it is the largest in Buenos Aires. Every time I walk into a bookstore I feel at home. (I have realized I have an obsession with the idea of home. It comes out in most of my writing. One day I'd like to write a book called "Home and Wanderlust.")

The world continues to be small: Last night we were walking around a plaza near our residence, and a guy points at us and shouts "Punta del Este!!" Three guys from Switzerland who stayed at our hostel in Uruguay--and who we played cards with at the bar's happy hour--were in Buenos Aires, and just happened to run into us. They return to Switzerland tomorrow. Who knows if we will ever meet again, but it got me thinking: how many people in my life do I cross paths with multiple times and just do not notice? I'm sure there are tons of people in New York who I have seen on a subway train or walking down the street who I come across again in a restaurant or in a park, but we don't take note of each other. The world is too small for us not to be constantly crossing paths with each other, whether or not we realize it as it happens.

More will come soon. I let too much time pass between my posts.

With thoughtfulness and happiness that the people reading this have crossed my path,

L