IT WAS EVENING AFTER A LONG DAY'S SHOOT IN THE HILLS BEHIND THE LAKESIDE CITY OF SAN CARLOS BARILOCHE, CIRCA 1992. THE LAST RAYS OF THE SUN HAD TURNED THE RED TERRACOTTA ROOF TO BURNING ORANGE AND THE WHITE WALLS TO GOLD. BEYOND THE HOUSE, SOME EUCALYPTS WERE SWAYING GENTLY IN THE WARM EVENING BREEZE AND THEIR BARE, LITHE GOLDEN LIMBS WERE AS SENSUOUS AS ANY FEMALE'S. WELL NOT QUITE, BUT ALMOST. YES, EUCALYPTS.
I WAS TOYING WITH A DRINK AND LUSTING AFTER THE DELICIOUS AROMA OF PRIME ARGENTINIAN BEEF ROASTING ON THE BARBECUE. SOME KIND OF BOSSA NOVA MUSIC DRIFTED OUT OF THE HOUSE AND CAME ON THE WARM BREEZE, LIKE SAND BEING SHAKEN IN A GLASS BOTTLE.
SHE WAS SITTING ON THE CHAIR OPPOSITE. HER EYES WERE PROBABLY DARK BROWN, BUT THEY FLASHED BLACK AND SOMETHING ELSE. MAYBE LIGHTNING. HER HAIR WAS SO BLACK IT SHONE ALMOST BLUE IN THE DARKENING SHADOWS. SHE WAS WEARING A SIMPLE SLEEVELESS COTTON DRESS, A RED FLORAL PRINT OVER CREAM. HER SKIN WAS SEVERAL SHADES DEEPER THAN THE CREAM BUT PROBABLY TEN TIMES CREAMIER. AS SHE SPOKE I WATCHED HER LIPS STRUGGLE OVER THE UNFAMILIAR, HARSH ENGLISH CONSONANT AND VOWEL FORMATIONS.
THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE: So what ees copywriter? (HER LIPS HAD PARTICULAR TROUBLE WITH THE LAST WORD, ALTERNATIVELY POUTING AND STRETCHING IN THAT OVER-EXPRESSIVE LATIN WAY.)
ME: Huh? Oh. Copywriters write ads. Technically, the text is called copy, hence copywriter.
THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE: I thought eet was sometheeng to do with protecting 'copyright'. My Engleesh ... (THE LIPS AGAIN - OVER THE WHITE TEETH)
ME (TAKING A SIP OF MY RED WINE, AN ARGENTINIAN SOMETHING OR OTHER): Huh - copyright. As if! There's almost no copyright in advertising. Everyone just steals everyone else's ideas. No, nothing to do with copyright. Although the confusion is perfectly understandable. And it's not your lack of English, I get that kind of thing at home all the time. People who don't work in advertising think copywriters are like patent attorneys or something.
THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE: (SHE SHIFTS HERSELF AND RE-SETTLES IN HER CHAIR AND THE SIMPLE DRESS SHIFTS WITH HER AND I KIND OF DON'T NOTICE WHAT SHE SAYS): So you write ideas for advertising, that ees it?
ME: Um, what? Oh, yes. Although it is sometimes very difficult to concentrate ...
LATER, THE BARBECUE IS SERVED. THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE EATS WITH GUSTO, WITHOUT INHIBITION OR PRETENCE. SHE HAS THE ASSURED SELF-CONFIDENCE THAT WOMEN OFTEN LACK WHEN EATING IN PUBLIC. OF COURSE, SHE IS PERFECTLY WELL-MANNERED, BUT HER SELF-ASSURANCE MEANS THAT ONE WOULD FORGIVE HER IF SHE WERE TO PICK UP A BONE IN HER BARE HANDS, LUSTILY CHEW THE MEAT OFF IT, AND THEN THROW IT INTO THE DARKENING SHRUBBERY AT THE EDGE OF OUR LITTLE OUTDOOR DINING ALCOVE. SHE DOESN'T, OF COURSE. HER RIGHT HAND GRASPS HER KNIFE, AND AS SHE CUTS HER STEAK, SHE SWAYS GENTLY.
I FORGET WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.
I WAS TOYING WITH A DRINK AND LUSTING AFTER THE DELICIOUS AROMA OF PRIME ARGENTINIAN BEEF ROASTING ON THE BARBECUE. SOME KIND OF BOSSA NOVA MUSIC DRIFTED OUT OF THE HOUSE AND CAME ON THE WARM BREEZE, LIKE SAND BEING SHAKEN IN A GLASS BOTTLE.
SHE WAS SITTING ON THE CHAIR OPPOSITE. HER EYES WERE PROBABLY DARK BROWN, BUT THEY FLASHED BLACK AND SOMETHING ELSE. MAYBE LIGHTNING. HER HAIR WAS SO BLACK IT SHONE ALMOST BLUE IN THE DARKENING SHADOWS. SHE WAS WEARING A SIMPLE SLEEVELESS COTTON DRESS, A RED FLORAL PRINT OVER CREAM. HER SKIN WAS SEVERAL SHADES DEEPER THAN THE CREAM BUT PROBABLY TEN TIMES CREAMIER. AS SHE SPOKE I WATCHED HER LIPS STRUGGLE OVER THE UNFAMILIAR, HARSH ENGLISH CONSONANT AND VOWEL FORMATIONS.
THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE: So what ees copywriter? (HER LIPS HAD PARTICULAR TROUBLE WITH THE LAST WORD, ALTERNATIVELY POUTING AND STRETCHING IN THAT OVER-EXPRESSIVE LATIN WAY.)
ME: Huh? Oh. Copywriters write ads. Technically, the text is called copy, hence copywriter.
THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE: I thought eet was sometheeng to do with protecting 'copyright'. My Engleesh ... (THE LIPS AGAIN - OVER THE WHITE TEETH)
ME (TAKING A SIP OF MY RED WINE, AN ARGENTINIAN SOMETHING OR OTHER): Huh - copyright. As if! There's almost no copyright in advertising. Everyone just steals everyone else's ideas. No, nothing to do with copyright. Although the confusion is perfectly understandable. And it's not your lack of English, I get that kind of thing at home all the time. People who don't work in advertising think copywriters are like patent attorneys or something.
THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE: (SHE SHIFTS HERSELF AND RE-SETTLES IN HER CHAIR AND THE SIMPLE DRESS SHIFTS WITH HER AND I KIND OF DON'T NOTICE WHAT SHE SAYS): So you write ideas for advertising, that ees it?
ME: Um, what? Oh, yes. Although it is sometimes very difficult to concentrate ...
LATER, THE BARBECUE IS SERVED. THE GIRL FROM SAN CARLOS DE BARILOCHE EATS WITH GUSTO, WITHOUT INHIBITION OR PRETENCE. SHE HAS THE ASSURED SELF-CONFIDENCE THAT WOMEN OFTEN LACK WHEN EATING IN PUBLIC. OF COURSE, SHE IS PERFECTLY WELL-MANNERED, BUT HER SELF-ASSURANCE MEANS THAT ONE WOULD FORGIVE HER IF SHE WERE TO PICK UP A BONE IN HER BARE HANDS, LUSTILY CHEW THE MEAT OFF IT, AND THEN THROW IT INTO THE DARKENING SHRUBBERY AT THE EDGE OF OUR LITTLE OUTDOOR DINING ALCOVE. SHE DOESN'T, OF COURSE. HER RIGHT HAND GRASPS HER KNIFE, AND AS SHE CUTS HER STEAK, SHE SWAYS GENTLY.
I FORGET WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.
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