Polo

So after Walking to Tierra del Fuego. Guess what I had waiting for me back in Buenos Aires in the 1990's? Polo. Her real name was Paula but she was very short so I called her Polo. She was a fashion icon of sorts on the University of Belgrano campus in Buenos Aires. She was a French National. She modeled in the “Paris of South America,” which is the nickname of Buenos Aires, when her career sputtered out in the real Paris. She dressed like a French film star. She owned her own flat in Buenos Aires. She was estranged from her parents in France. She decided to move to Buenos Aires to make a new life. She wisely figured her Francs would go a long way in the other Paris. Not just the exchange rate as evidenced by the flat. She was planning on banking on her good looks on nothing less than the Bolsa which was Argentina’s stock exchange. She was no joke. She was a fully independent person paying her own tuition to attend a private university even if it was inexpensive given the exchange rate. She preferred The Paris of South America over the real Paris. She worked part-time in Financial Services which was her ultimate destination. Modeling was just a pickup job when she could get it because she looked different than all the local talent. She looked glamorous French. That was her look. It was easy for her to pull off because she was, well, glamorous French. College boys were just too intimidated to talk to her because she had this glamorous French force field around her. The older guys just wanted her as a mistress. The Belgrano boys, living at home, hanging onto Mommy’s apron strings, were just too immature for her. She didn’t want to pluck the chicks out of their nests for her part. She was actually, more often than not, single like me. I got dumped a lot in the 1990’s. I wasn’t sensitive enough. I didn’t pay attention. I was aloof. I didn’t listen. I smelled like the outdoors. I was always disappearing somewhere with a backpack. I know about all those letters in your mailbox from all those girls around the world! What am I supposed to do? Tell them they cannot write me? I am in between getting dumped right now. That’s how I viewed it. Polo will be the next girl to dump me. We haven’t even begun but I see the writing on the wall. So no courage needs to be mustered. I just walked up to Polo after our first class together at the Univesity of Belgrano. I also have this very distinct look. See above. If you like that eighties look. Look no further. I am shaved, short hair, shades and put together. I have outfits which I call costumes. I stand out in a sea of grunge in the 1990’s. I grow my hair out periodically but that does not change what I have come to view as The Look. To say that Polo stuck out too is a major understatement. I saw her in the back of the class. Even I was like whoa! What is that doing here? That wants an education? You’ve got to be kidding me. You don’t educate glamorous French in a classroom. The world is the classroom for that. People will pay to be around that. But I will question it. I asked what Coco Chanel was doing at the University of Belgrano? Is this what reincarnation looks like? You get downgraded on your Paris? As far as pickup lines are concerned. It was first rate. I took a stab at her being French right out of the box. And I was right. The fact that I care so little about the outcome is what will make this a success. I am already dumped in my book. This girl will dump me for her boss which is what she did. She even had his baby but that’s a whole other story. She actually visited me in LA almost two years to the date of our very first conversation. We remained friends. She just wanted to tell me she was having a baby. I was happy for her except for the fact that her boss was married. Polo was unperturbed. She was decades younger and far better looking. But back then Polo explained that the University of Buenos Aires went on strike too much. She had enough scheduling conflicts. So the University of Belgrano was the Coco Chanel compromise. I explained that I had made the same assessment. I picked the University of Belgrano for the very same reason. What was my real school? I attended Brown University. Well, she was on her way to a modeling job. She’d love to chat because I looked interesting enough but she had to go. Perhaps a coffee another time? She took her foot off her attitude pedal a little bit. I might get an audition for her arm. I told her about my mediocre modeling career in Boston as she tried to walk away. How I was currently in my second retirement from modeling. Fur was my medium. My last girlfriend modeled on occasion too. She did that crazy art stuff like getting dressed up as a lobster. She left me in favor of Paris. I got the other Paris. I was what you call single. This is all in Spanish. Polo invited me to tag along to her shoot. She took the bus because she did not waste money. She was a Parisian at heart. I swooned on the spot. Polo takes public transportation like me? I might have to bend the knee on the collectivo which is basically a school bus. We started dating. It was like dating inside a telenovela which is a Latin American soap opera. Principles die and come back to life. Ghosts are floating around. Old flames flare up. It worked for a time. But Polo, for all of her glamour, had major competition. La Pampa Province was my heartthrob. I had horses waiting for me out there. Polo wanted nothing to do with the pampas. She didn’t visit me once. I was dead to her out there. Our stars were crossed from that very first collectivo ride as I predicted. I have this lifelong passion for horses. Out of really humble horse beginnings actually. I learned how to ride at some camp in Norwell, MA that had horses. It wasn’t horse camp. It was horse on the side camp. They were nags. No matter. I made them the main dish. Then I figured out that wealthy people like to own horses. But not ride them. So that’s where I came in. Pretty soon it turned into a business. People paid me to care for their horses which included mucking stalls, feeding them, bathing them and, of course, riding them which was the big reward. After that I became an employee of a company that leased polo ponies to rich guys that couldn’t ride. That took me up and down the East Coast. However like any passion employment it didn’t pay enough. I was in this strange position because I was leaving Winter in the United States, in favor, of Summer in South America because I was attending the University of Belgrano in Buenos Aires. School didn’t start until February. I would have only a few days between my resumption of Brown University next Fall in North America. It would be Winter down there. So my breaks were out of sync. I had two choices. Go early to Buenos Aires and take my chances on employment and living arrangements. Or stay in the United States and earn more money for this trip. I was very adapt at earning money in the United States so I stayed. My big business in horse country in Florida wasn’t riding horses. It was being odd job guy for rich people. Running errands, fixing things and going shopping for them. Driving to and from the airport in a pre-Uber world. It taught me how to talk to anybody. Somehow I hook up with a big-time hand surgeon from NYC. He sources his horses from a guy in Buenos Aires. Horses are like Santiago’s fifth business. His empire consists of natural gas, real estate holdings, cattle and horses. I know that’s only four legit businesses but I just chalk money laundering in there too. His interests are in Argentina, Brazil and Venezuela. Switzerland is where he hides the money, I figure. That’s how I get to five. Would I like to meet Santiago in Buenos Aires? He might be able to arrange some sort of horse situation for you down there? Yes. I take down the information. I think very little of it. It’s a long shot but it’s a lead. I have housing arranged when I get to Buenos Aires. Of course, it was bad and I had to change it. The University of Belgrano outside of Polo is not for me. The kids are too immature. My finals will be oral exams. There is no attendance requirement. Santiago is my first job search call. He is my only lead. He not only answers my call but suggests lunch. I meet him for lunch. I explain my passion for horses. He invites me out to his ranch for the weekend. It’s next to the farm which is some spread with a zillion cows on it. I never bother to look at the massive cow farm, not even once, over the course of the next eight months. I am happy with my, on average, fifty horses, in various states of training, on the ranch at anytime. I am invited to ride and train these horses as much as I like after my riding skills are witnessed. Pay comprises room and board in the main residence with the staff. Young Patron is what they jokingly call me. Young Patron would you care for us to draw you a bath? They make me change in the mudroom after riding. They are not waiting on me. I am a source of humor. I am the pet pig of The House of Santiago. Young Patron does not get the royal treatment but I am not out in the barn with the vaqueros. I am happy being the pet pig of The House of Santiago. It comes with an all-you-can-ride horse buffet. Santiago pays for transportation. He pays the daily vaquero rate. It allows me to come out to ride several days a week at a minimum. Argentina has a lot of holidays. School is a joke because when I am not riding in the pampas. Reading is my activity. I have long since devoured all my textbooks. I am making my way through the House of Santiago library of history books. I know things about the wars of South America that will astonish my oral examiners at the end of August. I complain about my classes, at some point, to one of the Deans at the University of Belgrano. I am point of fact an Ivy League student. I can only ride so much in the pampas. The isolation is really horrifying. I am bumped up to the Seniors which is where I belong. I resume my classes. I ride on the weekends. Polo is long gone. I don’t provide enough telenovela drama. Riding gets put on a more reasonable schedule. I have seemingly topped out with riding skills. I can’t get any better. I am playing 7 goal pickup polo, the sport, at this point. I can’t afford the real games which I wouldn’t pay for anyway. Pickup polo is just too way much fun. We get on the phone. Arrange a game. Ride to it with our horses. Pick our teams based on who shows up. We play. It’s not a harsh game because a lot of us do not own our horses. Young Patron has to get his horses home safe and sound. Dangerous behavior is not tolerated. Frankly I am something between the Main House and The Help. I brought a horse home with me on the plane to try to start a business with Santiago. It broke even but there was too much downside risk. Young Patron had saddled into the workforce by now in North America. Polo went the way of the other Polo. Too much telenovela. There is no gain in that. It’s all downside. #Polo