Of the Argentine post

I would describe my recent attempt to send a few postcards back to the states as a vain effort to communicate to the outside world via a vast and and confounding network, the workings of which I am sure are controlled by corporate and governmental conspiracies working to prevent the conveyance of any and all meaning.* For your amusement, I detail the experience below:

First, of course, I had to buy the postcards. I did so at a typical tourist shop on Calle Florida. Nothing too thrilling, but I picked out a few functional cards. I inquired if indeed they had the stamps to facilitate the travel of the cards I selected. The answer: ‘Yes, of course. Special stamps for international service.’ Great. Lovely. I purchased the appropriate number, spent the evening scribbling out messages to a few of my loved-ones back home, and the next day set out to slip them into an appropriate mail box.

I first stopped at an OCA office down the block from my apartment. I was under the mistaken impression that ‘OCA’ was an acronym for ‘oficial correo argentino,’ but alas. Not so. I have no idea what OCA really does stand for, nor am I sure any longer that it is an acronym for anything. (I might have payed a bit more attention to the fact that ‘oficial‘ as an adjective should follow, not precede, the noun it modifies). The friendly folks at the OCA office, however, were happy to tell me that they only send packages and only within the country. They were also kind enough to direct me to the actual and truly official post office, which by then was closed.

Another day passes and I head to the real post office. Post offices in Buenos Aires, as it turns out, are like DMV offices in Los Angeles. The lines are very long, the workers grumpy, the posted information inevitably inaccurate or entirely unhelpful. I grab a number and wait an hour. Yes. An hour. No one in the office appears to be sending or receiving any mail, but large quantities of cash are exchanged and everyone seems to be filling out paperwork.** I also notice that many people come in, take a number, and depart. The locals, I assume, have a better sense of the waiting time than idiot tourists like myself.

When lucky number 71 is finally called I go up to show my cards to the extremely irritable young woman behind what appears to be bullet-proof glass. She explains to me that no, these stamps won’t work at the official post office but  that I can send the cards from a kiosko down the block. In order not to have wasted an entire hour in the office I use my unpleasant face-time with the office worker to buy more, different, but apparently official postcard stamps. If I apply those to a card, I’m told, I can send it from the office.

Feeling somewhat defeated, I proceed to the kiosko and slip my cards into a metal box that sits under the postcard rack and appears never to have been used at all, much less frequently-opened. The lock on the thing looks to be so rusted as to bar even the bearer of its corresponding key from entry. The kioskero assures me, however, that I am indeed depositing my epistles in the appropriate place.

If you never receive a postcard from itinerant me, my dearest readers, please attribute that fact not to my neglect but to the labyrinthine network of competing mail services of Buenos Aires and to the unseen but omniscient forces that are trying, as usual, to destroy me.

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*Come to think of it, I would describe pretty much all of my attempts to communicate to anyone as vain efforts made via a vast and and confounding network, the workings of which I am sure are controlled by corporate and governmental conspiracies working to prevent the conveyance of any and all meaning.

**I suspect the folks at the post-office are paying debts owed for services rendered. Bill-paying in Argentina has very often struck me as an extremely complicated process. People line up outside nondescript office buildings that must house various arms of the governmental bureaucracy, and they stand in those lines for hours. Or at least that’s what appears to be happening. I’ve never directly inquired, but the irritated look on the faces of those waiting along with the stacks of complicated-looking paperwork suggest as much. You should see the indecipherable three-page-long water and electricity bills. Amazing. Apparently the check is not very often in the mail (and, having visited the post office, I think I understand why).

On finding and losing the man of my dreams in less than half an hour

Oh my piteous, sorry, broken, black heart. How wretched it is to reach one’s hand toward the warm glow of true love only to have that light extinguish just as you near to its source! Why must the world, so cruel, offer its most precious gifts only to have them turn to ash before the eyes of their receivers?

Yesterday I found and lost the man of my dreams in fewer than thirty minutes.

It seemed that it would be a normal day in this fine city. I awoke at an early 9 a.m. I made myself a café con leche. I wandered through a handful of articles on the L.A. Times Web site. I ate some toast.

Just as I was settling into my work for the day, a loud pounding came from the hallway. I attempted to ignore it (not realizing, alas, that this was not only the sound of hammer against nail, but of fate, letting fall its gentle fist against the thick armor guarding my soul). The noise persisted and finally, I was pulled from my desk. A walk, I thought, to clear my head and allow the construction to finish.

I grabbed my keys and headed out. I locked my door and flipped around to catch the elevator. I was frozen in my place, however, by the most beautiful Argentine man I have ever seen. Nay, his beauty is nationless. His face, incomparable. His glory, universal.

Stunned, I stood, staring. He asked if the noise had awoken me. I worked up the strength to utter a meager ‘no.’ ‘It won’t take much longer,’ he explained. The elevator arrived and I smiled and stepped in. I nearly ran out of the building when I reached the ground floor.

Dazed, I circled the block. I bought a bottle of water at the kiosko down the street. I must have looked a madwoman to the passersby, so intoxicated was I by this chance meeting. I stumbled forward. But one cannot flee from destiny and I knew, with the certainty that only such a meeting of two star-crossed lovers can offer an otherwise clouded mind, that I must return.

I did. When the elevator reached my floor once more and I stepped out he was surprised. ‘Back so soon?’ He said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘ I held up my bottle of water. ‘I was thirsty.’* As the words escaped my mouth I felt only terror. I could remember no other Spanish words. I rushed to my door, fumbled with my keys and entered. All was lost. I stood, inconsolable, for upwards of two minutes. But wait. The goddess Aphrodite saw fit, once more, to offer me a window through which to fly into the arms of love. I heard my buzzer ring. Could it be? Was my love pursuing me?

I opened the door and there he was. The glittering brown eyes, the perfect rat-tail haircut, the poorly-shaven jaw. The sun catching the silver of his earrings as if the elements themselves wanted to mesmerize me, a poor foreign wretch, as I stood on the precipice of a beautiful future.

“Hello,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but perhaps I may borrow a broom.”

I ran to get it. “This?” I said, holding out for him a broom and dust pan. “Yes,” he replied, his voice the siren song that soon would lead to my destruction.

I left the door open as he swept up the refuse from the window repair. He returned the broom. Offered thanks. He wished me a lovely day. And I? Did I rush to him? Did I grab his rough hands in my own and confess my love? No. No I did not. “Also you,” I replied, stuttering. And in a moment, he was gone. My hopes, dashed. My heart, broken. My future, a vacuum of despair into which I must march, a prisoner to the passage of time which assures that with each passing moment I travel further and further from my happiness.

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*”I was thirsty”? Yes, that’s right. The universe hands me perfection and I say “I was thirsty.” My god. I am doomed to wander this earth, alone, forever.