Pixies coming to Argentina!
Brilliant!
Doors open at half8..?! Early...
First band at 9 i guess?
I'll arrive around quarter-to just in case...
8:50.... five songs in !!!
Someone please explain Argentinian time keeping to them..
¿Como pasó?
A set list comprised of everything you'd expect/nothing you didn't want/and plenty to thrash-around to made everyone happy, if they weren't already at the idea of seeing Fat Frank, Krazy Kim and co.
The band never being the most animated on stage, meant the songs (and Kim Deal´s peculiar mumblings ..maybe it was just where i was stood that meant they made no sense.. ) were largely left to speak for themselves. And speak they did, to a typically boisterous Argentinian crowd. The familiar quiet/loud combo of tracks like Mr Grieves allowed the vast majority of those standing to show their delight with their feet in the air, whilst those in the seats stood, swayed and sang along (con un accento..) to the guitar grooves of their less abrasive work como Gauge Away. Momentum wained a little as the perhaps indulgent cover of a little Neil Young Americana seemed to be lost on the South American crowd, but was soon picked up again as they launched into Caribou and U-Mass, as if to make up for their digression away from album staples. The theme continued as they closed, appropriately, with Vamos.
As such by the time they returned for the first encore, allowing the anticipation and buzz to grow for a confident few minutes, Gigantic captured the mood of the hugely appreciative and grateful crowd perfectly. Finally, returning for a second time with the UK surf version of Wave of Mutilation and leaving us with a rolicking rip-through of Panet of Sound ringing in our collective ears.
A gig that certainly delighted the senses of an audience inevitably starved of appearances of such world renowned (amongst certain age groups at least..) bands when compared with the lucky audiences in the larger cities of North America and the UK. The band themselves may carry a whiff of churning it out a little these days, but a success was certainly scored amongst a vibrabt BsAs crowd hungry for the sound of a band who remain influential, widely discussed and listened to. Perhaps the enjoyment though, is as much thanks to the Buenos Aires crowd, as it is to the performance of Pixies themselves. Vamos!!
*
1. Bone Machine
2. Broken Face
3. Something Against You
4. Holiday Song
5. Nimrod's Son
You're late, five song penalty...
6. Debaser
7. Tame
8. Wave Of Mutilation
9. I Bleed
10. Here Comes Your Man
11. Monkey Gone To Heaven
12. Mr. Grieves
13. Crackity Jones
14. La La Love You
15. No. 13 Baby
16. Hey
17. Gouge Away
18. Velouria
19. Dig for Fire
20. Winterlong (Neil Young cover)
21. Caribou
22. U-Mass
23. Isla De Encanta
24. Vamos
Encore:
25. Where Is My Mind?
26. Gigantic
Encore 2:
27. Wave of Mutilation (UK Surf)
28. Planet Of Sound
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
a walk through town
drip drip drop,
splish splash splosh,
falling water,
drowned by traffic,
walk around it, rushed and manic.
fancy suits and high heeled boots,
no-one spared, but no-one rebukes.
allowed to drip just as it pleases,
landing on shoulders and causing sneezes
wetting me and wetting you,
wetting Juan and Florencia too,
starting low or starting high,
a drip falls constant, from the sky?
torrential rain or constant drizzle,
two extremes,
but whats in the middle?
the only guarantee found in this town?
air-con water soaking ground.
splish splash splosh,
falling water,
drowned by traffic,
walk around it, rushed and manic.
fancy suits and high heeled boots,
no-one spared, but no-one rebukes.
allowed to drip just as it pleases,
landing on shoulders and causing sneezes
wetting me and wetting you,
wetting Juan and Florencia too,
starting low or starting high,
a drip falls constant, from the sky?
torrential rain or constant drizzle,
two extremes,
but whats in the middle?
the only guarantee found in this town?
air-con water soaking ground.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Ms F***z
Having avoided the airport security, suspicsious of her bottle shaped hand luggage, and escaped the attention of national police for a series of previous misdemeanours, Ms F***z sassily climbed the 27 steps to her American Airlines flight 5893 to Chicago.
She was unsure what exactly would await her on the other side. She knew the horses and her blood family would be there for her, but her real worries were two-fold. Firstly, who the hell was she gonna hold tight in Illanois, were there going to be ANY guys there that would be bad-ass enough for her to like too? Farm boys occaisonally went behind their bosses backs for a cheeky roll in the hay, but she needed more than that. The men she liked too would roll UP that dam hay, sneak it out the back door and make a profit from it. Where were these types in the Mid-West countryside? She feared she'd left them all behind in her holy triangle of Brazil, Buenos Aires and Argentina's own Wild West.
Almost as disconcerting for her, as she handed her boarding pass to the untruthfully slim Mid-Western air hostess who pointed her to her seat with a shrill 'Haaaave a nice journey!', was the family she'd left behind. In the previous three months they'd been scatterd gunned around Buenos Aires, their Clan had been brought to an unceremonius end, and she feared the consequences had still not been completely lived out. Was it safe to leave now? How would the remaining family members cope without being ordered to drink? would they remember to drink properly or resort to former times, when, almost to a person, they replenished there bodies with dangerous substances- 'water', 'OJ', 'tea', they had called them.
As she sat down in her extra wide seat, made to accomadate residents of her country of birth, she began to imagine how exactly her family might now be spending their time...
Who was in the best shape? Start with that, she mused, calm her fears..
She considered her gypsy. Surely she’ll be all good. Steady home, handsome man, real job…but then she remembered, what were those mutterings she’d been hearing in her last weeks? …look at a building… have to find a place for the French. He needs me… the roof leaks… there’s not enough bathrooms… the land-lady was a frail skinny crack whore. Slowly an image formed in her mind… Her gypsy, sitting on the street in Palermo, surrounded by brochures and leaflets from estate agents, foaming at the mouth, talking about 9000pesos a month….12000 a month…slowly a group of rich gringos began to gather around… “Are you ok there? Can i get you anything?” the voice seemed so real, so…so close…. With a fright she sat bolt upright. Phew! She realised she’d drifted off, her gypsy couldn´t possibly have became a slobberring rabid, real-estate obsessed zombie in just a few short hours. Could she?
Curtly, she ordered a jaeger bomb and a vodka speed, and sat back, calmer, drinks in hands, and began pondering the well being of other members of her BsAs family.. what of Flaco? miserable bastard hadnt even said goodbye. He claimed it was impossible but she didnt believe him. She never believed him, secretly she considered him a cretinous individual only good for reading newspapers and completing crosswords..but still, she was devasted that she had never had his boney pelvis tight between her thighs…she stayed with this thought for a while, and, it having reached a satisfactory conclusión, her mind began to wonder once more… There he was, rising from his bed at 6:15, face like the fury of a cheated super-bowl sunday sports fan, to spend hours travelling to and from a 1 hour shift, returning to go to bed, waking up for a shift on a reception desk, then going to bed, getting up and doing it all over again. This crazed cycle was wearing him down, down to the depths of a grunting monosyllabic sloth, muttering phrases such as, “i can’t, i have an interview in the morning”. It made him dizzy and sick at regular intervals. Eventually she saw him climbing aboard the number39 bus, looking to take refuge with friends across town at Palermo House…but half way there he’d started demanding to be allowed to climb on to the roof of the bus. He slapped the driver after a period of restraint, and was left just sitting at the back of the bus looking at pictures of pretty girls he once new via facebook…
And he wasn’t the only one who had to get his thrills from the internet. She saw her friend Mr Meat-&-Sugar Sosa. From the choicest of pickings of loose, barely legal ladies behid Clan´s reception, Meat-&-Sugar now had to look to the 30somethings of a new, limyer house, or stick to facebook and bebo. He’d aged 15 years almost overnight, taking genuine pleasure from explaining to walking boot-clad German tourists how to get to Recoletta, and laughing along as clueless Canadians exclaimed how pleased they were that their taxi back from Pamelo(¿!) had only cost them 50$.
These thoughts had repulsed her more. But somehow also made her long to be back with her family. She began to long for the sound of French rap being drowned out by the rapping of a Frenchmen who definately wasn’t a rapper (but was perhaps a rapist), or the smell of Australian culinary delicasies (¿!!?) heating on the stove. At that moment the plane hit some turbulence and her thoughts were jolted out of place. Suddenly she envisaged a ghetto gnome attempting to wrestle 4 pesos from a Swiss backpacker. Apparently he’d owed her money for an empanada for over 13 minutes. No, she couldnt wait, she had to go out and buy more mince meat, didn’t he know she´d been cooking for 72 hours straight and had a small French baby to take care off too?!! In actual fact, the baby was beyond care. Despite numerous visits to the sleep clinic, he hadn’t slept in 6 days and nights. Some thought this the result of hours of video game abuse, others suggested darker forces were at work. But none dared to question him for fear of the Word PUTAN being tatooed onto their foreheads through a mixture of headlocks and flying spittle. This thought chilled Ms F***z to the bone, but almost immediately an even more chilling image flashed through her ever more drunken mind. The baby had risen from its darkened corner in a flash, suddenly it cut its own hair, shaved and put on a crisp, clean shirt.something it was usually averse to. Strolling timidly over to the nearest computer, it logged onto skype and initiated a conversation with the apparently all powerful monster, known only as ‘La Madame’. But what terrifed her most was the child like smile and mannerisms used to address the La Madame…it seemed the baby had grown-up in a matter of seconds…
It was futile, she couldnt do it. She stood up immedietly, screaming “I HAVE TO GET BACK TO MY FAMILY. NOW! LET ME OFF THIS FUCKING PLANE”. The cabin staff were alarmed but calm, “Now now baby doll, you’ll see them soon. Is someone meeting you at the airport? Your parents perhaps?”
“No, no, you dont understand, my OTHER family. They need me!” with this, she hurled a bottle of champagne (having ensured it was completely empty of course) towards the cockpit and pushed past several cabin staff. Those still blocking her path began to cower into the aisles in order to avoid her icy glare, powerful bitch slip, and princes demands. Bursting into the cock-pit she was ready to smash the driver over the head with an empty can of speed when she noticed a strange glint in his eye. Her attention was then caught by something on his upper left arm…was that an Argentian flag tatooed just above the elbow?
“Que liiiiinda” grinned the pilot flashing the remnants of a little Bolo de Lomo in his teeth and a strange dot in his nose in the process… Suddenly she was calmed.. She thought of her Avatar and the words ‘sexy time’ came to mind. The Pilot flicked a switch (…) and the J-money-Millionaire remix of ‘(Bringin') Sexy Back (Home)’ began to play….
Smiling and stretching out like a cat she began to think of other family members in London and Southern France, and realised there must be life after the family for her, just as there had been for those others. She returned peacefully to her seat, but not before affording herself one last glance at the tatoo, and inhaling deeply the fernet breath for one last time…
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Meat Market
Hernan Cotote was his name, 8 months on and my mind remembers him as David Dickinson. All orange tan and jazzy tie. I had wandered around for ten minutes or so before the meeting trying to find the office. Having genuinely considered giving up I eventually found the door concealed inside a scenic courtyard, perhaps the disguise should have been my first hint towards the not so up front business of interviewing for teaching jobs in Buenos Aires.
Initially at least, Hernan wasn´t home. Instead I was greeted by a rather brash, Texan (is there any other kind?) dressed for a private sports club smart casual drinks jolly, all slacks, creaseless shirt and slip on shoes…and his arm in a sling. I was then immediately treated to an exagerated account of his heroic battle with an armed thief just one week previously; “I mean, I’m from Texas, I saw a gun soon as I could walk!”, astounding memories, these Texans. Disapointingly I was spared the story of his liberation of Texan towns from the hands of Mexican bandits by Hernan’s arrival. And so began my first Argentinian interview;
Do you have a TEFL certificate?
How long do you plan to stay in Buenos Aires?
What is your availability?
“Excellent, you can Start nee...(look skywards and wait for a day to magically drop into ones mind)...xt Wednesday. We’ll give you a call in the week.”
Having waited a few days I couldn’t stand it any longer and called first. I was quickly assured that the classes were being confirmed ‘at this very moment’ (but you’re speaking to me ‘at this very moment’, not the client?). Another week passed. I called back and this time spoke to Hernan´s assistant and listened as, on hearing my name, Hernan, sitting not 5 feet away, explained that he was, in Fact, out of the office a this time. I was begining to think that perhaps I wasn´t the only one wearing Hernan’s pin and was now glad our first interview had gone no further than first base questions. This, understandably, as a teaching virgin, left me rather confused. I needed closure, and so I decided to send an email, more neutral, lass molesting than a phone call I mused. Not wanting to sound bitter, I suggested it would be great to hear from him in the future. I still await the call, leaving me feeling cheap as two-week-old choripan.
I had a taste for it now though, only slightly dulled by the excesses of Christmas and New Year in Buenos Aires and in particular Hostel Clan (R.I.P). And so, on the recommendation of another teacher, via the well-used hook-up site ‘craigslist’, I was invited to a blind date style interview. The institute in question claimed to be ‘superior’ in its very name and so, confidence damaged having been taken for a ride (ahem) by Hernan, I wasn’t holding out too much hope. Consequently I thought nothing of arriving with an enormous tear in the crotch of my already shabby jeans. Thankfully I realised there was a breeze blowing and crossed my legs. Bringing into view my ₤5 pumps (thankyou Brick Lane) which, 5 months on from their purchase, were begining to resemble sandals. Now, Argentina, and Buenos Aires in particular, could perhaps be considered to be image conscious, having as it does one of the highest plastic surgery rates in the World, so obviously I’d need some serious smooth talking, teacher sounding statements to cover the holes in my inexperienced teaching career, not least my shoes and trousers. My opponent in this battle of wills, keeping me from meeting the man whom I desired to impress was in fact his stoney faced co-ordinator. This dominating Mother like figure was no fool either, spitting rapid fire questions such as the traveller’s favourite ‘Where are you from?’, and the decidely less specific ‘How would you teach a class?’. Surely this open question was my chance to shine?! Blow the competition back to Los Angles, Sydney, New York or Sunderland (¿!). ‘I guess (..don’t guess you sloppy bastard!..), I’d make sure I covered all the bases of reading, writing, listening and….errr… yeah. I’d cover all four.’ Brilliant. At this point I remembered the hole in my trousers and considered pulling a Sharon Stone manouvre. Thankfully I thought better of it, real-life has neither re-wind or pause functions, rendering flashing my rapidly retreating balls about as useless as a 20 hour TEFL certificate when faced with a room full of Argentinian teenagers whose balls are just coming to the forefront of their collective psyches. However, before I left, there was just time for me to offer my availability (24 hours a day, 7 days a week since you ask), and thank them for their time. Interview practice. Essential experience. Something to make me stronger. I told myself as I congratulated my mere attendance with a cold Quilmes. On the plus side they aren´t all mentirosos I thought, at least they didn’t make me any false promises, although I never actually got through the front door to meet the potential employer himself. Regardless, it was onto the next.
And so it was, leaving the next. Which confirmed that not everybody immedietaly offers hours. But, even those looking for a legal worker, with a year or so experience of teaching children and full qualifications, will offer an interview to a fresh off the plane 24 year old with a 20 hour TEFL certificate, and teaching experience covering classes such as ‘how to make a wrap’ and ‘how to avoid serious employment opportunities in the post-grad world’. As will those institues who have already filled the advertised vacancy. Travel for an hour or so on an overland train, outside of the city limits and into the slower paced province of Greater Buenos Aires where everything from the buildings, the meat and the skin tone of the majority of the population has a slightly different tone to that of Euro-centric downtown. Find your way through fierce, iron-gated doorways and up narrow passages to first floor offices cramped between former portable toilet partition walls, impress in the first 15 minutes of your interview, share a joke or two in Castellano, be told you have a strong accent and that this could be a problem, then be told the job has already been given anyway, to an Irishman! All the same, it was interesting to see this part of town, and thanks at least, for your honesty once we were face to face… But wait, hang on, Mr Irish might be crap you say?! In which case you’ll call me immediately alter his first lesson to arrange a trial class. Second choice, potencial back-up and even then I may not be completely trusted. All the romance of a first date at a Telo.
Still, every suitor has their own agenda. Everyone wants to keep their options open. This is a city where emotions run high, but emotional ties are loose and easily undone. You take what you desire in este momento, tomorrow is another day for us all, as individuals. So, if an institute co-ordinator or teacher has a translation assignment to complete, why not invite a native teacher to ones apartment for some kind of interview and a coffee to aid its completion? Straight to the point: ‘DVD night, Friday, me and you?’. A little forward for a first meeting perhaps, but this city can be a big lonely place and who knows where such an offer might lead? Having gotten what she wanted, i.e. my future availability and a better translation for ‘portable cabin for the consumption of food and beverages’, I was turned back out into the driving rain with the inevitable ‘I’ll give you a call sometime’ ringing in my still wet-behind ears. Just in time i thought, before her husband returns from work to wonder what this dripping wet young man was doing in his wife’s living room.
Of course, not everyone has the pelota’s to be quite so brazen. More subtle methods are employed in an attempt to transmit the dissapointment that, in real life, you fail to live up to the profile you posted online. ‘Yes this is a role teaching a very important company,…you have a quite a modern hair cut don’t you?' However, despite my obvious inadeqacies, I apparently remained an option. Alter all, bi-ological clocks are ticking, we haven´t got forever to teach these people English, 'just let me ensure we have each other’s contact details'.
By this point I was close to testing the unspoken rules usually ignored by all under the pretence that there is something deeper, more profound at work here. ‘Just take what you want, I will perform I promise. Just a little attention is all I require in return, just a couple of dates a week, 2 classes no more!’. Particularly after flagging self-comfidence had led me to talk my way down from level 2 pay scale to no job offer at all in another ‘first-floor, converted apartment institute’ interview.
Then, finally, a serious offer came. This guy, with his gelled hair as slick and sickly as his North Americanised accent, seemed to like me, seemed to think I could do the job. We were getting on well, until he knew my story word for word that was. Having left the room to talk with his peers, he returned, presumably egged on by the others, lacking the respect that had previously existed between us. He said he could still go along with someone like me, but things had changed. It seemed he now wanted me to be his slave, to be there when he ‘needed me’ all hours of the day, on his terms, for limited reward. Despite previous knock-backs I wasn’t going to allow my lack of a visa to make me feel like one or Orwell´s unpersons with no legal working rights... I thanked him for the time we had shared, picked up my meagre belongings and headed for the door, with the obligatory promise of a call if ever he felt he could offer me the commitment I needed and felt I deserved.
This was by no means the last time I felt undervalued. On more than one occassion I followed the route of many a young person arriving alone in a big city when greeted by a kindly man with a smile and a promise. Sucked in by the gift of one class every week and the promise of greater riches to follow, I’ve attended interviews and given my all to impress, doing everything I felt I could and more beyond. Leaving my phone number behind continualy convinced me that myself and these trickster institutes had some kind of future together. The reality of course, is almost always much harsher, they soon forget and don’t call, prefering the fresher, newer, perhaps more exotic, faces on the scene, leaving me out on the street with just the scraps of one inconveniently located, early morning class to live off.
I was close to the edge when George called. I hadn´t met him in the interview, failing to get past his stoney faced guardian with my 3 day shadow and scruffy attire. Even so I knew he wasn’t perfect. He is much older than me, approaching 70 and with a brain rapidly regressing in the opposite direction, and perhaps he knew how to prey on the weak, but by this stage I didn’t care. What attracted me was merely the feeling of being wanted for the long term. Sure our hours and location of meetings were hard work for me, and just like the rest of them he has made countless promises that have never been fulfilled. I even suspect him of dishonesty and deceitful behaivour with the other teachers he knows. My friends tell me I should leave but for me, its not as simple as that. As time has passed I’ve come to realise some things about myself in ths city. I don’t need to be downtown hanging around glitzy multi-nationals with free drinks dispensers, or up in Palermo in the houses of the TV and cinema elite. I need something steadier, someone to lean on at guaranteed, regular intervals, accepting me with all my limitations, not asking too many questions of my past, providing enough work to keep me in hot, fresh choripan..
Initially at least, Hernan wasn´t home. Instead I was greeted by a rather brash, Texan (is there any other kind?) dressed for a private sports club smart casual drinks jolly, all slacks, creaseless shirt and slip on shoes…and his arm in a sling. I was then immediately treated to an exagerated account of his heroic battle with an armed thief just one week previously; “I mean, I’m from Texas, I saw a gun soon as I could walk!”, astounding memories, these Texans. Disapointingly I was spared the story of his liberation of Texan towns from the hands of Mexican bandits by Hernan’s arrival. And so began my first Argentinian interview;
Do you have a TEFL certificate?
How long do you plan to stay in Buenos Aires?
What is your availability?
“Excellent, you can Start nee...(look skywards and wait for a day to magically drop into ones mind)...xt Wednesday. We’ll give you a call in the week.”
Having waited a few days I couldn’t stand it any longer and called first. I was quickly assured that the classes were being confirmed ‘at this very moment’ (but you’re speaking to me ‘at this very moment’, not the client?). Another week passed. I called back and this time spoke to Hernan´s assistant and listened as, on hearing my name, Hernan, sitting not 5 feet away, explained that he was, in Fact, out of the office a this time. I was begining to think that perhaps I wasn´t the only one wearing Hernan’s pin and was now glad our first interview had gone no further than first base questions. This, understandably, as a teaching virgin, left me rather confused. I needed closure, and so I decided to send an email, more neutral, lass molesting than a phone call I mused. Not wanting to sound bitter, I suggested it would be great to hear from him in the future. I still await the call, leaving me feeling cheap as two-week-old choripan.
I had a taste for it now though, only slightly dulled by the excesses of Christmas and New Year in Buenos Aires and in particular Hostel Clan (R.I.P). And so, on the recommendation of another teacher, via the well-used hook-up site ‘craigslist’, I was invited to a blind date style interview. The institute in question claimed to be ‘superior’ in its very name and so, confidence damaged having been taken for a ride (ahem) by Hernan, I wasn’t holding out too much hope. Consequently I thought nothing of arriving with an enormous tear in the crotch of my already shabby jeans. Thankfully I realised there was a breeze blowing and crossed my legs. Bringing into view my ₤5 pumps (thankyou Brick Lane) which, 5 months on from their purchase, were begining to resemble sandals. Now, Argentina, and Buenos Aires in particular, could perhaps be considered to be image conscious, having as it does one of the highest plastic surgery rates in the World, so obviously I’d need some serious smooth talking, teacher sounding statements to cover the holes in my inexperienced teaching career, not least my shoes and trousers. My opponent in this battle of wills, keeping me from meeting the man whom I desired to impress was in fact his stoney faced co-ordinator. This dominating Mother like figure was no fool either, spitting rapid fire questions such as the traveller’s favourite ‘Where are you from?’, and the decidely less specific ‘How would you teach a class?’. Surely this open question was my chance to shine?! Blow the competition back to Los Angles, Sydney, New York or Sunderland (¿!). ‘I guess (..don’t guess you sloppy bastard!..), I’d make sure I covered all the bases of reading, writing, listening and….errr… yeah. I’d cover all four.’ Brilliant. At this point I remembered the hole in my trousers and considered pulling a Sharon Stone manouvre. Thankfully I thought better of it, real-life has neither re-wind or pause functions, rendering flashing my rapidly retreating balls about as useless as a 20 hour TEFL certificate when faced with a room full of Argentinian teenagers whose balls are just coming to the forefront of their collective psyches. However, before I left, there was just time for me to offer my availability (24 hours a day, 7 days a week since you ask), and thank them for their time. Interview practice. Essential experience. Something to make me stronger. I told myself as I congratulated my mere attendance with a cold Quilmes. On the plus side they aren´t all mentirosos I thought, at least they didn’t make me any false promises, although I never actually got through the front door to meet the potential employer himself. Regardless, it was onto the next.
And so it was, leaving the next. Which confirmed that not everybody immedietaly offers hours. But, even those looking for a legal worker, with a year or so experience of teaching children and full qualifications, will offer an interview to a fresh off the plane 24 year old with a 20 hour TEFL certificate, and teaching experience covering classes such as ‘how to make a wrap’ and ‘how to avoid serious employment opportunities in the post-grad world’. As will those institues who have already filled the advertised vacancy. Travel for an hour or so on an overland train, outside of the city limits and into the slower paced province of Greater Buenos Aires where everything from the buildings, the meat and the skin tone of the majority of the population has a slightly different tone to that of Euro-centric downtown. Find your way through fierce, iron-gated doorways and up narrow passages to first floor offices cramped between former portable toilet partition walls, impress in the first 15 minutes of your interview, share a joke or two in Castellano, be told you have a strong accent and that this could be a problem, then be told the job has already been given anyway, to an Irishman! All the same, it was interesting to see this part of town, and thanks at least, for your honesty once we were face to face… But wait, hang on, Mr Irish might be crap you say?! In which case you’ll call me immediately alter his first lesson to arrange a trial class. Second choice, potencial back-up and even then I may not be completely trusted. All the romance of a first date at a Telo.
Still, every suitor has their own agenda. Everyone wants to keep their options open. This is a city where emotions run high, but emotional ties are loose and easily undone. You take what you desire in este momento, tomorrow is another day for us all, as individuals. So, if an institute co-ordinator or teacher has a translation assignment to complete, why not invite a native teacher to ones apartment for some kind of interview and a coffee to aid its completion? Straight to the point: ‘DVD night, Friday, me and you?’. A little forward for a first meeting perhaps, but this city can be a big lonely place and who knows where such an offer might lead? Having gotten what she wanted, i.e. my future availability and a better translation for ‘portable cabin for the consumption of food and beverages’, I was turned back out into the driving rain with the inevitable ‘I’ll give you a call sometime’ ringing in my still wet-behind ears. Just in time i thought, before her husband returns from work to wonder what this dripping wet young man was doing in his wife’s living room.
Of course, not everyone has the pelota’s to be quite so brazen. More subtle methods are employed in an attempt to transmit the dissapointment that, in real life, you fail to live up to the profile you posted online. ‘Yes this is a role teaching a very important company,…you have a quite a modern hair cut don’t you?' However, despite my obvious inadeqacies, I apparently remained an option. Alter all, bi-ological clocks are ticking, we haven´t got forever to teach these people English, 'just let me ensure we have each other’s contact details'.
By this point I was close to testing the unspoken rules usually ignored by all under the pretence that there is something deeper, more profound at work here. ‘Just take what you want, I will perform I promise. Just a little attention is all I require in return, just a couple of dates a week, 2 classes no more!’. Particularly after flagging self-comfidence had led me to talk my way down from level 2 pay scale to no job offer at all in another ‘first-floor, converted apartment institute’ interview.
Then, finally, a serious offer came. This guy, with his gelled hair as slick and sickly as his North Americanised accent, seemed to like me, seemed to think I could do the job. We were getting on well, until he knew my story word for word that was. Having left the room to talk with his peers, he returned, presumably egged on by the others, lacking the respect that had previously existed between us. He said he could still go along with someone like me, but things had changed. It seemed he now wanted me to be his slave, to be there when he ‘needed me’ all hours of the day, on his terms, for limited reward. Despite previous knock-backs I wasn’t going to allow my lack of a visa to make me feel like one or Orwell´s unpersons with no legal working rights... I thanked him for the time we had shared, picked up my meagre belongings and headed for the door, with the obligatory promise of a call if ever he felt he could offer me the commitment I needed and felt I deserved.
This was by no means the last time I felt undervalued. On more than one occassion I followed the route of many a young person arriving alone in a big city when greeted by a kindly man with a smile and a promise. Sucked in by the gift of one class every week and the promise of greater riches to follow, I’ve attended interviews and given my all to impress, doing everything I felt I could and more beyond. Leaving my phone number behind continualy convinced me that myself and these trickster institutes had some kind of future together. The reality of course, is almost always much harsher, they soon forget and don’t call, prefering the fresher, newer, perhaps more exotic, faces on the scene, leaving me out on the street with just the scraps of one inconveniently located, early morning class to live off.
I was close to the edge when George called. I hadn´t met him in the interview, failing to get past his stoney faced guardian with my 3 day shadow and scruffy attire. Even so I knew he wasn’t perfect. He is much older than me, approaching 70 and with a brain rapidly regressing in the opposite direction, and perhaps he knew how to prey on the weak, but by this stage I didn’t care. What attracted me was merely the feeling of being wanted for the long term. Sure our hours and location of meetings were hard work for me, and just like the rest of them he has made countless promises that have never been fulfilled. I even suspect him of dishonesty and deceitful behaivour with the other teachers he knows. My friends tell me I should leave but for me, its not as simple as that. As time has passed I’ve come to realise some things about myself in ths city. I don’t need to be downtown hanging around glitzy multi-nationals with free drinks dispensers, or up in Palermo in the houses of the TV and cinema elite. I need something steadier, someone to lean on at guaranteed, regular intervals, accepting me with all my limitations, not asking too many questions of my past, providing enough work to keep me in hot, fresh choripan..
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