Don't worry, be happy

I've had a bit of an indulgent day as an attempt to relax and quit worrying so much. I've tried to stop worrying about the fact that the Argentine diet is one of the unhealthiest I've come across (loaded with refined flour products, charred red meat, nada on the organic, coca-cola galore, every other person chain-smoking, everything we've learned in the last ten years or so that is horrible for your health), that you have to have 360-degree vision to cross a street to avoid being hit by a careless driver that does not pay attention to crosswalks or stoplights as well as nimble feet to keep you from tripping on loose tiles (that sometimes spray doggie doolie and other unidentified matter on your legs if it's been raining). I've needed to stop worrying that I don't speak the language (but I can try), that I may be getting asthma from the air pollution (went jogging today and felt as though I was breathing through a straw), that I could get mugged, that I might see another dead cat on the sidewalk, that one of the stray dogs could give me rabies (although they seem quite friendly). Anyway, it's time to let all that go. I'm going to start enjoying myself here a bit more. Not that I'm about to go hog-wild and try to experience everything I can get my hands on (I learned my lesson in Japan, as I became deathly ill from my overindulgence-induced food poisoning, see "Sushi" poem below for more details) or go to every club, bar, museum, etc. But I'm going to try and relax a bit.

So I had a delicious hot chocolate with dulce con leche-filled churros and then went and had sushi at Maki Sushi, a tiny place with only four seats that is mostly takeout (with shelves lining the walls holding the ubiquitous white cat of fortune and other common cartoonish characters that you might expect) just a few blocks away from my place. Surprisingly, BA has a lot of sushi restaurants due to a large Japanese immigrant population along with their exposure to a huge stretch of ocean (I'll let you know if I find a good one, however). As I sat there having a rather disappointing sampler platter (I don't at all understand the popularity of philadelphia cream cheese sushi rolls - yuck) and a One-Cup Sake (extremely cheap sake that you would buy at an am/pm convenient store in Japan and drink on the street), I was reading a bit of my Time Out guidebook, newly purchased from the ultra-expensive English bookstore (I accidentally left my guidebook at a locutorio back in Uruguay and needed to get a new one, especially with my upcoming trips around the country) and came across the author's nutshell description of this city, and was struck by an adjective he used to describe it: Dickensian. I almost laughed.

I find Dickensian London rather fascinating and when I was there and went on that ghost tour there was a part of me that wished things weren't so shiny and new but rather looked the way they looked for Dickens with the dreary darkness and suffering because that seems more authentic. And now what do I have? At least according to one guidebook author, I can have all this in BA. And this was all exactly what I was running like a bat out of hell from in Villa Crespo and what keeps me off dark streets at night or causes me to avoid navigating in areas where the homeless have enough bagged possesions to fill a one-bedroom apartment. And all of this is what I have been complaining and coughing about ever since. I guess it's quite a luxury to actually romanticize Dickensian times. And once again, I feel like an idiot. It seems that every time I make a decision or form an opinion about anything it's somehow thrown on its head and in my face to prove me wrong. I'm trying not to be too opinionated (I mean, opinions are good and necessary, of course, but without enough knowledge and adequate experience to back up an opinion, you end up looking like an arrogant idiot - duh - and that's been me more times than I'd like to admit). I try to remain humble, I'm working on it. But oftentimes strong opinions can be quite funny, like Maria's son's response when I asked him what he thought about Sarah Palin: she's a bimbo.

I also don't want to report back all of the stereotypes that I am seeing that one could read in a guidebook or that I've read in a guidebook myself (okay, I know I've done this quite a bit already, and just did it above, but these people can't hog it all! I can only promise to keep it at a minimum). Has everything already been thought and written before or can I actually have a unique experience here? Or is this all just cliche? Well, bear with me.

Here's a poem I wrote a while back:

Sushi
Seaweed-wrapped salmon eggs glisten like the Buddha’s belly.
Oily mackerel on rice glows like a geisha’s painted face.
Ruby maguro blinks red: flashing pachinko parlor lights. Daily
the kaitenzushi beckons me. Small plates circle the counter’s
canal, graced with uncooked kings and queens bedecked
in sparkling baby jewels. I devour otoro-maki after tekka-maki
and let shoyu drip down my neck as wasabi explodes up my nose.
I take another plate. But the unhatched whipworms hid
between fish scales and tuna blubber. Salmon sashimi carried
an army of anisakis into my intestines. Nematodes build cities
in my belly, nibble on decadence in frenzied copulation,
multiply in my ruddy gut while I waste away muscle, and am left
with toxic fat globules. Raw delectables are now no better
than a pair of used panties in a Tokyo vending machine.