Saturday, April 28, 2012

[in]conveniently II

My computer finally drew its last breath a few days ago.

Therefore, writing posts of inexplicably intricate and high quality will be difficult.

I´m currently writing from an internet cafĂ© with a difficult keyboard.

So in the meantime, while I figure out what to do for regular communicae, I´ll leave you with this:

Tango is beginning to make MUCH more sense.  And sooner or later, you can just call me

[Mr. Smith]

Monday, April 23, 2012


Once upon a time, in a faraway land close to where you sit, lived a young computer programmer and his wife in a small suburban townhouse.  Traveling from an even fartheraway land, the young couple had moved in hopes of raising their children in a land rich with opportunity, hope, income, and monounsaturated fats.  Slowly building a stable foundation for a home, the computer programmer and his wife worked tiresome days.  Life in the faraway land was hard, but much more inspiring and worthwhile than their even fartheraway homeland.


"Do not worry, dear wife," the computer programmer said [in the language of his fathers] one day, "for all this hard work will pay off, when we send our children to particularly wonderful academies where they will become exemplary models of society by taking on careers in medicine or law."

In her free time, the computer programmer's wife would tend to the small grove of trees outside their home, where she grew some few fruits.  One particularly sunny afternoon on the day of the Earth Festival, as she went to water the trees, she was surprised to find all the plants gone.  In their place stood a single mango tree.

"My!  Whatever must have happened to my fruits?"  She gasped [in the language of her mothers], and before she could run to call the local constables and file a missing persimmon's report, she stopped to listen to the increasingly loud sound of crying.  It came from the tree.  As she stood underneath its shade, she was taken aback to watch as one of the tree's blossoms opened, and out sprang a baby boy, who landed in her arms.  The computer programmer's wife took the child back into the house, where she waited to tell her husband of the good news.


The young couple declared themselves the proud parents of the baby boy, whose head was covered in an unusual amount of thick hair, dark as a raven's wings and unruly as Britney Spears' career.  Fond of constant squirming, shiny objects, staying awake at odd hours, and sweets, one could have mistaken the young child for a woodland creature.  As the baby's first birthday - which, they decided, fell on the same day as the Earth Festival - drew near, the computer programmer and his wife sent invitations to all of the village people to meet at the YMCA and partake in the traditional cakes and meats of their homeland.

The baby's birthday was a wonderful one, filled with laughter and music, hairstyles, and shoulder pads from the eighties.  The wife, being the social butterfly she was, had even attracted the three local fairy godmothers to attend her baby's birthday.  Being godmothers, they of course knew this baby was not like other babies.

"He must be protected," the first godmother said, "so he can become what he was sent to this earth to be.  Accordingly, we've decided our gifts will be used for that very purpose.  My gift will be the gift of natural wit and humor.  May he always use his mind to get out of questionably tight and/or awkwardly uncomfortable situations."  She waved her wand over the child.

"My gift," the second godmother said, "will be the gift of health.  May he always be fit to take on any physical task, energetic to run on however much calories he has or has not consumed, and enduring to stay up during late hours of the night for hearty partying and/or schoolwork."  She waved her wand over the child.

Before the third godmother could give her gift, the great doors of the YMCA blew open, upon whom entered an evil wizard.

"It's quite unfortunate that I wasn't invited to your baby's party.  And from what I understand, you wish this boy to become a respectable man of medicine or law?  Is that what you wish him to be, what you hope will make him and yourselves happy?  Not if I can help it, being the antagonist with a brief cameo!  Therefore my gift," he said, drawing out his wand, "will be that the boy will grow up as a beast from this day forth!  Not only will he grow up in ridicule for his looks, fashion sense, poor eyesight, and questionable life choices, he'll also suffer poor orthodontics.  He'll never be happy!  Oh, and to ensure it, your family will suffer misfortune as well."  The wand was waved and the wizard vanished.

"Not to worry, I still have my gift," the third godmother said, "but I cannot remove the curse.  True, the baby will grow up as a beast.  But the curse will be removed if he can find happiness."  She waved her wand, and all three godmothers disappeared from the party.

"That was ever so vague a gift," the computer programmer said to his wife, "But I'll assume that by finding happiness, she must mean that he'll earn loads of money by being a man of medicine or law.  Besides, one doesn't need to be particularly good-looking to receive a proper education."


As the years passed, the baby grew into a young adult.  Firmly believing that no cursed Beast son of his would become subject to bullying or shipwrecks , the Beast's father enrolled him into karate and swimming classes.  Sure enough, the Beast swiftly became an outsider amongst his peers with his secondhand clothes, his spectacles, lack of athletic ability, and orthodontic apparel.  Unlike the other boys in his class, he preferred to read literature, create art, solve puzzles, and generally apply himself to the school's science club.  All of this raised the Beast's father's hopes in becoming a great man of medicine [this and the fact that his wife had given birth to a daughter, uncursed by a wizard, who would double the family's chances of success].  As the wizard prophesized, the computer programmer had soon fallen victim to the faraway land's economic crisis, lost his job, and became a small sandwich shop owner.

Of course, this merely meant that the Beast would work in the store, where he would roll sandwiches, sweep floors, and deliver food in poorly decorated automobiles instead of partaking in underage alcoholic shenanigans, like so many of his peers.

Yes, the wizard succeeded in shattering the Beast's self-esteem.  At family gatherings, many guests would comment on his sister and cousin:

"My, look at the daughter!  How she looks so much like her mother.  How beautiful."

"Ah!  And her cousin!  How she too looks so much like her mother.  Beautiful as well."

But when they looked at the Beast?

"Oh.  And this is the son."

One day in the sandwich shop, the Beast asked his mother and father, "Mother, Father, when will I cease to be so beastly?"

"When you find happiness," his mother said as she sliced bell peppers.

"That's what the fairy godmother said, so we can only assume that's when you bring honor to your ill-fated family" piped up his father over the ham slicer.

The Beast found this particularly strange.  Having always read fairy tales, he was sure that true love's kiss would break a curse.  And, considering he wasn't waiting atop a tower, the Beast hesitated about asking if the 'happiness' he had to find was a someone rather than a something.  Never considering himself particularly prince-ly or heroic, the Beast continued to place cheddar on bread, pondering where he could find happiness.


One day during his first year, whilst running for a physical improvement course at his academy, the Beast was almost knocked into concussion by a rogue basketball [thrown by an ogre and his band of horrid ogres who were much more physically developed for their age].

"Oh athletics!" the Beast cried to the heavens, "Why must you be my downfall in higher learning?!?!?!"

"Fear not, dear Beast," a soft voice said.  The Beast turned, and saw a fairy godmother appear where the basketball had landed.  "There is a way for you to avoid taking any more of these unnecessary so called 'physical education' classes.  If you truly want to grow, join the circus performers.  Dance with them."

"But they would never take me!  I've never performed, nor danced before!"  the Beast exhasperated.

"I can help with that.  I helped you once, and I will help you again.  After all, it's where you're meant to be.  You'll never have to lie in the dangerous shadow of any more basketballs.  However, because your state is one of few in that requires 4 years of physical education, you'll still be forced to participate in unnecessary physical examinations [involving an ridiculous amount of running, situps, pushups, and stretches] twice per year."

"Oh, thank you, Fairy Godmother!" The Beast fell to his knees.  "I'll be forever grateful to... to... to..."

"My name is Orchesis."

And thanks to Orchesis, the Beast did in fact befriend a considerable number of creatures, persons, and imaginary hallucinations in the faraway land's local high school's circus ring.  Here, he met mysterious persons from foreign lands, giants, little people, rhinestone artists, princesses, fortune tellers, chefs who cooked bugs, and even the occasional hypochondriac.  'Twas amongst this motley group of performers the cursed beast decided to best use his talent of poor public speaking skills, martial arts body awareness, and general lack of self-esteem in the art of dance.

"My, I'm doing wonderfully courageous and different things for a Beast my age," the Beast said to himself one day, "and no doubt I've enjoyed it, with the eclectic group of friends I've made.  But why am I still so Beastly?"  He frowned at his reflection in the mirror.  Happiness hadn't hit him yet.


Nearing the end of his high school career, four years later, the Beast's family was hit with yet more trauma and turmoil from the wizard's curse.  Due to poor location, terrible seasons, and lack of karaoke participants, the sandwich shop had closed and the Beast's father had been stricken with heart disease [the even fartheraway land's traditional meals held a surprisingly high level of cholesterol].  The Beast's mother had sold herself as slave to an evil department store corporation, leaving the Beast and his sister to fend for themselves in the rapidly deteriorating townhouse.

"But... But...  But how will I afford college?  Can I even apply?"  the Beast cried in agony one afternoon.

"Mayhaps, dear Beast Brother," his sister replied, "I can quit school and take up lanyarding or churning butter or embroidery and earn money for your education."

"Fear not, dear Beast," a heavenly voice said, and the Beast and his sister turned to see yet another one of his godmothers.  "Like Orchesis, I can help your life.  There is a way to get a proper education, given your current situation.  Apply, and I will help get you into the right schools.  After all, it's where you're meant to be."

"Oh, thank you, Fairy Godmother!" The Beast jumped for joy.  "I'll be forever grateful to... to... to..."

"My name is Fafsa."

And thanks to Fafsa, the cursed Beast did get into a school, and a very special one at that.  Located even farther away from his home, in the frozen lands of the north, lay a quiet and hidden academy for intellectually and/or monetarily gifted youngsters.  Here, the students were considerably different than the ones in his high school and circus group.  Although the diversity in this academy was roughly the same as his high school's, the tolerance was considerably higher.  'Twas amongst the peers here that the Beast began to accept his and other physical and mental differences with a reasonably liberal frame of mind and attitude.

"My, I've earned the incredible chance of going to an esteemed instution to further my personal growth and education," the Beast said one day, "and no doubt I've enjoyed it, with the all-night paper writing, the delicious all-you-can-eat buffets, the rush for greater academic understanding, several failed attempts at relationships, and the uneasy levels of racism and homophobia on campus.  I've made friends who will last for my entire life, not-friends who pushed me in all the right directions, un-friends who made me realize what constitutes a friend, and the occasional fleeting friend who I'm sure would have been a best if we hadn't been together for just a moment.  But why am I still so beastly?"  Again the Beast frowned in the mirror.  Happiness was doing a good job of hiding itself.


Before he knew it, four years had passed at the academy, yet the Beast still remained a Beast.  Graduation swiftly approached, and the Beast had come to two realizations.

"I don't want a career in medicine AND I don't have a job for post-graduation!  This will be my ruin!"  the Beast cried, tearing some hairs from his scalp.

"You can always live with your parents back in their cottage," one of his chambermates said.

"Or you can just move to the metropolitan area without a job and find one once you're there," another chambermate suggested.

"OR you can sign away two years of your life to the Peace Corps, where you'll only have five days of vacation in the entire time to see your family and friends," the final offered.

"They all sound like the rustlings of Death's robes!" the Beast threw himself upon the nearest oversized cushion.

"Fear not, dear Beast," a heavenly voice said, and the Beast and his chambermates turned to see the third of his godmothers.  "Like Orchesis and Fafsa, I can help your life.  There is a way to live after the supposed best four years of your life; to which, I must say, if it were true, I would be highly disappointed.  See the world and do what you love for one year.  Apply, and I will help you travel to lands of which you and your family have dreamed!  After all, it's where you're meant to be."

One year?  Could it be true?  This would give him some time to figure things out...

"Oh, thank you, Fairy Godmother!" The Beast fainted upon her lap.  "I'll be forever grateful to... to... to..."

"My name is Watson."

And thanks to Watson, the cursed Beast did get to travel and to do what he loved.  Inhaling the smells of the east, swimming in the southern oceans, coasting along red-dusted plains, and wandering the brightly lit streets at night, the Beast felt...  different.  In his journeys, he had met friends, made family, and learned from would-have-been-enemies-in-another-life.  A certain rush filled his lungs evertime he set foot on a street he had never walked before, entered a restaurant or bar alone, and saw the sun rising and setting from a new horizon.

"My, I've earned the chance to travel to foreign lands where I will certainly unearth some long-harbored secrets and experience scary but refreshing awakenings," the Beast said one day, "and I've no doubt enjoyed it, with experienced chilied foods, stranger hospitality, dressing in women's clothing, hostile partners, and questionable skin deisease.  All this, I had the chance to do while studying, doing, living what I love.  But why am I still so..." the Beast didn't finish his sentence.  He stared at the mirror, and noted that some things did change.  No, he didn't turn into a prince [unlike most Disney movies, but he was certainly considering his followed the Dreamworks/Pixar route] with golden curls and a square jawline.  The Beast saw himself, still as a Beast, but only a few years older.  What did change was the way he looked at himself, his life, his world.  There was only so much that he couldn't control, but so much more that he could [with the help of fair godmothers, of course].

Living with what he was given, it was time to stop trying to change everything he was and to start changing the way he lived.  The Beast was done lying in wait for someone to save him, to remove the curse he was given since birth.  He was done doing what was expected from him, and to follow that twist in his stomach and shiver down his back.  He now realized that finding happiness, but the act of looking for it that would make him stop feeling like the Beast his life made him out to be.


Far from everything and everyone familiar, he knew now that whatever happened, happened for a reason.  He might not have been a prince, or even the hero, but in this story, the only person he could save was himself.  Wherever this chain of events lead him, he followed, and it all surprisingly turned out very well.  The Beast wouldn't know if it lead towards happiness, or if it was all just an awakening to the fact that somewhere down the line,

he.  could.  find.  it.

Maybe it would happen this year, or maybe it wouldn't.  Yet.  But the Beast got an unsettlingly good feeling that he had already begun to change, to be a little less


-| A long time ago... |-

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Of Complaint

A long rant.  Still in the editing phase, of course, but I felt it was right to release a rough draft as soon as possible.


To One Ms. She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named,

[Because, after all, I actually don't know your name.  But if I did, I cannot say that this letter would be any more pleasant than I'm predicting it to be.

Which won't be very much.]

Let me say this first and foremost: I love me a woman who can lead  knows what she's doing.

Not only does this momentarily remove the pressure of having to stressfully decide what to do for a whole four minutes [an uncomfortably long time for a beginner tango student], it shows me how to properly signal to a partner what to do, and how it feels to be lead.  Suprisingly, not many male students who learn to lead learn to follow in the same class, which - as most teachers believe - makes one a more well-rounded, smarter, and understanding dancer.  A woman who can lead a [reasonably] naive and shy beginner around a milonga will always have a place in my heart and continuously growing list of people who have made this year bearable.

It is at this point in my letter I hope to distinguish the difference between two statements, one of which I have just claimed true, and the other of which I will elucidate:
  1. I love me a woman who can lead knows what she's doing.
  2. I DO NOT love me a woman who has her head so far up some dark crevice of her being to convince herself that she THINKS she can lead knows what she's doing.
I like to reminisce all the way back to one week ago when you first appeared at the milonga.  When I first laid eyes upon you, I chose to ignore the warnings from fellow students about you.  "Oh, watch out for her," one would say, and, "Yikes.  Hide while you can."  Upon asking for further details, all I received in response was, "She is a terrible dancer.  If you're smart, you'll find other partners."

Apparently, I wasn't.

Although I didn't dance with you in class - Mariana [teacher at Tango Queer] chose not to change partners - you found me worthy to dance with later that evening.  Perhaps it was my staring at the empty dance floor that inspired you to dance with me [did I appear as if I was longed to be on the floor?].  Or perhaps it was my sitting alone for two tandas that made you take pity on me.  Most likely, it was my outburst of "SOY SOLO PRINCIPIANTE || "I AM JUST A BEGINNER" followed by my palms keeping you a safe radius away from my body that you found endearing.  My immediate confession to being unworthy of your experience must have been a good enough excuse to still want to dance with me.

Nevertheless, our two or three songs together wasn't even remotely painful.  Heck, you even taught me some rumba during the cortina.  And when I was teased/asked about what it was like to dance with you?

"She wasn't terrible at all," I claimed, DEFENDING YOU, "I don't know what you all were thinking about.  Have you even danced with her?  Give her a chance!"

To this, they just shivered and waved away the thought.

You probably don't read my blog, but as I've expressed before, I like to think that there are two kinds of experienced dancers I've met so far:

  1. The kind who give you hope that you will eventually crack this Da Vinci Code of a social dance.
  2. The kind who make you want to curl up into the fetal position in the middle of the dance floor while everyone seeks mental and physical assistance.  For you, of course.
As much as I love talking crap about someone I hardly know dislike observing and analyzing what I perceive to be someone's eventual downfall room for improvement, I must conclude that you are


Considering I enjoy making lists, I present to you several observations in bold and academic commentary in italics that support my conclusion.
  • Repeatedly shaking your head and saying "NO NO NO NO."
    • Lady, do you know how traumatizing this is?  Especially for beginners?  Are you trying to scare people from ever stepping into a milonga again, or are you just unable to control both vocal and neck muscles, resulting in a discouraging response to a horrifying situation?
  • Repeatedly telling your partner that he/she is not moving the correct foot, and that he/she is not moving the foot back far enough.
    • If I'm NOT moving the right foot, it's because my lead IS NOT making me do that.
    • Similarly, If I'm NOT moving it back far enough, it might be because my lead is DRIVING MY SHOULDERS INTO THE GROUND.
  • Repeatedly pressing your fingers to your temple in frustration.
    • Again.  Traumatic.  I understand that as a beginner, it is my duty to learn how to respond correctly, HOWEVER, as an 'experienced' dancer, it's your duty to teach me patiently and not get frustrated in two minutes.
  • Repeatedly telling your partner that he/she is not doing what he/she is supposed to be doing.
    • Like above, if I'm not doing what I'm supposed to be doing, maybe it's because YOU'RE NOT MAKING ME DO IT.
    • Additionally, as the lead, you should be able to SIGNAL to your partner what to do.  As a fellow dancer at Tango Queer once told me, "Think of it as an invitation to let your partner do something.  They might accept it and do what you want, or they might not.  Nevertheless, you continue."
  • Repeatedly telling your partner that he/she is missing and/or forgetting a specific step.
    • I'm not an expert in tango.  [Not yet.]  But what I've come to learn in the past five/six weeks is that regardless of whether or not your partner does a specific step you learned in class, KEEP GOING.  DO NOT drop your arms and tell me to start over with a heavy sigh.  No one is perfect [not me, and ESPECIALLY not you].
    • When doing combinations of different tango moves you learn, you're always going to have to omit a step here and there.  Just because it didn't happen like it did in class DOES NOT MEAN you should stop the dance and start over, or even worse, stop.  Only one species of person does this in the real world: the Diva.
  • Telling your partner that "That's the problem with beginners; they don't know how to walk correctly."
    • Not only is this an insult to your partner, it's an insult to almost everyone in the room.  You're taking a class, and so is everyone else.  Know what that means?  To some degree, WE'RE ALL BEGINNERS.  Yes, that includes you.  Last time I checked, YOU WERE NOT teaching the class.
    • And if it's a problem, help me correct it.  Don't roll your eyes in pain and make your partner do it over and over again without HELPING.
  • Waving the teacher to come over and personally correct your partner.
    • I like to consider this one the lowest of the low moves you can pull in the middle of the class.  Yes, it might be my fault.  But DO NOT call the teacher over and demand her to "Tell him what he's doing wrong."  Not only does this imply that your partner is absolutely wrong, it implies that you are absolutely right.  This, of course, will always lead to both mistakes and humiliation.
    • The teacher might even actually correct YOU and what you are NOT doing.  Like, properly leading your partner for example.  Oh, wait, wasn't that what I was telling you THE ENTIRE TIME?!?!?!
    • I think I'm reasonably modest.  Therefore, when my partner doesn't do something I expected him/her to do in a dance, I take the blame for it.  Please, do us all a favor: Grow up, and STOP BLAMING EVERYONE ELSE.  

If I've learned anything from this experience [not the correct steps for today's class, I can tell you that], it's that I've become much, much, much, more patient with dealing with difficult people situations.  This a life skill [perhaps there'll be a How-To I'll write from this] that few people develop before their eventual death [Exhibit A: YOU].  In some situations, I've learned to take the time to slow everything down and talk through a situation, bit by little bit.  In others, I've learned to gracefully admit defeat, accept losses, and move in a different direction.  Both show an immense amount of maturity and require an equal ammount of patience.

None of which, as I soon learned, I had for you.

Thanks to you, I've revived an old and effective defense mechanism [one that I haven't used since high school...  Cheers, Mom and Dad!]:  The smile and nod.  Often accompanied by music that I hum in the back of my head to drown out your voice, I'll smile as I choose to ignore everything you say, and nod when your lips have stopped moving.

The song I've chosen for you?  This little pick-me-up, specifically chosen when it was played as the cortina when you and I let go of each other and sought new partners.  Eyes glazing over is a bonus, if you can get that to happen next time.

Not that I'm ever hoping for a next time.

Not expecting to hear from you soon,


Thursday, April 12, 2012

Cut You

At la Marshall, where considerably loud music is always played.

Tony:  Joshua, you must be careful when you go wait for your bus stop tonight.
Joshua:  Why, Tony?
T:  I was attacked yesterday.
T:  I was attacked last night.
J:  Good god.  What happened?
T:  I was just waiting for the bus outside, when two or three men came to me.  They were locals; I've seen them around before, but I always knew they were up to no good.  But one comes towards me and goes to grab my bag...

[music grows louder]

J:  Oh...  What they take?
T [can't hear over the music]: HUH?

[music grows louder]

T:  They didn't take anything.  I just fwap [blocks his chest with a knife hand block] like it was instinct.  And then I pivot-
J [can't hear over the music]: -You WHAT?
T:  I pivot.  Like Agosto teaches us to do for ochos.  I pivot, then I ran.  Luckily a bus was coming, so I ran in front of the bus and kept going down the street.  While the men were waiting for the bus to pass, I was already three blocks away.
J:  Oh.  Wow.  Tango saved your life.
T:  Yes, Agosto would get a kick out of that.  And this happened at 10 o'clock at night.  You would think it would happen much later, when less people are around.

[music grows louder]

J:  This was after tango last night?
T [can't hear over music]:  This was WHAT?
T:  Yes, after our class.  What time did you catch the bus?
J:  Maybe 2 in the morning, like usual.
T:  Good thing you weren't attacked like I was.
J:  Yeah, but only because the police were driving up and down the alley every five minutes.
T:  Lucky for you.

[music grows louder]

J:  Yeah...  But trust me, I do get paranoid.  Sometimes a group of people would pass and I debate on whether or not I should get my knife out.
T [can't hear over music]:  You debate WHAT?
T:  WHAT?!?!

[music abruptly stops]

J [yelling]:  -GET MY KNIFE OUT.

[Tango dancers and people at tables turn to stare at the yelling American.]

J:  How many people do you think speak English here?
T:  Oh, all of them.
J:  Oh, good.

[Knife Wielder?]

Sunday, April 8, 2012


Contrary to popular belief [if such a belief exists], I don't like shopping.  Not only do I find myself exhausted after just walking, I find myself wishing I could afford things that a) I really don't need, b) I actually don't want, and c) I would probably use once and put in a dark corner of my room to never be used again.

Interestingly, since leaving the US, I've found that shopping [or as they say in Argentina, ir de shopping {that's right, high school spanish classes, no one says ir de compras}] is an integral part of cultural submersion.  With enough practice and experience, you can actually recognize which souvenirs, clothes, and jewelry genuinely come from said country and which come from the mass-production catalogue every country seems to have available for tourist trap/market shop owners.

Since coming to Argentina, I've been to a total of two famous street markets, and a handful of random stores and artesan markets in between.  I've tried to compile a visual collection of some of the most interesting finds, but I've come to learn that shop owners are generally very much against photography if you're not buyin what they're selling.  Fear not; that hasn't stopped me from pretending to check if my battery has gone dead and take a quick shot of  their goods.

That sounds dirty.

-| Mate gourd, a.k.a. 'The Donkey Cup' for kickstarting your day.  Or night. |-

-| Oh.  My.  Godfather.  A leather goods shop with horse heads in the front. |-

-| Shiny, colorful, and well-lit party shop. |-

-| Candied apples and other candied things covered in popcorn. |-

-| Won't you be mime? |-

-| Someone wasn't happy. |-

-| Magno Bananas. |-

-| Free tango music = Free tangoing on the street. |-

-| Or you can just tango on your own. |-

-| Bringing something new to San Telmo! |-

-| Puppet Master!  Don't leave us hanging! |-

-| The Bubble Lady, blowing us away! |-

-| The famous San Telmo Antique Market!  ... I actually didn't know it existed until I came here. |-

-| Don't know if he bought it, or was trying to sell it. |-

-| Why would someone give this away? |-

-| Just in case you needed a snack break... |-

-| There's also a fruiteria inside!  How convenience! |-

-| One must travel an hour on the bus to China Town, or Barrio Chino, to find peanut butter. |-

-| Angel man playing the flute? |-

-| Winging a performance. |-

-| Pink Panther Puppets. |-

-| Wine not? |-

-| My sister's favorite massage products in the world! |-

-| I just like how there's no explanation or an artists nearby for this installation. |-

-| Baby tree bush balls! |-

-| Purses made from old videotapes. |-

-| Chim-chim, cha-roo. |-

-| Cool.  Whips. |-

-| There's even a French Corner!  Suprisingly very empty... |-

-| Boom.  Same-sex tango.  And an owl. |-

-| I wanted to steal this pomegranate.  But the French would've been angry. |-

-| He stood still for about five minutes.  I think that's what a quarter will buy. |-

-| Puzzled?  I woodn't have guessed. |-

-| Played the uke and wore short shorts with jackets before it was cool. |-

-| "Gallery of the Immaculate Conception."  Is that sacriligeous? |-

-| I don't see any baby Jesuses. |-

-| Ships Ahoy! |-

-| These guys are smokin'. |-

-| MEAT ME HERE.  Anyone? |-

-| I wonder Eiff 'elet me in without a passport. |-

-| Bootleg Ugly Dolls. |-

-| Chain-Mail Shirt! |-

-| Bootleg Leather Tom's? |-

-| 1 Kilo Jars of Dulce de Leche: 35 pesos||7.78 USD.  Expensive. |-

-| Eat, Pray, Love.  55 pesos||12.22 USD.  Unnecessarily expensive. |-

-| Oh, Hey Uncle Tom's CaBowdoin! |-

-| My mouth hangs ajar at all the pickled goods! |-

-| Don't waist his time! |-

-| At this point, you've already pigured me out. |-

-| Let's face it.  I'm not going to buy this stuff. |-

-| I vory much don't know what they're trying to sell. |-

-| Let's cut to the chase. |-

-| Surpreyesed? |-

-| Olive for moments like this. |-

-| Gosh darnknit. |-

-| What happened to the old one? |-

-| Let's bounce. |-

-| Some people actually won this game. |-

-| Sweet. |-

-| Mini horses!  But really, they looked sad. |-

-| What aboot it? |-

-| Stonefaced. |-

-| Puppets!  ... In another life... |-

-| How glassy to have a miniature garden! |-

-| Was it gouda you too? |-

-| Counting out his dough. |-

-| Fernet.  Apparently the 'old person' alcohol here. |-

-| Many, many cheese and meat stands. |-

-| Happy Easter || Feliz Pascua!  Chocolate Eggs! |-

-| Chocolate y frutilla||strawberry icecream in a genius cone. |-

-| Highlight of eating ice cream: watching children be jealous. |-

[punishing you.]