Acabo de volver de la tumba de Julio Cortázar en el cementerio de Montparnasse. Para mi puñetera sorpresa mi escritor favorito está enterrado entre sus dos ex-mujeres. No quiero mezclar el trabajo con la vida privada, pero ¿en serio?. No solo que este evento desafortunado hace ver mi futuro como la chingada, sino que al ritmo que vamos no llego ni a enterrar a un solo marido. Mensaje para Julito: aprendí mucho de tu narración pero ahora de muerto no me vengas a dar lecciones de amor con tu ejemplo. Salí emocionada y cabreada de ese cementerio como si a la que hubieran enterrado es a mí. Por suerte los tiempos cambiaron y probablemente hoy en día dividan las parcelas entre la gente que estuvo con vos en on-line dating y los que te quisieron en serio. Por supuesto que en mi caso deberían actualizar las hectáreas del cementerio, ya que de seguro los entrevistados por internet van topar el ala central ocupando el espacio de la gente que sí vivió con un propósito importante. Abatida y alterada me fui a buscarla a mi mamá y a Jamie Lynn que las dejé tiradas en Los Jardines de Luxemburgo y no quería llegar tarde y que me echaran los perros, pero al encontrarlas estaban sentadas en el banco de la entrada hablando de la inflación y el dólar. — Chicas…¿cómo va? — ¿Y? ¿Qué cuenta Julio Cortázar? Me pregunta mi madre. — El hijo de su buena madre está enterrado entre sus dos ex-mujeres. — Nah! No ves! Las mujeres somos unas tontas! Yo les voy avisando que no quiero saber nada con un cementerio. Quiero que me quemen y que tiren mis cenizas en el río Paraná. Son las 4 de la tarde, estoy en Paris, debo estar soñando o escuché la frase equivocada. — ¿Ah si? ¿Y quién coño se va a ir al río Paraná mami? Tus dos hijas vivimos en el exterior. No seas anti práctica y desconsiderada, después de todo vas a estar muerta, ¿no podes ser un poquito más solidaria? — Ah no! No puedo creer que ahora tampoco puedo elegir la forma en la que quiero partir! — Mamá, estamos en los jardines de Luxemburgo en Paris, acabo de verlo a mi escritor favorito, tenes 65 años, ¿podemos no hablar de esto? — Ah, ¿y cómo? Yo ahora tengo salud pero ¿y si me pasa algo?, vos sos la que sacaste el tema de la muerte, ¿a quién se le ocurre ir a un cementerio en sus vacaciones? — No entiendo, les hago de guía turística y psicóloga dejándolas en uno de los lugares más lindos de Paris ¿y encima tengo que escuchar esto? — Ceci, no tengas miedo, hablar de la muerte nos ayuda a planificar con tiempo. — Mamá, que te tiren en el río Paraná no es planificación, es jodernos la vida directamente. — ¿Pero puede ser que sean tan desagradecidas che? Está bien, ¿saben que voy a hacer? Toda la recaudación económica de mis esfuerzos laborales la voy a donar al Club Provincial en donde juego al tenis. Ahí las quiero ver a vos y a tu hermana. Confieso que me entró la preoccupazione. La herencia es algo que me merezco por haber sido una hija ejemplar, bueno, con algunos cascotazos pero ejemplar al fin. — Ok mami, está bien, volaré desde no sé donde para tirar tus cenizas en el río. Eso sí, te recomendaría que en esa herencia pongas el 65% de tu dinero a mi nombre, ya que dudo de que tu otra hija se tome un avión para despedirte. Lo planteo de ante mano porque me parece lo justo. — Son mis hijas y las quiero a las dos por igual. — Una pena, ya que esta es la más buena. — Tu hermana también lo es Ceci, lo que pasa que está ocupada criando a su hija y atendiendo a su marido. — Alright, alright, no nos adelantemos que todavía nos falta mucho por vivir, una de esas me muero yo antes que ustedes. Eso sí, si me van a enterrar que sea entre mis dos amores: mi música y mis libros. Y si tengo marido díganle que me lleve pizza, las flores que me las de cuando esté viva y que lo espero para las boda de plata en el cielo ya que en la tierra no nos dieron los números. Bon voyage!

Cumpleaños doble y un festejo en una mansion en la colina de San Francisco puede solucionarme mi sábado por la noche en la ciudad más diversa del mundo. El dueño y cumpleañero, un ecuatoriano millonario, la cumpleañera, Mariana de los vientos, los invitados, José Gregorio y el regreso de su panza y Arturo My Lord con su barba de 45 pulgadas. La noche estaba garantizada…muy pocas veces en esta ciudad uno consigue reunir a gente con tantas agendas sociales a reventar. Llegar a la casa me llevo varias subidas circulares entre las chozas de los venados y las familias de los mapaches, pero una vez estacionada la música solita me indicó el camino. Esteban, el cumpleañero, había decorado su habitáculo con los globos que sobraron de los Oscars y todos habíamos llevado un plato casero de nuestros países, al llegar a la mesa de las naciones unidas divisé una pascualina rellena con verdura y huevo que si mi abuela no había resucitado para cocinarla le pegaba en el palo, en cambio tuve la fortuna de dar con un Argentino que la hizo en el hornito de su cocina en San Mateo. — Ceci!! Te presento a mi amigo Pascual, es de tu ciudad natal, Rosario. Nah! De seguro había una confusión…¿Se habrá referido a Rosarito, Mexico? No…de R-O-S-A-R-I-O, código postal 2000 y 100% de humedad. Argentino de mis pagos de la calle Entre Ríos y Catamarca, a 20 cuadras de la casa en donde me crié. No conozco muchos argentinos, pero dar con uno que me cocine reunió dos deseos reprimidos que Freud diagnosticaría lapsus del inconsciente. Cuando la noche había arrancado de la mejor manera posible— con 7 octavos de tarta en la boca reviviendo mi infancia— se me acercó una chica y me preguntó si yo era Cecilia Castelli, mientras me limpiaba las comisuras de la boca de las migas del hojaldre le contesté que sí, que de donde me conocía. — Yo leo todas tus historias por internet y te considero muy divertida. Alimentada y famosa de un golpe solo levantó mi autoestima y me vi repartiendo autógrafos imaginarios con la única mano limpia que me quedaba.— ¿Vos me decís en serio? — Si! Me encanta como escribís! No sé como llegué hasta tus relatos pero ahora encima te conozco en vivo. Esto, y que me entregaran la escritura de mi casa frente al mar era lo mismo. Humilde por naturaleza como verán…ahora solo me faltan los millones de dólares que de momento Esteban está gozando bajo mi talento. No seré una mujer de negocios como él, ¿pero quién se atreve a que lo reconozcan por su escritura? — Mirá querida, te digo como sigue esto…vos y yo vamos a ser amigas. Ella de San Luis, yo… ex-rosarina mudada a la Luna. Entre tanta gente de distintos países di con muchos alemanes, un par de borrachos buscando amor, y la hermosa panza de José Gregorio que más que volver al ruedo se instaló for good para que regrese nuestra amistad. Hace un tiempo atrás la había perdido y esto tuvo un impacto muy fuerte en nuestra relación, pero ahora podemos decir que atravesamos la crisis juntos y todo volvió a su lugar. A la media hora de sentirme una estrella de Jolywud apareció una pareja argentina en donde él caballero se asemejaba mucho a Ricardo Darín, sin el cigarrillo en la mano y los dientes amarillos claro. Su mujer, una diosa de un planeta vecino al mío, fresca, alegre y absolutamente desapegada a los dramas que corren en esta dimension. Ella se asombró por mi espontaneidad, pero solamente un talento reconoce otro talento. Con el único que no me llevé bien anoche fue con Arturo My Lord, porque se dejó la barba tan larga que pensé que me haría una regresión en el sillón del living. Un chico tan lindo tapado con tanto pelo no combinaba per niente con los globos y la decoración de anoche. “Lady…hear me tonight, can’t you see, you’re my delight…” me declaraba Modjo recordándome mi adolescencia en mi ciudad natal. Hacía 17 años que no escuchaba esa canción y la playlist de Esteban hizo ruido en mi alma en donde se tropezó con la pascualina que estaba a medio camino para la digestion. Cuantos recuerdos todos juntos, faltaban las boleadoras colgadas en la cocina para que mi sábado diera con el broche de oro cronológico de mi vida. A las 2 me despedí de los cumpleañeros y a las 3 estaba soñando con el monumento a la bandera, los mosquitos, los camalotes y una palometa que me mordía el tobillo mientras me terminaba un alfajor de maicena. No será el sueño americano, pero Rosario es así, te deja marcas de por vida. Buen Domingo para todos gauchos!

Federico Nothing confronts me more with the act of dying than traveling by plane. I don’t fear death itself, but it being caused by pilot error. A person who not only flies an aircraft but also my life. I could complain to all Air Forces that don’t allow the crew to get involved in the selection of the personnel that will take us to our destination, but it would be in vain because they apparently do it for us; what if just before taking off, the pilot finds out that his wife cheated on him with his best friend or is a manic-depressive, and I have to go to London with him? The variables are endless and so is my good luck, because so far none of them has contemplated suicide, at least not with me. Those pilots who fly with me must be really eager to surf the turbulence, since my last trip was a mixture of “bachata of pits”, edema of glottis and post-partum. He didn’t turn a hair surfing the fierce winds of the damn current El Niño, because he didn’t even warn us that we were at risk of death. Of course this is a personal conclusion, since no members of the crew bothered a second to take off their sleep masks. Those in row C were snoring in B minor, the flight attendants were telling each other about the last roll in the hay with the newly divorced pilot, and the damn Asians were reading the newspaper as if they were sitting on a lounger in Playa del Carmen. Me? As if I was attached to the electric chair, fading between watery green and apple green, reciting mantras of all religions, asking the gods of the cold South winds to end this hell because I can’t die today; I still have to pay off my credit card which I maxed out for my Christmas shopping and at some point in the future I’ll have to find a boyfriend. I think my family would never forgive me if I die single, and then the damn karma is going to bring me right back to the crime scene so that I can meet someone and repeat this whole nightmare once again. But my guardian angels that know exactly everything about my reincarnations and current accounts, put me face to face with a guy from Brazil just before pre-boarding. Federico. A 32-year-old ash blond who was more to be married on Earth than to be met in Heaven… Or maybe both. I was able to verbalize my inner thoughts and I dared to ask him how long our flight would be; I never intended him to get close to me forever, I was just looking for someone nice and handsome to die with. But Federico had the look of being more single than me and seemed to be a good candidate for me to hold his hand when the plane began to shake like a washing machine. He didn’t stop talking; I would have never forgiven him if he had been in my city, but what other choice did I actually have, stranded in an airport in Mexico going to São Paulo? He talked for about two hours in a row and I let him speak because this thing of being close to death makes me compassionate. He wanted my phone number, I just wanted him to hug me during turbulence. Between his anxiety and mine, we reached an agreement: the first weekend that we returned to the United States -because he lives in Los Angeles-, he would come to visit me. I can’t argue with my “bodyguard of wild winds”, the OK was given and my word, too. We sat apart, it’s clear that fate knows more about me than about my fears of air pockets, but Cecilia, who needs to stretch her 1.2-meter-long legs to be comfortable, resorted to the old trick of the emergency exit. Yes, sure, just a girl like me would leave the plane first in case it fell… Although nobody knew, I settled there. And, as soon as the plane was ready to take off, I started looking for my new friend who just happened to have immersed himself in deep sadness without my company. I put him on my side, pressed up against him; I told him about my most recent fears, and we hugged. Taken by the hand of a complete stranger. Spooning with Brazil and the damn sudden steep drops by the pilot, who must have been having dinner. The steward who stared at us because he didn’t understand anything since the last time he had seen us; Federico was texting and I was eating some M&Ms in the other wing of the airport. He told me that before the plane dropped, he would like to know if he kissed well or not, since we also talked about my list of bad kissers. There wasn’t even one topic left to analyze, he even told me that he was living with his ex-wife who got pregnant by another man and that the son of a third guy lives with them. Too much information for just a single flight. Sometimes it’s better to die than to hear the truth. I brought up sensitive issues and bombarded him with technical questions, such as: Are you divorced from her or do you have to support that child who is not yours? Do you sleep in separate rooms? Who chose the baby’s name? My perplexity was such that I thought I was single for a good reason, because maybe I have neither the tolerance nor the patience that this human being has in much stronger situations than falling off a plane. And I thought that my life was screwed because I didn’t know anything about the life of pilots. We reached our final destination, the plane never fell, and we parted as two lifelong friends. He came to San Francisco and left, I kept my promise, I found out that the baby is three months old, I asked him who gets up to take care of the baby when he cries at 3 in the morning. I don’t know what will happen next time, but I hope life doesn’t challenge me again by sending a man with a son that is not his… Because traveling is not my thing, but neither is raising children.

My wedding Time has come to organize a wedding: mine. After so many years of listening to my family complain about my marital status, I found my soul mate: me! Isn’t that amazing? There are people who spend a lifetime trying to find themselves and yet never meet; it took me 35 years, not bad for a girl who has traveled a lot and to whom geography has always opposed, right? We met a long time ago, but we found each other as adults; I won’t go into detail, but she's the one. And, as could not have been otherwise, the deal is always closed with a ring, so I put on my Italian shawl, the highest heeled shoes I could find in the closet, and I asked Dolce & Gabbana to go with me, in other words, three quarters of perfume on my shoulders. Of course, the chosen store was Tiffany & Co. I had so many candidates who went dutch that I feeling that this goes for all of them, too. Education and feelings, guys, something you couldn’t achieve. I went into the store on Post street and the young shop assistant asked me very kindly what I was looking for. Suddenly, my eyes sparkled with happiness and the innocence of a woman who embarks on a new path, and I told her: an engagement ring. —Oh, very well! Congratulations! Do you know what you are looking for or has your fiancé reserved it? —Fiancée. —Ah, sorry! Fiancée… —No problem, after all we’re in San Francisco… guessing people’s inclinations must be a pretty big challenge for a store like this. The girl, in addition to being embarrassed and inexperienced, didn’t know the ring was just for me and that the wedding vows would come from just one hand: the right one. —Look, I’ll tell you this; I’m marrying myself and I’ve decided to celebrate it with a diamond ring, so let’s go little by little because everything comes out of a single pocket: OK? I think that in the history of Tiffany & Co. you’ve heard that a girl about my age wants to mortgage her life for a ring, but isn’t it the most important act of our whole existence: the celebration of impeccable coexistence? Aha! Well, let’s celebrate it, then! —Wow, this has never happened to me since I started working here, but I think it’s a bright idea! —No darling, bright is the stone that is going to pay off our love. —Great! I totally agree with you. What kind of gold are you looking for? —White, of course, as my soul. When she takes out the tray of platinum bands with my retirement pension on top, I automatically feel a connection to the ring on the left side of all possible gifts. —This one! -I shouted, pointing at my future. -How much is it? —$12,600. It was to be expected, I’m not a girl to be taken lightly, it is all or nothing with me. —Cute; maybe another one a little cheaper? —We have rings ranging from $1,500 to $ 50,000… it is your decision, basically. —Look, it’s very clear that I’m worth the $50,000 one, but I must save a little for the party and the honeymoon. I don’t want a ring to leave me somewhere in Kathmandu absolutely penniless, you know? —Great, let me show you the $6,000 ones; tell me if you like any of them; the diamonds are smaller, so the price is lower. I don’t know the short young lady, but I already love her… from 12 to 6… In a minute, she reduced the price by half, that’s what I call negotiation. —I like this one; how much is it? —You have chosen the most expensive one from this wide selection, it costs $ 6,450. —Sorry, but I have very good taste, as you may have already noticed. —Yes, actually marrying yourself says it all! (laughter) Besides being a lovely saleswoman, she is a perceptive and a clever negotiator, three talents which are about to ruin my finances. —If you do not mind, could I ask you a personal question? This girl must be between 21 and 24 years old, how personal could a question be when she’s been on this planet for such a short time? —Of course dear, “personal” is all I’ve got. —If you put an engagement ring on your finger, aren’t you afraid that men think you’re married and never come close to you again? I sighed deeply and tried to be cautious about her innocence; I put my hand on her shoulder and said, ―Honey, it’s very likely that by having one I get luckier than if I didn’t. You don’t need to understand this perversity, but the world outside Tiffany can be very cruel, which is why I recommend you keep selling rings and never leave this room. The girl didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but the truth is that this future wife gave her a free lesson in exchange for $6,500. I may have not known how to negotiate with my past, but my present has a signet ring on my finger which says that nobody or nothing could ever make me happier than myself. Now, please, don’t expect the party to be this year because, between my house in front of the sea and my wedding, I am waxing my legs in the bathroom to cut costs and lock myself up until next winter.