Oasis, St. Andrew's style

A number of international bands have been making their way to Argentina in the last few weeks. I missed the Rolling Stones and U2 (still not quite over it actually), but I did manage to get tickets to see Oasis with my cousin Carola. So last Friday I put on my comfy shoes (large stadium, we were out in the standing-room only field) and got ready to go.

We left around 6:30 or so, Carola and I, and headed over to her friend’s house. This was an exercise in irony. As we walked up to the elegant building, the doorman quickly anticipating our arrival and opening the door long before we had even crossed the street, I couldn't help but notice the homeless people that had gathered on the street corner, sifting through the garbage cans looking for recyclables. These people, the cartoneros, take all that they collect to recycling centers for refunds. Many of them make a living this way. It's heartbreaking to watch.

Once we rode up the newly furnished elevator, we met up with about 5 more of her friends, among them such gems as Azul, Violeta, Marina, and Sonia. I can’t really recall the rest of their names. Walking into this girl’s bedroom was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. There were six 15 and 16 year old girls chatting away, painting each other’s nails, picking out clothes, and catching up on crushes. I felt like I was watching a Lindsay Lohan movie. I sat there, totally transfixed by the flurry of activity before me and said nothing. I don’t think they noticed. It struck me, right away actually, that these girls were so unaware of how pretentious they were. How unaffected in their affectedness they seemed to be. They all attend a private school—the same one actually, Saint Andrew’s Preparatory School. Preparation for what, I ask? They’ve been sheltered their whole lives from poverty, suffering, and lackluster haircuts. They do not know that another lifestyle exists. And so they behave like this, like they do, occasionally sprinkling their conversations with English words to show that they can, that they’re cool, that they’re in “the know.” It's so surprising to me that Carola has somehow managed to escape this behavior. To coexist with it, to incorporate some aspects of it, but to remain on the whole a sweet and kind person.

They largely ignored the stranger—me—until someone mentioned that I was from Los Angeles. Then the tide turned in my favor. It seemed then that I was a luxury, an object to be worshipped and fawned over, and above all else copied. Because despite my obvious limitations (my inability to squeeze my body into a child’s size 4 pair of pants, my lackluster knowledge of famous Argentine models, and my absolute and total disinterest in either one of these “problems,”) I was after all, an American. And the opportunity to use me as a story to be told could not be passed up.

So we girls piled into 2 taxis and made our way to the Campo de Polo (the Polo Field) to see the concert. By the time we got to the site, there was a line approximately 6 blocks long to get in. Luckily Carola and her friends knew people further on up the line from school, and so we proceeded to cut a few times and slowly made our way to the entrance. It was there that we ran into the director of her school, who apparently at 40 either still really digs Oasis, or does not trust his young daughter enough to be alone with thousands of hoodlums for an evening. The director and his wife are English, but their daughter was born here, in Buenos Aires, and has lived here her entire life. This small fact did not in any way affect her propensity for speaking English the entire time. She spoke it to her friends, to her parents, to everyone and anyone within earshot. They all answered her in Spanish, which she of course not only understands, but probably speaks far better. No matter. This display went on for a few blocks. The only reason that I did not laugh in this girl’s face, was the fact that I knew Caro had to go back to school on Monday, and face not only this retard, but also her parents. I behaved myself then, and allowed myself a serious guffaw when I got home that night.

We made our way into the field, and agreed that we would be best off on the outskirts of the group that had assembled near the stage. Further from the stage—yes, but also further from the chaos that always ensues at concerts in Argentina. The concert was great. Despite the fact that both Gallagher brothers seemed to be bored to death during the entire concert, once even threatening to leave if the crowd did not calm down. Calm down? What they saw was nothing! A few tennis shoes being tossed onto the stage, some bottles of water spraying the mosh pit, this is quite tame. Had they missed the news brief on the riots that were incited the week before at the Rolling Stones concert? British pansies!

After the concert, we spent almost an hour trying to get out of the venue. Picture the Hollywood Bowl, but less organized. I later found out there had been 35,000 people there that night. All things considered, I was glad to have made it out intact. I took a cab home from one of the main streets and passed out. What can I say? I’m not 16 anymore. And almost 4 hours of standing and jumping tires me out a whole lot more than it used to…