From Bueons Aires to South Carolina via Hatay
Almost everyone in my social circle emails, IMs and texts like mad keyboard artists, leaving only some time to in-person conversations. We're so connected and yet so separated. As the Bob Dylan song goes, I want "one more cup of coffee." I want the sobre-mesa chat where we linger at the table enjoying each other's company, avoiding to rush. Take a moment to talk and understand the other one. Be interested in their stories.
Gaston and I emailed each other over the years as colleagues. I published in New York, he pushed the knowledge to journalists in Buenos Aires. He wrote, I called. He called, I wrote back. I had no idea who he was, what he looked like. One day I got a note from him saying he was leaving the company and thanking me and my colleagues for being the wind beneath his wings. (Love the poetry and feverish sentimentality of Latin style talkin'.)
Then things started getting fun. Gaston kept emailing and I started getting links to YouTube videos, cartoons and coctail parties. I was in Turkey, he was in New York. I was in New York, he was in Buenos Aires. Finally, we ended up on the same square. Several years of e-friendship culminated in a meet-up at Barca 18 on Park Avenue. We quickly agreed on the list of things we liked and disliked. Tapas and bubbly drinks, yes. Men without good clothing taste and unkempt beards, no. His friends joined us. A childhood friend of Gaston, Julian, impressed me with his knowledge of Tarkan - of course, I showed him my mini collection on my ipod.
The stories extended to who knew who, who worked where and another friend who needed help looking for a job. He was also Turkish (from the southern city of Hatay) and could I talk to him? Yes, of course I said and met with Memo a week later. Memo was friendly and polite - a well-raised Turkish boy. Sipping our coffees, we discovered I shared the same alma mater with his cousin. We hugged while departing and promised we'd hang out again.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks, following a mild email and cell phone traffic, Julian, Memo and Memo's roommate Lisa -- a native of South Carolina -- found ourselves having early dinner in the Lower East. Conversation trickled. We ate and laughed. As Memo rushed to a second dinner get-together and Julian went off to his Brooklyn apartment, Lisa and I decided to watch the new Almodovar movie.
Sipping some post-dinner tea and waiting through the previews, Lisa in her captivating Southern droll told me about her time in Paris and her work in fashion. I learned about her family and her aspirations. It made me think back to my first job in New York and the youthful energy I had back then. I admired Lisa's curiousity in other cultures and languages. We hugged while parting and promised to stay in touch.
With just a few emails, but also with loads of trust, openness and genuinity I had had a journey from Latin America to Turkey's border with Syria and had flown back to the South. Only in New York, some might say. But I would say only with certain people who swing through borders.
Gaston and I emailed each other over the years as colleagues. I published in New York, he pushed the knowledge to journalists in Buenos Aires. He wrote, I called. He called, I wrote back. I had no idea who he was, what he looked like. One day I got a note from him saying he was leaving the company and thanking me and my colleagues for being the wind beneath his wings. (Love the poetry and feverish sentimentality of Latin style talkin'.)
Then things started getting fun. Gaston kept emailing and I started getting links to YouTube videos, cartoons and coctail parties. I was in Turkey, he was in New York. I was in New York, he was in Buenos Aires. Finally, we ended up on the same square. Several years of e-friendship culminated in a meet-up at Barca 18 on Park Avenue. We quickly agreed on the list of things we liked and disliked. Tapas and bubbly drinks, yes. Men without good clothing taste and unkempt beards, no. His friends joined us. A childhood friend of Gaston, Julian, impressed me with his knowledge of Tarkan - of course, I showed him my mini collection on my ipod.
The stories extended to who knew who, who worked where and another friend who needed help looking for a job. He was also Turkish (from the southern city of Hatay) and could I talk to him? Yes, of course I said and met with Memo a week later. Memo was friendly and polite - a well-raised Turkish boy. Sipping our coffees, we discovered I shared the same alma mater with his cousin. We hugged while departing and promised we'd hang out again.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks, following a mild email and cell phone traffic, Julian, Memo and Memo's roommate Lisa -- a native of South Carolina -- found ourselves having early dinner in the Lower East. Conversation trickled. We ate and laughed. As Memo rushed to a second dinner get-together and Julian went off to his Brooklyn apartment, Lisa and I decided to watch the new Almodovar movie.
Sipping some post-dinner tea and waiting through the previews, Lisa in her captivating Southern droll told me about her time in Paris and her work in fashion. I learned about her family and her aspirations. It made me think back to my first job in New York and the youthful energy I had back then. I admired Lisa's curiousity in other cultures and languages. We hugged while parting and promised to stay in touch.
With just a few emails, but also with loads of trust, openness and genuinity I had had a journey from Latin America to Turkey's border with Syria and had flown back to the South. Only in New York, some might say. But I would say only with certain people who swing through borders.
posted by Mimi Media @ 1:30 PM
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