Life of Hardin Vol. III, No. 8
You Can't Get There from Here
"You can't get there from here." You may have heard this saying many times. But I will lay money and give odds that you didn't know it originated in Paraguay.
Paraguay is the poster country for being not able to get there from wherever. Timbuktu and Kalamazoo can be reached from any spot on the globe, but Paraguay must be visted by going somewhere else first. With a stop in Tijuana.
A group came down about a week ago. They first visited the waterfalls at Foz do Iguazu. Foz do Iguazu is an hour and a half away, as the crow flies. But this group flew from there to San Paulo in Brazil. From there they flew to Buenos Aires, and from Buenos Aires to Asuncion. With a stop in Tijuana. All along the way they asked the stewardesses. And the pretty stewardesses smiled their pretty smiles with their white, even teeth and shook their heads and said, "You can't get to Asuncion from here."
Then there are the roads in Asuncion. They have enough trees here to name each road after a different species. They could have Oak Street and Elm Street and Cottonwood Street and just about any sort of thing you please. Instead the streets are named for historic dates. It seems like everywhere you go, you cross the 25th of May. THAT is the one place you can't help but get to in Paraguay. This street is a strange creature. It comes at you when you don't want it. It leaps out at you from around corners at night. But should you ever WANT to find it, it turns tail and runs like a frightened hare. There is also the 14th of May, but it is several blocks over and next to the 15th of August. There are the 22nd of September and the 29th of the September. There is the 19th of July. There is the 11th of December. There is . . . but you get the idea. I have taken to driving with a calendar rather than a map. You have never felt so old until you cross six blocks through downtown and realize you have skipped Thanksgiving, Christmas, Flag Day, Boxing Day, and one or two birthdays all together.
There are other road names other than dates, but you can't get to them from here. There is one above them all. Felix Bogado. HE cannot be gotten to from any point on the compass. I searched for him enough one day I came to believe in him not so much as an actual place but more as a state of mind. My wife and I looked for him as a shortcut.
"Turn here," said she.
I did so. "We're on Christobal Colon. Who is that?"
"Christopher Columbus."
"Is that who we want? Will he take us to Felix Bogado?"
"Yes."
Five blocks later. "No. Turn around here."
I did so. On Cuba street. The little men on the corner turned their heads at us. They sipped yerba as I backed around and back onto Columbus.
"How far?"
"I don't know. We need Felix Bogado."
"We certainly do. Is he here?"
"I think this is the road we want. I can't remember. I went this way when we first got here three years ago." That last, meant to inspire confidence, did not. "Turn right."
I turned right. We drove some blocks until we got to United States street. "Turn right here."
I did so. We drove some more blocks. "This is it. Turn right here."
"This is Felix Bogado?"
"No, but this will get us to it."
I turned right. We drove even more blocks until we came to a large and familiar road.
"This is Columbus," I said.
"Maybe this gets us to Felix Bogado. Turn left."
I did so.
"This isn't it. Turn around."
I did so. On Cuba street. The little men on the corner turned their heads at us. They sipped yerba as I backed around and back onto Columbus.
"How did we do that? We should have run into Felix Bogado."
"We went in a circle," I said.
"We didn't go in a circle, we turned right."
"We made three rights. Three rights is a circle."
"We should have run into Felix Bogado."
"Felix Bogado has fled the country," I said.
We took Columbus again. We turned right again. We left United States strictly alone.
"Where are we going? We need Felix Bogado."
"Felix Bogado," I said, "has abandoned us, and I do not intend to be there for him in his time of need. I am going to find a street named after a date. If I can't know where I am, I want to at least know WHEN I am."
We eventually got where we wanted to go. On the way we crossed Felix Bogado. It is the last time I intend to cross his path.
My advice to you, if you ever visit Paraguay, do not try to find Felix Bogado by way of Columbus. You can't get there from here.
You Can't Get There from Here
"You can't get there from here." You may have heard this saying many times. But I will lay money and give odds that you didn't know it originated in Paraguay.
Paraguay is the poster country for being not able to get there from wherever. Timbuktu and Kalamazoo can be reached from any spot on the globe, but Paraguay must be visted by going somewhere else first. With a stop in Tijuana.
A group came down about a week ago. They first visited the waterfalls at Foz do Iguazu. Foz do Iguazu is an hour and a half away, as the crow flies. But this group flew from there to San Paulo in Brazil. From there they flew to Buenos Aires, and from Buenos Aires to Asuncion. With a stop in Tijuana. All along the way they asked the stewardesses. And the pretty stewardesses smiled their pretty smiles with their white, even teeth and shook their heads and said, "You can't get to Asuncion from here."
Then there are the roads in Asuncion. They have enough trees here to name each road after a different species. They could have Oak Street and Elm Street and Cottonwood Street and just about any sort of thing you please. Instead the streets are named for historic dates. It seems like everywhere you go, you cross the 25th of May. THAT is the one place you can't help but get to in Paraguay. This street is a strange creature. It comes at you when you don't want it. It leaps out at you from around corners at night. But should you ever WANT to find it, it turns tail and runs like a frightened hare. There is also the 14th of May, but it is several blocks over and next to the 15th of August. There are the 22nd of September and the 29th of the September. There is the 19th of July. There is the 11th of December. There is . . . but you get the idea. I have taken to driving with a calendar rather than a map. You have never felt so old until you cross six blocks through downtown and realize you have skipped Thanksgiving, Christmas, Flag Day, Boxing Day, and one or two birthdays all together.
There are other road names other than dates, but you can't get to them from here. There is one above them all. Felix Bogado. HE cannot be gotten to from any point on the compass. I searched for him enough one day I came to believe in him not so much as an actual place but more as a state of mind. My wife and I looked for him as a shortcut.
"Turn here," said she.
I did so. "We're on Christobal Colon. Who is that?"
"Christopher Columbus."
"Is that who we want? Will he take us to Felix Bogado?"
"Yes."
Five blocks later. "No. Turn around here."
I did so. On Cuba street. The little men on the corner turned their heads at us. They sipped yerba as I backed around and back onto Columbus.
"How far?"
"I don't know. We need Felix Bogado."
"We certainly do. Is he here?"
"I think this is the road we want. I can't remember. I went this way when we first got here three years ago." That last, meant to inspire confidence, did not. "Turn right."
I turned right. We drove some blocks until we got to United States street. "Turn right here."
I did so. We drove some more blocks. "This is it. Turn right here."
"This is Felix Bogado?"
"No, but this will get us to it."
I turned right. We drove even more blocks until we came to a large and familiar road.
"This is Columbus," I said.
"Maybe this gets us to Felix Bogado. Turn left."
I did so.
"This isn't it. Turn around."
I did so. On Cuba street. The little men on the corner turned their heads at us. They sipped yerba as I backed around and back onto Columbus.
"How did we do that? We should have run into Felix Bogado."
"We went in a circle," I said.
"We didn't go in a circle, we turned right."
"We made three rights. Three rights is a circle."
"We should have run into Felix Bogado."
"Felix Bogado has fled the country," I said.
We took Columbus again. We turned right again. We left United States strictly alone.
"Where are we going? We need Felix Bogado."
"Felix Bogado," I said, "has abandoned us, and I do not intend to be there for him in his time of need. I am going to find a street named after a date. If I can't know where I am, I want to at least know WHEN I am."
We eventually got where we wanted to go. On the way we crossed Felix Bogado. It is the last time I intend to cross his path.
My advice to you, if you ever visit Paraguay, do not try to find Felix Bogado by way of Columbus. You can't get there from here.
posted by Josh Hardin | 9/28/2006 07:56:00 AM
1 Comments:
One should never allow an artiste to believe that he or she, or possibly either in the current state of gender ambivalence, has reached a pinnacle of artistic expression. Such a belief can aid those of a confident nature to grow overbearing and tiresome in their conversation. Why I was once trapped in a three hour harangue on the best way to fertilize rose bushes by a playwright who had just been congratulated on a particularly moving dialog in her latest play. The woman obviously knew nothing about growing roses since she claimed leftover coffee from the breakfast table produced gigantic blooms. I was later informed by the true gardener of her household, namely her husband, that the misconception grew from her habit of emptying the dregs of her morning coffee into his rose bed while reading the morning newspaper outside. He did the actual fertilizing and recommended alfalfa meal. I have since used this and found it more than satisfactory. On the other hand, those of a retiring nature, artistes not roses, may be dragged into a state of pensiveness and melancoly at the thought they will never again wring the emotion from their audience as they most recently have. The example that comes to mind on this point is not nearly as interesting as my last but you may benefit from it just the same. While attending a reception in a downtown art gallery last week, I had managed to assemble a flavorful but meager lunch from the de riguer refreshment table and was navigating through the other mingling attendees toward what I hoped would be a quiet chair on the fringes. A particularly gargantaun landscape by William Grosvenour, or possibly his brother Warren, their signatures are almost indistinuisable, provided an excellent screened dining area. But there ahead of me was the featured painter of the reception with his head in his hands. On my inquiry as to his health, he claimed to be in excellent physical shape but had been reduced to a state of mental paralysis by the continuous praise for his latest works. This he agreed after further conversation was most disconcerting and ironic, because until this very exhibit his art was ignored or ridiculed. When I suggested that he simply continue in the same subjects and techiques he had been using, he replied that his only previous inspiration had been for the irritation of his parents. Irony of Ironies! This young, seemingly struggling artiste was actually supported by his wealthy family who dispised his choice of vocation but provided his livelihood. And now his whole family was at the reception and were positively basking in the reflected glow of his genius. Not being accustomed to any positive notice whatsoever for his efforts, the sudden change in opinions had left him wandering, so to speak, in a wasteland without a map or compass. Taking the obvious tack, I asked what besides his current choice in art irritated his parents, intending to give him new subjects to paint. No sooner had he digested the question than he jumped to his feet and shouted "That's it ! They depise street vendors ! Thank you, Mr Good Samaritan ! I must go find a pushcart !". He immediately rushed from the gallery shouting "Eureka !". This suprised me as he had not mentioned that he had been classically educated.
So you see how reluctant I am to praise your latest effort. I can, however, reassure you that it was on a par with the best I have read. Thank you for your consideration in sending it.
J. Edgar Hartmann
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