Tag: Nino Manfredi

James has been a dear friend of mine for years and years. I recall one particularly wonderful afternoon spent getting very drunk on a stone bench in Boston’s Little Italy whilst sharing our delight over Jean Cocteau’s “The Art of Cinema.” We are creative soul mates and must live at least 500 miles apart or else die in the heat of each other’s suns. This is the only reason why James lives in Beunos Aires, Argentina. Together we would cause far too much trouble.

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For the past few years I have been living in Buenos Aires, enjoying a little bit of paradise. This far south, it is easy to remain blissfully unaware of the world outside my adopted city, with news and familial nagging lost somewhere over the equator. I’ve walked the long road of assimilation, navigating the pitfalls of sloppy conjugation and verbal embarrassment. I’ve offended locals and invited muggings with outrageous foreign fashions and for a long time led the life of an outsider. But over time, I have learned the rules while gradually gaining the respect of my Argentine friends. Slowly being accepted as not just another clueless, carpetbagging foreigner means being granted the gift of reluctant relaxation. Gone are the ghastly stares of yesterday, which means I can now go an entire meal without addressing the waitress as pig-fucker and enjoy far cheaper cab fare. But, with the return of of the World Cup, there has been a familiar feeling afoot here in Arcadia.

As a stranger to football culture, it seemed the entire country has been throwing an epic party for a few weeks now, one to which–forgive the cliche–I was not invited. On game days, streets are abandoned. Shops and schools are closed. A makeshift sign on a hospital reads, “emergencies only.” Impromptu parades and fireworks randomly materialize upon the city, in what I assume are signs of victory. These bizarre celebrations leave people jubilant, overwhelmed with a pride that comes from simply being Argentine.

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