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February is my favorite month, bar none. The holidays and their urgencies have passed. Many people have left the city on vacation and those who have returned still exude that holiday vibe together with new tans. Clothing is scant; the MVO (Minimum Viable Outfit) is the sweet spot. Nights are sweaty but come as a relief after the greater heat of the day.
Best of all, it’s Carnaval.
Forgive me for being a convert but having been raised in suburban California, the only all-hands street party I knew growing up was the annual Fourth of July Parade in our small town. I may keep a warm spot in my heart for the Lawnmower Brigade, the antique cars put-putting down the parade route, the elaborate picnic spreads on the grass but those civic celebrations pale before the power of an ancient rite honoring the twin deities of release and rebirth. The other, in hindsight, just seems a much thinner slice of life.
And I want more.
I suppose every human society yearns for these moments of collective fulfillment. Eventually the Bay Area produced Pride and Burning Man but by then I was on my way to Argentina. Just as Carnaval happens prior to Easter and is a counter-story to the sacrifice of Christ, Burning Man happens on the week before Labor Day and serves as an antidote to the Cult of Work and Getting Ahead that rules the rest of the year.
I say all this without prejudice one way or the other. Life is not pure; I am not pure. Most of what I consider good is derived from the Judeo-Christian tradition and I am rarely happier than when hard at work. But if we are not to lose sight of the vastness of life we must also consider that alternate existence.
That’s why we need Carnaval and all the little carnavals in our lives. These celebrations re-establish the balance in the Cosmos.
Even in the tattered and marginalized state in which it exists today in Buenos Aires, the power of Carnaval is irresistible to me. Perhaps its impoverishment even augments its power. The kids spraying each other — and everyone who crosses their path — with foam. The choripan stands. The sparse crowds. The handmade costumes adorned with one’s personal heroes: Maradona, Evita, Che Guevarra, Gardel, El Indio Solari, Homer Simpson, the neighborhood soccer team. It’s all so very homespun.
Shorn of glitz and pretension, Buenos Aires Carnaval is something raw and pure and true.
And it speaks to me.
It’s February and for this brief and blessed month, the party’s out on the street.
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