Brukman- First Contact

I got up this morning early, at 8:30.  After a breakfast of little slices of bread and butter with a cafe con leche I carefully gathered all of my technological equipment to make the short trip to Brukman.  After a crowded subte ride and a fifteen minute walk I arrived in front.

I didn't even hesitate for a second as my nerves screamed, "Wait!  Sit outside a minute!  Gather yourself!"  

"No, " my brain said.  "You will be gathered and you will enter this very second."

I rang the bell and saw two workers inside, obviously wondering who could be ringing the bell.  One of them answered and I introduced myself, saying I had an invitation to interview them.  She let me in and I introduced myself again, elaborating on the fact that I had written a thesis and was a political science student.  The smartest thing that I did was bring a copy of the e-mail that they sent me, declaring me welcome. 

She said that this week it would not be possible, but to call her next Tuesday at 10:30.

That's still good, right?  They probably have to ask in assembly who would like to talk to me.  Surely someone will take pity on me and give me an interview.

I really did have my shit together in there, a thousand times more than when I arrived at the hostel.  I was all red and perspiring a bit since it's 97 degrees here and I'd been walking.

My only fear is that I traveled all the way here with their invitation and that they will deny me.

I did give her the copy of the e-mail, so they wouldn't go back on their word, right?

Now that I think about it, I should have gotten recommendations from Mirkin and Luis.  Damn, well, too late now.

Hopefully I'll get to see Fernando today, it would be nice to see a friendly face.  And to ride his motorcycle.  Plus he could get that suitcase which can only be stuffed with dead bodies or rocks.

Well, now all I can do is wait a week, and try to get to as many recuperated businesses as possible as well as the anarchist bookstore here, which probably has tons of information that is not available in the United States.

Now I'm sitting in the cafe next to the hostel, eating a grilled cheese and ham sandwich and drinking a glass of white wine.  I think I deserve it.

Argentina

I got here this morning at around eight, Buenos Aires time, four, Kansas City time.  Luis asked me to bring a suitcase for him that weighed around eight thousand pounds.

Okay, it was forty-eight pounds, but it was still a heavy fucker.

I had easy chat with the car driver as we arrived at the hostel.  He asked me if I voted for Obama.

I reached the hostel and had a hell of a time getting my shit together, passport, money, where did I put that paper...

Finally got it all together and moved into my humid broom closet which will serve as my home for the next ten days.  There's no air conditioner, which I now curse myself for not looking for in a hostel, but other than that it's rather lovely.  It's an old mansion that now houses several rooms and there's a large terrace where you can see quite far on the landscape.

I've never stayed in this part of town before, so I decided that some adventure was needed.  I took off walking, going straight, taking a left on one street, a right on the other.  All was fine, I bought toothpaste, shampoo, contact solution and soap at Farmacity.  I continued walking, swinging my bag and feeling the sweat run down my ass.  Then I started to get worried.  Somehow, the street that I had been walking on turned into another one, which is infuriatingly common in Argentina.  In two minutes I had become lost.  Really lost.  I walked everywhere and asked two different policemen, but I was still lost.  I found a subte station and took it to where I could walk to another subte to take to Calle Medrano, where I am staying.  As I got off the subte at Puerreydon I was so exhausted from walking for five hours with nothing to eat I actually prayed for God to get me back to the hostel.

"Please," I thought, "Please guide me to where I need to go."

 I realized that Puerreydon had turned into Jujuy magically.  "Goddamnit," I thought.  "I think this is the wrong way."  I continued walking anyway and then there it was.  A large, hand-painted sign that said "Cooperativa 18 de diciembre, ltda. Brukman" and I stopped dead in my tracks across the street.  There it was, the factory that I have been obsessed with for a year and a half.  The factory I wrote about in my thesis, the factory whose workers' faces I have memorized.  It was like Aztlan.  

I fought back tears, feeling my throat close over.

There it was.

It wasn't just a dream, a hope, a wish.  It was real.  I ran across the street dodging cars and smashed my face against the window.  There were the suits!  There were the photos of the workers!  There was my wildest imagination, splayed out before me!  I was on the street where three hundred policemen fought against five thousand protestors.  These were the streets that had been tear-gassed, smoke-bombed and lead-bulleted against fifty middle aged women who were being treated like capital criminals because they wanted to sew.

I had asked God to guide me to where I needed to go, and suddenly I found myself in front of Brukman.

I am going there tomorrow to arrange interviews with the workers.  I can only hope that I can only hold my shit together because a sobbing interviewer is lame.

Tomorrow is the day that I conquer my biggest fears and talk to my heroes.  Tomorrow is the day that I advance my life in ways that I never thought possible.

I just hope that tomorrow I don't wake up in my own bed with this having all been a dream.