black marketeering, part I.

The extent to which geographical proximity is to be creatively exploited isn’t always clear. For example, how do you adequately portray the stench of the Calcutta sewer system once you’ve returned to making artisanal soaps in the south of France? Is memory to be trusted – or must we lean ever more desperately on intent and imagination to recall the events and impressions of past? I am sitting at the desk of an aspiring investment banker (or so I imagine him to be based a sampling of the literature on display: Management for Dummies; The Singularity is Near: Why Humans Transcend Biology; The Complete Memoires of Casanova – I think you get the point) and trying to evoke an image of Paraguay, that island-surrounded-by-land that seems ever-so-further-away from Paris than it did in Buenos Aires, much less several weeks ago in Missouri. It is easy to exaggerate the poverty of a given place when remembered through the suds of a marble-studded bathtub. All too often, we drift toward one extreme or another in a desperate attempt to avoid the ocean of Convention and its relentless waves of boredom that beat upon the brim of our Expectations and threaten our isthmus of momentary interest in the world (this sentence being but one case in point). However, when all is said and done, extremes rarely display the same hue our imaginations grant them – and the patterns of poverty and wealth alike eventually seem to be much more integral to our own historicity than we’d previously imagined. Is the goal of meritocracy and opportunity merely the ability to imagine oneself wealthy one day and homeless the next? I, for one, am not convinced it isn’t. With that in mind, I will attempt to describe the events of my last days in Paraguay from the third floor of a six-story mansion in the heart of Paris’ Latin Quarter.

We awoke midday to another glorious exhibition from the Paraguayan sun-god’s armoire – and with mate, sandwiches and an extensive array of bad music on hand, set off for Ciudad del Este several hours later than originally intended. A shame, because the little we saw of the countryside before sunset was truly astounding: from a narrow, two-land highway hugging ambling hillsides of endless summer nights, our miniscule chileno-made SUV darted through the fertile fields of the central southern cone amongst an abundance of Mercedes, mini-motos and donkeys alike. Small red-clay roads protruded from our paved passageway into a rambling horizon of straw huts, dotted palm trees and slowly burning fires. Whether they were smoldering trash or overgrown grass, we couldn’t tell. In any case, it smelled wonderful - the scent of rustic freedom married to pre-modern estival confine. It soon grew dark and all we could make out were sporadic headlights in the distance and hillside fires to our left and right. Though nearly 40% of registered Paraguayan voters are said to be members of the long-dominant Colorado Party and its powerful bureaucratic apparatus, the state doesn’t strike one as particularly present outside of the capital (Nor, at times, within it. The presidential palace is protected by what look to be 2-3 armed men sipping terere and texting their mistresses; Nico and I could gather a group of 10-15 good men and carry out the coup in a matter of minutes.) Nonetheless, there are a fearful amount of military roadblocks along the few cross-country fairways – and we were bound to be stopped before too long.

Analia, our Paraguayan host, was terrified of driving anywhere outside of the capital or the area around her lake house, so Marcos took the wheel that evening. He’d left his argie driver’s license back home so we rang the police to figure out potential fines: 150,000 guaranis, or about $12/person once divided by three - a palatable amount, in any case. Thus when the time came to pull over, we were less than alarmed. Oddly, however, the young gentlemen wanted our identification papers rather than drivers licenses, documents we’d taken great caution to leave in the capital rather than risk theft thereof in the notorious Ciudad del Este. Yet when Marcos failed to charm the subordinate soldier with his doctors’ glasses, graying mane and all-around-Argentine-allure, we were called into the roadside station to explain ourselves. It was a small wooden cabin about 10 feet from the road, accompanied by neither door nor glass window. Inside, a single, pornographic picture calendar adorned the wall - next to which sat the commanding officer, a pink and portly specimen, at a lone, wooden desk. Our host reclined, feigning familiarity with the plastic and metal object on his desk (an old Dell) – and intently grilling us with a mixture of mischief and disdain.

If I’ve learned anything passing through Canada and Paraguay in the past several months, it’s that traveling with a multinational crew by land never pays, no matter how well you speak the language. “How do you know each other?” goes the usual refrain. “We studied together in France many years ago,” – or – “We’re in the same history program in New York,” two recent responses. Either might pass for a respectable response in Geneva, though was rather suspect in the Paraguayan outback. Unimpressed, our lardly law-enforcer dispatched a colleague to further investigate our papers (in this case a Missouri driver’s license and an Argentine national ID card). “You realize you’re technically illegal at the moment,” he kindly reminded us. “We cannot let you proceed without passports.” “But since we’re staying within national boundaries, your highness, we thought that secondary identification would suffice.” “You can go back to Asuncion, get your papers and then come back. How does that sound?” “We would love to, your honor, though that puts us back three hours’ journey. Can we have someone fax you photo-copies of our passports from Asuncion?” “Well, yes, I suppose,” our tubby captain seemed to capitulate. “Assuming, of course, you have a fax machine?” “No, we don’t.” “How would you suppose we go about faxing you then, good sir?” “I haven’t the slightest idea. I guess the young American and Argentine will get to spend the night in jail with us,” he grumbled with a grin. In the end, we profusely apologized and they simply let us on our way without paying a dime. A game of lethargic chicken, if you will. Nonetheless, the subordinate officers were all quite friendly - even slightly apologetic for the inconvenience - whereas their corpulent captain seemed to regret the laziness with which he’d let us go.

We reached our destination several hours later and in time for a late dinner. Despite the swathes of humanity that throng the array of indoor and outdoor markets in the city’s center by day, the commercial capital of the tri-border region was eerily deserted by night. True, there were a spattering of cheap to mid range hotels within a four-block radius and several uninspiring restaurants, though virtually not a pedestrian in site, despite the presence of inconspicuous casinos that sat on virtually every corner. Who frequented such establishments we would never know. The security guards with pump-action shotguns in each entrance didn’t prove as appealing as that class in marketing had hitherto made them appear. That being said, we parked and began to consult our freebee guide, beginning by checking if they had a spare room at Mi Abuelita (‘My Grandmother’s). A lad of 14-15 years lazily loomed at the entrance in shorts, tee shirt and flip-flops - the barrel of pump-action shotgun in one hand with a thermos of tea in the other. 30% of employment in eastern Paraguayan nightlife seemed to be in security – and virtually everyone was conspicuously armed. There had been a spattering of kidnappings and landlord-murders in the north of the country in recent months, though I couldn’t quite crack the code in Ciudad del Este (nor did the locals want to divulge further information). Just get used to everyone – virtually everyone - being armed wherever you go: from the motel to the pizza parlor, the gas station to the roadside restaurant. A true gangster’s paradise: one where everyone’s locked and loaded without having the faintest intention of popping off.

(off for a refreshment in the gardens, to be continued)

when it rains it pours.

Fortunes can change in a frightfully short period of time. One moment, you’re along the banks of the Seine, girl and wine in hand, a mouth full of laughter and affection – and plenty of cigarettes to spare. An intemperate tongue and misplaced key and an hour later and you’re desperately gleaning the predawn-ridden streets of a dormant giant in search of nicotine and a moment’s respite from the glacial morning air. You do have the key to your sister’s place up the way, and you tiptoe up the five crack-of-dawn flights on the off chance she’s had a wild one on the other side of town and crashed with a mate. No dice. The five-foot hallway separating the 8 square-foot kitchenette from the rest of the studio leads to nothing but darkness and the stale linger of recently extinguished smoke. It will take an ounce of luck just to exit the crime scene unnoticed. You continue your southward march with an eye out for fellow puffers, though not quite sure your utterly disheveled state of visible mind or sleep-deprived frog-speak will do the trick. “Would you be willing to part with one of those tobacco-agents for 50 cents, my good sir?” “I’ve only one left.” I stare at him in utter bewilderment, trying to determine whether or not he responded in Dutch or Danish before rephrasing the question. “Could you possibly sell me a cigarette for a appropriate and agreed upon rate of monetary exchange, my fair fellow citizen?” “As I said, I’ve only one left,” he repeats in perfect French and a slight grimace of sympathetic confusion. I scratch my head, pause for a moment’s reflection, thank him in mutters and continue on my way. Only once he’d apologized and wished me a good day after I’d turned my back did I realize in which language he’d addressed me.

I wander down the winding rue Mouffetard where the Saturday morning market’s beginning to come to life. In a matter of hours, the street witnesses a remarkable turnaround in the aesthetic of its transitory populace. The inebriated, gel-and-leather-jacket-donning bridge-and-tunnelers scoping the rugby bar for AUP girls had cleared out by 4am, leaving just enough time for the sanitary brigades to clear the narrow, meandering alley with civil rights hoses before crates of rotisserie chickens can be carted in from the suburbs. Producers and merchants of every delectable delight begin to set up shop as the aging alcoholics switch from cognac to coffee and recount the non-events of recent in the café across the way. It’s shaping up to be another lovely day, though my purpling legs must still reckon with my decision to change into cut-off Salvation Army shorts for my first icy, moonlit ramble since Buenos Aires. I’m not going to lie. I was on my way to the area’s only Starbucks in search of a medium coffee and a big purple chair to get my thoughts in order. I’d left my third-floor bay window open in the six-story mansion where I’d been laying my head and could always try and scale the sleek stone with my calcium-fortified, overgrown and under manicured fingernails. At this point, the sun was already rearing most of its head and I could also simply knock on the door and kindly remind my hosts I’d forgotten my key when I went down for a smoke at 2am. The only problem is that I’ve been staying in the house for seven days and had yet to encounter a single human being, apart from stumbling into the wrong bedroom my first night there. Not in the proper state of mind for such an arid encounter, I did the only other thing that comes naturally in this town: head for the Luxembourg gardens.

In the hidden tome of urban mythology, they say you’re allowed to fall asleep on the 2/3 and wake up in the Bronx at 5:42am in a cold drizzle. Just cross the platform and don’t try anything funny, white boy (i.e. hailing gypsy cabs, early morning strolls back to Harlem). Sure, all the hard-working nurses, cooks and security guards who rise at 5am on a Sunday to make the multicultural slave-ship pilgrimage downtown might look at you with barely concealed disdain (as they well should); you may stand out like a sore-thumb, but your civilizational insolence is somehow tolerated. I guess it comes with the territory. On the other hand, to deliberately hop the metro to catch a moment’s kip and warm up a seemed a tad too much for some reason. It’s precisely when you drift off around the Odeon stop that your favorite Parisian professor you’d been meaning to write boards the train on his way to consult the prime minister over orange juice and croissants. So much for that fabled letter of recommendation. No, better go find a nice juicy bench - preferably somewhere under the mounting morning sun though also out of view from the rest of humanity, if possible. I settle for two chairs facing east along the central fountain. Debating between using yesterday’s freebee paper as a blanket or to block the sun, I go for the latter – and momentarily drift into the netherworld of a foolishness-induced subconscious state. Any number of bon petit bourgeois early risers have embarked on their Saturday morning trot, while a handful of mental stragglers make makeshift loops between the park’s southern entrance and the Senate in search of treasure and dog shit. The breeze is just too much, however, and I’m forced to eventually mount my cloudy cranium and direct the rest of my mass into the distance.

I wander back toward my sisters. It’s nearing 9am and I’m debating whether she could have made off for breakfast with her boss or boyfriend to discuss important matters of state. Most likely not. Still, I pass the Pantheon but again and make for the rue Cardinal Lemoine. The tobacco shops and newsstands have finally opened and I reluctantly buy a pack - too scared to mount another failed freebie charm campaign under the auspices of my 50-cent coin. I buy a paper as well and decide to make for ‘Breakfast in America’ – a cheap, cozy diner I’d worked in several years ago for all of six weeks before being ‘kindly discharged’ for visiting my mother in London when I’d been assigned the Friday, Saturday and perhaps even Sunday evening shift. Anyhow, it’s the only place in town with cheap, abundant refills of good American-brewed joe – and I was longing for a speckle of comfort in what then appeared a lonely, if still exceedingly beautiful, world. I’m trying to make out the headlines on the French paper, but it’s all I can do not to brutishly rub my bare legs in an attempt to facilitate the illusion of temporary warmth. The American girl keeps filling my cup and I manage to leaf through a few articles as the joint begins to famously fill up. I’d been taking up an entire booth and decide to make a run for it, leaving 2.50 and making for the door (seasoned Americans in Paris don’t tip). An all-too-brisk morning is shaping up to be quite a heavenly day, and though my heart’s racing like a Chinese Chihuahua evading the butcher, a strange sleep-induced delirium seems to be setting in. Go back to my sisters? Call the Scottish guy I met the other day who lives on the other side of the park and catch a few hours’ kip at his? Better not. Best to go back to the mansion and finally confront my venerable hosts. “Hello, it’s Evan, the American boy – I forgot my key as I went to get the paper this morning.” “Do repeat – who is this?” I hesitate, furiously pondering how to connect the movements of the brain to those of the tongue. “Yes, um, I it is, Laure’s American friend who has, um, been sleeping in your house for what seems to be a week now.” “Oh yes, you, the one we’ve never seen,” she mutters before buzzing me in. I enter and once again disappear into a labyrinth of corridors and elevators before removing my peasant shoes and collapsing fully clothed into bed.

northern winds of nostalgia.

An Ode to Argentina

(dedicated to the inhabitants of 1230 Saavedra)

Fare thee well my cobbled count of southern love-dunes, a spell of yet unbound,

To find a feathered city light of opulent renown.

We whisk away the day in awe of that we’ve yet to be,

Unfounded in the city’s paw, a fight we shall not flee.

Amidst the dust of crumbling times, an ocean rears its head,

To raise its glass in feast and fast and follow us to bed.

At peace – perhaps – unwound, relapse, we settle into tone,

And pray for color’s candid eye to safely bring us home.

The Coming Revolution (for Nico)

Friendship is a fresh croissant that settles on your tongue,

In savory bouts of life-release, rewinding what’s undone.

Forestall the momentary battle - if not the looming war,

Into which we fling ourselves, in haste if not remorse.

But sweet it is the spell that sings my everymorning song,

Evokes a thousand splendid rights for every lonely wrong.

So sing I will and drink I must - my gourd may never last,

And on into the night we sail - a friend, my weathered mast.

In degrees of varying altitude we bop from land to land,

In search of golden panda bears adorned in veils of sand.

Bestowing gifts, carousing cants, we dance amongst the dead,

And dream of sowing scarves with neither needle nor a thread.

Come out, my dear, into the light, the stairs have come undone,

The attic’s in the garden playing hopscotch with the bonne.

The basement’s in the bathroom, shaving, looking for a comb,

The skeleton’s are knocking but the closet’s put on hold.

The skies are ripe for picking what the earth cares not to grant,

To live a life in sin if in the end you just recant.