♥ of oceans – in love, not limbo
♥ dam mantle – movement
♥ jem targal – dance with cha girl
♥ monster rally – moonglow
♥ hounds of hate – trident
♥ museum of bellas artes – watch the glow
♥ jacques green – the look (koreless remix)
♥ roquefeller – nega
♥ cults – oh my god
♥ javelin – try outs
♥ norte potosi – phutucum
♥ chad valley – up and down
♥ james blake – four miles
♥ thieves like us – never known love (kamp! remix)
february mixtape : download
image : ffffound
My last big night out in BA was far from orthodox. I should probably clarify. No night out in Buenos Aires is ever predictable or dull and this is a rule as opposed to an exception. It just doesn’t happen. But this particular night raised the bar a notch or two in terms of eventfulness. Amalia and I woke up the next day and like Dorothy following her adventures in Oz, wondered if we’d dreamt it all. But the indelible oil on my hands, under my fingernails and streaked down my legs which had stubbornly refused to shift when I showered on our return told a different story.
The evening started out innocuously however, mojitos, Jägermeister, banter and musica with friends on a roof top terraza. So far, so BA. We were on the list at Niceto for Zizek, a monthly club night showcasing the best of ZZK label’s roster, an eclectic mix of all things nu-cumbia and arguably one of the best nights out in BA. In the backroom Bully Bass was dishing up sick slabs of dubstep served as piping hot as the packed space he was playing out in. Amalia and I exchanged silly grins and dance moves for a while but the heat got the better of us and both we and the music segued effortlessly into the cool respite of the musical goings on of the main room.
I was pretty drunk by this stage and Amalia was tired, so we decided to cut our losses and head for home. Not before first having a last drink and bite to eat in the bar next door. 4am nachos, with guacamole and cheese were impossible to pass up. Suddenly, it started raining torrentially. We slowly drank our beers and finished up our food. In the 20 minutes we’d been sat down, Niceto Vega had transformed from main Palermo thoroughfare to a fast flowing river. The water level had now reached to headlight level of a car parked opposite, half its body submerged and swaying disconcertingly, as if any minute it was going to be consumed by the water and dragged away by the persuasive current. We saw people swimming by. It was if the apocalypse had come a year early.
Amalia was adamant about sitting it out but I had other ideas. I don’t know if it was the booze talking or a misguided intrepidity. The bar staff were frantically bailing out water at the entrance to avoid the place flooding completely, and we had to pick our way over them and some wooden barricading to make it to street level. We waded over to where the bikes were locked up on the opposite street corner, standing waist deep in fast flowing water. They had almost completely disappeared from view, bar one of the distinct brilliant blue handlebars from my bike which was partially sticking out and a few of the plastic flowers from my pannier struggling to lift their heads above the water.
Our best efforts at warding off thieves: various locks, all under water, interwoven and entangled, now seemed like an impossible task to undo – inebriated and with only our hands to guide us. But we managed, and pulled off quietly, our vintage velos’ idiosyncratic creaking and clanking silenced by their aquatic surroundings. We felt valiant and triumphant at not having abandoned our trusty steeds.
The journey back to las Cañitas proved to be an epic one. Amalia had already got a flat prior to the flooding so we knew getting home was going to be an onerous task. Yet what made matters worse was that my chain kept acting as a filter for foliage, leaves and debris and several times it slipped off. I had to perform emergency resuscitation, flipping it upside down and manipulating the oily chain links and teeth back into place.
The water receded as we neared the tracks, as we crossed over we saw that the streets were free of flood water, in fact, it seemed as if everyone here was oblivious to the chaos playing out only a few streets away. Girls dolled up without a hair out of place, boys looking impossibly dapper. By contrast, Amalia and I looked bedraggled with smeared eye make up, our hair dripping and our clothes sodden. But we didn’t care, bonding over this unique experience we were both living, sharing wry smiles every time we made eye contact.
We dodged fallen trees and loose paving stones, stopping to observe the surreality of seeing fish swimming by the curb, as two novice anglers stood tentatively with bucket and net waiting to pounce, their mouths watering at the prospect of an unexpected fish supper.
We arrived at Santa Fe avenue and felt buoyed by the fact that we’d made it onto the home straight. With the prospect of a hot shower and a warm bed almost within reach, our weariness turned to elation and a sense of pride, at not having ‘abandoned ship’ and stuck to our original, if somewhat irresponsible objective of getting our green ladies back in one piece. We parked them up on the balcony, a sorry looking pair, survivors of an extreme battle with the elements. Scalding hot showers caressed our tired weather beaten bodies and we crawled under the covers, the dawn ushering in a calm, bright sunny day, the storm had blown itself and been put to rest. We closed the blinds on the window and then not long after, the lids of our weary eyes.
image : we heart it
It’s been little over 12 hours since I’ve been back in the UK. I arrived with mixed emotions. Having been stood up at the airport by someone who shall remain nameless, I was greeted by, well, no-one. Instead of a familiar face and a warm embrace i was met by a typically abrasive hub of British activity, a bustling airport terminal, with no phone and so tired I was ready to steal 40 winks at the first available opportunity. I felt crushed: a day and a half earlier earlier I’d been savouring my last balmy night in BA in good company, a lazy zig-zag cross-city cycle, followed by a quintessentially Porteño supper, midnight empanadas and crisp Quilmes. Suddenly, by contrast, I was standing alone on home turf for the first time in a year, the longest time I’d been away, tears pricking my eyes and an overwhelming sense of detachment and alienation taking hold. Only it didn’t feel like home anymore. Like I’d been in hibernation somehow or existing in a parallel universe, which suddenly felt a dreadfully long way away. The wan, washed out sky and dampness and cold that cut to my bones did little to temper the emotional blow. A few calls to friends and loved ones began to redress the balance however. I braced myself for the draughty descent to the underground platform, en route to see my best friend of 13 years and the perfect antidote to the lukewarm feelings I was having about being here.
I exited the station and spotted her on the adjacent pavement, our mutual excitement and euphoria was palpable. We greeted each other with whoops of joy and bone crunching bear hugs in the middle of busy Wimbledon Park Road, with little regard for the oncoming traffic. She took me back to her cosy flat, where I was given my belated 30th birthday presents and fed a stodgy British comfort food feast, more cuddles and some much needed optimism.
But on reflection, I realise that my initial tearfulness and feelings of disassociation are part of a kind of mourning process. This trip will be cathartic, a tying up of loose ends. I feel like I’ve left my buena onda or ‘good wave’ back in BA. That old adage of ‘home is where the heart is’ has never rung more true. It’s a place where I feel completely liberated and at ease. But realising this is OK, it merely highlights the fact that England (which I’ve regarded as home for 30 years) has lost its sheen. Yet for the 3 weeks I’m here I fully intend to enjoy myself: to eat, drink and be merry to excess, to catch up with friends and embrace and reacquaint myself with my Britishness and the place I was brought up. I’ll return to BA with a renewed sense of conviction and joie de vivre, and that can only be a good thing.