Balancing

Everyday, we balance our senses between our reality and our imagination. Balancing is a concept that involves the individual and his/her immediate and abstract environment. And by abstract environment, I mean intangible and infinite spaces that the human senses make no deliberate attempt to see or touch. They´re for those who know where to look.

I haven´t deliberately tried to discover these spaces. What I have discovered, however, is that searching for balance, especially in the physical sense, has been gratifying. I think that if we are to conquer balance, we must aim for the ultimate goal of mental balance. Mental balance, however, seems as abstract as that environment of intangible and infinite space. Instead of wallow at our inability to establish a mental equilibrium, a mental yin and yan, which even a lifetime cannot guarantee, why not shift our focus to the physical equilibrium? In the process of acquiring that physical balance, the body suffers, and the body endures bruises, broken bones, and scars. These hits to the human body serve as a reminder that the physical body suffers, but ultimately, survives. Mind over body. This is the universal saying we are supposed to embrace, to follow almost religiously--three very un-uncanny words that are supposed to get us through the trivial and insurmountable difficulties presented by the minute, the hour, and the day. Yes, mind over body. However, there are times when the human body cannot conquer physical space, balance, through mental conviction alone.

My first full day back in Buenos Aires was spent largely outdoors. As I walked down Uriarte, towards Santa Fe, crossed Plaza Italia, walked the full length of the Buenos Aires Zoo before crossing Avenida Libertador, and finally entered los bosques de Palermo, I was being burnt alive by the sun, but the gentle and yet strong winds graciously picked up on my between-season-change-from-winter-to-summer distress. As Dave Matthews sang into my ears, his voice couldn´t help but be drowned by roars from the cars, taxis, and buses. Oh, city noise, the same in every corner of the world. Walking into the most popular section of los bosques, I had to quickly move to the side of the road to make space for novice and amateur rollerbladers, skateboarders, longboarders, runners, bikers, and the most interesting of them all, a man on rollerblades, dressed in all black, slick black hair pulled in a low and tight ponytail, eyes that had been mascara-ed and lined, clicking finger cymbals as he sang a Spanish flamenco tune loud and proud. And he even had a few elderly fans cheering/constructively jeering from the benches.

Slackline hadn´t even crossed my mind until I was mezmerized by two guys slacking not too far from the curbside. Without even the slightest hesitation, I walked over, set down my bag by one of the trees, and sat on a wooden stump and watched them slack. A few minutes passed before either I or them said anything. Then I asked if I could give it a try, and the rest was history, as they say. Nearly three hours passed--some people stopped to marvel, and some decided to give it a shot and then went on their merry way, content perhaps that they had conquered one of their many fears. We didn´t slack the entire time--some of the time was spent chatting about the gorgeous weather, New Years Eve parties, and how I felt to be back in Buenos Aires after one year. As I slacklined, I forgot that I was in Buenos Aires and that it was summer. It was just me and la cinta, nothing more. She supported me but also challenged me, making my return to slacking not an easy one at all. I will continue to find my balance through slacklining this month. And if I don´t find it? Well, it never hurt anyone to drift on the optimistic side of the current.

Summer Days

It's December 3rd and it's only slightly chilly outside. Some of the trees around campus still have browned and wrinkled leaves clinging, fearlessly, to the branches. Maine, where is the below 18 degrees winter havoc that you have greeted me with for the past 3 years? Well, if you can hold off on the foot loads of snow, hail and murderous icicles for just a bit longer...25 days to be exact, it'd make my return to the U.S. at the end of January slightly easier to bear. Yep, soon enough I can stop longing for summer days. The average temperature in Buenos Aires for the past weeks hovered around 80 fahrenheit, perfection. By the time I land in the city, however, the heat spell will likely have peaked 98 (consider that a conservative estimate if you're a Buenos Aires native). I'm not expecting a beach vacation in the tropical south this JanPlan, but I expect to drug myself on sunlight, gentle breezes, greenery, and no need to mention, alfajores and some fine Argentine wine.

Breathing Time

Water follows the natural course that it shall follow. The water shall flow, and it will crash against other bodies of water.  Water is the source of life, but it is also the source of anguish for those that water is not accessible to. And what about time? Time is pure beyond the purest forms of life that exist in nature and the universe. Time has never been tainted, polluted or harmed. When water stops flowing on that one particular day, the world will stop and ask, how will we carry on? People will die, trees will wither and disappear, and life forms will vanish. Until then, time will proceed as usual, and be the last to witness the disappearance of a world enslaved and ruined by its own naiveté. We can fight against the current with every last ounce of energy in our bodies, but we can't stop the current--and we can't stop time. We are slaves of time.

Ebbing Back

The countdown has resumed anew. In three months, I should be reading this post from a friend's house in Palermo, Buenos Aires, Argentina. This time, no strings attached. I'll be returning alone, FLACSO will be closed for summer vacation, and pretty much everyone I know will have escaped from Buenos Aires's summer heat spell. So, what do I have to look forward to? Well, to make the story short, a lot. A lot will have changed there, but change has taken place in here, too. So in short, January, you couldn't come any sooner.

City Beneath My Feet

Not Just a Dream

The end means the end. But, really, does anything ever end? Water flows endlessly, the sun burns brightly, the human soul carries on and memories, even after we're gone, are carried on by those with whom we experienced and shared them with. As long as my memories from Argentina are vigilantly alive and kicking, this blog will remain so as well.

A close friend from my program in Argentina is currently studying in Aix, France. Even as she writes so beautifully about her sightseeing adventures in and around France, there is always an insertion here and there about Argentina and the quilombos in Buenos Aires that made for a chaotic half year of living, but a city that in the end, resoundingly stole our hearts. So, how did I explain all this-which I can't even explain to myself sometimes-to others curious about my experience in the Paris of the South? Honestly, I don't explain much, besides the general and expected-I ate soo much meat and yes, it was mouth-watering delicious...I sampled an incredible spectrum of smooth Argentine wine....I traveled around the country and region until my bank account nearly busted. In the process of doing so, however, I don't just simply recount what I did, what I saw or what I thought; I relive flashes from those 5 months each time and 'experience' Argentina anew.

Just the other day, I was recounting a particular scene to someone, but what we eventually came to discuss at greater length was not really the scene itself (the Rio de la Plata, the sloping plaza and the rain), but rather, the experience of experiencing that scene. Then, I realized that the point of sharing an experience with someone is not to evoke awe or envy; as I described that particular day--the almost supernatural sensation of standing at the edge of the plaza, my feet only centimeters from being swept away by the powerful currents ebbing and ripping through the river, a feeling of renewal as I stood drenched from head to toe under the steady downpour of rain, the grand city of Buenos Aires, expansive and proud, behind a gray curtain of fog and rain across the river, the time spent with a friend who I unfortunately, did not get to see again before I left the country--I realized that that experience, along with many others, weren't fabrications, weren't dreams. Even as I am far, far away from the Rio de la Plata and Maine winters know no rain, I'm still ebbing and floating on waves of memories that continue to wash me farther away from the origin of experience, but still, into a clearer reality.