A Victory Ship, A Bourbon & A Jukebox - On Christmas Eve
Thursday, December 04, 2014
The year 1966 was one
of the saddest of my life and it culminated with the loneliest Christmas Eve I
have ever experienced.
It was sometime around
July of that year in the middle of a bleak and humid Buenos Aires winter when I
attempted to call up my girlfriend Susy for solace. She answered the phone and
told me (here it is a recollection and I don’t remember her exact words), “This
is the last time we will ever talk and I will never see you again. Do not try
to reach me. You're an uncouth and uneducated sailor. I now have a new friend. He is older and plays
the violin for the Teatro Colón.” And that was that. I went into my room at a
pension run by a retired German submariner from WWII and cried. To make it
worse I put All Blues (Miles Davis – Kind of Blue) on my record player and went
into a lower plane of depression. But since I was 23, youth took over and as
soon as spring (the jacarandas turned brilliant blue) arrived I knew I would be
soon returning to my home in Veracruz,
Mexico.
Sometime in the end of
November I boarded the Argentine Merchant Marine ship, Río Aguapey as its only
passenger. I made friends with a couple of young junior officers. They, the
daily lunch and dinner of steak with my personal bottle of Argentine wine
helped to alleviate my pain and forget Susy. In my cabin, when I was not taking
photographs of every evening’s sunset, I read Oswald Spengler.
Christmas Eve we
docked in New Orleans
and I decided to take a walk on Bourbon
Street in the French Quarter. I heard lots of
Dixieland sound coming out from many bars and clubs. Since I was a connoisseur (I
thought so) of cool jazz this music was not my cup of tea. I opted for one of
those places that had strippers. I had never ever seen one (I made up for lost
time when I moved to Vancouver in 1975). I sat on the front row (not yet
knowing that it would soon be called genecology row in Vancouver) and ordered bourbon. I stupidly
thought this was the drink to order. Since I do not like spirits, sipping the
stuff burned my throat. A bored looking woman appeared. She went to a jukebox
on the side of the stage and plugged it in. She pressed a few keys and began to
dance. All I can remember it that I was thoroughly bored, depressed and I left
as soon as she finished. Before she left the stage she unplugged the jukebox.
I went back to my
ship. Most were asleep. I climbed into
my bunk and felt saddened by the experience. New Orleans had been my first return to the
United Sates in about four years. I did not like the US
that I had found in New Orleans.
It seemed to be a Christmas Eve unshared.
In the late 80s I returned to Buenos Aires. I called up Susy. She was divorced. I rang the bell. She opened the door and staring at me said, "Aren't you going to kiss me?"
