“Do you know why today is a special day?” the man asks.
He has a half-drunk grin. He’s tipsy, but endearingly so, and hasn’t (yet) crossed the border to annoying. He raises his glass to do a cheers with us. We’re the third table he has visited to announce this; I’ve been watching him. One eye looks at me, the other is looking for me.
“It’s the first day of spring! Cheers!” he says. “Cheers!” we reciprocate. “Feliz primavera!” he says. It’s a phrase I see often this weekend, especially on social media - ‘happy spring.’ People use flower emojis. Some, I’ve noticed, give others a single flower to herald the season change. Cute.
The man crosses to the next table to inform them of the season change this weekend. He’s the physical, gregarious expression of how I feel: relieved to the point of borderline overexcitement that the warmer weather is finally here.
We’re sat in PEUTEO (‘FAGGOT’), my local gay bar. The drinks are overpriced and the interior decor is brash, yet I love it. I feel safe here and am getting to know the bar staff who always make me feel welcome - tonight one congratulated me on the removal of my ‘yeso’ (plaster cast). We cheersed to that, too.
The DJ is wearing a completely see-through top and has bravely persisted with defiant blond streaks beyond the appropriate age. He cranks up the Latino pop and does a beckoning gesticulation with both hands, an encouragement to dance. Several immediately take up the invitation.
I’m sat next to Lucas, a new friend from North America (I’ve learnt that Argentinians get offended if you say ‘America,’ and will respond: ‘you’re already in America!’) He’s about seven foot tall, so when we walked into the bar we looked like Jimmy and Jeanette Krankie.
I’ve been talking his ear off for twenty full minutes and suddenly realise, to my shame, I haven’t asked him a single question about himself. I’m so relieved to be able to speak fast and make jokes and not have to struggle through my broken Spanish or someone else’s broken English.
Last time I did that was with my mate Hannah, a fellow British digital nomad and stand up comedian. I miss her.
She broke her foot when she was here and I helped out a bit by picking up her laundry / getting cash from Western Union / taking her a salad lunch etc. She did it on Lesbian Visibility Day on the notoriously crooked BA streets, and suddenly became Lesbian Invisible because she disappeared onto the floor in agony. She hired herself a zimmer-frame and limped on stage with it to perform a set about it at an English-speaking comedy night. I was in the front row - obvs.
She once recited me an entire rhyming poem she’d written about the British M1 (southbound) motorway as we walked around Palermo Park - I’ll publish here on a future blog. Funnier than it sounds!
I learn Lucas has six siblings and grew up in a small town a few hours outside of Chicago and dreads the prospect of a second Trump presidency. We’re waiting for the clubs to open - not till 1am - still getting used to just how nocturnal this city is. Nobody goes anywhere till 2am. Bonkers. The ones that do, though, are here, dancing to the songs of the man with the bold frosted tips.
There’s definitely a shift: the ‘buenos aires’ (‘good air’) smells better; the energy in the room has cranked up a notch even from last week. People seem happier. I know I am. It had been a long, tough winter.
****
“¡Abajo, gato!” the hospital receptionist says. “Down, cat!”
The cat, which has leapt into her lap, then up onto the desk, looks at my plaster cast, then looks at me with uniquely feline contempt.
It turns to her with a look of pleading desperation, and meows in Spanish. The hospital receptionist pushes it on the floor and its meowAH on the descent sounds utterly affronted.
We’re trying to book in my set of X-rays over the coming weeks for my broken wrist - I’ve luckily avoided the $7,600 AUD surgery I was originally quoted. Seven grand to fix a limp wrist! That joke writes itself.
The cat jumps up again. “ABAJO, GATO!” she says. The cat looks at my cast, again with disdain. It’s as if it knows that, aged 41.8 I should’ve known better than to mountain bike down a volcano with limited actual mountain biking experience. It occurs to me the shade this cat is throwing me is the clearest and most unequivocal form of communication I’ve had in weeks. Shamed by a fucking cat.
It meows at the receptionist as if it hasn’t eaten in a year. She chucks it on the floor by the scruff of its neck again.
It jumps up a third time. “¡ABAJO GATO!” she says again. I love the fact they haven’t named it, it’s just ‘cat.’ It’s one of many that stroll throughout this public hospital. They even put food out for them, but it has turned its nose up at the dry biscuits freely on offer, believing itself worthy of better quality food than that. This time it bites her arm as she goes to lob it down and she utters something I think is probably Argentine profanity.
I’d, admittedly, been feeling a bit sorry for myself: since coming to South America, I’ve been robbed, hacked, bribed, fleeced, pickpocketed and now injured. Small interactions like this bemuse me enough to sustain me.
What I didn’t expect is, over the coming weeks, I came to actually enjoy my yeso, my plaster cast. I learnt the Spanish for ‘do you want to sign my cast?’ (quieres firmar mi yeso?) and purchased three coloured pens for that purpose, which I carried with me everywhere.
I fell in love with the icebreaking power of the cast. I see people’s eyes go to the cast then to me, then the more confident ones ask ‘que paso?!’ and I tell them I fell off a volcano in Peru on a mountain bike.
A woman in my local cafe writes the name of her tango school backwards so I can read it in the mirror. Clever! They do demonstrations at midnight on Saturdays, after their lesson. Midnight! Of course.
She invites me to a language exchange event called ‘Spanglish’ which I attend a few weeks later to practise my woeful Spanish.
A man at the gym in the changing rooms sees me struggling to take my top off then taps the hard cast with two mini clonks. “You’re here at the gym!” he says. “Now that is dedication.” It makes my ridiculous one-armed dumbbell lifts feel a little less pathetic. I currently have one arm well bigger than the other, lopsided like an amputated Popeye.
A woman in the gym calls me over to discuss what happened. In the gay clubs, men write their Instagram handles.
None of these interactions would’ve happened without the connection-facilitating gimmick of the cast.
I become a walking piece of Spanish graffiti art; ephemeral like a Banksy, and ever-evolving.
Of course, someone draws a dick. 🤦🏼♂️
Which I then get my barista, Trini, to censor for me.
The cast becomes like an interesting psychological experiment. People treat me differently; I immediately become much more approachable.
I don’t know if it's because perceived vulnerability is less intimidating, or because most of us have within us a deep-seated desire to connect and just want a way in that isn’t creepy or overly forward.
As my orthopaedic traumatologist loudly drills it off me on this, my fifth visit to his little cat-ridden office, he saws in half new Spanish words I’ve learnt written by fresh connections I’ve made. White detritus puffs up into the air like a synthetic cloud we’ve created together.
As the halved yeso rolls onto the floor with two thuds, then gets sweeped away, and the cloud clears, I realise something very unexpected.
I’m actually going to miss it.
****
In the media - my recent journalism
Fifteen of us set off on this famed trek. Only 10 made it to the end. For the Sydney Morning Herald’s Traveller magazine: https://www.smh.com.au/traveller/inspiration/fifteen-of-us-set-off-on-this-famed-trek-only-10-made-it-to-the-end-20240918-p5kbkc.html
“I'm about to turn 40, and people say I'll regret being child-free. I won't. For Business Insider:
https://www.businessinsider.com/turning-40-wont-regret-being-child-free-2024-9
Why don't our tourist boards tout our libraries as major attractions? For the Sydney Morning Herald: https://www.smh.com.au/national/nsw/the-opera-house-is-spectacular-but-it-s-not-sydney-s-best-building-20240910-p5k9gv.html
Please stop taking offence on my behalf. For the Sydney Morning Herald https://www.smh.com.au/politics/federal/please-stop-condemning-my-nickname-as-extremely-derogatory-on-my-behalf-20240901-p5k6xg.html
For DNA magazine: Is Brazil now safe for gay tourists?