It has taken four days to set down my goals for this trip, but now that I have, a delicious sense of calm has settled over me. There will be no more anxiety attacks in cat parks or breakdowns in electronics stores for this savvy Seattle gal. Such things are simply not in The Plan. What is in The Plan:
WEEK 1
• Start first draft of new plan (includes a list of sights to see before I go home); while working on new plan, it is perfectly acceptable to do little else
• Stop thinking about Jeff
WEEK 2
• Start travel blog (since I’ll be writing all those e-mails anyway)
• Stop thinking about Jeff
• Eat out in a restaurant
WEEK 3
• Enroll in Spanish classes (twice a week minimum)
• Research Argentina history online
• Take walk around neighborhood and try to go a little farther or in a different direction each time
• Get Jorge to like me!
• Make an Argentine friend (Jorge doesn’t count)
• Stop thinking about Jeff
And so on and so forth right up until the day I leave, when Andrea will take a picture of me to add to the collection on the side table in her living room. On that day I will be very sad to leave, I’ve decided, but (as clearly stated on page four of the spreadsheet) I will mostly be excited about the next phase of my life that can finally begin the moment I touch back down in Seattle.
Of course, I haven’t started my plan for that phase yet. Creating an itinerary for this six-month digression is one thing. Constructing a whole new life plan is another. One thing’s for sure—this time around, I’ve got to be way more careful. I left far too much to chance when I made the first plan. At nineteen, you think in broad strokes, and that’s exactly where I went wrong. Perfection is in the details. A serious life plan takes meticulous strategizing, fine-tuning, and, I’ve come to learn, a few contingency plans. But I’m working it all out in my head, and the bones of it are there. Soon the fleshy shape of my new and improved life will be as clear as the color-coding on a spreadsheet.
Until then I’m committed to making the most of my time here, of which remains 175 days and thirteen hours. I know because I’ve fashioned a rudimentary countdown calendar from a stack of Post-it notes. Each morning I pull off the top one to reveal the current date and how many days I have left. Yesterday I started to feel a little anxious about how big a stack of sticky yellow paper all those days added up to, so I pulled it apart into seven small piles, and I feel a whole lot better. A stack of twenty-five Post-it notes doesn’t look so hard. I can do this. I am already doing this. Each morning, hands clasped around a mug of Earl Grey, I groggily contemplate that first thoroughly manageable square of yellow papers and recite this with as much conviction as I can muster. It has become my new mantra.
This morning the I’m-okay-you’re-okay portion of my day is cut short when Andrea drops by to tell me the language school where her friend works has a beginners’ course starting in about two hours. “This is good news, sí?” How do I explain that I wasn’t even planning on researching classes until the day after tomorrow, never mind starting one today, to this kind woman who is grinning at me expectantly, thinking herself immensely helpful.
“Well, actually, I—” I stammer out a pathetic protest, but she shakes her head and hands me her cordless phone.
“You talk to Elena.”
In impeccable English, Elena tells me either I come today or I’ll have to wait three weeks for the next start date. “We are the best school in the city,” she says confidently. “And the teacher is very good. The students love her.” I know I can’t put this off until my second month. There must be a thousand Spanish classes in this city at any given time, but this is Andrea’s friend, and she does speak perfect English.
“Okay,” I tell her, and then, balking slightly, add, “Maybe.”
Elena gives me the address. It’s downtown.
“Downtown? Oh.” I hadn’t planned on venturing that far out for another three weeks, but did I really expect to find a language school right around the corner? Careless oversight. “That’s a bit far, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s easy,” Andrea interjects from the doorway. “You take the subway,” she says happily, pushing a map book at me. Is it my imagination, or is she trying to get me out of the house? I catch her eyes roaming from my pile of empty ravioli packages bursting from the garbage can in the kitchen to the rudimentary Post-it-note time line I’ve created along one wall to the state of my pajamas, which have yet to find the laundry room downstairs. I suppose the apartment has adopted the look of a hermit’s cave in the last few days, and I’m not doing too shabby a job at the role of resident hermit. It’s just that I needed to concentrate on my plan. Oh, jeez, is that a Post-it note stuck to my knee?
“Can we expect you today then, Cassandra?” Elena asks. Is it too late to back out? Would anyone buy it if I said I had a big day planned already? I peel the wayward sticky from my pajama bottoms, a move that isn’t going to help me convince Andrea I had intended to go anywhere other than back to bed with my laptop. Of course, I am a grown-up. I can say no. And I do have things to do. I do have a plan, dammit. A few weeks isn’t too long to wait, really. I can accomplish loads of other important things in that amount of time, with or without Spanish.
But then I remember Mateo shaking his head at me in the doorway, the easy laughter at this mess of an American who can’t speak the language. That feeling of utter ignorance is not something I want to experience again anytime soon. The last time I saw Mateo in the house, twiddling with the light switch in the front entrance, I ducked behind the giant ficus tree and then shimmied my way back up the stairway before he could see me. I was in desperate need of milk for yet another cup of tea, but, caffeine cravings be damned, I wasn’t about to let him make me feel stupid again. I waited for almost two hours, watching TV that I didn’t understand, until it was almost dark. Only when I heard voices and then the closing of Andrea’s heavy front door did I venture downstairs again. Not exactly my crowning moment, and not a scenario I want to repeat. And hadn’t I once vowed that the next time I saw him, I’d have the last word?
“Sure,” I tell Elena before I can change my mind. Where the confidence in my voice comes from, I can’t say. “I’ll see you soon. Thanks.” I hand the phone back to Andrea, who claps her free hand to my shoulder and gives it a squeeze before she goes.
So now I’ve got three city maps and a transit map spread out on the bed. Downtown Buenos Aires. Why do the maps always gray out the downtown? Are they trying to make it look more foreboding? No need. I am still getting used to the main street four blocks from here, venturing more than a few blocks onto its frantic sidewalks only when my supply of ravioli runs low. It’s probably not all that bad, I tell myself. I’m overreacting, falling victim to the worst travel tragedy: prejudice.
I consult my main guidebook for a bit of reassurance.
Downtown Buenos Aires, or Microcentro, is a loud, hurried mix of businesspeople, students, shoppers, and street vendors all vying for space on narrow sidewalks shaded by soaring modern towers. If you don’t like crowds, avoid Florida, a pedestrian street where shopping is a full-contact sport . . .
Okay, I’m not overreacting. Downtown Buenos Aires is going to eat me alive. I try not to think about it, to focus instead on planning my trip. Red, green, and blue subway lines weave their way across the transit map. I need the green line. I think. Six blocks to the nearest subway station, five stops, and about three blocks to the school. I can do this, I think, marking the school’s location on each map and highlighting the corresponding paths with a yellow marker. I am already doing this.
If I’m going to sit in a classroom again after all these years, I’m going to take it seriously. I throw on a pair of khaki pants, white button-down shirt, and comfortable black flats. I brush my hair back into a low ponytail and skip all but mascara and blush. Into my knapsack go four ma
ps, one guidebook, a brand-new notepad, a fresh stack of Post-its, three pens, a pencil, a yellow highlighter, a bottle of water, what I hope is an Argentine protein bar, and an apple. Swinging the bag over my shoulder, I take one last look at myself in the mirror and laugh. It’s an absurd sight, to say the least, this twenty-eight-year-old woman from Washington State in Argentina, about to head off to Spanish class dressed like a seventeen-year-old prep-school senior. So absurd, in fact, that I almost miss the faint sensation, as I twist my key into the lock, that maybe, possibly, something wonderful is about to happen.
Getting on the subway is easy. Getting off is a little more difficult. The doors open on different sides for different stops. I’m not sure which side I need, and by the fourth stop, the car has filled to near capacity. (I’m sure there are dozens of interesting things to see if I were to look around, but I must concentrate on the stops.) I hover in the middle of two exits to hedge my bets, and when the doors open (on the right, I stash away in my memory), I let the flow of commuters carry me out, and up to the street.
In the sunlight, I give my eyes a moment to readjust, then sit on a park bench to get my bearings. I’ve made good time. My class doesn’t start for another half hour. I examine my main map, take note of nearby landmarks to confirm my position, recheck the route, tracing the highlighted line with my finger. After I’ve done this several times, I attempt to repeat the route by foot. One block and one turn later, and I am already lost.
The maps all say the street I’m looking for, Reconquista, should be right here on this corner, where a wizened old man is selling what looks like candy-coated peanuts, but there is no Reconquista to be found. I could ask the man, I suppose, but I detest the idea of being one of those tourists who shout random words at locals as though verbs and prepositions are unnecessary bits of language. I remember my mother doing this on our family vacation in Mexico when I was twelve. Walking through the center of the old town, in desperate need of aspirin for yet another headache, she began shouting “Pharmacy? Pharmacy?” at every person who passed. They shrank from her voice, avoided eye contact, mumbled under their breath. Crazy woman, they must have been saying. Loca americana. I tried to make myself small against the side of a building, shrugged sympathetically at passersby. Finally, a young boy barely older than me answered, “¿Farmacia?” (one Spanish word I’ll never forget) and pointed at the small white building across the street with a green cross in the window. I shiver at the memory. I’d rather roam around for hours than be that ridiculous.
And that’s exactly what it feels like I’m doing. I have passed a dozen street corners and a dozen wizened old men selling candied nuts. Each time I get to an intersection, I locate it on the map before moving forward. I seem no farther from or closer to my final destination. The sidewalks are razor-thin and crowded. Suited Argentines swish past me at breakneck speed. They have no time for disoriented tourists, though I seem to be the only one. If I stop to read my map, they graze me with their elbows and bags, mumbling. I flatten myself against the sides of buildings, feeling twelve again, but this time embarrassed by my own actions. It’s the hottest time of day, and somewhere the sun is shining, but downtown, under the canopy of concrete and glass, I am in the shade. Cold, confused, and, surprise, surprise, near tears.
After twenty minutes, I am both deflated and elated to find myself back at the subway entrance. This must be a sign. Forget the stupid class, get back on the stupid subway, and go back to the stupid apartment. I never should have strayed from The Plan. This is my punishment for doing so. Who needs Spanish, anyhow? So what if I end up shouting farmacia at frightened strangers? There are worse things I could do. Yes, Andrea will be disappointed. And what about smug Mateo? Well, maybe I’ll get another apartment. One where people don’t scorn you for speaking a different language or make you go downtown when you clearly aren’t ready.
No, I remind myself, you can do this. You’re already doing it, right? How is another question. I can’t bear to look at the map. It’s done me no favors this far. I might as well wing it. Listen to my gut. But it’s been so long since I’ve followed anything resembling an instinct, I’m not sure how to do it. I search for a street sign. Florida. If you don’t like crowds, avoid Florida . . .
I hold my breath and dart across the pedestrian street, ducking flyers left and right. “Leather coats! Leather bags!” one man yells at me. “Cashmere, twenty dollars!” shouts another. Five minutes ago I would have given anything to hear a little English, but now I just want back onto the relatively quiet streets beyond this hurricane of consumerism.
I don’t stop until I come to a red light. Another intersection without street signs, another nut vendor. My shoulders sink and curl inward.
I am officially late. At this minute, a wonderful, beloved Spanish teacher is saying my name, shaking her head at the empty chair. I’ll miss the first lesson, and then I’ll never catch up. There isn’t much I can do about that now. I’ve tried, haven’t I? Wandered around this maze for over half an hour. Followed the map. Tracked back. Tried a different route. Then another. And another. Wound myself into disoriented circles. I’m tired, cold, and hungry. What more can I do?
I buy a bag of nuts for a peso. They’re actually pretty good, caramelly sweet with a faint and not unpleasant burnt taste. I smile at the old man, who nods knowingly. Fortified by the promise of a sugar rush, I take a chance. What was it the little boy said to me on the street that day? “Excúseme, señor.” I mumble to hide what is surely horrific pronunciation. “Do you know Reconquista? Por favor.” He dips his forehead toward me. I hold a map out between us and point to my destination enthusiastically. “Reconquista?”
“Ahhh,” he exhales more than says. “Sí. Reconquista.” The rest are words I don’t understand, but I don’t need to. As he talks, he sweeps his hand left and right above the sidewalk and smiles. Carved into the concrete is the word “Reconquista.”
The language school is housed in an old office building. The elevator, with its manual sliding wooden door and knobby black buttons, clunks to a stop at the fourth floor. I make my way down the tight corridor to suite 407, a glass door covered in brightly colored words, similar to the ones that ran like molding around my grade-five classroom. WELKOM! BIENVENUE! BOA VINDA! WELCOME! the door exclaims. I can do this. I am already doing this.
Inside, the school looks more like a doctor’s office than an elementary classroom. The reception area is crowded with old mismatched office furniture. A long table to one side is cluttered with brochures. The building’s white walls hold glossy posters of Italy, Spain, London, and France, the kind you see displayed in the windows of travel agencies. A woman speaks loudly into a phone in what sounds like French, her head bent low to examine a piece of paper on the desk.
Another woman pokes her head out from behind a corner at waist level. Leaning back in her chair, she is in serious danger of falling over. “¿Hola?” she says.
“¿Hola?” I say back.
“Cassandra?”
“Yes. It’s Cassie, actually.”
“Ah, wonderful!” she exclaims and snaps upright again, disappearing behind the wall. Her English is perfect. This must be Elena. A moment later, she rounds the corner, smiling warmly. “Welcome, welcome.” I step forward with my hand extended, but she ignores it, planting a light kiss on my cheek instead. From her professional manner on the telephone, I didn’t expect her to be so, uh, friendly. A disarmingly handsome man appears from Elena’s office. “This is Andrea’s friend Cassie. Cassie, this is my husband, Alessandro.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he purrs. I offer my hand, but he ignores it, too. Another kiss. Am I blushing? They look at me and smile, clearly amused.
“You aren’t used to the kissing yet?” Elena asks.
“Oh. No. I just . . . I didn’t know.”
“But you’ve been here for a week,” she says, incredulous.
“I haven’t really met a lot of people.” I remember the yellow Post-it stuck to my knee this mor
ning and cringe inside.
“You’ll get used to it soon enough.” If everyone looks like Alessandro, I’m sure I will.
Elena gives me some forms to fill out later and shows me to my classroom. I am ten minutes late. I take a deep breath and step inside.
“¡Hola!” shouts the slender woman in thick tortoiseshell glasses and a misbuttoned cardigan, standing at the blackboard. “Come in, come in!” Heads whip around, but there are only five students, and they all smile easily in my direction. Elena passes the teacher a piece of paper. She studies it briefly and looks up at me again.
“Welcome, Cassie!” Her English, even better than Elena’s, is tinted with a slight British accent. “My name is Marcela.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say quietly. “I got a bit lost.” The story of my life lately. I was on my way to a corner office when I took a wrong turn and ended up in South America instead.
“Oh, no need to worry. We’ve been busy with forms, so the class is just getting started, really. You haven’t missed a thing. Please, sit, sit!”
A small woman with a mass of curly dark hair who couldn’t be over nineteen or twenty scoots to make room for me, patting the chair beside her.
“Well, then,” Marcela begins. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves.”
We all look at one another, shyly, furtively, empathetically. One by one, starting with the guy on my left, my classmates say their names, where they’re from, and why they’ve come to Buenos Aires. There is a smiley Irish couple who need to learn a bit of Spanish so they can travel around the country and teach English. Two young German guys think they will stay for a month before heading south to Patagonia to see the penguins. At least I think that’s what the blond one said—he speaks some English, but it’s thick. Grateful to be last, I use the few precious minutes formulating what I will say. I know my name and where I’m from, but what’s a good reason to be here? “Running away from my rubble of a life” might not make for the best first impression. I must have done this same introduction bit at least twenty times in college, and I don’t remember my palms ever sweating like this. I always knew exactly what to say, how any particular class would move me toward my business degree, which would propel me into my career as a high-powered executive. What great ambition is this class propelling me toward? I can’t think of anything, and the curly-haired woman beside me is already beginning to speak.
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 9