Book Crazy

I am a trained information specialist, a librarian. I worked all my life with books and the organization of information. I have advanced degrees. Why then am I stumped with how to arrange the books in my one bookcase?

Showing half the biblioteca with Ruben and lovely student

Do I put them by size--the bottom shelf is the only one that will hold oversized art books. Do I put them by author? Those that are signed to me by the authors? Books that I've read vs books that I've yet to read? Books by country--I've got Argentina, Mexico, Cuba, France and Brazil--with a few about Italy, China, India, Guatemala, and Afghanistan. Books by subject--dance, writing, memoir, cemeteries (yes, I have lots of those), travel, art (generally the oversized ones), music, biography, children's, history (heavy on WWI & II), or as decorators sometimes do, by color?

I only have five shelves. If I get a new book, an old one has to go. Do I keep the really good ones I've read and hope to either reread or to pass on to someone else? If I can't remember I've read them, shall I read them again? If I haven't read them yet, what's the cut off time--how many months, years, decades should they hang around?

Today I emptied the five shelves to organize and to dust. Books accumulate dust like nobody's business and boy am I allergic.

Now I've filled the bookcase and there is still an equal number on the floor. Have they multiplied like coathangers in the back of a closet?

Bringing my books with me has been a tema in my life as a traveler and expatriate. Wherever I've lived there have been books in every room of my house. Just knowing they are there makes me feel good. Having collected books throughout my life, it was painful to pare down when I moved from Los Angeles. But there is nothing heavier than a box of books. And the books I have with me today I brought one by one on the plane with me each trip I made back for visits. I had to leave even more behind in my son's garage. But now he's moved, and I don't ask what happened to all of those books.

Some books I brought to Buenos Aires are quite valuable--so then what happens when I'm gone? No one here will know their value, or care. And realistically, why should I?

Since the living room is also our dance studio, the bookcase is the only area I have to display my tchotkes, and I've got a lot of those too.

No, I'm not ready to start over with a Kindle, thank you very much. But maybe one day.

What a Difference a Decade Makes!

I left Los Angeles to live in Mexico in 2001 with lots of luggage, a cat, and several boxes shipped UPS at great expense.

Ten years later, it would have been so much easier with much less stuff if I made the international move now. In the big boxes I shipped to Mexico (and 2 1/2 years later to Argentina) were VHS cassettes, music CDs, and photo albums, not to mention lots and lots of real books and a score of piano music. All heavy and bulky.

In just a few short years, technology has changed things so that if I were to do it over again, I would have my iPod, DVDs, and a Kindle (which I don't have yet), and listo! I'd be ready to go. There's still a bulky cat and now a bird, and now also a milonguero viejo, but anyway I think beings are better than boxes, don't you?

Celebrating Eight Years in Argentina--And Five Years of tangocherie!

The following is a chapter from my unpublished memoir, The Church of Tango, written in 2003 when I moved from Mexico to Buenos Aires. I am posting it now in celebration of my 8 years anniversary living in Argentina, and my 5 years of blogging here on tangocherie; this is my 661 blog post. With more than 6,000 page views per month, I thank you, gentle reader.

            If you don't know where you're going, you'll end up somewhere else.

                                                                                          --Yogi Berra

 2003 

In the evening flocks of grackles wrote V’s against the mango sky. The setting sun shone through the dusty dome windows of Las Monjas one block west, and I could see the towers of five more colonial churches from my rooftop. Almost every day beneath my windows passed processions of pilgrims, celebrants, or mourners. The Virgin sat on the back of a pickup truck. Thirty schoolchildren carried an enormous Mexican flag. Peppy tuba bands and old men, hats in hand, walked behind a hearse. 

View from my balcony on Mesones

Even so, after two years in Mexico I had overdosed on the traditional fiestas that used to enchant me. As someone who enjoys the Latin passion in the cultures of France and Cuba, I couldn’t find the same joie de vivre in Mexico.      

Mexican allegre was not a moving, pulsing force, but comfort and relaxation—abundant good food, bright and happy music, flowing beer and tequila, family togetherness and church. The sole ecstasy I witnessed was in the many fervent religious activities. I missed the zest and energy on the street and in the music that I found so compelling elsewhere.

I enjoyed greeting folks whenever I stepped out my door, yet the population was transitory, and new friends were hard to keep, often leaving after a short stay to return home to Canada or the United States. Real relationships had little time to develop. Sometimes it was painful to live alone in one of the most romantically beautiful places on earth, looking out my windows at the indigo sky and the lights of the Churrigueresque skyline twinkling below.

After more than two years, my social circle had changed. My favorite bar had closed, and even before that I stopped going out in the evening. Long ago I had given up on dating anyone. Pablo—my personal trainer—was the only man I saw for the past year, and that of course was a secret. Sure I knew it’s a cliché. I really thought at the time that God had sent him to me, I was just so lonely.

The front door to the art gallery and my apartment upstairs

Over the past couple of years, I found that without realizing it, I was drinking too much, too often, as a way to be with people. Lately I might go to Harry Bissett’s on Martini Night, and after two Cosmos, the smoke and the cackling Texas laughter would drive me around the corner and home. I read, worked on the computer, wrote articles and emails to the world “out there,” and watched Mexican TV. 

The folks I counted on were the women in my cancer support group, the people at church, the group of writers who met at my house weekly, my fellow flamenco students, as well as the two or three friends I made at the bars when I first arrived. I had some Mexican acquaintances by now, too, yet somehow there was always a gap between us which wasn’t a problem of language. I guess it was cultural differences, although I hated to think that was possible between people who cared about one another.

            

          There were several different social groups in San Miguel, and I didn’t fit into any of them: the cocktail party circuit; the landed house builders, remodelers and decorators who had inexhaustible discussions on whether to paint the sala saffron or aubergine; the old hippies in beads; the Texas Junior League women with perfectly streaked blond hair and chunky silver jewelry active in charity fundraisers; the gringa owners of boutiques and businesses; the newly reinvented artists; and of course the Mexicans who had little time to spare away from their work and families.

Where I felt empowered, at my best, and at home was with dancers. In San Miguel I had searched out dance in studios, schools, clubs, theaters, parties, and discos. I tried Sweat Your Prayers on Sunday mornings, folk dance at the Bellas Artes, contact improvisation, Mexican folklorico, salsa in classes and clubs, and took the bus to Mexico City in search of tango, the immigrant’s dance. More than a hundred years ago in Buenos Aires, the lonely porteño, far from his loved ones in Europe, was drawn to the connection and nostalgia of tango. In Mexico one’s family is large and ubiquitous, and people live for the moment. Unlike me, the Mexican has no need to search for a family in a milonga, and Mexican tango is almost an oxymoron.

Finally it was flamenco that saved my body and spirit. And after a student flamenco recital in which I did a solo belly dance, opportunities presented themselves to teach La Danse Orientale, to perform, to collaborate creatively with the flamenco teacher and musicians. But then what? I couldn’t afford to keep going in a financial hole every month and manufacturing my own artistic outlets. I knew I couldn’t live forever in the expensive Brigadoon Gringolandia that was San Miguel de Allende. If I did, I'd soon be one of the crones sitting in doorways with gnarled hands outstretched to passing tourists.

            

          Much of the Happy Hour conversations now centered on how the town had changed and how expensive it had become. I had done my best to live within my budget, moving three times to cheaper and smaller San Miguel apartments. Nevertheless from the beginning it had been an impossible dream in the most costly place to live in Mexico. I had increasingly gone into my savings, and soon they would be gone if I didn’t do something drastic. 

      

     San Miguel de Allende had been my home throughout three icy winters when I wore dance tights 24/7 and my electric throw over my shoulders on a long extension cord, heating my apartment with pots of water boiling on the stove. And during two hot and breathless springs, when dusty winds covered the town filling my lungs with desert sand, bus exhaust, and dried dog and burro dung. 

     

          The weather-perfect months in between I reveled in the afternoon rains, the ideal temperature, and the dazzling colors of the bougainvillea-bejeweled colonial architecture. Now the pleasure I found in San Miguel was no longer enough, and I knew, not for the rest of my life.

I learned a lot in Mexico; I had met people I cared about, I loved my apartment and the beauty of the town, where, like at Chateau Rodney in Los Angeles, I heard church bells and train whistles calling me to places far away. But it was time to move on—to someplace where the cost of living was less, where there was symphony and ballet and art museums, to someplace where I could dance more than solos. I yearned for the embrace of tango.

            

     After more than a decade of searching, it looked like my future would be in other places, other hemispheres. I missed Los Angeles and the United States, and if wishes could make it so, I would still be living with my family in our house in Los Feliz under the Hollywood Sign. I had twice paddled in the River Styx, and now I’ve been blessed with the chance of forging another life. I would have designed a different path for myself, but my life unfolded without consulting me. 

             Once again I had to bid a painful farewell to a mixed group of people who had welcomed this stranger into their lives. I was going to miss the man selling cigarettes and sodas on the corner, the flower seller who made the rounds of all the bars and restaurants every night, the girl who practiced her cello while working in the art gallery below my apartment. I was worn-out from the partings and leave-takings of the last twelve years. 

          But in Mexico, where nothing was as it seemed, “manana” didn’t mean tomorrow, and “Adios!” was not goodbye.

If you'd like to read the "end" of the saga, please check out Home is Where The Cat Is

Medical Concerns of The Expat Life

Do you dream of being an expat somewhere? Do you imagine retiring to some exotic locale way, way south of the border? Do you fantasize living the rest of your life in the Mecca of Tango where you can dance 24/7?

It's a fabulous idea and an incredible experience if you can pull it off. Who doesn't want to "follow their bliss?"

As someone who's been there, my advice is to just please use common sense and a dose of reality when you are making your plans. And remember, everything is easier when you are young. If you are a retiree or over 55, I'm sorry to say it's tougher--everything is more difficult as the years add up, especially physical concerns--but it's not impossible.

One very important thing to consider before pulling up stakes for parts unknown, is your health history. If you have chronic health problems or have suffered a catastrophic illness, you might want to reconsider starting over in a strange land, especially in the Third World. My attitude at the time was that I had survived cancer, it was all behind me, what the hell, I'm going for a new life.

But when I had a complication from radiation treatments received in Los Angeles after I returned to Mexico in 2003, the doctors there had very little experience with radiation as most Mexican BC patients have radical mastectomies and no radiation. I found a good oncologist in a small town in the middle of nowhere who figured it out, but that's what he told me.

Medical care in a foreign country is not the same as you are used to. And if you are not a native speaker of your new country's language, when you are weak, nervous and sick you may misunderstand the medical instructions in any language. Even if the doctor also speaks English, there can be miscommunication due to inexact language usage.

If there is free public health care available to you, are you sure you would want that instead of a top-of-the-line medical team? Can you afford to pay a top team and private hospital? A friend of mine on a tango vacation once needed emergency surgery and the hospital required a payment of $10,000 usd before proceeding; she had to wait for two days until the money arrived from Sweden. Thankfully, she is just fine now, several years later.

Some people say in an emergency or in the face of a serious illness, they would fly home for treatment. Money must be available for that option, as well as a health plan in the home country.

And when you are sick and used to running to the drugstore for your favorite OTC treatment, it can be a shock to realize that many are not available world-wide. Sure, there are local medicines, but you need to find out what you need and how it suits you before you desperately need it! I really miss Pepto Bismol, Nyquil, and many others (and thankfully have friends from abroad who keep me supplied).

My purpose is not to scare anyone from taking a chance on a new life in a new country, but just to bring awareness that it, like most things, can be more complicated than you think, and probably will be.

Meltdown

Yesterday was what I thought would be our final trip to Migraciones, at least for a couple of years. Ruben was sick with the flu, the traffic was unbelievable, and we wanted to get to La Trastienda to cheer our student who was competing in the first round of the Campeonato.  But we knew we had to get it done before my 2 month old DNI expires this week. When we were there last week they gave me a folder with all the requirements of the Pensionada Visa, and so I had them all, the photocopies, the new pictures, the police clearance, etc., in addition to pounds of papers I had from previous tramites, just to be on the safe side.

The clerk didn't give a damn about anything that I had, and would only scribble on a Post-it note a new list of papers I need before the expiration date of Friday, Aug. 27. She wanted me to bring a letter from the U.S. Consulate about my pension, and wouldn't even look at the apostilled, officially translated and approved, letter from the Los Angeles Public Library which affirmed that I have an early retirement income, and which proved my status oh so many years ago when I originally applied for residency. She said that I need $2,000 usd/mo while the brochure says it's 2,000 pesos Argentinos. "Oh," she said, "That brochure hasn't been good since July 6th!"  "But they just gave me this brochure here last week!" "Doesn't matter. And you need a bank account in an Argentine bank." But I have all this papers that show all of my pension is withdrawn here and I spend it all here every month." "Doesn't matter," she says, without looking at my paperwork.

So I just returned from the Banco Frances where I had opened an account two years ago to satisfy another megalomaniac in Migraciones, but since I had never used it--we spend all our money every month; how to pay 60 pesos/mo for maintenance?--the account was of course closed. I can't open a new one without more papers from AFIP and an utility bill (only gas, electric or telephone) in my name, and those bills which I pay every month are in the name of the owner of the apartment.

If I don't have everything down in Retiro by Friday, I have to pay 900 pesos fine.
I'm ready to forget the whole thing and to just leave every three months like before, or just leave period.

Argentina is a fabulous vacation destination but it beats the heck out of me why anybody would want to live here if they had a choice.

If I Could Do It All Over Again

...it would be so much easier!

I left my country in 2001, with boxes of CDs, photo albums, VHS cassette tapes, so many clothes, so many heavy things I didn't need. And each time after that when I would visit Los Angeles, I brought back more boxes of Persian scatter rugs, paintings and pictures, special quilts and blankets, photos, and of course, books.

Nowadays a soon-to-be expatriate can put all their music on an iPod and all their photos on chips, videos on DVDs, have everything on their international iPhone--many pounds less and so much easier. You can also bring your books on a Kindle, but I still can't give up the paper and boards of real books, which I find so alluring and sensuous. Maybe one day I will, but now, I still enjoy handling the real deal.

But if I were to do it again, I would bring my good pots and pans and linens--things I sold at garage sales for a pittance. (I had begged my sons to take them but they didn't and now they're sorry.) I didn't know then that such things were so difficult to find and that if found, they would be so expensive in Argentina. Or that these luxuries would be important to me.

Times change quickly--now it's much easier to be a multipatriate with all of the available miniature electronics that can help you feel connected and at home no matter where you are.

When you're emptying a large family home into a couple of suitcases, every decision is important, but there's no time to ponder the future of each and every item; it's this, ok, this and this and this, the Goodwill, this the yard sale, and this the trash. Folks are lucky if they can store items until they know what they'll need in their new home and then have them sent.

I had planned to ship my beloved grand piano, but thank goodness I woke up and smelled the coffee in time to send it to auction in L.A. instead. Shipping furniture with a tourist visa is a way to go both broke and crazy. So I just brought my sheet music and metronome in my suitcase.

Several of my expat friends say they were glad to rid themselves of material objects to begin a new life here. Unfortunately 10 years after my Big Move, there are many things that I wish I still had. It's not that I'm so materialistic, it's just that my memories are so happy of times gone by that I enjoy the mementos that remind me. And I also miss sleeping on my gorgeous Ralph Lauren sheets and eating off of my grandmother's collection of Fiestaware from the 30s. But you can't have everything. And now I have Buenos Aires.

The DNI Story

Here's the latest in the never-ending series of Paper Chase posts:

To catch you up, in case all the details of tangocherie's struggle for legality have slipped your mind, after seven years of trying, I finally received my first DNI  (I.D. card) last June, two months ago. It expires this month.

Yesterday Ruben and I went back to Migraciones to ask what to do. We took a number from the machine, #457, and took seats, well I did, as there was only one. They called #31. I saw Ruben in the middle of a tightly pressed group crowded around someone too short to be seen at the side of the room, everyone waving their arms. I read my book. Then a lady in front of me vomited and fainted dead away. Security rushed over with a drink of water, a doctor came, and her tramite was hand-carried to her, who by now thankfully had recovered. The atmosphere in there was terrible; I completely understand anyone being overcome by the crowds, overheating, screaming babies.

We finally were called, got the information that I had to re-collect new editions of the many official papers that I already had--police report, bank statements, photos, certificado de domicilio--and $600 pesos to apply for the renewal next week. As in any government red-tape in any country, it's all about ways to collect fees. Woe to me if I apply after the expiration date.





If you watch this video you'll know exactly how I felt. 

Off we went on a Mr Toad's Wild Ride to smog-filled Calle Tucuman where there was no parking. I had forgotten my inhaler, and I begged to forget it for today. (I was tempted to say forget it forever!!) But Ruben was doing his best, and that's the way it is in the Paris of South America. (At least the ride didn't end in Hell like Mr Toad's!) Stay tuned.

One By Me; One About Me

Your tangocherie is feeling pretty out there this week!

Festival of Tango, an article I wrote for Oryx, the inflight magazine of Qatar Air (which now flies direct to Buenos Aires) came out on the web and in the August paper edition.


And the newly re-named Argentina Independent (The Argentimes until a few weeks ago) published an interview with me for their Expat Lives series, written by Laura Mojonnier, with photos by Beatrice Murch taken at Nuevo Chiqué.

DNI Success!

At last, I received my DNI after only seven years of tramite. (You can read some of the backstory here.)
But it expires in August!

Expatriate Holidays

Today is Easter Sunday. It seems like a quiet Sunday like all the rest. But it's on days like these that I miss my hometown and old life the most.

Easter morning in the olden days, there were egg hunts, church, and then a traditional lunch of baked ham or leg of lamb.









Easter Tree somewhere in Germany


All of that is literally and figuratively a world away. As an expatriate for ten years, I've spent many holidays alone and in other countries. But it doesn't get any easier.

Even when it falls in autumn and the days are growing shorter and the earth is getting ready to sleep, Easter is still the season of hope. I'm looking forward to the visit of my son Jason next week; now if only he could bring a honey-baked ham!

Free Things to Do This Weekend

Ruben and I are packing for tango in Brazil tomorrow, but if you're in town this weekend there are a couple of free fun family-friendly things to do here in Buenos Aires.

For culture vultures and music lovers, this is the final weekend for the Corsos that take place in various neighborhoods around the city. More info on previous posts.

And for all you expat sports fans out there, Yanqui Mike has alerted me to the baseball game tomorrow, Saturday, February 27. There is free transportation on the Shankee Shuttle leaving at noon from Plaza Italia. You can read more about it on his blog.

Meanwhile, Ruben and I will be checking out the batucada in Brazil, as well as the samba, lambada, and the milongas!

How do you say Hasta luego in Portuguese? Oh yeah, vejo você depois!

In Retrospect...

It's that time of year...and not only is it a New Year, it's the end of a decade. Tossing a calendar just tends to make one ponder.

The 21st century has seen huge changes for me personally: two international moves with Phoebe the Expat Cat (who unfortunately passed away in 2008)--I lived in Mexico and then moved to Buenos Aires. I had cancer for the second time. I made six trips to Cuba. My Argentine partner and I started teaching tango together. And I fell in love.




Those are the dramatic points. The decade was full of lots of other ups and downs that had to do with living and adjusting to other cultures and language. I'm still trying to adjust, and I don't think I ever will. Living in Buenos Aires is not easy for me; it's a daily challenge and sometimes I rise to it and sometimes I don't. The truth is, without Ruben's help, I don't think I could.

So here I am working on a new decade, the 'teens of the 21st century. Would I do it all again? Yes, for all the difficulties and tears of the past 10 years, I'm thankful for the opportunity of growth and the grace of the love of a good man, which might not have happened in Los Angeles.

But there is a price to pay. So far it's worth it.

Progress, I think

This topic of my "papers" allowing me to stay in Argentina for a "little while" has not been breached for several months. Accordingly, yesterday I went down to 25 de Mayo for the appointment I received last January, 2009. Of course no one had told me the office had closed. So by the hair of my chiny chin chin, I made it back down to Migraciones in Retiro in time to get my number and to wait for six hours to be seen.

All was in order, after Ruben made a mad dash in the heat to Retiro station to photocopy one of my papers which turned out to be unnecessary. More fingerprints were taken, another photo, more questions asked about my background to make sure I was me.

And then, o happy day!, I was given the temporary DNI which would be finalized when someone came to my residence within 60 days to give me my permanent papers.

Well after six years, that's progress, isn't it?
For that, I'm thankful this holiday season.

Call Me Multipatriate!

Because it's been several years now since ExpatWomen.com made me Mentor of the Month, and because I'm asked these same excellent questions over and over in my daily life meeting "foreigners" here in Buenos Aires, I'm posting this interview here.



ExpatWomen: Cherie, your biography illustrates snippets from your amazing life. You’ve survived breast cancer, twice, you’ve survived the death of your spouse, and you’ve lived in France, Mexico and Argentina (in addition to the US). Can you please share with us your best memories to date, from each of the countries that you’ve lived in?

Cherie: Some of my best memories of France and Mexico have to do with food! Unfortunately I can’t say the same for Argentina, where I probably couldn’t survive without my ever-present bottle of Lemon Pepper.

I was also enchanted by the history and architecture of France and Mexico. Mexico in addition has a spiritual quotient underlying everything, and which helped me to feel fulfilled.

One Sunday soon after I moved to Buenos Aires from Mexico, I was feeling lonely and was missing the ever-present processions under my balcony in San Miguel de Allende, when I looked out of my window and Lo! If there wasn’t a procession passing by. Small and a bit raggedy—just an image of the virgin, a priest, and parishioners singing as they walked—but it made my day. Platitudes apply here: God is where you find him, happiness is right there, under your balcony, waiting to be discovered, etc.

I have many wonderful memories of Mexico, but one was attending an intensive language school, La Academia, for 2 ½ months. It was five days a week from 8 to 6, and covered not only speaking, writing and grammar, but folklore, literature, history, sociology, and even cooking! I just loved it, and met many wonderful people. Eleven of us even made a fieldtrip to Mexico City one weekend and had a blast. But because I lived there and wasn’t on “vacation” as most of the other students were, it was too hard to keep up the full program of five months. I would collapse every night when I got home, too tired to even eat. But this experience was certainly a highlight of my time in Mexico, and there were many highlights.

And France…well, you know what Ben Franklin said, “Everyone has two countries; the one in which he was born, and France.”



ExpatWomen: What have been some of your biggest challenges in living in France, Mexico and now Argentina?

Cherie: The biggest challenges, always, are the language and culture. If you don’t feel secure in communicating, you might opt to stay home or socialize only with English speakers, thereby missing out on a lot. Expats, even if they know the language well, always risk making faux pas because of not understanding the culture. But if you stay home alone, you risk loneliness and feeling isolated. It’s a conundrum.

This is true for me here in Argentina, where they speak their own special Spanish, Castellano, and my Mexican Spanish hasn’t helped me a whole lot.

In addition, transportation around Buenos Aires is my biggest challenge, even after more than three years of living here. The city is huge, all the streets are one-way, and even though they have an excellent system of public transportation, it’s not easy to figure out how to use it.

I have to say that I didn’t feel that challenged living in France. I felt at home there, except sometimes socially with the language, and I easily got around. Paris can be crossed on foot—not possible in Buenos Aires. At the time I lived there, I remember, the only things I missed, except for my friends and family, were the L.A. Times and Seinfeld!

Since my cancer therapies, I’ve forgotten about being ill. The doctors had done all they could with surgery, heavy dose chemo, and radiation, so they just cut me loose with a pat on the head. The second cancer 6 years later was unrelated to the first, and just bad luck. Nevertheless it remains a fear of mine to be sick and alone in a foreign country. Recently I purchased Argentine health insurance so I’m feeling more secure about that now.

I know many people totally change their eating habits and daily lives after cancer, but what happened to me was that I wanted to enjoy life more and so refused to worry about it. I had always taken care of my body and it hadn’t prevented the cancers, so I decided to squeeze the juice out of what I had left. And that’s one reason why I traveled. It is such a privilege to live in another country and enjoy and learn other languages and cultures, a true growth experience.



ExpatWomen: Do you think the challenges of an expat woman are the same, from country to country? (Please explain your response.)

Cherie: I don’t think as a woman I faced different expat challenges just because of being female, or that the challenges of expat men are any easier or different. What make it different are the conditions under which a person is living in another country. It can be a lot easier if the person is there for work reasons, or is an expat as the spouse of someone who is working there, or if the person has a spouse or companion and is not alone, as I was. It also would be another kind of experience if you knew there was a deadline; like going in, you knew that no matter what, you would be leaving after, say, two years.

In some countries, of course, foreign women are perceived as easy sexual “targets,” perhaps because of films and TV. But some women appreciate the attention that they never got in their homelands. In any event, I personally have never had any problem whatsoever in this area.

As in everything else in life, sufficient money not to have to worry makes everything easier. It’s not realistic to become an expat with the idea of finding employment fin the new country to support yourself, even more so if you are middle-aged. My advice is expatriate yourself only if you are financially independent. In my case I had early retirement because of my illness.

In many respects, because of dancing and writing, I’ve had an easier time living far from “home.” When I moved to Mexico, I had the goal of finishing the memoir I began when living in France. Last year I accidentally started writing a blog, which helps me feel connected to like-minded people all over the world. And because of the internet, many of my articles written far from home have been published. Next year a piece I wrote will be published in an anthology on San Miguel de Allende.

Basically since my husband died in 1991, I’ve been searching for “home,” like Dorothy in Oz, I suppose. But a few years ago I realized that Home Is Where My Cat Is. Phoebe, I couldn’t have done it without you!


ExpatWomen: In your experience as an Expat Woman, does anyone stand out in your memory, as someone who really helped support you a lot, at a time when you really needed it?

Cherie: I have to say that the people who have been the kindest to me in other countries, were the local people, not my fellow expats who perhaps had enough on their own plates at the time.

When I was recovering from chemo in France, my neighbor told me I must come over for lunch and dinner every day. I said, oh no I couldn’t possibly impose like that. But then pretty soon I just started going over there every day to eat. The whole family was so wonderful to me I can’t express it. They told me that I will always have a home in France, with them, and I know they meant it.

In Mexico after my second breast cancer treatment, I suddenly had a weird side effect and since there was no oncologist in San Miguel de Allende, I went to a dermatologist to have her look at my incision. She recommended an oncologist in another town, and I took what I called the “burro bus” to get there. The bumpy bus stopped at every dusty burro trail and took three hours to travel fifty miles. I had to return several times, and when my Mexican friend Nelly heard about it, she insisted on taking off work and driving me over herself. This made her my friend for life.

Last year in Buenos Aires, I had to move from my rental apartment where I lived for two years as the owner’s daughter needed it. After four months of constant searching, I finally found another one at the right price and which I liked. My friend from Toastmasters brought her husband, a retired accountant, to the contract signing to make sure it was fair and legal, as foreigners are sometimes taken advantage of. Another lifelong friend.

The day after Christmas 2006, I fell at the gym and broke two ribs. One of my classmates went with me to the ER, and brought me home. She called my boyfriend who then came to take care of me for several weeks as I was totally helpless.

I hope I have been as good a friend in my past as these people have been to me.


ExpatWomen: From your experience, Cherie, how do expat newcomers find and develop support networks, so that they have someone to call in the morning at 2am? Do you have any pieces of advice to assist in this process?

Cherie: Every country has its expat network, whether it’s an online mailing list or a club where people actually get together. When you first arrive, I recommend joining everything and meeting as many people—expat and local—as possible. Soon you will figure out what activities, and which people, are your style.

Making friends anywhere isn’t easy, especially as we get older. That’s why it’s important to look for common interest groups. I joined Toastmasters International in Buenos Aires because it has always been a life-long dream of mine to speak well in public, and in so doing I’ve met some wonderful, varied, and interesting people. Looking for groups that you belonged to in your home country, like the Lions, for example, or a tennis club, is a great place to start.

After my first cancer treatment and I was recuperating alone in the French countryside, I joined the “gym” class in the town hall of the village. I met people, but more importantly, my body felt better and stronger. Plus I had the fun of participating in the Mardi Gras parade as a Dalmatian!

I’m lucky in that the world of tango is small, and anywhere I go in the world to dance, I find people I know, or at least recognize.

In San Miguel de Allende, I joined a Cancer Support Group, hosted a writers’ group in my home, was active in my church. I made friends with waitresses, shop owners, volunteered at the orphanage and taught English. It’s true that it was easier in a small town than a huge city, and that’s perhaps why so many gringos retire there.

Wherever I go I have a lot of parties in my home. I love bringing people together.

I think the key to success as a guest in another country is to participate, participate, participate.


ExpatWomen: Can you tell us a little about Buenos Aires – the city, the culture, the people, and why you have chosen to live there?

Cherie: Basically two words: Tango and Cheap, although with prices rising every day here, who knows how much longer it will be cheaper than Mexico or my home town of Hollywood, California.

But tango was born in Buenos Aires, and it will always be the Mecca for dancers from around the world.

I’ve always been a dancer, and now have danced Argentine tango for ten years. I’ve been lucky enough to work as a teacher and Tango Tour guide with my partner, Ruben Aybar, an Argentine. I’ve been able to slowly build a good life here in Buenos Aires, but it hasn’t been easy.

The people of Buenos Aires, or portenos, are generally ethnically European and feel strong ties to Spain, or Italy, or Germany, or England, or wherever. They’re self-conscious imitators at times such as in their architecture of a hundred years ago and wide boulevards, sidewalk cafes, and outdoor newsstands. And I think they have very strong subconscious feelings about being so far geographically from that world, especially nowadays when few can afford to tour Europe on vacation. Argentinians feel a bit forgotten by the rest of the world, and so their culture is somewhat nostalgic and sad. That’s where the tango comes from. I identify with these emotions as I’ve lost so much in my own life.

I thought when I moved here over three years ago, that I needed a big city, full of theater and concerts and galleries, but I find now that my life is full with friends, my reading and writing, and my tango work.



ExpatWomen: What would be your top 5 tips for women moving to Buenos Aires?

Cherie’s Top Tips:

1. Bring your pet and as many of your treasured books, linens, paintings and photos as possible;

2. Don’t expect it will be easy to make close friends in another language, and don’t expect your friends back home will remember you forever;

3. Have high-speed internet hook-up in your foreign home;

4. Bring your favorite salsas, packaged foods, spices, condiments, peanut butter;

5. Expect to spend a whole lot more money than you plan on; and

6. Volunteering is a great way to meet people, learn the culture, and to feel good about yourself.





ExpatWomen: And lastly Cherie, do you have any words of wisdom for our Expat Women?

Cherie:
As a dancer, I can’t say enough about the importance of exercise. Wherever you live, you will be healthier and happier if you exercise. I personally love to dance, but there are many other ways to keep moving. Just do it!

P.S. Three years later
I'm still blessed to be in a wonderful love relationship and to work with him in performing and teaching the tango that we both love so much. Who knew?

Year of No Money

What does this book have to do with tango, Buenos Aires, Argentina or anything that this blog is about? None of the above, but it does show what it's like to be an African-American expatriate in Japan--with no money. Being broke in Tokyo is the same as being broke in Buenos Aires or Paris. Broke is broke. And so his story has universal appeal. (A series would be kind of cool: A Year of No Money in Singapore, A Year of No Money in Istanbul, A Year of No Money in johannesburg, etc. And then could a TV show be far behind?)





When Wayne Lionel Aponte arrived in Tokyo in the early '90s, he had a job, but quit when things got tough economically in Japan. From then on he went into a limbo of living off of four different women at the same time. A very lucky man, who was able to keep them all happy, while the women provided food, shelter, money, good times and gifts. After about a year he realized how demeaning his life was and proceeded then to get a job and to pull himself back up to respectability.

I saw a lot in common with many of the expatriates in Argentina, although the situation is often reversed here; foreign women from all over the world meet local men who then proceed to live off of the ladies.

So it seems to be a female trait more than a cultural one.

Aponte, a journalist, writes well (written in the present tense) in this brief (165 pgs) memoir, it's just the unpleasant story that bothered me. He seemed to blame everybody/thing but himself for being in that position, yet after scrabbling together enough money to return home to New York, he promptly decided he didn't like it and went back to Japan. He doesn't seem to like Tokyo much either, except for the women (all of his sugar mamas were Japanese.)

Many women travelers to Buenos Aires have written their memoirs about falling in love with tango and the men they dance it with--full of sexual escapades and usually way too much information. And now I see that it's the trend; why write about the history, political issues, geography, culture, art or architecture of a country, if you can go directly to the "good" parts? In Aponte's case he has even a sort of macho pride that he was able to use his body to support himself by keeping four women happy. There's more than a bit of braggadocio in his story--and never a thought of "love."

Many expats, including the ones here in Buenos Aires, have stories in common with this one, and so that's why you're reading about it on tangocherie.

Running in Circles

It's a New Year and time to update my "progress" or lack of same in the Paper Chase from Hell. (If you're not up to speed, read the last installment here.)

Thursday evening I went again down to 25 de Mayo and the Registro Nacional de Personas Extranjeras to ask for an appointment, the next step in my application for a long-term visa (2 years.) I began this process exactly 5 years ago when I first moved here.

Oh what luck! I had to hardly wait at all to speak to the young girl at the desk in this giant Fascist-style building that seemed straight out of the movie, Brazil. She and a security guard appeared to be the only workers in this depressing megalith. Never mind, I was hopeful because so few were there waiting. And even though it was a trauma when I had come here in November, I was positive that now in 2009 (and Obama winning) things were going to look up.

When my turn came, she asked to see my apostilled and translated birth certificate, but no problem, as I had brought my complete 5 lb file with me--I'm learning. (I had only been instructed to bring my latest "paper" and my passport, but then I had also been told to go between 8-10 a.m., when all the "turnos" for the day had already been given out.)

So I got my appointment--for December 21, almost a year from now. I explained that I have plans to spend Christmas with my family in Los Angeles, and she didn't even blink. Take it or leave it.

Oh yes, and my current "paper," the one that lets me stay here during the tramite process, it expires in August.

The Paper Chase Conundrum

Yesterday we got up really early to go downtown to the Registro Nacional de Personas Extranjeras to make an appointment, which is my next step in obtaining a long-term visa. The document from Imigracion said to be there yesterday between 8-10 a.m. (Read the preceding installment on the paper chase from hell here.)

We went on the Subte and crossed Plaza de Mayo where there was a huge gathering, with tents and police and the media, for a demonstration. There was also a huge gathering of folks outside of the Registry office on 25 de Mayo 145, a pushy-shovey crowd all trying, like I was, to just make an appointment. There was one official in attendance who was telling everybody quite rudely that all the turns were gone, and that you have to line up (there was no line but a stampede) before 6 a.m. to ask for an appointment. One man was exiting the building after getting his appointment which was for next August, 2009.

I wasn't feeling well but used all my strength to make this effort, which was for nothing.

When we returned home, Ruben tried to call, as I insisted, because surely one only needs to telephone to get an appointment. There was no number on the form, but he got one from information. And nobody ever answered.

As far as I'm concerned, at least for today, I don't care to ever try that again. I will NOT go down there at 6 a.m. and wait for 4 hours to get an appointment for next year. I am disgusted. Maybe they'll send the police to my house to arrest me and toss me out of Argentina, and at this moment, I couldn't care less.

Obamanos

There's an old saying: in order to love your country, you have to leave it. I left my country in 2001, not for political dissatisfaction, although it was there, but to live an artistic life closer to my heart. But the more I saw, living in France, Mexico, and Argentina, the more I appreciated the United States. And the more I missed the things that most U.S. denizens take for granted.

I was up all night watching the election on CNN Espanol (I don't get CNN in English.) No giant screen election beer parties for me; I watched alone with Mirasol the cat, who pretty much chased her mousie through the whole thing.

I've seen many, many Presidential elections, but none moved me like this one. I was so hopeful, so prayerful, so PROUD that the American people rallied to change the world.

Today the internet almost crashed for the zillions of cyber-messages flying around the globe acknowledging change for the future. I don't want to, or can't, add anything more to the lyrical writings of those more on the cusp than I.

I just want to say how happy I am today to be American!

The Paper Chase Update

For those of you following my saga of trying to get a long-term visa (I've lived in Argentina for 4 1/2 years, but leaving the country every 3 months), here's the latest:

Last Friday I went with my big box of papers to Imigracion, ready to be "OK-ed". and told all was in order, por fin. Bueno. But now for the first time, I was told that I needed a bank account in Argentina. Que? Come again? No one had told me this before. I always needed "one more paper," but in order to get a bank account, I told the baby girl in charge of my destiny, I needed a DNI. She countered with, Not at HSBC.

I was very doubtful, but ok. Ruben and I took a cab to the nearest (well who knew where was the nearest to Imigracion, certainly not the taxista, but we kept driving until we found one) HSBC.

The manager, a young blond, wasn't even polite. No, sin DNI, no! Punto final!
But I can't get a DNI without a bank account, I said pathetically. (Really, I wasn't pathetic, just MAD, but I wanted to maintain a low profile for Ruben's sake.)

I suppressed all of my I told you so's, and Ruben guided me into a bank down the street, Banco Frances. Argentines, I find, have infinite patience.

No problem, the tall handsome young banker said as he helped me fill out the forms.

High from success, we taxied back to Imigracion with papers in hand. Where the snooty baby-clerk said when she glanced at my documents, But this is a savings account! You need a checking account!

At this point, even the unflappable Ruben was frustrated.

Why not tell me this from day one? (I have lists upon lists of papers necessary to get my visa, but each list is longer than the last, and of course, none are legally binding. I remember as an undergrad at UCLA, I was so thrilled to get the final tally of units and classes and a legal contract that I would graduate in June upon completing certain courses with a passing grade.)

It seems that each time I go there the kids in charge of my destiny in Imigracion do whatever they can to avoid starting the tramite of my DNI.

But surrounded as I am there, always by people seeming to breeze through the process, people from Bolivia, Paraguay, el MicroSur, or China, or young beautiful people, I try not to take it personally.

The Paper Chase From Hell Continues

What can I say? More lines, more fees, and I still need more papers!











I couldn't believe it--I have a collection of lists that different people in Inmigracion have given me over the 4 years I've been trying to get my long-term visa, and "today's" required paper wasn't on any of them. Plus they weren't interested in some of the other documents that I had been told were necessary.

I was seeing stars at this point. Maybe God is trying to tell me something.

And why does it bother me that all of the people in charge of my future are under 25?