Iskay chunka tawayuq

I was in Peru last July, lingering around an outdoor market, when an old man approached me. I could tell he was a local; his skin was sun-baked and wrinkled, like layered caramel, and his curious eyes were alive -- blazing with Incan pride.

He fixed his warm gaze on me and said, 'De donde eres?' Where are you from?

I was curious about his curiosity, so I replied in my potpourri of a Spanish accent -- Cuban-American peppered with Argentinian inflection -- 'De los Estados Unidos.' The United States.

His response was quick. 'Ahhhh... pero tus ojos... son Arabes.' Ahhhh... but your eyes... they are Arabic.

I shook my head. 'No. Mi familia es de Cuba.' No. My family is from Cuba.

'Y antes de Cuba?' And before Cuba?

A beam of Andean sunshine cut across the Cusqueño market and flickered inside his Incan eyes.

I paused for a moment, pensive, recalling the last time I asked my abuela the same question:

'Abuela, de donde viene nuestra familia?' Grandmother, where does our family come from?

'COO-BAH.' Cuba. Her resolute reply echoed through her Hialeah home.

'Pero abuela, mira el color de nuestro piel; no somos indigenas.' But Grandmother, look at the color of our skin; we are not indigenous.

'SOMOS CUBANOS.' WE ARE CUBAN. Her booming reaction told me the conversation was over. Carribbean culutral amnesia, I reasoned, and resolved not to bring it up again.

Back in Peru I peered at the old man and replied, with a hint of hesitation, 'Bueno, España... me parece.' Well, Spain... I suppose.

His eyes sparkled with triumph.

He took over the conversation, spilling generous details about his life. He spoke rapidly. He was a musician... He spent most evenings playing guitar at a cafe nearby...

My mind wandered away: Back to Abuela's kitchen in Hialeah, then to Abuela's Coo-bah -- a place I know through relayed memories, a place that now only exists in her mind.

Back in Cusco -- from the caverns of my mind, through my eyes veiled by wanderlust -- I noticed the gold sun receding behind the curved Andean peaks. The old man acknowledged his fading spotlight, pausing and peering around the market.

'Me tengo que ir.' I have to go. He extended a final, fiery glance and receded into the market.

Our encounter was fleeting -- mere minutes long -- yet our conversation stuck with me for hours beyond our swift adios.

Perhaps his insight was right, I mused. Perhaps my eyes are Arab. Perhaps my eyes traveled with the Moors -- across continents, across oceans, across centuries...

My eyes now keep the Moors alive...

The old man -- a perfect stranger -- had offered me a new perspective: A new perspective on my family, my ancestors... and a new perspective on myself. He had, almost literally, given me new eyes.

And I have found that throughout my life I am constantly being offered new perspectives -- new eyes -- through people and through places, and, most of all, through experience:

Last year, I lived in Buenos Aires, Argentina -- Rotary District 4890. As a Rotary ambassadorial scholar, I was charged with continuing my legal studies at la Universidad de Buenos Aires, representing Rotary District 6930 and the United States at Rotary meetings and in daily interactions, and fulfilling Rotary's universal ideal of service above self by engaging in service projects in my host community.

The aggregate of this experience -- 11 months of studying and living as a foreigner in the novelty and familiarity of the city of porteños -- has given me new eyes to the effect that I no longer see the world as I once saw it. The difference is so pronounced, in fact, I find myself at present knowing a new world.

Nothing has changed, yet everything looks different.

We shall not cease from exploration / and the end of all our exploring / will be to arrive where we started / and know the place for the first time. (My closest reader-friends know my kinship with T.S. does not wane with time or distance.)

I returned to South Florida -- Rotary District 6930, the community that created me -- just over 3 months ago, and I tell you, reader-friend, I have never known the world as I now know it:

The South Florida sky as the sun rises and sets -- dynamic, smudged with pink, gold, blue, grey and purple; I have never known him to be so brilliant and vivid.

And the Atlantic Ocean at twilight -- like liquid cobalt glass; I never knew he was so beautiful.

And I have never known Palm Beach County -- where I grew up -- to be so... Pleasant.

And Miami. (Sigh.) She captured my heart when I was a child, and, like any first love, ours was reckless and innocent. She must intuitively sense that I found love in Buenos Aires, for I have never known her to be so... Unpleasant. Unwelcoming. Unfriendly.

And the future: I entered college immediately after high school, and law school immediately after college, and now I am entering the straits of life with a map of my making -- my conscience as my compass. I have never in my life known my future to be so... Uncertain.

And yet, curiously, my eyes -- for the first time in my life -- pierce the veil of uncertainty that teases me from the horizon. Instead of uncertainty in the future, I see infinite possibility. I gaze at the horizon of the future -- just as I often gaze at the Atlantic Ocean at sunrise, the colors of the brilliant South Florida sky smearing overhead -- and I see nothing but light.

I see light -- limitless possibility -- because -- reader-friend, can't you see! -- Rotary has given me new eyes.

Veintitres

'The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre—
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.'

(Little Gidding -- I can't quite get enough!)

I arrived alone in Buenos Aires in March, curious about the year of experience that lay ahead inviting me to approach and aprovechar.

Now, in December, I march away precisely as I came -- alone and curious about experiences to come.

My foreign friends turned porteña familia have trickled in and out of this experience. As las fiestas approach, those friends have been dropping away with increasing intensity. I have found that relationships created abroad accentuate time's fleeting temperament. Time has deep, sloping valleys and steep, quick ascents. Here in Buenos Aires I have cemented some of the most profound and dynamic relationships of my life; together, through friendship, we have been thrust to exalted heights.

I am one of the last lingering foreigners I know, savoring fleeting moments with my first and last friend -- perhaps my most absorbing relationship yet -- inhaling the fragrance, enshrining the feel. Buenos Aires was my first friend, and appropriately, she is my last. I will tiptoe out of this experience just as I entered it, barely making a ripple, filled with an eager curiosity for the future to come.

I have been inhaling Buenos Aires' perfume for 10 months and I am finally at the very top of my breath. No more can I take in -- I have reached capacity, saturated with the sweetly scented, life-sustaining oxygen of experience. On Friday morning (sí Dios quiere...) I will emerge into South Florida's crisp December air and I will exhale, breathing novelty into my familiar and almost-forgotten home.

In the meantime, I am still in Buenos Aires -- more or less alone -- pirouetting in the pause between inhale and exhale, peeking curiously and expectant at the novel set of future circumstances promising possibility. I have several times in my life found myself twirling in these pauses between breaths. I embrace and agradecer these peaceful bouts of time -- they allow me ample moments to reflect, refresh and renew.

As I reflect on my time in Buenos Aires I recognize that the pieces of experience I will carry on into Life are the lessons of Love. Curiously enough, it took a circumstantial move of thousands of kilometers, away from the thick quilt of love from family and friends enveloping me in USAmerica, to learn the true lesson of Love: how to give and receive it. I have loved to the point of despair and discomfort: a city, a country, a continent, a world; strangers, acquaintances, new friends, old friends -- all of whom are, at the end, family.

I will spare details -- for they are too many and would be impossible to share judiciously -- and emphasize: the lessons of Love acquired here have been sometimes uncomfortable and always illuminating. For, truly loving a person, a city, a country and a world -- despite discomfort and despair incited -- renders me consumed with hope. It is a hope contained within me, here and now, as I dance at the top of my breath. And, it is hope I will forever suspire -- acquired by loving in Buenos Aires.

Twenty two

Ten months in and 10 days remain -- presently I am facing aft, watching in my wake as Argentine experiences crystallize into memories. 'The end is where we start from.' Do you remember when I quoted TS Eliot, reader-friend, 10 months ago, upon my unexpected arrival in Buenos Aires? 'What we call the beginning is often the end / And to make and end is to make a beginning.'

And here I am at the end, making a beginning. But before I lurch into the promise of the future, I turn my back to possibility and offer merited reverence to the past and path that guided me here, to this point:

I've done quite a bit since I arrived in March: My inconsistently zealous effort towards outstanding Rotary ambassadorial scholar-ness, a lackluster and ironically perfect consummation of my academic career, maintaining iGen's forward propulsion at doggy-paddle pace, always accompanied by gluttonous and indiscriminate feasting on South American culture (art, music, food, nightlife, travels, people, et cetera et cetera into infinity).

Despite all this 'doing,' my most consistent and committed action of the past 10 months was actually the act of observation. On the streets, in the classroom, in social circles -- I was more observer than participant. Curiously, despite my extroversion, extreme circumstantial novelty relegates me to the perimeter to perceive before I proceed towards engagement.

Months of keen Argentine observation leave me astute and alert, devouring situational details, determined to detect patterns. And, with next-to-near-no-obligation these days, I find myself captivated, irresistibly fascinated, by a tricky situation presently unwrapping in my beloved Buenos Aires (and for the first time, thanks to acquired observational acumen, I am able to wrap my mind around the complexity of some of Buenos Aires' and Argentina's most pressing social challenges):

Last week as a consequence of judge ordered evictions in already abysmal villas in southwest Buenos Aires, hundreds of families -- mostly immigrants of indigenous descent from Perú, Bolivia and Paraguay -- began illegally occupying an ill-maintained public park. Incensed neighbors -- the legal residents of Villa Soldati -- of the coincidentally and aptly named Parque Indoamericano subsequently organized and confronted the squatters. The ensuing squabbles between residents and squatters -- with initially intermittent and now sustained police involvement -- have resulted in 4 innocent civilian deaths (lamentably including a baby) and a veritable quilombo of 'pobres contra pobres'.

Now, the rest of the city and country holds its breath, eagerly monitoring the situation, hoping for the safety of our neighbors -- all of them -- waiting for the city and national governments to agree upon a solution -- if one even exists at all.

While we collectively wait for inevitable developments and hopeful solutions, I, as an individual, pull pieces of past experience into the present to inform my observations. Like I mentioned, I find this situation terribly intriguing. You see, particularly my reader-friend-of-the-USA-caliber, there's some things you need to know about Argentina in order to glimpse full-scale what is at present unfolding: Argentina is an incredibly human-rights oriented society -- this as a consequence of the unimaginably devastating abuses committed during the military dictatorship of the late-1970s/early-1980s. Argentina has gone so far as to incorporate into its Constitution (the highest law of the land) all 12 major international human rights treaty. (Perspective: the USA has signed 3.)

In addition to being extraordinarily pro-human rights as a society and on the books, in the 1990s, Argentina pioneered an astonishingly liberal immigration policy -- going so far as to designate the right to migrate 'essential and inalienable to all persons and the Republic of Argentina shall guarantee it based on principles of equality and universality.'

Reader-friends! That. Is. Huge. Argentina, so far as I know, is the only country -- in a world preferring to build walls rather than bridges -- that recognizes a right to migrate. Huge, I tell you! Via a one-of-a-kind law, Argentina provides a fairly easy path to legal residence for immigrants, and offers free access to health care, education and social services.

It sounds too good to be true! And, of course, in practice, sadly, it is. The revolutionary immigration law has not been accompanied by effective and much-needed regulations (which would serve to 'clarify, reconcile, or expand provisions of the law; the lack of regulations impedes the full implementation of the law's human rights goals.' I am such a huge dork, I actually did some legal research for this post -- I'll spare you the proper Bluebook citations! Jaja! No more legal ogling -- promise!) Suffice it to say, the current situation sitting cumbersome in southwest Buenos Aires, is arguably related to this pioneering practice of liberal immigration policy...

Another interesting, probably over-simplified, observation: Argentine society seems to, more or less, have a consistent idea of the role of government -- to provide safety, services, solutions. (This is leaps and bounds more progressive than the USA, I believe, where we engage in an exhausting and ceaseless battle of big government v. small government v. liberal v. conservative v. blah v. blah, et cetera et cetera into infinity.) While tension in the southwest mounts, the rest of the city waits -- almost too patiently -- for the city and national governments to come up with a solution. And not only an isolated solution to this particular situation, but hopefully one that will address the fact that all over the city, slum-city villas are being built atop villas, ostensibly related to the influx of immigrants.

An ex-city leader elegantly opined: 'La migración no sólo es inevitable, sino que puede ser una bendición para lograr el desarrollo integral. Les abrimos falsamente los brazos si no somos capaces de acompañar nuestra apertura con políticas que orienten y ordenen esa inmigración.' ('Migration is not only inevitable, but can be a blessing to achieve integral development. We falsely open our arms if we are not capable of accompanying our openness with policies that orient and order that immigration.')

Yes. Precisely what he said.

And now I return to TS Eliot's elegant stylings: 'We shall not cease from exploration / And the end of all our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time.' I began organizing my thoughts for this writing as the sun set last night, and now, writing these words, I sit overlooking Abasto's rooftops lighting up with the rising sun. I began at an end, and now, I end at a beginning -- at the bow of the present, observing the possibility and promise of a new day of Argentine experience (and then there were 9...).

21

Ohhhhhhola amigo-reader!

Como estás? Todo bien? I hope so! : )

All is very well -- thank you -- down here at coordinates 34°36′12″S 58°22′54″W. T-minus 27 days until operation Natalie-reintegration-into-USAmerica is in full effect -- which is simultaneously thrilling and chilling. Te cuento, I am very excited to return home after tanto tiempo, armed with my latest array of Buenos Aires/Argentina/South American-influenced quirks.

Re the here and now -- I went to Uruguay last weekend and it was divine!

Here are some visual aids:

Colonia del Sacramento -- tiny, charming riverside port, a 1 hour ferry away from Buenos Aires:







And then we went to Montevideo, Uruguay's sleepy capital city -- delicious, scenic and tranquil:







And then, off to some fun with the sol y mar in Punta del Diablo -- a hardly developed fishing town on the Atlantic coast, just creeping towards the Brasilian border:

2 to the zero

Buenos Aires and I have arrived at a point in our relationship where we can openly opine about one another without fear of tearing at the fabric of our friendship. I love her enough to hate her. In fact, the things I love most about her, when untempered, are the very things I hate her for.

Take, for example, her energy: On Friday night I opted against a night out with friends and fun in favor of a night in with myself and movies. I drifted to sleep just after watching the final scenes of Jodorowsky's 'El Topo' (gracias for the indirect rec, Arturito!) only to be startled awake just before 6 am – alarmed by an explosive uproar that jumped into my bedroom from the street 4 floors below. I peeked over my balcony and saw, illuminated by dawn's glow, a frenzied mass of gentlemen enthusiastically engaging in body-to-body combat. (I assume the boys had been thrown out of one of the bars that line the block around the corner from my departamento.) Unsettled by the zealous display of savagery, I retreated from the damp morning air and back into bed. The barks from the bodies below continued for – I kid you not, friend reader – 30 minutes more.

Boys will be chicos. I have seen many a fight in my day; this fight was not particularly remarkable save for the ostensible fervor demonstrated by the chicos. What struck me was the herd's manic energy – that I gleaned despite the separating 4 floors of humid air. Obvio, the quarrel was testosterone-fueled, and, set afire by a flame of passion – that unfettered Argentine energy.

This energy I saw manifest in a more friendly form 2 weeks ago, at the Dave Matthews Band concert at Luna Park. I had already seen Dave and co. perform several times in South Florida, so I was curious to see how the Argentine DMB experience would compare. In the Sur de la Florida, his concerts tend to look and feel like a weekend-long pseudo reunion for anyone who attended high school in Palm Beach County between 1990 and 2005: a few hours sprawled out on the lawn of Cruzan amphitheater accompanied by old friends, Dave et al's expert jam sessions, always preceded by hours of the unique-to-USAmerica-cultural-phenomenon, the tailgate. The vibe – siempre chill.

I was blown away by the DMB experience in Argentina – the vibe was pure energy, raw and fanatical. Buenos Aires worships rock music almost as much as she worships fútbol. And, man oh man, did Buenos Aires show up at Luna Park prepared to exalt. The porteño crowd's electric veneration converted DMB from a South Floridian relax-fest to an all-out-Argentine-jump-around-dance-party-ROCK-OUT. It was unexpected and epic. Check it, I found this clip on YouTube, filmed by someone sitting in the bleachers behind us (my friends and I were about 3 feet in front of the stage, directly in front of Tim Reynolds – the guitarist in the red t-shirt – frolicking with the best and rest of 'em... if you've got 14:59 minutos to spare you should watch it all, reader-friend!! I want you to experience the magic too!!):



The same apasionado energy that overtook us in the sea of sincere rock aficionados at the DMB show is, I believe, the same energy I observed from above, fueling the swarm of savages on Saturday morning. The difference, however – the former is a constructive display of BA's energy. The latter is nothing short of destructive – and stirs in me a toxic sense of disgust, a hate that hurts.

Buenos Aires, your energy is infectious in the best and worst ways possible.

I once read the following quote (paraphrased): 'A country is great when it has more dreams of its future than of its past.' This idea has stuck with me over the years and I've applied it in a variety of contexts. As I explore my friendship with Buenos Aires, the literal meaning of the quote once again resonates with me; I notice that Buenos Aires tends to glorify her past, revere her raices and curse her present circumstances. Yet rarely do I find evidence of her hope for an improved future.

Buenos Aires, don't you see? – your energy, if correctly channeled, could guide you to a future of prosperity. Instead, your energy – in the true form of a tragic flaw – locks you in the throes of greatness, leaves you paralyzed in the amber of the present (KV allusion!) looking only to the distant past to nourish your pride.

Buenos Aires, please don't be insulted by my weighty criticism. I tell you because I love you. I love you enough to hate you sometimes, love you enough to expect you to be your best – which is nothing short of great.

‘I would rather be ashes

than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze

than it should be stifled by dry rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow,

than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.’ ––Jack London

Diec i nue ve

Bueno, quite a bit of time has passed since I last paid proper homage to the reason that I am here right now:

Anoche I had the great pleasure of sharing Rotary greatness, friendship and a fine meal with the Rotary Club of Puerto Madero.

Following the meal I stood up to give my usual address – infused with some of my latest and greatest Sudamericano exploits – and, in a moment of divinely-inspired impromptu-elocution, concluded my charla with: 'Cada día me levanto y agradezco a Dios y a Rotary.' ('Everyday I wake up and thank God and Rotary.')

My life in Buenos Aires has become so familiar and real that it has paradoxically become surreal. I am awed by some of the 'plight' that, daily, I face (e.g. 'Should I go to the Phoenix concert in Sao Paulo or Buenos Aires?'). (Seriously. Thank you, Rotary.)

I live in Buenos Aires, Argentina. (!!!) Here I find my life; gracias a Rotary--a life that is both beautifully surreal and absolutely real.

I digress.

Because

this post isn't about me.

It's about Rotary:

Rotary is truly great. At the Rotary Club de Puerto Madero reunion I sat beside – quite possibly – the most knowledgeable Rotarian in my Rotary family--a literal fountainhead of Rotary knowledge. And as she shared with me a bounty of Rotary-related information, I was stirred by a tickle of greatness – a sense that I, by good fortune, am a part of something truly great:

Rotary Minute: What is Rotary? from Rotary International on Vimeo.

Rotary is universally great. I feel confident with said proclamation because I have observed greatness in every Rotary club I have visited, from practically Antarctica, to practically the equator, and, obviamente, the plethora of clubs I have visited in District 4890 (Buenos Aires) and District 6930 (south/central Florida).

Words and photographs are wholly inadequate when attempting to convey greatness, but alas, I continue my meek attempt:

Nahuel Huapi Rotary Club in Bariloche, Argentina ('practically Antarctica'):

Rotary Club of Cusco, Peru ('practically the equator'):

Rotaract Club of Cusco, Peru (more of that 'practically the equator'):

My host Rotary Club in District 4890, the Rotary Club of Monserrat (D. 4890):




Ambassadorial scholars at the District 4890 Annual Conference (más D. 4890):

Participating in the 10th Annual Rotary-sponsored 'ENCUENTRO DE ORIENTACION VOCACIONAL' for high school students in Buenos Aires (y un poquito más de D. 4890):


And, Rotary in Pucón, Chile:



... And, if my words and photos aren't convincing enough of Rotary's greatness... bueno, then, I challenge you to find out for yourself.

Cheers and cariños desde BsAs,
NKC