Chapter 58: América del Sur, Parte II

October 12, 2000, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Estrella and I both ordered funnel cones with three scoops of ice cream, something that would completely wreck my diet, but something I hadn’t done in ages. I knew I’d possibly pay for it, and not just physically or mentally, but with Jessica, Mary Whittaker, and Maria Cristina. But I’d really wanted the ice cream, so I’d ordered it. That meant I’d need to be careful about my mood swings over the next week, but I was determined to do that.

We left the shop with our ice cream and walked towards the water, then strolling past the lagoons on Avenida España. Estrella suggested we walk through a park on the other side of the lagoons, and we did that. She explained that much of the land had been reclaimed in the way the Dutch had reclaimed land and once again my mind went back to Karla. She was married, and we were still friends, and things had worked out despite some rocky times.

We finished our ice cream and once again Estrella looped her arm through mine. I felt she had put the ball in my court by offering to have dinner, and now it was up to me to decide the next steps. I decided the best thing to do was invite her to spend some time with me on Saturday and take it from there. I wasn’t sure if someone from the office would want to have dinner on Friday evening, so I decided to leave that open, if that was OK with Estrella.

As we approached the hotel, I told her I’d very much enjoyed our time together, and that I would like to see her on Saturday. She quickly agreed, and after a brief discussion, we agreed to start with breakfast at the hotel. I promised that if nobody from the office made plans for Friday night, I would send her a message via AIM and we could change our plans.

When we reached the hotel, Estrella offered a hug and kissed me on both cheeks. I thanked her again for a wonderful evening, and went inside. I traded my passport for my key and went up to my room. I put on shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the gym to run on the treadmill because I wanted to burn off as many calories as I could from the ice cream I’d eaten. When I had run five kilometers I got off the treadmill and went to an open area where people would normally use free weights and practiced kata for twenty minutes.

When I finished the kata I went back upstairs and showered. After my shower I put on fresh shorts and a fresh t-shirt and wrote in my journal before going to bed.

October 13, 2000, Chicago, Illinois

“Hi!” Kelly gushed when she opened the door to her house on Friday evening.

She looked really nice in her knee-length blue dress. The dance wasn’t formal, so it was just a regular dress, and I was wearing slacks, a polo shirt, and a sport coat.

“Hi!” I said, handing her the box with the wrist corsage Mom One had bought.

Kelly opened the box, slipped the corsage on her arm, set the box down and gave me a hug and a quick kiss.

“Thanks! It’s beautiful! Mom and Dad want pictures. Is that OK?”

“Cameras steal your soul!” I replied.

“What?! That’s like a legend!”

I shrugged, “Dad says it whenever people try to take pictures. That usually stops them.”

“You won’t?”

“I will,” I chuckled. “I just don’t like pictures.”

“But why? You’re really nice looking!”

“We can talk about it later. Let’s go get it over with.”

She took my hand and led me to their living room where her mom and dad were waiting. They had us stand in front of the fireplace and her dad took pictures with his Nikon. That was fine, but then they wanted different poses, as well as pictures of us sitting on the loveseat, and a picture when we left the house, but before we put on our light jackets. I felt like I was escaping when we had walked far enough to be out of sight. I took her hand and we continued walking.

“Are you upset?” Kelly asked.

“One picture? OK. Even two or three to make sure. They took an entire roll!”

“It’s my first dance!” Kelly protested.

“I know. That’s what I think bugs my dad about pictures, and by saying what I said, it makes people less likely to try to take more than one or two.”

“But people love pictures!”

I realized I wasn’t going to win this debate, even if I won, because it would make Kelly unhappy.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’ll tell my parents that a few pictures are OK, but not a whole roll.”

“Can you imagine Prom?” I asked.

“Ugh!” Kelly groaned. “I want the formal picture they take at the dance, but you’re right. I can see my parents spending hours taking pictures if I let them!”

I smiled, but only in my head, as I’d actually won my point without upsetting Kelly any further.

“So, you’re already thinking about Prom?” she asked. “With me?”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

“You mean like, steady?” she asked her voice full of happy expectation.

“Yes.”

“I want to! But, I’m not ready to ... you know.”

And that had been something I’d thought about before I decided to ask Kelly to be my girlfriend. I was willing to accept not having sex to be with her, though I obviously hoped that at some point we would. I liked sex, but Kelly was really the only girl who I liked enough to want to go out with regularly and I knew if I kept seeing Cynthia it would eventually mess things up. Dad somehow seemed to juggle dozens of girls, but I didn’t want to do that, or even want to try to do that. If it meant no sex for some amount of time, I’d be OK with that.

“You made that pretty clear before,” I replied gently. “And I still asked you without expecting that.”

“Really. I mean, you and Francesca...”

“Whatever happened between Francesca and me, was between Francesca and me and has nothing to do with you and me. You want to be my girlfriend, right?”

“Yes, of course!”

“And I didn’t put any conditions on it, did I? I mean besides neither of us can go out with anyone else?”

“No.”

“Then there isn’t a problem,” I replied.

“OK!” she squealed. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“What do you think?” I asked with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Don’t be such a boy! Just answer!”

“Yes,” I said, thinking about rolling my eyes but not doing so.

We stopped walking, hugged, and put our lips together. Kelly parted hers, so I pressed my tongue forward, and our tongues met, dancing the way Kelly and I would later in the evening. We broke the kiss, I took her hand, and we continued on our way to Medici.

“What time is your hockey game tomorrow?” she asked after we’d placed our orders.

“8:00am.”

“Ugh! You have to get up really early, right?”

“6:00am, but that’s not as bad as the days I’ve had 5:00am practices!”

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t come to the game!”

“I don’t. My moms will be there but my dad is in Argentina.”

“Wow! That’s cool! But you’ve been to Russia and Sweden, right?”

“Yes.”

“I wish! When does your dad come home?”

“A week from tomorrow. What do you want to do next Friday?”

“Could we go see Meet the Parents? It’s rated PG-13 and supposed to be super funny.”

“Sure. My game next week is on Thursday after school.”

We had a nice dinner, then walked back to the High School for the dance. We had a really good time and Kelly was happy to dance close, and when I walked her home I got a really good kiss.

October 14, 2000, Chicago, Illinois

Mia skated to the net when she and Blake came onto the ice late in the third period of our game.

“We can’t score on these guys!” she complained.

I smirked, “I bet you could score with any of them!”

“Ha ha! I meant a puck in the net!”

“Well, don’t look at me! I haven’t given up any goals! What do you want me to do, score?”

“Right, as if you could!”

“Off the ice!” I smirked. “But I did get a goal once when the other team pulled their goalie.”

“Right. You. A frosh. Score off the ice.”

“Yep!” I grinned through my cage. “Pay attention, they’re about to drop the puck!”

She turned and skated a bit and a second later the puck was dropped. Kenny won the face off and we moved down the ice, but once again we didn’t score. It had been back and forth the whole game, with both defenses and both goalies blocking and stopping every shot. We’d only play a short overtime period if we ended regulation in a tie, and if nobody scored, we’d each get one point in the standings. That would put us two points behind the team in first which wasn’t terrible, but that meant we absolutely had to beat them when we played them in a month.

That was how the game ended, and Mia and I skated off the ice together.

“Well, that sucked,” she said.

“But do you?” I teased.

“Ego much?”

“Hey, my eye doctor said I had ‘beautiful eyes’, my doctor said I have ‘fantastic muscle tone’, and I won the ‘gentlemanly player’ award two years ago!”

“And that tripping incident last game?” Coach asked from behind us.

“There was no penalty called, Coach!” Mia exclaimed.

“OK, but was that ‘gentlemanly’ behavior?”

“In my book he could have gone ‘Rocket Richard’ on him and it would be OK!”

“Yeah, if I never wanted to play ever again!” I said. “The league doesn’t like us bashing people over the heads with our sticks!”

“Or yanking their feet out from under them,” Coach said. “So, you and your inflated ego go get a shower! You too, Mia!”

“Coach,” I said. “The guys showers are crowded!”

“Get in the guys’ locker room!” Coach said, shaking his head. “And you in the girls’, Mia!”

Mia laughed and she went to her locker room while I went into the guys’ locker room. Fifteen minutes later we met as we walked to find our parents.

“Nice try!” she laughed.

“Yeah, like Coach would EVER let that happen!” I said. “Maybe you need to make an offer to the forwards to score! You know, score on the ice and score off the ice?”

“As if I’d do that!” she protested.

I shrugged, “You offered me oral sex!”

“And you turned me down!”

“I guess girls aren’t as smart as they think they are,” I teased. “I have to keep reminding you that you offered to give me my ‘first’ blowjob! I couldn’t take you up on that because you couldn’t give me my first one!”

“You’re impossible!”

“I know,” I said smugly.

October 14, 2000, Buenos Aires, Argentina

Maria Elena and I had finished the database conversion on Friday, and as I had suspected, I was invited out with the partners and some others from the office for a night out on the town. We’d eaten, drank, and danced until the wee hours of the morning. There was quite a bit of flirting with girls I asked to dance with me at the club, but I didn’t take any of them up on what seemed to be serious offers. Even so, I got very little sleep because we were out so late, and I had to get up so I could run on the treadmill before breakfast with Estrella.

When I went down to breakfast, I saw a headline on a newspaper that an American Guided Missile Destroyer, USS Cole, had been attacked by terrorists while it was refueling in Aden, Yemen. I picked up copies of The New York Times and The Times of London to read the stories in English. I scanned the paper as I walked to where Estrella was waiting, but there were scant details except that about three dozen sailors had been killed and that the terrorist organization al-Qa’ida had claimed responsibility.

“«¡Buenos días!»” I said when I walked up to her. (“Good morning!”)

“«¡Hola!»” she replied. (“Hi!”)

Estrella hugged me and kissed my cheeks, then we went into the hotel’s casual restaurant for breakfast. We were seated and ordered coffee, then perused the menu. I chose a breakfast that was similar to the one I ate at Bucktown Bistro - bacon, sausage, eggs, and berries. Estrella chose croissants, telling me that was a typical Argentine breakfast. I did my best to explain my need to limit carbohydrates, but I had difficulty conveying it in Spanish and Estrella didn’t know the English words. In the end, I settled for saying I couldn’t eat bread, rice, or potatoes, that I ate only a little sugar, and it was because I was born that way, but it wasn’t diabetes, a word which fortunately was the same in both languages.

“«¿Qué te gustaría hacer hoy?»” I asked. (“What would you like to do today?”)

“«Pensé que lo decidirías.»” (“I thought you would decide.”)

“«No sé qué hay que hacer.»” (“I don’t know what there is to do.”)

“«¿Qué te gusta?»” Estrella asked. (“What do you like?”)

“«Prácticamente todo: museos, edificios famosos, actividades al aire libre, comer, beber, bailar.»” (“Pretty much anything - museums, famous buildings, the outdoors, eating, drinking, dancing.”)

“«¿Qué tal el Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes?»” (“What about the National Museum of Fine Arts?”)

“«Sí.»” (“Yes.”)

“«¡Magnífico!»” (“Great!”)

“«¿A qué hora tienes que estar en casa esta noche?»” I asked. (“What time do you have to be home tonight?”)

She smiled, shaking her head, “«No tengo hora. Le dije a mi mamá que me quedaría con mi prima y a ella no le importa cuando llego a casa ni le va a decir a mi mamá.»” (“I told my mom I was staying with my cousin. My cousin doesn’t care when I come home, and won’t tell my mom.”)

Unless my Spanish was REALLY rusty, that was about as clear as anything Estrella could have said. I still had to figure out how to raise the issue of STI testing without sounding crass or offending her, but I could think about it while we went to the museum.

“OK,” I replied.

The waiter brought our food shortly after that, and after we finished eating, I signed for the food. We went to the reception desk where I exchanged my key for my passport, and then Estrella and I headed out of the hotel. A thirty-minute bus ride later and we arrived at the museum. After consulting a list of exhibits in English, I opted for the various collections of Argentinian art. There were European masters, but I’d seen plenty of those in Amsterdam, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing anything by an Argentinian artist.

I found many similarities to the work of the great European masters in the works by the Argentinian masters, and the guidebook I purchased pointed out that many of the Argentinians had studied in Europe at one point or another, including Eduardo Sívori, Lino Enea Spilimbergo, and Antonio Berni. My favorite pieces were Figura and Ilusión by Spilimbergo and El drama by Raquel Forner. About 1:00pm we left the museum and at Estrella’s urging, we bought empanadas from a street vendor.

While we’d toured the museum, my mind had worked over the dilemma I had in broaching the subject of STI tests with Estrella. I knew it was possible I was reading more into what she’d said than what she meant, but our interactions over the internet combined with her ruse with her mom, told me I was reading things correctly. I was very curious about her motivation, and wondered again if I should try to determine what it was so as to avoid the potential for hurting her.

We munched our empanadas and Estrella suggested we walk through Cementerio de la Recoleta - Recoleta Cemetery. I expressed surprise, and she explained that the crypts had interesting architecture and that it was common for visitors to Buenos Aires to take tours of the cemetery, and that Eva Perón was buried there, along with one of Napoléon’s granddaughters. The coolest of the mausoleums was the tomb of Liliana Crociati de Szaszak. There was a poem near the tomb entitled «A Mia Figlia», which evoked memories of Don Joseph calling me «Figlio mio». We walked past the tombs of Eva Perón, Isabelle Colonna-Walewski, the granddaughter of Napoléon, and a number of former Presidents of Argentina.

When we finished our tour, I suggested we find a place where I could find some gifts, something I knew would provide an opening to discuss my family situation, and might shed some light on Estrella’s thinking.

“«¿Cuántos hijos tienes?»” she asked. (“How many children do you have?”

“«¡Siete!»” I replied with a grin. (“Seven!”)

“«¿En serio?»” (“Seriously?”)

“«Sí.»” (“Yes.”)

“«¿Tu esposa trabaja?»” (“Does your wife work?”)

I wasn’t exactly sure how to express myself correctly in Spanish and didn’t want to give a Estrella wrong ideas, so I switched to English.

“It’s complicated. My seven kids are by four women - one by a girlfriend, two by another girlfriend, and two by each of my wives.”

“You are divorced?” she asked.

I shook my head, “There are two women I call my wives and we all live together at my house. The mother of my eldest, the girlfriend, lives in another house on the same property with her wife.”

“I don’t understand at all!” Estrella protested.

“I’m not sure how to say it in correct, idiomatic Spanish, so I’ll just say «Tengo un matrimonio abierto. Se me permite novias.»” (“I have an open marriage. I’m allowed girlfriends.”)

“«¿Y dos esposas?»” (“And two wives?”)

“«Sí.»” (“Yes.”)

“«¿Un ‘playboy’?»” she asked. (“A ‘playboy’?)

I shook my head, “No. I have to say this in English, though I know some Spanish words for it. I believe in «machismo» and «caballerosidad», but only in the positive aspects - protection of my family, honor, hard work, responsibility, spirituality, and true friendship.”

“«Creo que te entiendo. Mi abuelo estaría de acuerdo contigo. Un hombre debe ser fuerte y masculino.»” (I think I understand. My grandfather would agree with you. A man should be strong and masculine.”)

“«Y, ¿qué piensas?»” I asked. (“And what do you think?”)

“«Creo que un hombre debería ser un hombre, pero debe tratar bien a las mujeres.»” (“I think a man should be a man, but must treat women well.”)