REMEMBERING LATIN AMERICA

REMEMBERING LATIN AMERICA

2007 - At Buenos Aires and afternoon tea...

The young man disembarking from the Brazilian CRUZEIRO DO SUL airplane at Ezeiza Airport, in Buenos Aires, did not need any help with his coat and briefcase. Forty-two years later, he was no longer young and now, thanks to a stroke, he needed help to disembark Argentina Airlines when he arrived at the same airport. Between the two visits to that beautiful city, sixteen others had taken place, Argentina had had to suffer and survive several murderous military dictatorships, and several currency problems made no sense to anyone, except to those who managed that country's economy during those turbulent times. In spite of its problems, Buenos Aires, however, remained like a magnet to the young man who, until he had stopped coming to Buenos Aires, had never felt old. The 2007 photo, however, will tell otherwise, bringing him up to facing reality.

Almost connecting Plaza de Mayo to Plaza San Martin stands Calle Florida. Both Plazas honor liberators and historical figures in Argentina. I walked the latter's length many times in my younger days. In 2007, however, my walks on Calle Florida were limited, although I did enjoy stopping once again at the Richmond for lunch and the the Galeria del Pacifico for afternoon tea, as shown above.

BELOW -Images From Puerto Rico - Plus Unrelated Latin American Photos....

Quito, Ecuador, Bazar - Native Crafts Stall and Bargains...

La Paz, Bolivia, surprised me with its contrasts. In many aspects it was a Latin American city. In others a modern metropolis. I could not help wondering how so many people of European background may have gotten there in the first place. Later that evening La Paz proved to have the coldest rain I had ever felt.

LEFT - Bogota. Old, noisy buses, milk cows feeding on the grasses growing wildly on the unkempt highway leading from the airport into the city. Neighborhoods with their own security forces - somewhat similar to the mall cops in the U. S. Lots of churches crowded  on Sundays and Holy Days. Great food for those who can afford it. A dangerous city even before the Drug Cartels took over its government.

REMEMBERING LATIN AMERICA

LOOKING FOR EVITA

"How many dead are there in all the tombs?" I asked the young waitress at the restaurant next to the park across from the Cemetery de la Recoleta. She gave me a puzzled look before telling me that she did not know.

"All of them," I replied. I did not know whether I was in a humorous mood, or annoyed by what my wife and I had just visited. Granted that I had often passed by the cemetery and that my curiosity occasionally almost motivated me to see Eva Perón's tomb, given the reputation and importance of Argentina's former First Lady. On the other hand, in spite of the fact that both my parents had worked for a long time for the National Casket Company,in East Cambridge, Massachusetts, I had never thought much of how American society seems to honor the dead. My native village of Saint Roque, on St. Michael's Island, in the Azores, for example, has a cemetery which two of my cousins and I used to visit on All Souls's Day. My maternal grandfather owned property nearby and, since in those days there was little to do when my mother visited her old home, she would bring me along as a walking companion as well as a playmate for my cousins who lived there. Thus I learned for the first time where the local cemetery was located and where my maternal grandmother had been buried. Not that it mattered much. My grandfather, Antonio da Costa Afonso (Figueira), in spite of the fact the he owned quite a bit of property until he blew it all on wine, women, and song later in life, never bothered to buy a plot which could then be used by the rest of the family. He must have been a very practical man for he knew that, given Azorean humidity, local cemetery plots are of no use preventing a corpse from decomposing rapidly. So much so that, within five years of their burial, the graves are reopened and the human remains removed to make way for some future occupants.

The city people, however, are slightly more "civilized" than their village relatives. In Ponta Delgada, for example, Saint Joaquim's Cemetery, has private tombs where the lucky departed will not have to meet the cold, rain-soaked ground. Which is the same that I encountered at the Cementerio de la Recoleta when I finally decided to search for Eva Per󮒳 grave on my last trip to Buenos Aires in April, 2007. I must confess that neither my wife, nor I, found it. On the other hand, that is not to say that, while I was there, I did not commit a somewhat disrespectful sacrilege. Here's what happened:

Years ago, I discovered that my left leg had become quite red, itchy, and swollen. I'd scratch it at will trying for relief, all to no avail. One day I finally decided to see the doctor about my affliction and, after several tests, learned that I had a clot that needed to be eliminated and reduced. He also suggested that at my age it was not unusual for a man to have an enlarged prostate. He then suggested a particular brand of water pills which I have been taking since that particular meeting. The testing also confirmed that I had a mild case of diabetes that, together with the water pills, would make me a frequent bathroom visitor.

The leg redness, the itch, and swelling went away. On the other hand, I have to be most careful whenever I go anywhere and stand up for a long time. Even my wife, aware of my plight, always asks immediately wherever we go, where the rest rooms are located - as if she herself were the one on ?water pills?. Unfortunately, at the Recoleta Cemetery the rest rooms are quite distant from Evita's tomb. My system, on the other hand, failed to recognize that fact. After fifteen minutes of searching for Evita's last residence, whatever effect that morning?s water pills had suddenly indicated that I had to relieve myself before I would wet my pants.

We turned back towards the cemetery rest rooms. My system, however, would not allow me to make it all the way, with the result that I just had to hide behind a wall of some mausoleum and, while hoping that no one would see me, discharge my bladder. It was after that that we decided that lunch time was upon us and that Evita just had to wait for our visit later on.

We never did get to the first Argentine First Lady?s grave. Instead, we found a restaurant where, along with an enormous sandwich, I partook of a freshly-brewed German-style beer. I could have had one of those nationally and internationally advertised brands which were available for less than the micro brew which I had ordered, but, then, that afternoon I had already broken one of the local rules, with my impromptu shower possibly awakening one of the mausoleum's residents who had never probably witnessed such disrespect as I had shown while looking for a woman who had made it to the top.

Olivette, Missouri June 29, 2008