Archive for June, 2009

Jeff couldn’t find his keys this morning. He’d left them in the door to the apartment all night.

I don’t feel particularly unsafe living in San Telmo, not any less safe than anywhere else, but I err on the side of caution by locking the door at night just like I do at home. Jeff usually doesn’t lock his door – neither here nor in his apartment in East Village, NYC. I guess safety is mostly a state of mind.

I was robbed twice last year while I lived in Buenos Aires. Both times in broad daylight – once on Calle Florida – a pedestrian street. The first day my daughters arrived for their two week visit we walked through the tourist area on a Sunday afternoon looking like tourists. Unbeknownst to me (until later) my camera was stolen from my backpack. The second time I was robbed was on Calle Bolivar in San Telmo at 1:00 on a Saturday afternoon. I was tricked by an incredibly kind and helpful couple who graciously assisted me by cleaning off the mud that they had secretly squirted on me and my backpack. What they got away with was less consequential to me than it was to them. They were able to purchase groceries for their next meal. I was left with my laptop and replacement camera and relieved of a 30 year old purse, a plastic card and some paper money. Both times I was emotionally shaken up but, other than my pride, I was unhurt.

I still walk both of those streets almost daily and sometimes at night alone. I have even defied all odds and walked several blockes through the dark deserted streets of San Telmo at midnight and remained unscathed. Stupid? Maybe. But I’m not known to let fear stop me from moving forward.

I hear many extranjeros voice concern, or at least question, the safety of San Telmo. People get robbed in Recoleta and Palermo too. It’s just a notch up: better neighborhood, more sophisticated criminals, bigger crimes.

Just last week my friend Antoinette was in a cab that got rear-ended and a couple of years ago was injured in a bus accident. It’s not safe.

Weekly I see someone laying on the street having just been involved in a traffic accident. It’s not safe.

My friend Terry just moved to Gaza. It’s not safe.

My friend Nicola just died of cancer. It’s not safe.

Two years ago my ex-husband rode off the highway on his Harley and died. It’s not safe.

An unsuspecting passenger on a Greyhound bus in Canada was beheaded. It’s not safe.

A bystander was shot inside a restaurant in Calgary by an Asian gang member. It’s not safe.

It’s not safe going to school on certain days of the week, nor flying in an airplane, (you know I could go on and on . . . ). Everyday, everywhere around the globe we are reminded that it is not safe.

Most mornings I wake up with a sense of anxiety, a vague feeling of impending doom over an unknown future. But, once I head out the door into the streets and on with my day I join the exhilarating bustle of the city and soak up all its offerings and I forget to be afraid. At night, sometimes late at night, exhausted, full, inspired, I return to our haunted little apartment on Calle Defensa above the art gallery in San Telmo and snuggle down into my lover’s embrace. For a little while, if my dreams co-operate, I feel extraordinarily safe. Then when the light of morning begins to rise and cast shadows of doubt on the day I bravely strike up the courage to, yet again, play nice with my demons and those of the world at large. I leave the comfortable familiarily of the bed and the fear inside my head and force myself out in the streets of San Telmo.