Archive for November, 2009

From Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt – p. 26

“ . . . Savannah Morning News, April 2, 1914 …

TANGO IS NO SIGN OF INSANITY, HOLDS JURY

DECIDES THAT SADIE JEFFERSON IS NOT INSANE

It is no indication of insanity to tango. This was settled yesterday by a lunacy commission which decided that Sadie Jefferson is sane. It was alleged the woman tangoed all the way to police headquarters recently when she was arrested. “

After 12 days at a spiritual retreat in Abadiania, Brazil I was looking forward to getting home to BsAs. I hooked up with an Australian couple from the retreat to share a taxi into el Centro. When asked about the taxi situation here I assured them that in all my time here I have never had a bad experience with a taxi. But, this day, my street savvy had been dulled by a loving environment in the Brazilian countryside and I allowed the taxista to ‘take us for a ride’.

When he said the fare would be 129 pesos I questioned that – saying 2 weeks ago I had only paid 115. He said it was because we wanted 2 stops. My bullshit detector must’ve had a short circuit because I kept walking to his car – which I realized, once the mist of the belief in the good of all people began to lift, was not actually a taxi.

By the time I’d reached full city consciousness (mas o menos) we were on the autopista heading toward town, and I didn’t want to worry my companions, so I continued to hang onto my faltering belief in the good of all people. Even at the increased fare we were still getting a good deal by sharing. We dropped them off at their hotel and headed to my apartment.

I handed over 130 pesos and prepared to disembark when he said it’s 129 – and showed me that I had given him 2 tens and a twenty. Surprised, I second guessed myself – but – I knew I’d given him a 100 peso note because I only had one in my wallet and it wasn’t there. I proceeded to yell at him in English wishing I had paid better attention in my Swearing in Spanish 101 class. If I’d been really thinking I may have also reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out my 100 peso note – but we only think about all these things later – don’t we?

Next time I take the bus.

Pink Floyd in Buenos Aires. You can close your eyes and almost imagine it so. I never saw them when they were ‘alive’ (Pink Floyd is dead, long live Pink Floyd!), but being a ‘third world’ country (would somebody please tell me what that means – I find no evidence) the Argentines have trailed behind the current music scene (not really) and kept Pink Floyd and other bands alive with tribute bands. Audiences of all ages love it. Me included.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a rock concert. How I miss the 70s – the flashing lights, the gut wrenching vibrations of a masterful guitar riff, an endless drum solo, a haunting saxophone and the sweet second-hand smoke of the person in front of me. Marijuana may be legal here but smoking in the auditorium is not.

The lead singer of the tribute band The End almost had me fooled until his voice just wasn’t strong enough to pull off the subtleties of one of my favorite songs: Us And Them. I was disappointed.

But as the concert went on I became more and more impressed. When the lead began by singing

“So,”

and turned it over to the audience – right on cue, in perfect English, tone and unison, as if they had rehearsed, they sang:

so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain . . .

and together they continued.

When, Durga McBroom, a big beautiful black woman with hair past the hem of her mini-skirt entered center stage and unleashed her voice with the ethereal sounds of the Great Gig in the Sky there was no need for translation. Her powerful sound vibrated to the depths of us, swirled around and stirred up debris like a dust storm before the thundershower – which, had I been alone, would have come pouring down my face. The appreciation of this guest artist, an original member of Pink Floyd, resulted in several standing ovations and a satisfying encore.

It was a fantastic concert and I had no one to share it with but you.

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
Running over the same old ground
What have you found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.