Moving Day

There comes a time in your life when you must pack up all of your belongings and move; and we've become experts at those times in life. By now, we can give a small family of gypsies a run for their money with the moving thing.

The time of our scheduled check-out was Saturday at 11am -- an unfortunate timing for both the Argentine landlord Gizelle (who was partying in the apartment next to us until 7am) and us (who were trying to get some sleep all night long). Gizelle arrived in the morning with the inventory list and every intention to be back in bed by 11:10, which made the process a breeze. I tried to go over the inventory with Gizelle a bit as a formality, while Shova was quietly and with a purpose eating our last sugar-coated grapefruit in the kitchen corner. Around her were our belongings: a wooden cutting board peaking out of a large paper bag, a computer cord showing from a green Chinese messenger bag, a can of beans in a plastic supermarket bag, and so on. We were not leaving anything behind. We were carrying about 6 bags each, muling out of the building gate and into a cab.


Most of the opinions we hold about the Argentine people come from our conversations with cab drivers. They're the country's ambassadors, as far as we are concerned. And on the way to the new apartment, our cab driver of course brought up the assassination of Osama Bin Laden. I could not help but smile. He said that 9/11 was upsetting to the whole world, and not just to the US, and that the death of Osama is good news for all. We told him he's welcome.

After a cordial conversation about all things Al Qaeda we arrived at our new building in the ritziest part of Buenos Aires. However, our arrival was about an hour early, leaving us on a ritzy street with 14 bags with crackers and beans sticking out, looking like we were there to find and feed the homeless. We decided to wait it out in a fancy corner coffee shop. As we measuredly made our mule-like entrance with bags hanging everywhere, Shova still nearly disabled an older Argentine gentleman with an unscrupulous step forward. We settled in the far corner onto two tables and four chairs to sip coffee and wait, holding back from eating the rotisserie chicken we packed in one of the bags.

Coming from a brand new apartment building, we had to adjust to the dated building and apartment into which we were moving. The building has one of those tiny elevators back from when elevators were invented, with folding doors that you have to open and close yourself, and a view of the walls when taking a ride. We took that thing up one at a time. Once inside the apartment, we began exploring our new appliances.
The kitchen runs entirely on gas. By the stove there is a metal tub with flame in it – a mechanism that I recalled from my Soviet Russia childhood, used for heating up water. As soon as we turn the water on, the flame in the tub violently lights up. Alright. For me it was just a relapse into childhood, but Shova was more concerned. She was especially weary of the stove and oven, both gas-operated as well. The fact that the stove and oven needed to be lit up with matches has proven the most threatening. It was with utter trepidation, comprehensible only through the eyes of an American who has been educated about the perils of carbon monoxide since diaper years, that Shova first brought herself to light up a match and bring it within a foot of the burners. The newly available oven is burner-based also. There is a little hole to stick a lit match into; and as soon as that match is in – the burner beneath lights up like the pits of hell. As of this writing, I have been the sole operator of the oven.

As we continued to explore the new apartment, we noticed another oddity – a metal tank in the closet. It looked as if someone just ripped it out of a Pinto. We inspected further and found industrial grade metal pipes around it. Finally, we figured it out. It was a vacuum cleaner left in this apartment from the Great War. I guess we’ll have to go without vacuuming for a little while.

All jokes aside, we slowly came to appreciate the comforts of our new abode. The place is small but comfortable. And the neighborhood reminds us of the upper east side in Manhattan: small bakeries and butcheries all around, and supermarkets tucked into multi-story buildings. The architecture is impressive, and the streets are clean. A large chestnut tree gently strokes our third-floor windows throughout the night; and groomed old upper-class ladies are walking groomed miniature dogs outside our building.  We like it.