Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Hey! Maybe leave a comment if you're a Lawrence Wenngrodd seeker...
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
(via Roger) Sponge from my apartment in BsAs
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Trent Call painted Nina in her purple dress petting a cat.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
heavenly father (by leaux)
yeah--so my heavenly father is my dad who can make cous cous taste thai in the bottom of a canyon even though it's raining and can tell you all about the comings and goings of the tarantula wasps and peregrine falcons. PFs, in case you don't have your own personal lawson, mate for life. when mr. falcon is feeling like he needs a shag, he catches some kind of swallow or bunny and in mid-air, in the mid-fucking-air, he talons it over to mrs. falcon as a gift. then, she kisses him with her cloaca and together they make a nest in the crack of some desperately tall cliff-face. There are only 162 pairs in Utah. We slept in an alcove underneath some and could hear their babies.
Tarantula wasps, in case you were wondering, prey only on tarantulas. they dive down and sting the unsuspecting arachnid. but the spider does not die. instead it is paralysed, at which point the wasp drags it back to its burrow and lays a single egg on it's furry little paralysed back. when the wasp larva hatches, it raises itself on nice fresh live tarantula meat. mmm mmm good.
my time was full of all kinds of observations--large and small. i'm pretty cool!
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Friday, March 31, 2006
Expeshully for Oston
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Lobsters. Blonde, Furry.
Actually, scientists are calling their new discovery "Yeti Crabs."
Sounds like the kind of communicable problem you'd contract at Burning Man...
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
suffled how it gush...
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
It is very important to be respected as a man, Bill Klinton!
Monday, January 16, 2006
A recent dream:
I take a walk. The walk turns out to be a trek of many miles. I am still naked, hugely pregnant, and now notice that I am barefoot also as my feet touch down on sharp stones and needly scrubbles. I cross fields, clamber over boulders and carefully make my way down steep cliff faces, where I have to lean out to peer over my belly just so to see where my feet should fall. The cliffs are rather precarious.
It seems like it should be a difficult journey, being such a long way and taking even longer because I have to take measures with regard to my expanded state and bare-feetliness; but it's actually no problem for me. I feel exposed, but not vulnerable. I am healthy and capable and strong. It is suggested that I may be Extra Strong or have bonus power/vitality owing to my impregnated state. Anyway I feel very safe and confident in the desert and I have plenty of time to get there before dark, so I trek on steadily.
By the time I reach the highway my dog Lucy has joined me on my walk. The car is parked at the side of the road, as expected, and we merge into traffic to begin driving back. I am talking toOston on the cell phone to let him know we are on our way, but I have to hang up because of trying to hang on to Lucy who gets afraid riding in the car and keeps shifting around sketchily making me worried that she'll blow away as the auto is a convertible one. She makes herself too stiff to be moved, but I manage to get a grip on her collar and we both feel more secure from that point. I look down and see how white my skin is under the sun, the expanse of the skin of my breasts and my mammoth belly fitting barely snugly behind the steering wheel. I can see a little bit of my legs below the belly, not much, but there they are whiteglowing. I am so fair and luminous that I have to put on my sunglasses. I feel just the right temperature, am astonishingly comfortable in fact, and I hang on to Lucy and drive on with my hair blowing.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Literature for dating
Thursday, November 10, 2005
The miserable French language and its inadequacies
I am really more than a bit disgusted that a speaker of French — of all languages — should have the nerve to criticize the English language (if the woolly verbiage of Professor Sergeant can really be called criticism). Let's be clear (since so many people seem to think the French always have a word for everything): this is a language used by people who are supposed to be the big experts in love and kissing and sexy weekends of ooh-la-la, and they don't have words for "boy", "girl", "warm", "love", "kiss", or "weekend".
No they don't! Don't contradict me. I'm a Senior Researcher and Vice President for Diplomacy at Language Log.
Boy-meets-girl stories cannot really be told in French, because there is no word for "boy" — garçon means "waiter", as everybody who has ever seen a movie with a scene in a French restaurant knows — and fille means either "daughter" or "whore" depending on whether you sneer in a certain way when you use it. (French speakers struggle by with the phrase jeune fille as a work-around to refer to a girl.)
Boy may long for girl to hold him in her warm embrace, but he won't be able to tell her that in French, because they don't have a word for "warm". They have tiède, which means "tepid", but boy doesn't long for girl to hold him in her tepid embrace. So what they use is chaud, which is the word on the hot water tap, the one that isn't froid. A language of love that was minimally functional would be able to distinguish between a warm friendship (enthusiastic discussion of topics of common interest; amicable farewell handshakes with promises to do lunch real soon) and a hot friendship (passion, heavy breathing, sudden uncontrolled couplings in shadowy doorways and on moving trains, returning home having lost underwear, midnight calls to say I have to have you right now). If boy cannot distinguish lexically between these, boy is going to be in real trouble with his relationship with girl.
Now consider love. Aimer is not a word for "love"; it is completely vague between loving and liking; you use it both for the way you are devoted to your spouse and the way you prefer to have your coffee. How do you really feel about me? Je t'aime. How's your fish? Je l'aime. Lover, haddock, whatever; it's all the same. These people do not have a word for love.
Baiser does not mean "kiss". It apparently did once, but today it is not a word you should try to use for a peck on auntie's cheek — it now means "fuck". And embrasser does not mean "kiss" either; people use it for that, but it clearly means "embrace" — bras means "arm". Although the French are widely thought to have invented at least one variety of kissing, they have no word that specifically denotes the activity.
And finally, if, despite all the above lexical difficulties, boy ever gets along with girl well enough to invite her away from Paris for a weekend of ooh-la-la in Dieppe, he will once again find himself completely stuck to express the notion of this crucial time period. What speakers do (to the disgust of the French Academy, which is charged with trying to prevent the miserable French tongue from completely falling apart) is to talk about le weekend. A borrowing from the very English that these linguistic cripples have the temerity to condemn.
So where do they get off, criticizing the language in which fine writers like William Shakespeare and Dan Brown created their literary masterpieces, huh? It makes me so mad.
I know, I'm going to get a whole flood of stupid email defending the beautiful French language and its expressivité: "La langue française, elle est si belle", they'll say, referring to their language as if it were a girl (not that they can say "girl"); Le français, they will say (inexplicably switching their gender decision from feminine to masculine), "est une langue" (O.K., so we're back to feminine again) magnifique, la langue de Racine et de Molière et de Balzac et de Rimbaud... All this from people who think a uvular scraping sound like a cat bringing up a hairball is a perfectly reasonable noise to use instead of an honest "r". From people who simply cannot make their minds up about whether an attributive adjective should precede the modified noun (sensible!) or follow it (silly!): the ever-indecisive French say un bon vin blanc ("a good wine white"), with one before the noun and one after. Get a grip! Pick one or the other!
Anyway, I don't care if the francophones bombard me with hate mail. Let them sue me for 500,000 yen for defaming their linguistic patrimony. I'm not buying the idea that this is a language fit to hold its head high and participate in world diplomacy and lovemaking. This is a language to be tossed the scrap-heap of human communicative failures.
And if it seems to you that I'm being a bit tough on the French, let me just point out that they started it.
Posted by Geoffrey K. Pullum at September 30, 2005 05:03 PM
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Genius Behind the Stupidity
From the Onion
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Frog spelling redux: definitely worse than ours
"One of the many engaging peculiarities of the French is their conviction that their language - if they could only keep it pure of Anglicisms - is one of singular beauty and nobility. Nothing could be further from the truth. French is nothing but Latin (a gawky language to start with) in an advanced stage of putresence. The words, at any rate, nearly all derive from Latin, though their sense has sometimes been so perverted that, for example, the mangled husks of the Latin persona person and rem thing now signify no one and nothing.
"If Caesar could arise from his tomb and revisit that land of three parts upon which his conquests imposed his language, he would have sore difficulty in recognizing a word of it. Many of the imperial consonants have fallen silent; some of the vowels have done likewise, while others have reduced themselves to strangulated peeps, or sought concealment in the nasal passages. The syllables scurry past with their heads down, except that every now and then one of them will pop up on its hind legs like a stoat, making them all pause for a moment before they scuttle on.
"Many a proud vocable has been filleted and shrunk almost to nothing; for instance, the summer month that once bore the majestic name of Augustus has in the mouth of the French been reduced to the sound oo. In an effort to counter this vanishing effect, and to prevent their sentences from becoming too short to be noticed, they throw in all the extra words they can find, to serve as ballast, which results in the creation of such convolvular periphrases as 'qu'est-c que c'est que ça?' A logical tongue, they would have us believe; and indeed we find no want of rationality in the arrangement by which 100 being 'cent', 200 is 'deux cents'. Except that 300 is not 'trois cents' but 'trois cent'. A singular plural, in very truth; fruit of a language wonderous indeed in its notions of orderliness.
"English may fairly be criticized for the vagaries of its orthography, only the criticism comes ill from the speakers of a dialect in which, where eaux is written, no e is sounded, no a, no u, and least of all an x, but only o. It might as well be spelled aquas, which is what it comes from. There are two sorts of h: one of them is silent, and might as well not exist at all; the other, dignified by the name h aspiré, is not (as the level-headed student might suppose) aspirated, but is as silent as the other, only people refrain from eliding vowels before it in case it should be offended - strange homage to a puff of breath long extinct."
Sunday, October 09, 2005
this is horrifying.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Frog spelling: worse than ours?
6. A woman comes up to me. "R?" she asks.
I type it in: "R".
"R?" I ask helpfully, inviting the next letter.
She looks at the screen. "No no no no no. Rrrrrr," she says.
"Rrrrr," I type in.
"No no no no."
I give up. I hand her a pen and piece of paper. She writes, "Art." She's French.
I point to the Art section.
(The whole thing is available here.)
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Give Me Too Much
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
For Henri, mostly
Friday, August 19, 2005
Turns out this guy also used to be able to remove his entire set of top teeth
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.
Today two of these four people left Buenos Aires on their return trip to the states. We drank wine, sang songs, hugged, kissed, moaned and wailed (everybody but the girl in green there).
Goodbye Booth and Haley.
Originally uploaded by matthewzollinger.
A final view. . .
The Hotel Brisas Del Mar was where, about a year ago, these two began their adventure in Buenos Aires.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
My new Bike... I'll Put Good pics up soon...
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
We take enormous walks through bird-plenty parks.
We pretend not to confuse ourselves in language. We teach eachother. We compete. We hike the crooked sooty canyons of Congreso and Once and rumble through old underground rollercoasters. We drink. We attempt to adapt.
This city pulls people to it like it draws water, it breathes electricity, it exhales diesel clouds.
It is a whirlpool. Those who try to climb out of it are devoured by its center.
We walk the turbulent rings. We genuflect. We proccess.
Whoever contemplates the city too much loses it. Who maps it does not enjoy it.
Like throwing water at water.
The city tortures people with its almost visible faces.
The people torture eachother, unmasked.
A woman screams.
A woman scratches at the unswept skin of the city.
She wants everyone to scratch, "for honesty!" she cries.
But it is only the noise of a bird-plenty park.
Nothing is revealed.
The city at night is older.
Others seep blood.
Their wars are our wars. Who sees it?
A large dark dog finds clean water and drinks his fill. Later, strengthened, he drags in the sorrowful corpses of rotting companions to sour the spring.
A fallen angel lowers her whiskers to the bloody pool.
Pawing the rust-colored water she sees reflected the no-longer brilliant blanket of stars.
Her ribs rise weakly. She sighs.
With a glance upward she willfully drinks the water.
We here a whimper.
A stark shadow greedily runs off stage, into the clouded night.
Poor Pirate Dog sees a different city. He travels by rooftop, descending only to sabotage his foes.
He senses history in everyone and everything. This is his gift.
His foes are marked by their past actions. He has many, many foes.
With the strong breath of the inspired poor and the vigorously pirate-like, poordog sniffs out greed faster than a scream can become a birdsong.
Greed, to this dog, is a negative complacency. A horrible sin.
Still, greed is taught by the greedier -- and though they too have learned the greed they teach, their sin is worse.
They are the "worst perpetuators."
He calls them such when he sees them:
"thou, worst perpetuator..."
But poordog can't read minds, he only has the past to work from. To him, action is law. All religious conversions and spiritual awakenings, all great intentions - are null.
With the same foreordination that makes Poor Pirate Dog move via rooftop -- occupy a different space, he is blind in one eye.
This eye, if it could see, would allow poordog empathy - and empathy would prohibit him from vanquishing his foes.
His empathetic eye was dismissed by his stray-bitch mother in her last act of creation.
Most often, when you look at poordog, you don't see a dog, you see a statue.
It is a form he can always take and has always taken.
Late one recent night, a delirious begger fed a one-eyed dog-statue a strong Coca-leaf broth,
He licked the man, winked and then returned to statueesque.
Inside his iron cast, poordog felt a prescience.
He had found his partner, finally.
And finally, for the first time in the annals of our history, a man and Poor Pirate Dog had united. A link had been established between two worlds.
And now, hesitantly, I reveal it. I am that begger. . .
Monday, July 18, 2005
The Dirty River
Collectively they are horrifying.
Gathered together, they would occupy a mountain of space. They must. They do.
It is a holocaust of paper.
Everyday, armies of people take to the middle of the mad metropolis to hand you flyers.
Everyday armies. They are paid to do this. The more leaflets you hand out the more your worth as a human being. There is even desperation in the action. "Take my pamphlet pero hijo de puta tomálo!"
But who is keeping tabs? How does the strip-club owner, or the parrilla-man, or the massage-parlour madam or the university dean or the internet-cafe pimp know that the everyday armies don't just dump the whole lot of the pamphlets into the Riachuelo, the most contaminated river in South America?
Anyway, the paper would probably just dissolve like so many disappeared corpses.
Recently I read this headline in LA NACION, Argentina's oldest newspaper:
"El Riachuelo, sucio desde 1811."
That was the year that humankind began to put everything into this one river.
Animal carcasses and blood and all of the shitty shit from the soon-to-follow industrialization. Real shit too. And Piss. Loads of it. Daily. From a dozen colonies along the "sweet water" banks.
Secrets oozed into the water. Politicians would walk up to the banks and dump in their dirty deeds. The pope would come to pour in the world's sins. The moon's reflection drowned in the hideous thick scum. Do you remember the moon's reflection? I know where it went.
Boats enter the soupy water from the Rio de la Plata and simply evaporate. Some evaporate up to 300 miles from the coast, where the river cuts its wound through the Atlantic, like tar on lungs.
No one is quite sure what to do. But the inhabitants of La Boca say a Chinese company practiced in the modernized medieval art of "River cleaning" is supposed to come and fix the situation.
Can anyone tell me what this would involve?
Shiny, plastic white hardhats I am sure.
But enormous filters? Electric rays?
The introduction of a foreign "scrubbing" species?
On the subway there are posters that say: "protect our environment" with glossy pictures of garbage cans and "recycle" logos. Contact your local agency to learn more.
Contact my local agency?
The effort screams "Look, we too subscribe to the luxury of environmentalism."
And it is dismaying to return to the understanding that, just perhaps, my environmentalism is the byproduct of my super-industrialized society. My aim as an environmentalist, it may turn out, is to prevent you from ever achieving the luxury of becoming an environmentalist.
It's sad because I still mean it. I still want you to want self sufficiency and sustainability, even though you want sneakers and knickknacks and everything that comes with it. Hell, you think of it as your "right."
Do as I say, not as I earn my living. . .
But how do we eat, then?
I don't know how to estimate the weight of the tiny slips of paper handed out on a daily basis. Evan has begun to accept every single slip pushed in front of him. "A project," he says. Easily he ends up with a pound of paper every two days. A pound a day if we're walking a lot. And really at some point he has to stop accepting the leaflets because he's too weighted down; out of space.
I think if we wanted to we could collect 20 or 30 pounds of paper each, daily, without making the slightest dent in the volume distributed. We could build houses of papers; a more than literal house of leaves.
Four hundred and fifty-seven thousand six hundred and twenty-two pounds of paper every day. That's my guess.
It could be more.
Monday, July 11, 2005
You say its your birthday
G. A. Haley, 27 years gone.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tight grey streets hold healthy dogs. Everybody, but everybody (todos pero todos) smoke. Sometimes a man holding a bag that must hold at least 300 moths walks by. The bag floats and trembles with the hum of dusted wings.
Montevideo gave the city a statue. “Eternal Friendship.” A tall iron woman extends a hand. Behind her, a tall conical what. A serious what is it. Maybe the most intriguing what is it in Parque Lezama. The signs of the zodiak carress the conical what.
The colectivo holds the darkest woman on earth. She wears a cap. A tiny brimmed red cap. Why is the brim of your hat so tiny? One by one she hands us crumpled notes. una moneda por favor.
Does the bus driver know?
Scarves are everywhere. This is a scarf town. A lusty-eyes scarf town. A tilt your head upwards in mysterious contemplation, virgin of the sacred rose, educated, cinematic, lusty eyes scarf town. From the future and the past.
Futbol. Chomsky. Its all the same.
Heroin, Art. “Everything is a drug.”
When does someone loose control?
Why do movies moralize so much?
This is the way my Brazilian friend speaks.
He has no soul. He lost it playing video games with the devil.
So he says.
The fecal covered streets.
Its not as bad when its from another animal, not your own. But how can you be sure? Dogs are everywhere. They are walked by tall, gruff, out-or-work extras from Robert Dinero-plays-another-cop movies. The economy is all agriculture. Somebody should scrape the shit off the cobblestones and sell it as fertilizer.
Yaya says that this is just like Naples. She even calls it NAP/les, - as in not having napped. This is how it would be said in Castellano and we are in Buenos Aires. She refuses to say Napoli. She is Italian. She has gastritis. “I can’t eat anything acidic.” Pobre de Yaya, Buenos Aires is tomato-based. So is Naples. She is outcast.
Sometimes the schoolchildren here wrap various government buildings in symbolic hugs. No shit.
It makes me want to vomit.
A girl goes into a bank and changes Euros. Euros are the hot shit right now. New for Fall, Euros. Oh dear, that word. Fall.
A girl goes in and she changes shloads of Euros to pay off her new apartment. Everything is in cash here, nobody trusts anything else. I would prefer that we all paid with pure orbs of glowing energy – but the exchange rate is terrible. She goes in and the teller touches his nose or his ass or something and a man watching from the phone booth gets the point that this girl has got a lot of money to exchange and he goes outside and waits. Soon, en route from the bank a gun is pointed, maybe at a pit-stop cafe or a maxikiosco. All is lost.
The bills didn’t glow.
A dead cat. That is all. A dead cat with noodle-like intestines. A poor dead cat, watched by its kittens. Romulus and Remus are their names. They are the new people; those who would have been raised by cats.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
An ancient Chinese classification system for animals is:
2. Those that have four legs
3. Wild dogs
4. Those that are likely to break a jar
5. Those that resemble flies, at least from a distance
6. Those that behave in a crazy way
7. Embalmed animals
8. Tame animals
10. Those that are drawn with a very fine brush, made of camel hair
11. Mythical beasts
12. Piglets, nursed on milk
13. Et cetera
"Mabel is unstable..."
If she gets stuck,
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Andrew Haley - SFSG
Yesterday was the shortest day of the year. Up at dawn from tea and
cold medicine I saw the clouds in the pale sky over the smoke stacks
and abandonned projects of the industrial strip that spreads below our
balcony along the edge of Boca to the river. Now, at the end of the
first longest day of the year, I'm listening to Carla Bruni, sipping
brandy with the window open, having superheated the apartment in
preparation of a wicked apple cobbler I will take to a dinner party at
Klaus and Peck's. Klaus is pursuing a PhD in economics at Princeton
(dissertation: Why is Argentina so fucked up?) and is town for a month
to visit his wife, Peck, a sweet chipmunk-cheeked Argie in The
Program, the Georgetown masters program in international development
that all our weiguo friends are in.
I divide my life between San Telmo and Palermo and love the exchange.
Arriving in San Telmo I climb the stairs into the vaulted station and
cross through the human debris (stray dogs, stolen watches, leppers,
one peso sandwiches, calls of trains) that litter the amazing central
archway. There's a duck and a swagger past the traffic, under the
freeway, rain coming down on the greyscale of abandonned hotels and
dirty slate steeples. Then I go down Calle Brasil past the
revolutionary headquarters and the Chinese hotel, past the two dollar
diners and junkies sleeping in the dry spaces overhanging rooves
provide. The orange neon HOTEL sign of the Three Magi Hotel appears
through the rain and I duck under a scaffold with a bottle of cana
from the corner wine shop and trudge down the hill along the edge of
the park where the city was founded.
In Palermo, I wake in the afternoons and watch the evening sunlight
slanting in the willows outside the window and we have coffee and go
out to buy apples or eggs from the fruit shop on the corner and then
we go up Thames to the Genovese noodle shop where the old man cranks
sheets of pasta from an old machine and slices them by hand and we
stop at the market for tomato sauce and wine and the windows fill up
with steam when the water boils. The leaves are down and swept from
the gutter and in the middle of the night the garbage truck comes down
the cobbled street with the two guys running beside, swinging the bags
into the back and again we wake up in the afternoon even though we
promised each other to get up early so we could read. In the evenings
I get upset reading case studies from the dirty war and we talk about
Menem and Fujimori. Without distraction the time slips by until it's
five again and we crawl off to bed.
- - - -
Le Ciel Dans Une Chambre
Quand tu es près de moi,
Cette chambre n'a plus de parois,
Mais des arbres oui, des arbres infinis,
Et quand tu es tellement près de moi,
C'est comme si ce plafond-là,
Il n'existait plus, je vois le ciel penché sur nous... qui restons
Abandonnés tout comme si,
Il n'y avait plus rien, non plus rien d'autre au monde,
J'entends l'harmonica... mais on dirait un orgue,
Qui chante pour toi et pour moi,
Là-haut dans le ciel infini,
Et pour toi, et pour moi
Quando sei qui con me
Questa stanza non ha piu pareti
Ma alberi, alberi infiniti
E quando tu sei vicino a me
Questo soffitto, viola, no
Non esiste più, e vedo il cielo sopra a noi
Che restiamo quì, abbandonati come se
Non ci fosse più niente più niente al mondo,
Suona l'armonica, mi sembra un organo
Che canta per te e per me
Su nell'immensità del cielo
E per te e per me.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Oh. Mah. GAWD.
"But Ann Coulter is the only celebrity I’ve ever spotted at Farmer’s Market
that I wound up fucking in the ass, hard. "
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
i wrote this for my brother and then i sent it to the world
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Who loves Flash?
. . .
. . .
. . .
Maybe we would love it if more of it were always this well done and featured Radiohead more often. Check it out.
P.S. Thanks, Josh Holyoak!
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Ancient Semen-Sweetening Secrets Discovered!
Thank you, gay boys everywhere, for being always handy with such tips as,
"One word folks: Semenex! Semenex! Semenex!"
Monday, May 30, 2005
Female Orgasm: Proof of God
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Date: Sunday, May 29, 2005
Subject: villa general belgrano, cordoba, argentina
hi everyone i find worth writing to and have an address for.
i am in an internet cafe amid the noise of 10 various computer games and 10 various argentine country kids. i really have to pee, so this won´t be the longest message. the internet cafe wherein i sit now typing is on the main street of the small mountain town of villa general belgrano, about 12 hours south of buenos aires in what might be called in the us, cordoba county. there are autumnescent (oak-like with pine) hills as far as the eye can see and the light today when i climbed out of my bus was low and smoky yellow--very much like in the foothills of the other sierras i know.
i will sleep tonight in a hostel-inn of sorts where there are big sheep dogs and woodstoves and swings swinging from the changing trees. i spent the weekend with fellow folks from my school in a town not worth mentioning, but did enjoy myself making new friends (my favorite was half french, but mostly english paschal, a large and loud man who had me laughing all the way down the mountain with stories about his travels in the u.s and his take on americans) . yesterday, we hired a van and rode out of the town i said before is not worth mentioning, drove up, up, up into the dry hills to the base of a granite mountain called ¨gigante¨ and then climbed to the top and saw for miles and miles and miles.
this morning, tired of being one of many, i left the group at the bus station and found a bus for this place and i am glad i did. it´s low season and the town is quiet and local-seeming. there are chocolate stores and beer gardens. (villa general belgrano is a town founded by germans in the 1930´s). i heard german in the supermercado come out of three mouths and spanish come only out of one, por ejemplo. the air has that autumn snap to it, but in general, the tourist office friend i made, (griselda) told me that it has been generally making calor. she also personally arranged for the mountain guide agency man to walk personally to the tourist office to talk personally to me about going on tuesday to climb champaqui--the highest mountain in this low range. i think it´s about 7000 feet if my metric and spanish conversions are correct. but, i am sola and if others don´t arrive who also need a ride to the mountain, they cannot afford to take me. perhaps, tonight, i will try to find some climbing buddies, but i really haven´t seen other tourist-types (people who are wearing synthetic coats and sunglasses). i was planning on climbing champaqui tomorrow and leaving tuesday morning for buenos aires. but, because i can´t climb the mountain until tuesday, if at all, i won´t leave until tuesday night and hopefully tiny teaspoon will forgive me! i´m just really enjoying the tranquilidad.
anyhoooooooooo...i just wanted to shout out to the masses and let those of you who might be worried about me know that i´m just fine and safe, just a little thought-ridden and very much enjoying being a stranger. i appreciate you and your love.