Of brunching with Manhattanites...

Every traveller enjoys the moment when they run into a certain species of New Yorker, the Manhattanite. But not all Manhattaners are Manhattanites, generally just those who haven´t left the island in a very long time.

This Sunday morning I woke up around noon after a night out and went to do what any sensible person would do on a Sunday mid-day: brunch. So there I was in a cafe-restaurant that is becoming a favourite, eating toast with cream cheese, olive oil, and ham (not all together) while drinking espresso(s) and orange juice, and reading a book. All standard sunday morning fare.

Enter a couple. Sunscreen. Round glasses. Ethnic colourful shirt for her, Polo for him. Blackberry in hand, occasionally waved in a desperate search for service. They sit in the table behind me.
"What´s the word for menu in spanish?" she asks.
"I don´t know, menu?" he answers.
"Señor, do you have a menu please? Can we have two menus por favor?" to the waiter, across the room.
Loving it, and far from me any intention of not enjoying my morning, I put the book down and prepare to enjoy two Manhattanites in Buenos Aires. Here are a few of my favourite quotes from the meal:
"Dr. Lindbergh answered me this morning, she thinks we should continue our sessions even while I´m away. She says it´s important this trip doesn´t disrupt my life."
"Well unless Dr. Lindbergh wants to call you international or email a session with you I don´t see how that´s gonna happen. Besides I think you can take two weeks off from her."
"Then don´t act surprised if I throw off the edge of a glacier, ten days from now."

Unsure of the general hygiene the lady goes to the bathroom to wash her hands for the third time. I know she washed her hands the previous times, first because most feminine bathroom activities usually require more than 20 secs, and secondly because her husband told her:
"I think you´re being excessively paranoid, the place seems clean enough. If you´re gonna keep going to the bathroom we might as well ask him to bring us our food there."

The man, clearly more relaxed about his Argentine experience, suggested that with his kid having almost finished college he would enjoy finally leaving the rat race and taking time to live elsewhere, such as Argentina. To which the woman answers that "apart for the obvious problem of Dr. Lindbergh and needing to attend sessions here (I loved it this part) with subtitles, it would be difficult to re-start a life. Do they have ayurvedic yoga for example?"

Manhattanites. Love them. Different from most others Americans, they are acutely aware that New York is an international city and it is therefore almost their duty to extend that openmindedness when travelling abroad. They tried to ask the waiter for good Argentine wines he thought they should discover, and were extremely worried at the idea of offending anyone (repeating to the poor waiter their food was very good with thumbs up everytime he happened to walk by). You just get the feeling they need some adjustment time away from their 401k´s, psychiatrists, and blackberries whenever they go anywhere west of Lincoln tunnel.

For my part, I´m going back to Morocco tomorrow for the sailboat crossing. And then back to Buenos Aires, inshallah, when that´s over.

Best,
FOT

February 22 2010, at the cafe La Continental, on calle Defensa.

I am in very good health (weight: 68.5 kgs and losing), just got out of a fencing class, showered, and going to have dinner soon.

Had my first tango class last night and danced in my first "milonga", which is a tango ball. It was stressful and I performed as any beginner would, but at least the stress of a first milonga is over.

Besos,

Othman

Back from Zion

Contrary to all expectations, I returned alive from Zion, aka Brazil.

It began in a most Othmanesque of fashions. But let's start at the beginning. Friday December 12 at 8 am I leave Buenos Aires with a flight to São Paulo, from where I will make a connection to Salvador, to spend 5 days with my friend Be Moraes and her family during Carnaval. This means I have a total of 2 flights. Given I had to arrive at the airport at 6 am I decided to just pull an all-nighter and not sleep at all. What I did NOT know was that the second flight, starting in São Paulo towards Salvador, was stopping in Porto Seguro. Given my lack of sleep and general incomprehension (scratch that, oblivion) of the Portuguese language, I naturally got out of the plane as soon as it kindly stopped. Which was at Porto Seguro. 715 km away from Salvadore (my destination). At 7 pm. :D. In a village with a population of 20 that closes most of the airport for dinner. Lovely, innit?

And in my jubilation at finally having reached Zion I didn't care that the airport of the 3rd largest city was the size of a small supermarket, or that its name didn't fit, or that Beatriz's mom who was supposed to come pick me up was an hour and 30 minutes left. That meant nothing to me; the important thing was I was finally in Brazil. Zion.

So imagine my joy at finding out, after speaking to Be, that I was at the other end of the state, 10h away by bus, at a cost of Reals 1440 (approximatelt $800). AND THAT'S THE PRICE OF A 10H BUS RIDE! Immediately seized by a most nervous of laughters, cackling like a mad witch high on helium, I searched for a ticket booth to buy a ticket out of there: CLOSED! I then tried calling every person I knew that might be able to purchase me a ticket online, only to find out that my Moroccan phone on roaming wasn't calling Morocco, and my Argentine phone was out of credit! With what joy I reached Aida (as well as Val in NY, Hicham in San Francisco, and Dea in London) as she had access to a computer. But as soon as she logged on to the TAM airline we were dreadfully met by a website entirely in Portuguese. Finally a good 10 minutes later Be called to valiantly announce that her mom had indeed found a ticket for me. My flight out was at 3 am. I had 8h to kill in the middle of Porto Seguro Aeropuerto Internacionão, where I was the only representative of the internacionão contingent.

Finally at 4 am I arrived at Salvador and was met by Be, who had stayed awake to pick me up. After that it just went from good to great; swimming in the Atlantic with a water so warm even I could melt into it without problem, drinking and making caipirinhas, eating pão queijo, fruits I didn't know existed, guarana coming out of my ears, etc...

And then we arrived at the carnaval. The carnaval is a 6/7 day feast to prepare for the advent of Lent, where Catholics need to give up something for 40 days. In this world there is feasting, and there is Brazilian feasting. Imagine a city of 3 million whose population doubles for a week. Imagine two massive avenues totaling 10km filled with people following super trucks with more speakers EACH than all the clubs in Philadelphia put together, singing along, dancing, shouting, and partying, basically 24h a day. Everyone knowing all the lyrics, united by the the music, blacks and whites together. I know it sounds cliché, but I'm only 24 and I'd never seen this. I'd known music capable of working wonders, but we're talking divine miracles here. 6 million beings crying and singing together like their lives depend on it is beyond me.

So this morning I left Zion, most definitely against my will. Two nights ago I begged Be's mom to please adopt me so that I could become Brazilian. She laughed but didn't say "yes" (she didn't say "no" either). I'll become Brazilian one day or another. Brasileiros are the only people I've met in this world that truly remind me of Moroccans without having anything to do with them. Yes of course we are similar to other Maghrebins, but then we really are the same. Moroccans, Algerians, Tunisians... it really is the same thing. But why would a Brazilian and I have anything in common? Yet there's something in that lightness of being, that happy laid-back musical football-loving modest attitude that is very similar. How many times was I walking down the street smelling the same smell of fried food (sfenj), faces exactly similar, colours exactly similar... It was really like being home away from home.

Anyways, now I'm back.

Best,

FOT

this is what i look like right now, btw

This is Othman during his (hopefully) last night in a hostel in Bs As. Still at Tango Backpackers hostel at the corner of Paraguay and Thames calles (streets).

In good health although I have a massive head ache as a result of dodgy salad (see "brazilian" post) two nights ago that left me vomiting all night. Last picture possibly for a while as I will be going to Salvadore de Bahia (inshallah) early friday morning.

Beijos

FOT

hanging out with Brazilians

Turns out there is a massive affinity between Moroccans and Brazilians. For the past few days I've been hanging out with Brasileiras most of the non-class time, and here is an example of our conversations:

Hola,
tudo bem aí?
Estamos em Rosário e aqui é bem gostoso, calmo... Estamos rindo muito das comidas vegetarianas daqui, creo que no te gusta!!!
Que tal você me esperar para jantarmos(cenar) juntos amanhã? Chego no fim do dia,
Beijos,

Fernanda

To which I answer:

Hola,
me voy a mi nuevo departamento mañana a las 8 o 9 de la noche, en San Telmo. Quieren venir o encontrarme despues para cenar en el barrio? o en mi departamento? que penses?

cuando llegas al hostel mañana? espero salir a approximente las 8 de la noche. si llegas despues, llamame, mi numero aqui es 11 3912 8117.

besos

fot

Isn't it beautiful? The reason she's talking about vegetarian food is that one of the girls is a vegetarian and drives us crazy when finding restaurants, to the extent that two nights ago I caught a stomach bug and puked all night because of a dodgy Greek salad with dodgy fucking shady ingredients. I've had dirty or raw food in my life, but organic vegetarian greek salads I can't deal with.

Anyways, it's been like this for the past few days, a bit of portu-nish from them and franspanish from me and we can have all the socio-politico-gastronomico-sexuo-comical discussions in the world. Going to Brazil after tomorrow btw, for Carnaval, with Be Moraes. Mmmmmm.

FOT

FOt

of Asado, Angel, and being Moroccan

February 6 2010 at some hostel, I sincerely have no idea what it's called. I am at Paraguay 4601, across the street from the previous hostel.

Last night was spectacular, the hostel organised an "asado" or bbq with chorizo and lomo, which was beyond divine. I also had my first "Auberge Espagnole" moment while having dinner with people from literally everywhere (except Asia oddly enough) and swapped stories, advice, experiences, etc... I was particularly happy because half of the people there (so about 7, 8?) had a close relationship with North London and my dear favoured neighborhood in London, Angel. It was really odd being with an Italian hair dresser, dutch student, english travellers, in the heart of Palermo Viejo in Buenos Aires and be discussing Upper street, Essex Road, Chapel Market, Liverpool road, etc... That neighborhood, my neighborhood, will always be very close to my heart. As unassuming as it is, it has sent its spiritual offspring around the world.

Otherwise I'm still in good health, hamdulah. The weather has tempered a bit, we're just shy of 30°C with less humidity and the most perfect breeze today. My ideal scenario for Saturday afternoons has always been sitting at the terrace of a cafe/restaurant eating a late lunch, having a light drink, coffee, talking with people, etc... Well, that was basically it. I then went for a long walk around the rest of Palermo, a neighborhood I'm falling inlove with by the day. As a graffiti-fanatic I couldn't ask for a better area to live in, full of colours and drawings everywhere.

Finally, it has been a long time since being Moroccan wasn't such a cool thing. As much as I love Europe and Europeans, I have to admit it's generally not the coolest place to say you're from. And then as far as America is concerned, few people even know the country (although those who do generally have a very positive image of us). But over here it's always such a pleasure to tell someone I'm from Morocco and see their face light up in surprise and curiosity. Immediately people want to share personal information about themselves just because Morocco seems like such a rare and far place. It elicits almost the same reaction as if I said I was some successful bohemian artist; people immediately want to associate. Some have a football connection, others talk to me about El Guerrouj (the long distance track runner), and others are just happy to find a third-worlder interested in their country, as if our position in the world united us. It feels great, haven't had that in a while.

Anyways, I'm invited to someone's house for dinner, once again thanks to the Moroccan connection. I was visiting apartments and one of the owners was planning to visit Morocco with her friend. I offered to give them advice if they needed, and they promptly invited me for dinner. Hasta luego a todos!

FOT

Spanish grammar, una locura

Spanish is a dodgy language. Kind of schizophrenic. When you conjugate, for example, they have different conjugations for 2nd person formal and informal ("vos" and "usted", informal and formal respectively). Yet the "usted", which is formal, is conjugated like the 3rd person (he/she). Which means that when you speak to someone respectfully you are actually conjugating as if they were not there. In my head I imagine myself talking to a judge or a respected professor, but instead of looking at them I'm giving them my back and talking about them, instead of to them.

And that's not to mention the Argentine specificities... No use detailing them all here, but basically I know I'm learning Argentinian and will eventually have to go back and learn "Spanish" proper, because this isn't it. Argentinian is not spoken but sung. Your intonations are rising and falling in all the wrong places as if you're chirping to a sparrow instead of ordering a coffee. Seriously.

And then there's rioplatense spanish, the dialect they speak around the Rio Plata, which is different from Argentine Spanish, which itself is different from other Spanish. So while the "s" is being swallowed and the double-l is being pronounced as a "sh" for some reason, you think you've learned spanish but actually the only persons who understand you are somewhere between Buenos Aires ... and Buenos Aires.

Ok I exaggerate, but honestly, it's different.