It doesn’t rain much in Buenos Aires. Several people have told me this, but the week of my mother and sister’s visit all it does is rain. It’s raining when we reach the boutiques of Palermo Viejo where my sister begins her shopping crusade. What she’s looking for, no one knows. Buying stuff only seems to fuel her enthusiasm, as if the accumulation of goods heightens her five senses to the level of “superhero”. Her methods confuse me too.
“If she just bought a brown purse, then why is she still looking at brown purses?” I ask my mother this. She has been shopping with Megan for years now, so maybe she can explain. But my mother just looks at me. And it’s the same look as when I ask her about my father’s addiction to old radio broadcasts. (He sits in the garage for hours listening to the Lone Ranger.) Some things are impossible to make words of.
Unless…finding the perfect brown purse uncovers the mysteries of the universe? In this way shopping could be like alchemy for my sister: beyond the accumulation of stuff it’s an attempt to understand nature. Maybe her relentless pursuit of goods is really a pilgrimage for something perfect: godlike; and one day when she discovers perfect boots, she’ll find the answers to everything else.
I want to ask my mother about it, but she doesn’t look interested. She is tired and hasn’t eaten anything since the plane ride. It’s possible I’ve gained a little weight too because I’m ready for oxygen. Together, we persuade my sister to lunch at a tappas place nearby.
The three of us walk into the restaurant without speaking. We find a mezzanine table and one of the waiters brings us English menus. Normally, I wouldn’t complain about this. My mother and sister don’t know Spanish and I’m too tired to show off my skills. But the three of us look Argentinean. We are thin, genetic Italians who speak softly. I don’t see how our appearance betrays our language skills. And I don’t see why the waiter assumes that proper menus are beyond our comprehension. Do English speakers smell differently? Has the rain surfaced the hidden truth of our mother tongue? It doesn’t matter that I’ve been living in Buenos Aires for three months and only know two Spanish words. I’ve mastered those words with a perfect intonation. And when I walk into a restaurant I expect the waiter to guess “English or Spanish” AFTER I speak, and not to assume that I don’t qualify for the local menus.
Every morning I have the same Spanish conversation with Antonio, the super at my building. He usually stops me when I’m leaving the place.
“Todo bien? He asks. This roughly translates into “everything okay?”
“Todo bien,” I say.
“Todo bien,” he affirms.
“Todo bien,” I reassure. We do this until Antonio gives me the thumb-up sign. Anyway, I feel a little insulted by the waiter’s rough assessment of my Spanish.
My mother and sister don’t seem to notice this though. They’re both wearing hats, something they do all trip, but it’s the way they look that strikes me. They have the same neck, although my sister’s is slightly longer. They have the same Italian nose, which my sister points to with her fingers. “Of all things,” she says to my mother, “I got your nose.”
Growing up we were told that I look like my mother and my sister looks like my father. For a while we believed that too. However, it’s really the other way around: I look like my father and my sister looks like my mother. It’s true. My mother doesn’t like to hear it though. I tell my sister that I have our father’s nose, pointing to it proudly.
“You have his belly too,” she says.
“That’s ridiculous,” but to be on the safe side I order a salad for lunch.
“What are you going to do when you get home?” My sister asks. It’s one of those questions that make me choke, and I apologize to the next table for spitting bread all over.
“Todo bein,” I say in perfect Spanish.
It’s not that I haven’t been thinking about it. I have been. But as the question becomes more real, so does the answer. And the truth is I don’t know.
“I’m thinking about going to Italy,” I say. Last year I spent the summer there and fell in love with the place. “Maybe grad school,” but my mother’s eyes are heavy when I say this, which reminds me I have her eyes.
“Are there jobs in Italy?” she asks.
“I’ll figure it out.” This is my answer for everything. This is also why I’m in Buenos Aires. “It’s really coming down out there,” I say. “It’s a shame the sun isn’t out.”
Buenos Aires is an ugly city in the rain. The old buildings – and most of the city is old buildings – are cracked and crumbling. Water gets into the cracks and flushes out the nameless insides. It’s like the city is bleeding in the rain. In many ways Buenos Aires is like a man who lost his fortune or a woman who lost her beauty. Its history is a sad proud story. And for that reason the city made a deal with the sun. The sun allows visitors to see the city as it was. Most travelers come to Buenos Aires to see a beautiful city because that’s what they want to see. I want my mother to have that option.
AFTER LUNCH, my sister continues her shopping crusade. I ask her what she’s looking for. “You know,” I say holding onto the buildings as I walk. “The alchemists weren’t just looking to transmute lead into gold. Well, some of them were, I guess. But you know, those who look to get rich quick find neither wealth nor satisfaction.”
My sister stops in front of a window display with old fashioned movie cameras. Upon consideration she continues walking. I continue.
“Alchemy is more metaphysical than physical. Sure, in many ways the alchemists were the forefathers of modern science. But beyond trying to transmute lead into gold – and discover the purest substance, the modern day ‘god particle’ – they were looking to transmute themselves. The strange art of alchemy was an exercise of purification, but not purifying lead by changing it into gold as much as purifying the mind and body. The alchemists sought to understand the most elemental part of nature. Call it what you will.”
My sister seems to be listening, so I make my point with gusto. “I was thinking that you’re no different. That shopping is no different. You’re not looking for the perfect purse or the perfect boots, but for something more, something meaningful. And when you find it, you’ll discover that the journey itself – and not the fruit of its end – is what brings real satisfaction. Maybe shopping is like this? It’s an alchemical thing.”
“The Diesel Store,” she says. And we follow her inside, tired and wet. After an hour or so rummaging around the place, we continue on. I’m holding my mother upright and I’m not sure what’s holding me up. It’s raining harder now, and I notice that my sister’s pace has slackened. She’s walking on her tiptoes. At first I think it’s because of the rain puddles and piles of dog shit everywhere, but then I’m not sure.
“What the hell is she doing?” I ask.
“I think she has blisters,” my mother says.
And when my sister stops under a purple awning without entering the store, we’re saved. She utters the six most beautiful words in the English Language: “Is there a drugstore around here?”
Lucky for her I remember the word for “Band-Aid” after fifteen minutes. We buy some at a store that sells them.
“Haven’t you learned any Spanish?” my sister asks.
“Todo bien,” I say, which is not what we’re feeling when we return to my apartment. Carmen hasn’t cleaned it yet.
The three of us are too tired to really care how dirty things are. We curl into my double bed like plate of cannelloni. My mother is in the middle and in a few minutes we’re sleeping. Our first afternoon in Buenos Aires has been purely exhausting, but despite the humidity and my dirty apartment, everything feels good in the rhythms of the rain.
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