Odd Associations
In the evening the sun shone through the shimmering needles of the pines. I watched, waiting for the coming of what Borges called our mutual night. I have been enjoying Borges read aloud softly on the Transmileno. I am not sure I’m at the point where I can characterize him, other than urbane, learned, tragic and of ghostly symbolism. I have the feeling that in order to learn how one lives an examined life here in South America Borges will make a good master.
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Lots of promise on the front of books in Spanish. I’ve found many little book stores not so promising, but then found a couple of big ones—one down by the Cathedral on the main plaza especially, with the longest philosophy section I have seen anywhere ever. Ortega y Gasset there in abundance, and even a bilingual volume with a bunch of Plato’s Dialogues. I was unable to see—they wrap most of the books in plastic here,—but I assumed it was Spanish-Greek. Saw a Spanish-Hebrew, Hebrew-Spanish lexicon. Saw a small, small table with Ciencia-Ficcion—all translations and mostly Stephanus Rex. No buying books till we have a job and a place though.
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Ate a portion of the toughest cow that ever lived, today. In the zone of high density restaurants I managed to pick what is probably the worst—though it had a charming interior in a little old house with thick walls and a covered patio. Meat is not high on the list of things that is done really well in Bogota. You have to go to the coast or to the eastern plains for that, or Buenos Aires. I think I’m going to quit trying after this, at least having any meals consisting mainly of beef. I have never heard a knife make such noises upon a piece of meat.
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Speaking of noises, in the same area of the bookstore we found one of the concert halls, perhaps where one of the orchestras plays, though I did not bother to ascertain. The main, central bank, El Banco Nacional, has some sort of major library attached to it—very deep in its holdings, as opposed to the shallow holdings of the public ones, according to the woman at the information place. We discovered it and in exploring came by the entrance to the concert hall. I’m not sure what it all has to do with the central bank, but what a gesture: don’t just save money, save books and treasure up your classical music. I like it.
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Found a place down there that roasts the coffee in the shop. It smelled of burned coffee, but the coffee served was good and the almojabanas more delicate than those we have had elsewhere, and there is nothing like an almojabana with coffee unless it is an arepa Boyacense with café con leche. I bought a pound ground—most things are sold by the pound here, not the kilogram—and now to see if it can rival the coffee of Don Juan.
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Did I mention I discovered Eduardo Caballero Calderon? Writes compellingly, Colombian, of the previous century and now alas deceased. He was a journalist but his prose is rich and descriptive and the book moves languidly. I’m going to work on this little book of his on Monday: Tipacoque. My Spanish I can feel returning to me, and with chaps like Borges and Caballeros, my vocabulary can expand—though having a dictionary would definitely help.
