It was time. After months of moaning about this country’s lack of non-liquefied vegetables, whole grains, beans, spices … I’ve given in. Given up, rather. I’ve acquiesced to milanesas and white toast and gravy. To trans fats and canned corn. To everything I have ever stood for, really.
The site of my resignation was an un-notable café on Montevideo, a TV flickering in the corner and a single framed print on the buttery wall. My comrades? A pretty homogeneous bunch — each one a white male between 40 and 65, suit jacket neatly draped at his side, cell phone within spitting distance, annual earnings and fixed-term loans and short-term goals etched into his face.
Having encountered one too many freeze-dried spinach raviolis, I ordered the “pollo al curry,” curried chicken, knowing full well it wouldn’t be curried. Sure enough, the imposing white flesh was bathed in what could only be described as brown gravy, and Colonel Sanders himself could have dished up the puré de papas nestled alongside. But it was soothing, warm, well salted, easy on the stomach, everything one might say about surprisingly good hospital food. Better than most, for sure. Because boy oh boy, have I experienced “most.”
Just the day before, having dreamed of vegetables, I had embarked on a pursuit of a simple salad, my zeal that of a Spanish conquistador. My gold was anything green and can-free. My nemesis: mayonnaise. Yet my fortune, like those of the Gallegos, fell at the first sign of success, at the false friend that was an attractive-looking salad glistening in the case.
Half a bite in, I knew it was a mistake, a land not worth conquering. The colors were nothing more than an illusion. The broccoli, that succulent apparition of my dreams, water-logged and bitter. The lettuce unpleasantly reminiscent of weeds that grow in medians. The beets, those fantastic pink pickles I have happily massacred over a salad or two, were deprived of their bite, obscured by the ever-evil mayonnaise. Enough.
Such is how I found myself at the Café and Restaurant Valentina, marveling at the quantity of “salads” it took me to internalize a simple fact: In Argentina, the browner, the blander, the better.
My new doctrine in mind, I tentatively stepped into a kiosko. Anxious to fortify my ever-weakening bones, I perused the yogurt. The drinkable variety is relatively popular here, as people slowly awaken to the hunchbacked hordes around them. Tired of strawberry kiwi, I unearthed a new flavor hiding at the back. Just in for winter, Banana Dulce de Leche beckoned me with its outright grotesqueness. I couldn’t imagine why or how the combination would be appealing, but some inner force propelled me forward. Like the conquistador finally resigning to the ways of the natives, I passed over 2 pesos and slowly tore off the lid.
And?
It was delicious.
16 June 2007
07 June 2007
From Helsinki to Hello
“No hablo ingles,” I insisted, pounding his beer on the table.
It gave a nice emphasis, I thought, proud of my newly declared Finnish nationality. Snatching back the bottle, the doe-eyed 18-year-old slurped up the foam and gave in to my tale, anxious to move discussion toward which his friends I found the most guapo. Lavishly rolling my r’s and excessively injecting my speech with the local “uh” — “qué sé yo,” or “what do I know” — I barreled on with my lies, victorious.
For in this land of “English speakers” desperate to take their book smarts out for a spin, each moment of Spanish conversation, vapid or not, is a success. Their guttural twist on the language of the north had become irritating quickly, especially when all I wanted was to practice the local tongue. Hence, my newfound propensity for untruths. Slowly but surely, I had learned the power of a simple lie — or dos or tres — to transform legions of bar patrons into private tutors. It seemed like a brilliant plan.
“You speak English; I know you do,” said the quiet, curly-haired one on my left. “I’ve heard you.”
“¿Dónde?” I scoffed, ready to take down any argument that obstructed my perfectly crafted “No English Allowed” zone.
“In the bus, like two months ago. You asked my friend and I if the 59 goes down Las Heras,” he retorted. And like that, I flashed back to the me of a different era, a spineless creature who regressed to native linguistic terrain at any Argentine’s prompting. A pathetic being that didn’t even know the route of the 59, the bus that passes my door. A wimp that wouldn’t dare talk back to the haughty college freshman who announced my American-ness to the crowd, declaring that it was “stamped on my forehead.”
At the time, his proclamation irritated me, as evidenced by its inclusion in a previous tale of my Argentine woes. Yet never did I think it would come back to haunt me eight weeks later, just when I’d finally wizened to the ways of an English-obsessed land.
Yet return it did — a serendipitous reunion at a varnished picnic table amid hundreds of pubescent Argentines. But this time, I was not going to let them win. “How dare your boludo of a friend make such unfounded declarations? Didn’t his dad ever tell him what happens when you assume?”
Stumped on the translation of the “ass out of you and me” part, I stopped. I began to ponder exactly how obvious my nationality is in this country of tall, dark, and handsomes.
Obviously, it’s, well, pretty obvious. Enough so, at least, for some guy to remember my ponytail for two months just to use it against me, when I was least expecting it. When all I wanted was a little “out of the classroom” learning.
It looks like my education will go bar-less from now on. In fact, I think it’s time to give up on the cultural disguises completely. It’s time to declare “I’m proud to be a (North) American.” Out come the eagle-emblazoned sweatshirts; the red, white and blue bandannas. The pink Gap t-shirt; the Iowa Hawkeye baseball cap. From now on, I’m going to let it all hang out.
It gave a nice emphasis, I thought, proud of my newly declared Finnish nationality. Snatching back the bottle, the doe-eyed 18-year-old slurped up the foam and gave in to my tale, anxious to move discussion toward which his friends I found the most guapo. Lavishly rolling my r’s and excessively injecting my speech with the local “uh” — “qué sé yo,” or “what do I know” — I barreled on with my lies, victorious.
For in this land of “English speakers” desperate to take their book smarts out for a spin, each moment of Spanish conversation, vapid or not, is a success. Their guttural twist on the language of the north had become irritating quickly, especially when all I wanted was to practice the local tongue. Hence, my newfound propensity for untruths. Slowly but surely, I had learned the power of a simple lie — or dos or tres — to transform legions of bar patrons into private tutors. It seemed like a brilliant plan.
“You speak English; I know you do,” said the quiet, curly-haired one on my left. “I’ve heard you.”
“¿Dónde?” I scoffed, ready to take down any argument that obstructed my perfectly crafted “No English Allowed” zone.
“In the bus, like two months ago. You asked my friend and I if the 59 goes down Las Heras,” he retorted. And like that, I flashed back to the me of a different era, a spineless creature who regressed to native linguistic terrain at any Argentine’s prompting. A pathetic being that didn’t even know the route of the 59, the bus that passes my door. A wimp that wouldn’t dare talk back to the haughty college freshman who announced my American-ness to the crowd, declaring that it was “stamped on my forehead.”
At the time, his proclamation irritated me, as evidenced by its inclusion in a previous tale of my Argentine woes. Yet never did I think it would come back to haunt me eight weeks later, just when I’d finally wizened to the ways of an English-obsessed land.
Yet return it did — a serendipitous reunion at a varnished picnic table amid hundreds of pubescent Argentines. But this time, I was not going to let them win. “How dare your boludo of a friend make such unfounded declarations? Didn’t his dad ever tell him what happens when you assume?”
Stumped on the translation of the “ass out of you and me” part, I stopped. I began to ponder exactly how obvious my nationality is in this country of tall, dark, and handsomes.
Obviously, it’s, well, pretty obvious. Enough so, at least, for some guy to remember my ponytail for two months just to use it against me, when I was least expecting it. When all I wanted was a little “out of the classroom” learning.
It looks like my education will go bar-less from now on. In fact, I think it’s time to give up on the cultural disguises completely. It’s time to declare “I’m proud to be a (North) American.” Out come the eagle-emblazoned sweatshirts; the red, white and blue bandannas. The pink Gap t-shirt; the Iowa Hawkeye baseball cap. From now on, I’m going to let it all hang out.
04 June 2007
On Culture, Class, and a non-Climactic display of fur
This week I went to an opera. Not only that, I stayed through all four hours. But the best is still to come, for the ultimate truth is, I enjoyed it. Yes. Not a teeth-clinched, “That was fun, wasn’t it?” high-pitched false enjoyment, or an introspective, think-about-how-much-we-learned enjoyment, but an authentic one. I have done what no 20-year-old has done before.
I mean, in what other supposedly stuffy art form do women don britches to portray homoerotic kings playing with swords and weeping in the moonlight? Or give ladies of the court badonkadonks that would put MTV Spring Break to shame?
And besides, the duet that closed the second act was unreal. Achingly, horrifyingly sad, for a few moments it transcended the sheer ridiculousness of the entire endeavor. The audience was captivated, holding back even their persistent coughing fits. Well, until a cell phone in the fifth row shattered the ambiance. Twice.
Even Argentine opera-goers fall from grace, apparently.
But though the entire experience clearly thrilled me, I had a few complaints. First and foremost, where was the fur? Sitting on the bus the afternoon of the show, I marveled at the veritable jungle surrounding me. Be it striped, spotted, speckled, or streaked, nearly every female over the age of 12 was enveloped in animal. Aroused from their summer hibernation, they had been prowling the streets all week, ever since the temperatures plunged toward zero. Off they went to the pharmacy, the grocery store, the gym … in this country, the creatures could be seen anywhere. Yet the one place I expected to see flocks of them in abundance, I counted exactly one. Uno.
The explanation lies in cheapness, a concept that would bristle many a porteño. For I had ended up at the rehearsal show, a terrain reserved to students, friends of the stars, and, clearly, everyone avoiding spectacle in a city addicted to flaunting its societal status though plastic surgery and family crests. For, while the avenidas echo Paris and opulent tea settings say Buckingham Palace, nothing in Buenos Aires defines Argentina’s focus on the Continent more than the Teatro Colón. The ornately carved Grecian temple flanking Nuevo de Julio declares to the world that Buenos Aires, too, is a great European city. It may not be in Europe, but that’s totally beside the point.
Now approaching its centennial, the gem of Buenos Aires holds within its walls many of a story reflective of the country's complex relations between politics, culture, and class. Within its walls, which are now closed for renovation, Evita sparked a mass protest of the city’s moneyed, anti-Peronist elite. The presence of the glamorous radio star waving from the president’s balcony was too much for many attendees, who felt passionately that the opera was no place for those born into families without an estancia, or at least a few trust funds. So, as the story goes, the haughty porteñas defied her en masse, sending their maids in place of themselves. The furs got an evening off, and they got their message across in a way that promoted a mature, sensitive dialogue.
My own opera experience was slightly less controversial, in a theater a few blocks from the legendary Colón. But luckily, I can squint as I walk down the street, and the looming buildings transform into gold-trimmed balconies, the cacophony of brakes and candied peanut-sellers form a symphony, and the fur all around me transports me to the opera — with appropriately dressed clientèle.
I mean, in what other supposedly stuffy art form do women don britches to portray homoerotic kings playing with swords and weeping in the moonlight? Or give ladies of the court badonkadonks that would put MTV Spring Break to shame?
And besides, the duet that closed the second act was unreal. Achingly, horrifyingly sad, for a few moments it transcended the sheer ridiculousness of the entire endeavor. The audience was captivated, holding back even their persistent coughing fits. Well, until a cell phone in the fifth row shattered the ambiance. Twice.
Even Argentine opera-goers fall from grace, apparently.
But though the entire experience clearly thrilled me, I had a few complaints. First and foremost, where was the fur? Sitting on the bus the afternoon of the show, I marveled at the veritable jungle surrounding me. Be it striped, spotted, speckled, or streaked, nearly every female over the age of 12 was enveloped in animal. Aroused from their summer hibernation, they had been prowling the streets all week, ever since the temperatures plunged toward zero. Off they went to the pharmacy, the grocery store, the gym … in this country, the creatures could be seen anywhere. Yet the one place I expected to see flocks of them in abundance, I counted exactly one. Uno.
The explanation lies in cheapness, a concept that would bristle many a porteño. For I had ended up at the rehearsal show, a terrain reserved to students, friends of the stars, and, clearly, everyone avoiding spectacle in a city addicted to flaunting its societal status though plastic surgery and family crests. For, while the avenidas echo Paris and opulent tea settings say Buckingham Palace, nothing in Buenos Aires defines Argentina’s focus on the Continent more than the Teatro Colón. The ornately carved Grecian temple flanking Nuevo de Julio declares to the world that Buenos Aires, too, is a great European city. It may not be in Europe, but that’s totally beside the point.
Now approaching its centennial, the gem of Buenos Aires holds within its walls many of a story reflective of the country's complex relations between politics, culture, and class. Within its walls, which are now closed for renovation, Evita sparked a mass protest of the city’s moneyed, anti-Peronist elite. The presence of the glamorous radio star waving from the president’s balcony was too much for many attendees, who felt passionately that the opera was no place for those born into families without an estancia, or at least a few trust funds. So, as the story goes, the haughty porteñas defied her en masse, sending their maids in place of themselves. The furs got an evening off, and they got their message across in a way that promoted a mature, sensitive dialogue.
My own opera experience was slightly less controversial, in a theater a few blocks from the legendary Colón. But luckily, I can squint as I walk down the street, and the looming buildings transform into gold-trimmed balconies, the cacophony of brakes and candied peanut-sellers form a symphony, and the fur all around me transports me to the opera — with appropriately dressed clientèle.
La Farmacía
Armed with cowboy boots, a cough worthy of tuberculosis, a load of self-pity, and half a llama on my back, I walked into the pharmacy. I pretended to browse casually, but the meager selection of dandruff shampoo and baby bottles couldn’t sustain me for long, so I approached the counter. Immediately, half a dozen pharmacists were staring me down, ready to help in any way possible.
A toz? I uttered weakly, my language skills inhibited by the cold outside, my cold within, and the irritatingly warm response from the Argentines. I watched in wonder as the petite Asian woman shuffled through a selection of white boxes before settling on two.
Where are you from? she asked, as the clan of lab-coated staff behind her all turned to watch. Upon learning my stately heritage, she nudged the bigger of the boxes forward, a gesture as if to say that since I’m American, I could obviously handle this one. Argentine jarabes don’t strike a lot of brand loyalty in me, so I half-shrugged and accepted it. It was, after all, my only option in this land of customized pharmaceutical advice. In Argentina, such matters are left to the professionals.
That settled, she scuttled behind the counter, emerging with a wide tan felt collar. “It’s a gift,” she said, thrusting it toward me. I looked at her questioningly, disrupted from gazing at the stunningly gorgeous young pharmacist in the back. “Put it on,” she encouraged, so I swept it over my still-wet hair and fumbled with its adjustment around my neck. “No, no,” she reprimanded, before zipping around the counter to tuck it into my sweater, turtleneck-style. “You must bundle up,” she said, not satisfied until my neck was fully swathed.
As I shuffled my selection down to the cashier and paid, the whole medical team shook their heads, clucking to themselves about those silly Americans, leaving the house without a felt collar. It was all strikingly similar to Graciela’s constant daily warnings. How dare I go bare-footed as I lit the stove? Everyone knows that colds and flus run rampant on cold kitchen floors, just waiting to bore into some unsuspecting, unprepared foreigner. For weeks, I laughed off her advice as mere folklore. Yet when the cough crept into me late at night, folding me in half with hacking, I considered believing. Now, llama-fied, my neck tightly clothed, cough syrup still clinging to my throat, I admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s truth in folklore.
A toz? I uttered weakly, my language skills inhibited by the cold outside, my cold within, and the irritatingly warm response from the Argentines. I watched in wonder as the petite Asian woman shuffled through a selection of white boxes before settling on two.
Where are you from? she asked, as the clan of lab-coated staff behind her all turned to watch. Upon learning my stately heritage, she nudged the bigger of the boxes forward, a gesture as if to say that since I’m American, I could obviously handle this one. Argentine jarabes don’t strike a lot of brand loyalty in me, so I half-shrugged and accepted it. It was, after all, my only option in this land of customized pharmaceutical advice. In Argentina, such matters are left to the professionals.
That settled, she scuttled behind the counter, emerging with a wide tan felt collar. “It’s a gift,” she said, thrusting it toward me. I looked at her questioningly, disrupted from gazing at the stunningly gorgeous young pharmacist in the back. “Put it on,” she encouraged, so I swept it over my still-wet hair and fumbled with its adjustment around my neck. “No, no,” she reprimanded, before zipping around the counter to tuck it into my sweater, turtleneck-style. “You must bundle up,” she said, not satisfied until my neck was fully swathed.
As I shuffled my selection down to the cashier and paid, the whole medical team shook their heads, clucking to themselves about those silly Americans, leaving the house without a felt collar. It was all strikingly similar to Graciela’s constant daily warnings. How dare I go bare-footed as I lit the stove? Everyone knows that colds and flus run rampant on cold kitchen floors, just waiting to bore into some unsuspecting, unprepared foreigner. For weeks, I laughed off her advice as mere folklore. Yet when the cough crept into me late at night, folding me in half with hacking, I considered believing. Now, llama-fied, my neck tightly clothed, cough syrup still clinging to my throat, I admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s truth in folklore.
¡Vamos al campo!
You see, en realidad, there are two types of asado. You can put it all on the grill, Ramiro explained, nearly tipping over his café as he swept his arms open wide, his imaginary grill big enough to hold a half-dozen pampa-fed steers. Or you can stretch it over a fire, slowly intoxicating the splayed cow with the smoke, added the man ahead of us in line.
And like that, the two Argentines spiraled into a dizzyingly carnivorous conversation for a Saturday morning at the gas station. United incidentally, the countrymen regaled each other with tales of memorable parrillas and that one perfect intestine, grilled to perfection. And sure enough, even before the coffee was paid for, the never-exhausted topic of empanadas had been breached.
We were kilometers away from a kiosk, basking in the open pampa, yet one thing was no different from being trapped inside city walls — the glorification of all things meat. The official purpose of our journey was to venerate the patron saint of Argentina, the Virgin of Luján, but per usual, a large percentage of the venerating went towards products of blood and bone.
To be fair, it did consume a lot of energy listening to our overly excitable tour guide, transforming his 12 years of English language education into tangible evidence of the hazards of an Argentine accent imposed onto, well anything other than Argentine Spanish. His use of the word “moreover” was exemplary, though, and he proved quite adept at stripping the Virgin of her blue cloak, revealing her scandalous under-cloak. Horrifyingly blasphemous, to be sure, but it made for fine entertainment. Yet the high point of the tour came when he whipped out his sleek camera phone and began snapping away, our slightly confused American smiles captured forever.
But Ramiro, our exchange program employee assigned to shepherd us on our cultural journey, could care less about the church and its endless stalls of rosaries and candy apples, for the essence of parrilla was in the air. And deftly, it weaved its way into our hearts. Settling into a table basking in the fall sun, we contemplated our hunger. That whole body and blood of Christ thing, while it nurtured our souls, didn’t quell that vast emptiness that only beef innards can satiate. The beaming waiter regaled us with stories of his “friend” in California, a once-tourist who had mailed photos of the two men grinning amid a cloud of meat smoke, the envelope addressed to the “restaurant on the terrace by the river” in Luján. Clearly, we weren’t in Buenos Aires anymore.
Out came the empanadas, out come the bread, and, with a shake and a flourish, out came the chimichurri. The latter, a vinaigrette-esque sauce with tomatoes, peppers, onions, and spices, is traditionally Argentine. Because, although spices are strictly prohibited in the majority of dishes, some culinary idiosyncrasy upholds their use in the creation of chimichurri. So we drank up the offerings, still radiating from the Virgin’s healing presence, and savored the slight sensation of heat on the tongue. Then, they arrived.
“They” being the spitting, splattering parrillas, thumped onto the table as if to taunt us. And as such began the battle of our lives. The more we ate, the louder the grills sizzled, the intestines and kidneys and who knows what else talking back to us, bemoaning our incompetent stomachs. There were steaks and ribs and chickens and sausages and steak stuffed with oregano, but there all familiar territory ended. We were to eat first and ask later, Ramiro instructed us, advice both smart and frightening.
Some hours and a few flans later, our hair drenched in smoke and our bodies coated with a film of grease, we shakily stood up. We had survived. Waving our waiter adios, we rolled back toward the plaza in slightly painful, semi-euphoric states. After all, the Virgin was smiling down on us.
And a good thing, too — who knows what might have happened if we'd attempted that feat on our own.
And like that, the two Argentines spiraled into a dizzyingly carnivorous conversation for a Saturday morning at the gas station. United incidentally, the countrymen regaled each other with tales of memorable parrillas and that one perfect intestine, grilled to perfection. And sure enough, even before the coffee was paid for, the never-exhausted topic of empanadas had been breached.
We were kilometers away from a kiosk, basking in the open pampa, yet one thing was no different from being trapped inside city walls — the glorification of all things meat. The official purpose of our journey was to venerate the patron saint of Argentina, the Virgin of Luján, but per usual, a large percentage of the venerating went towards products of blood and bone.
To be fair, it did consume a lot of energy listening to our overly excitable tour guide, transforming his 12 years of English language education into tangible evidence of the hazards of an Argentine accent imposed onto, well anything other than Argentine Spanish. His use of the word “moreover” was exemplary, though, and he proved quite adept at stripping the Virgin of her blue cloak, revealing her scandalous under-cloak. Horrifyingly blasphemous, to be sure, but it made for fine entertainment. Yet the high point of the tour came when he whipped out his sleek camera phone and began snapping away, our slightly confused American smiles captured forever.
But Ramiro, our exchange program employee assigned to shepherd us on our cultural journey, could care less about the church and its endless stalls of rosaries and candy apples, for the essence of parrilla was in the air. And deftly, it weaved its way into our hearts. Settling into a table basking in the fall sun, we contemplated our hunger. That whole body and blood of Christ thing, while it nurtured our souls, didn’t quell that vast emptiness that only beef innards can satiate. The beaming waiter regaled us with stories of his “friend” in California, a once-tourist who had mailed photos of the two men grinning amid a cloud of meat smoke, the envelope addressed to the “restaurant on the terrace by the river” in Luján. Clearly, we weren’t in Buenos Aires anymore.
Out came the empanadas, out come the bread, and, with a shake and a flourish, out came the chimichurri. The latter, a vinaigrette-esque sauce with tomatoes, peppers, onions, and spices, is traditionally Argentine. Because, although spices are strictly prohibited in the majority of dishes, some culinary idiosyncrasy upholds their use in the creation of chimichurri. So we drank up the offerings, still radiating from the Virgin’s healing presence, and savored the slight sensation of heat on the tongue. Then, they arrived.
“They” being the spitting, splattering parrillas, thumped onto the table as if to taunt us. And as such began the battle of our lives. The more we ate, the louder the grills sizzled, the intestines and kidneys and who knows what else talking back to us, bemoaning our incompetent stomachs. There were steaks and ribs and chickens and sausages and steak stuffed with oregano, but there all familiar territory ended. We were to eat first and ask later, Ramiro instructed us, advice both smart and frightening.
Some hours and a few flans later, our hair drenched in smoke and our bodies coated with a film of grease, we shakily stood up. We had survived. Waving our waiter adios, we rolled back toward the plaza in slightly painful, semi-euphoric states. After all, the Virgin was smiling down on us.
And a good thing, too — who knows what might have happened if we'd attempted that feat on our own.
Tango a Go-Go
So I was at Kentucky Pizza, across from Plaza Italia. The nearest streets were Santa Fe and Thames, and it was just a few blocks to Armenia. I ordered a slice of Napolitana, the local excuse to douse a thick crust pizza in cheese and oregano. Just a few blocks away, Palermo Hollywood pulsated with its European discos and sushi bars.
Oh, Argentina and its stew of cultures all wrapped up into one big empanada.
The names of my surroundings may have spanned the globe, but the foamy mug of Quilmes before me was undeniably Argentine — like the raucous crowd in the late-night pizza joint, its walls triumphantly plastered with Argentine flags. And as such, it was the perfect prelude to my first milonga, or tango hall.
We walked past it the first time, not realizing that a neighborhood cultural center housed one of Buenos Aires’ infamous tango institutions. Only after consulting the address did we step through the door, where a hostess ushered us downstairs. A large dance floor dominated the big dimly lit basement, and tables jostled for positions close to the action. If it weren’t for the accordions wailing over the sound system, I would have sworn I had stepped into a roller rink. One that serves $7 bottles of wine, mind you.
The revelers downing vino were having a good time, whether staring deep into each other’s eyes or exploding into laughter, but on the dance floor, it was serious business. Cheek to cheek, the tangueros seduced the dance floor, their steps deliberate yet fiery. Red dresses fluttered. The steps were complicated and perfectly timed, dramatic and seductively close. Violins wailed; hearts broke; accordions bemoaned the losses. And then Shakira struck.
My friend and I looked at each other in disgust and wonder as the dance floor transitioned from the poignant romance of a bygone era to a grind that very much said today. Lights flashed, hips shook, and all semblance of milonga-ness evaporated. So it went for a good hour or so, as the musical selection slid from weird to weirder. At one point Elvis Presley had the entire place kicking up their heels.
And then, just when we’d had enough, the unmistakable first wails of a tango echoed in the atrium. The disco lights subsided, the pace slowed, and Argentina became Argentina again.
We were back to the Argentina of postcards and guidebooks.
Oh, Argentina and its stew of cultures all wrapped up into one big empanada.
The names of my surroundings may have spanned the globe, but the foamy mug of Quilmes before me was undeniably Argentine — like the raucous crowd in the late-night pizza joint, its walls triumphantly plastered with Argentine flags. And as such, it was the perfect prelude to my first milonga, or tango hall.
We walked past it the first time, not realizing that a neighborhood cultural center housed one of Buenos Aires’ infamous tango institutions. Only after consulting the address did we step through the door, where a hostess ushered us downstairs. A large dance floor dominated the big dimly lit basement, and tables jostled for positions close to the action. If it weren’t for the accordions wailing over the sound system, I would have sworn I had stepped into a roller rink. One that serves $7 bottles of wine, mind you.
The revelers downing vino were having a good time, whether staring deep into each other’s eyes or exploding into laughter, but on the dance floor, it was serious business. Cheek to cheek, the tangueros seduced the dance floor, their steps deliberate yet fiery. Red dresses fluttered. The steps were complicated and perfectly timed, dramatic and seductively close. Violins wailed; hearts broke; accordions bemoaned the losses. And then Shakira struck.
My friend and I looked at each other in disgust and wonder as the dance floor transitioned from the poignant romance of a bygone era to a grind that very much said today. Lights flashed, hips shook, and all semblance of milonga-ness evaporated. So it went for a good hour or so, as the musical selection slid from weird to weirder. At one point Elvis Presley had the entire place kicking up their heels.
And then, just when we’d had enough, the unmistakable first wails of a tango echoed in the atrium. The disco lights subsided, the pace slowed, and Argentina became Argentina again.
We were back to the Argentina of postcards and guidebooks.
Nine Levels Down
“I’ve never been to a pool hall where they seat you,” I noted, marveling at the courtesy endemic to this country. The waiter shuffled tables together, lifted chairs and pulled them out for us. Did we want Quilmes, Quilmes or Quilmes? Within moments, all hard decisions behind us, liters of the national beer appeared before us, served up with plastic cups and an ashtray.
Finally — finally — I had arrived in Argentina.
Maybe it was the cumbia that sizzled between the pool tables, their hips telling no lies, or the couple pressed against the wall, oblivious to anything outside their single plastic chair. It could have been the muscle-bound guy casually pulling up his sleeves to display the thorns and serpents encircling his biceps. Or perhaps the mulleted fellow behind him, blatantly taking photos of certain American patrons with his cell phone camera.
Whatever the defining factor, this was clearly no tourist joint. No, Argentines frequent this grimy, hazy rincón when they’re looking for good, clean fun (provided their idea of “clean” has nothing to do with bathroom sanitation and/or well-scrubbed walls). There wasn’t an English speaker in sight, a rarity given the Argentine obsession with the lengua franca.
Like most evenings, it started innocently enough; this time, with a bottle of cider at a corner café. Entertainment proved in abundance, from the Argentine variety show flouncing across the TV to our perpetually confused waiter flustering over our requests. We declared that our only goal was to inhabit a true local hangout; no European expats or Midwestern college students allowed.
Some blocks into our quest, this marvel of conjugation came my way: “I am beautiful your eyes.” Startled, grammatically confused, yet nonetheless flattered, I acknowledged the benevolent Argentine, my entire being melting into a blue puddle on the sidewalk.
Still riding on that epic compliment, I looked up to see what had the potential to be our final destination. We were standing outside La Puerta del Infierno, where the jukebox blared AC/DC and a diabolical cloud of smoke bellowed out onto the street. Inside this dastardly domain, billiards was an art of triumph and seduction, bad hair was not a choice but a requirement, and toilet paper surfaced only if you packed it yourself. The pits of hell had never been so appealing.
For a while, we had the table to ourselves, and we pretended to fit in. We’re just like you guys, we thought. We drink our Quilmes in plastic cups, we argue about horse racing, we know how to speak the español. Yeah, right.
In reality, we were Exhibit Norteamericanus, hailing from Chicago and New York (how you say Iowa and North Dakota in Spanish), and as such, the object of much wonderment and ridicule. What are you doing here, their sidelong glances seemed to say. And, “Why did you come here?” their spoken inquiries most definitely did say. So we gave up on the whole “fitting in” thing. Like a man told me on the bus the other day, my American-ness is so obvious, “It’s like it’s written on my forehead.”
Foreheads tattooed, we spent the rest of the night speaking bad Spanish and guarding our eight digits as if they were all the Quilmes in the world. But our reputation spread fast, and before long the bartender was joking that the litres cost $15 pesos, a whopping three times the regular price, given our exclusive nationality. He didn’t act on his jest, though, and we emerged from our favorite little corner of hell monetarily unscathed. We may not have blended in as seamlessly as we’d hoped, but such is life as a blonde in South America.
But it turns out that being escorted to a table in a pool hall is the equivalent of valet parking at a Kum ‘N Go. Next time, I’ll plop myself down without a second thought.
Finally — finally — I had arrived in Argentina.
Maybe it was the cumbia that sizzled between the pool tables, their hips telling no lies, or the couple pressed against the wall, oblivious to anything outside their single plastic chair. It could have been the muscle-bound guy casually pulling up his sleeves to display the thorns and serpents encircling his biceps. Or perhaps the mulleted fellow behind him, blatantly taking photos of certain American patrons with his cell phone camera.
Whatever the defining factor, this was clearly no tourist joint. No, Argentines frequent this grimy, hazy rincón when they’re looking for good, clean fun (provided their idea of “clean” has nothing to do with bathroom sanitation and/or well-scrubbed walls). There wasn’t an English speaker in sight, a rarity given the Argentine obsession with the lengua franca.
Like most evenings, it started innocently enough; this time, with a bottle of cider at a corner café. Entertainment proved in abundance, from the Argentine variety show flouncing across the TV to our perpetually confused waiter flustering over our requests. We declared that our only goal was to inhabit a true local hangout; no European expats or Midwestern college students allowed.
Some blocks into our quest, this marvel of conjugation came my way: “I am beautiful your eyes.” Startled, grammatically confused, yet nonetheless flattered, I acknowledged the benevolent Argentine, my entire being melting into a blue puddle on the sidewalk.
Still riding on that epic compliment, I looked up to see what had the potential to be our final destination. We were standing outside La Puerta del Infierno, where the jukebox blared AC/DC and a diabolical cloud of smoke bellowed out onto the street. Inside this dastardly domain, billiards was an art of triumph and seduction, bad hair was not a choice but a requirement, and toilet paper surfaced only if you packed it yourself. The pits of hell had never been so appealing.
For a while, we had the table to ourselves, and we pretended to fit in. We’re just like you guys, we thought. We drink our Quilmes in plastic cups, we argue about horse racing, we know how to speak the español. Yeah, right.
In reality, we were Exhibit Norteamericanus, hailing from Chicago and New York (how you say Iowa and North Dakota in Spanish), and as such, the object of much wonderment and ridicule. What are you doing here, their sidelong glances seemed to say. And, “Why did you come here?” their spoken inquiries most definitely did say. So we gave up on the whole “fitting in” thing. Like a man told me on the bus the other day, my American-ness is so obvious, “It’s like it’s written on my forehead.”
Foreheads tattooed, we spent the rest of the night speaking bad Spanish and guarding our eight digits as if they were all the Quilmes in the world. But our reputation spread fast, and before long the bartender was joking that the litres cost $15 pesos, a whopping three times the regular price, given our exclusive nationality. He didn’t act on his jest, though, and we emerged from our favorite little corner of hell monetarily unscathed. We may not have blended in as seamlessly as we’d hoped, but such is life as a blonde in South America.
But it turns out that being escorted to a table in a pool hall is the equivalent of valet parking at a Kum ‘N Go. Next time, I’ll plop myself down without a second thought.
17 April 2007
Chao, Turista
You know it’s a bad day when a needle is plunged into your arm and you think, "At last, today´s starting to look up."
It was a real Monday of a Monday, this one. I’m talking queues at the migration office, queues at the free clinic, ceaseless construction outside my bedroom window, and pollution so thick I could grab it.
I guess I should have prepared myself. I should have warned my little spoiled wimp of a self that the real world is dirty, ugly, and toilet paper-less. Yet I took no precautionary measures, and as such, I walked toward my 8:30 a.m. appointment at the Dirección Nacional de Migraciones brimming with optimism (yet not prepared to step into the outhouses they call baños). “It won’t take too long,” I thought. “It’s just paperwork, right?”
Some three and half hours later, my faith in a little thing called “South American time” renewed, I left the bureaucracy behind, my certificate of residence — my residencia precaria — clutched under my arm. My status officially transformed in the eyes of the law, I drank in the heavy gray air. Suddenly, I was seeing things that hadn’t caught my eye before — an overweight Argentine (with bad hair, no less); a plastic bottle caught in the putrid muck of the river; a current of lemmings marching into an IBM skyscraper.
I’d been in this physical location before, several times. Yet never had I seen the grimy underbelly that jolted me now. Bienvenidos a tu residencia precaria, I told myself, stepping over a dead pigeon.
So maybe I had held an excessively positive view of Buenos Aires. It’s possible a few perfect empanadas and dirt-cheap liters of Heineken made the real dirt less obvious. That the model-esque residents distracted me from the ordinary folk lurking behind them. It’s even likely that the pink blossoms littering the plazas so enchanted me, I simply couldn´t acknowledge the very-real litter at my feet.
Yet now, the once-pink flowers are dark mauve, their blossoms a pulpy mess staining the sidewalks. The trees are turning brown, their leaves occasionally hitting me mid-stride, jolting me anew of the early-April autumn underway. On this Monday, though, there was only an industrial mix of fog and smog. My eyebrows set in a vicious glare, I traversed Avenida Antártida, a main thoroughfare between the city´s main bus station and the rest of the country.
Flanked by the dismal outlying docks of the Río de la Plata and towering, soulless office buildings, it is perhaps the most hideous street in Buenos Aires. It also happened to be the direct route between where I was and where I had to go. So I walked down its muddy path, pretending to ignore the city sanitation crews’ whistles. No longer was I the naïve American, flattered by their attention. No longer was I even the tolerant American, acknowledging their ¨compliments¨ with a turn of the head. No, with my new official status, I had suddenly adopted the flippant nonchalance of the Argentine muchachas.
Eventually, I ended up at the cramped, one-room office of the Sanidad de Fronteras, the official site for yellow fever vaccinations — a must for anyone planning a trip to Bolivia. “Po-ay?” called the man, summoning me into the cubicle of an examining room. Thirty seconds later, I was clutching a wad of cotton to my arm and passing through the exit. There were no forms to fill out, no questions to answer. I didn’t present any insurance, nor did I pay a centavo.
Such are the benefits endowed upon those with residence in Argentina. Back again on Antártida, something akin to happiness hit me. The kind of happiness that seeps through humidity and exhaust. A tranquility thicker than the ugliness surrounding me. For, at long last, I officially belonged.
I have the paper to prove it.
It was a real Monday of a Monday, this one. I’m talking queues at the migration office, queues at the free clinic, ceaseless construction outside my bedroom window, and pollution so thick I could grab it.
I guess I should have prepared myself. I should have warned my little spoiled wimp of a self that the real world is dirty, ugly, and toilet paper-less. Yet I took no precautionary measures, and as such, I walked toward my 8:30 a.m. appointment at the Dirección Nacional de Migraciones brimming with optimism (yet not prepared to step into the outhouses they call baños). “It won’t take too long,” I thought. “It’s just paperwork, right?”
Some three and half hours later, my faith in a little thing called “South American time” renewed, I left the bureaucracy behind, my certificate of residence — my residencia precaria — clutched under my arm. My status officially transformed in the eyes of the law, I drank in the heavy gray air. Suddenly, I was seeing things that hadn’t caught my eye before — an overweight Argentine (with bad hair, no less); a plastic bottle caught in the putrid muck of the river; a current of lemmings marching into an IBM skyscraper.
I’d been in this physical location before, several times. Yet never had I seen the grimy underbelly that jolted me now. Bienvenidos a tu residencia precaria, I told myself, stepping over a dead pigeon.
So maybe I had held an excessively positive view of Buenos Aires. It’s possible a few perfect empanadas and dirt-cheap liters of Heineken made the real dirt less obvious. That the model-esque residents distracted me from the ordinary folk lurking behind them. It’s even likely that the pink blossoms littering the plazas so enchanted me, I simply couldn´t acknowledge the very-real litter at my feet.
Yet now, the once-pink flowers are dark mauve, their blossoms a pulpy mess staining the sidewalks. The trees are turning brown, their leaves occasionally hitting me mid-stride, jolting me anew of the early-April autumn underway. On this Monday, though, there was only an industrial mix of fog and smog. My eyebrows set in a vicious glare, I traversed Avenida Antártida, a main thoroughfare between the city´s main bus station and the rest of the country.
Flanked by the dismal outlying docks of the Río de la Plata and towering, soulless office buildings, it is perhaps the most hideous street in Buenos Aires. It also happened to be the direct route between where I was and where I had to go. So I walked down its muddy path, pretending to ignore the city sanitation crews’ whistles. No longer was I the naïve American, flattered by their attention. No longer was I even the tolerant American, acknowledging their ¨compliments¨ with a turn of the head. No, with my new official status, I had suddenly adopted the flippant nonchalance of the Argentine muchachas.
Eventually, I ended up at the cramped, one-room office of the Sanidad de Fronteras, the official site for yellow fever vaccinations — a must for anyone planning a trip to Bolivia. “Po-ay?” called the man, summoning me into the cubicle of an examining room. Thirty seconds later, I was clutching a wad of cotton to my arm and passing through the exit. There were no forms to fill out, no questions to answer. I didn’t present any insurance, nor did I pay a centavo.
Such are the benefits endowed upon those with residence in Argentina. Back again on Antártida, something akin to happiness hit me. The kind of happiness that seeps through humidity and exhaust. A tranquility thicker than the ugliness surrounding me. For, at long last, I officially belonged.
I have the paper to prove it.
03 April 2007
At the Back of the Bus
“I was going to class when the bell rang?” said the boy, his prepubescent voice inching ever higher.
“Rung,” challenged a second boy.
“No, ‘rang,’ porque es la forma del ‘past participle,’” retorted a third.
With that, I swiveled around in my seat, exposing myself to a writhing mass of grade-schoolers. How the young Argentines, dressed in matching maroon skirts and blazers, got onto the topic of their most recent English-language lesson, I don’t know. After all, that would require me to understand their slang-ridden gibberish. All I know is that these tiny human beings, scabbed knees and all, were spending their after-school commute chatting about intricacies of the English language.
Meanwhile, I was gazing out the window at a billboard advertising some Cartoon Network show. The phrase “Me saco un moco” jumped out at me, under a drawing of a character, his finger plunged up his nostril. Even then, though the picture explicitly described the phrase at hand, my stubborn English brain lurched into place slowly and deliberately. There was nothing automatic, intuitive, or even slightly intelligent about it. As the triumphantly bilingual throng behind me moved onto a new topic, I moped, staring sulkily at the jumble of Spanish that warned me not to stick my head out the bus window.
"No voy a hablar español nunca. Voy a morir sin saber esta idioma estúpida. No hay ninguna esperanza para mí, y no hay punto en tratar de aprenderla."
And then, my forehead furrowed and my lips pursed in a snarl, I ceased my mental tirade. "Wait a second," I thought. "This stream of anger, this geyser of self-loathing, had just flooded forth in Spanish."
¡Spanish!
The thought eased the crease scarring my brow. Learning a language is one of the most impossible, virulent, terrible processes in the world. A process that catapults you into isolation and despair. So how does any stick with it? What makes them persevere? Undoubtedly, the answer lies in the tiny — and I mean tiny — moments of success. Like when I chose not to dangle my body out the bus window, not out of common sense, but because I could comprehend the warning sticker taped in front of my face. Or when I paused my spew of anger long enough to call attention to the fact that it had manifested itself in Spanish.
It didn’t get any easier after I stepped off the bus, immersed ever more in a world of unintelligible ñ’s and oddly placed accents. Improving my language skills is an achingly slow and endlessly demoralizing process. It’s an endless bus ride with confidently bilingual children; a ceaseless parade of laughingly simple cartoons I can’t understand. Yet with each ride, it gets easier.
Or, more accurately, a little less impossible.
“Rung,” challenged a second boy.
“No, ‘rang,’ porque es la forma del ‘past participle,’” retorted a third.
With that, I swiveled around in my seat, exposing myself to a writhing mass of grade-schoolers. How the young Argentines, dressed in matching maroon skirts and blazers, got onto the topic of their most recent English-language lesson, I don’t know. After all, that would require me to understand their slang-ridden gibberish. All I know is that these tiny human beings, scabbed knees and all, were spending their after-school commute chatting about intricacies of the English language.
Meanwhile, I was gazing out the window at a billboard advertising some Cartoon Network show. The phrase “Me saco un moco” jumped out at me, under a drawing of a character, his finger plunged up his nostril. Even then, though the picture explicitly described the phrase at hand, my stubborn English brain lurched into place slowly and deliberately. There was nothing automatic, intuitive, or even slightly intelligent about it. As the triumphantly bilingual throng behind me moved onto a new topic, I moped, staring sulkily at the jumble of Spanish that warned me not to stick my head out the bus window.
"No voy a hablar español nunca. Voy a morir sin saber esta idioma estúpida. No hay ninguna esperanza para mí, y no hay punto en tratar de aprenderla."
And then, my forehead furrowed and my lips pursed in a snarl, I ceased my mental tirade. "Wait a second," I thought. "This stream of anger, this geyser of self-loathing, had just flooded forth in Spanish."
¡Spanish!
The thought eased the crease scarring my brow. Learning a language is one of the most impossible, virulent, terrible processes in the world. A process that catapults you into isolation and despair. So how does any stick with it? What makes them persevere? Undoubtedly, the answer lies in the tiny — and I mean tiny — moments of success. Like when I chose not to dangle my body out the bus window, not out of common sense, but because I could comprehend the warning sticker taped in front of my face. Or when I paused my spew of anger long enough to call attention to the fact that it had manifested itself in Spanish.
It didn’t get any easier after I stepped off the bus, immersed ever more in a world of unintelligible ñ’s and oddly placed accents. Improving my language skills is an achingly slow and endlessly demoralizing process. It’s an endless bus ride with confidently bilingual children; a ceaseless parade of laughingly simple cartoons I can’t understand. Yet with each ride, it gets easier.
Or, more accurately, a little less impossible.
31 March 2007
¿Tacos de Jamón?
I have written before about the marvels of Buenos Aires' cuisine, and I can nearly guarantee I will do it again. It's a pretty serious deal here, after all. For food is an experience; something to be revered, to be nurtured over a several hour-long meal. It’s a thing to cut lovingly, chewed neatly, and seasoned with a hearty laugh and roll of the r. Yet what it is not seasoned with?
Spices.
It is difficult to understand, this national obsession with blandness. This isn’t to say that all the food is flavorless. But as a general rule (and this describes only Argentine food in its purest state) details like spices are of last concern. Beef is the number one priority, followed by bread and rice as white as the ideal bloodline. Pungent cheese and sweet onions follow somewhere down the line. But pepper? Who needs it...
A perfect case study comes in the form of a Mexican-Argentine fusion restaurant located in stylish Palemo Viejo. When I walked in the door last weekend, it felt vaguely Mexican, thanks to the orange walls, rustic wood tables, and visible mounds of guacamole. My hopes rose. After settling into a seat (and waiting a typically Argentine time for a waiter to approach our table), I began to fully appreciate the “fusion” quality of the venue. From the wall, a Warhol-ized Marilyn Monroe smiled seductively at me, her breathiness matched only by the pop-chic Madonna cd throbbing throughout the small eatery. The Beatles grinned dopily from the opposing wall.
Needless to say, a Day of the Dead skeleton was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, a basket filled with slices of baguette and thin breadsticks appeared before us. Nestled in the middle were small toasts dabbed with what appeared to be a sun-dried tomato spread. In lieu of butter was a vessel of cilantro carrot relish, sprinkled with a few kidney beans. Not quite chips and salsa, but the combination managed to meld surprisingly well with a margarita, regardless (Yet a glass rimmed with sugar? Honestly).
The true test came with the tacos, burritos, and enchiladas we beckoned our way. The tacos, though entirely edible — quite good, in fact — were like nothing “Mexican” I’d had before. The corn tortillas were fried to a crisp, rendering them tasty if a bit grease-laden. The steak was hot off any Argentine parrilla, while the shriveled peppers were indicative of the attitude espoused by my host mother, who thinks vegetables “are a bit stupid.” Weirdest of all, though, was the pashmina-like draping of ham hugging the beef. Only in Argentina.
To be fair, the guacamole, bright with lime and cilantro, ranked up there with the finest Tex-Mex institutions of the American southwest, and the tortilla chips held their own. All in all, it amounted to a fascinating, and quite enjoyable, intercultural experience.
So, the next time you lump all Latin American food into the same pot of spicy refried beans, think again. And pack a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
28 March 2007
On Guilt
After 10 blocks of marble entryways, tanned and taut 50-something women, and stern doormen, I was in a state of hypnosis. The incessant beeping of the gold garage doors, alerting me that an Audi would soon cross my path, became as expected as the beating of my heart. The fierce yipping of the neighborhood white poodle club faded into the seamless silk of the sidewalk tapestry.
But suddenly, I stopped.
He said nothing, did nothing, didn't so much as twitch. Yet the boy's intention was somberly clear. He held three yellow balls in his hands and bore his eyes into mine, drilling a well of guilt. I had never seen the street kids "working" around here, not in this fabulously comfortable nook of Palermo. They show up in other parts of the city, darting in front of the traffic paused at a red light, feverishly performing a 30-second long juggling act before dipping between the cars, hands outstretched. Watching the whole affair, my stomach tightens as I worry about the impatient driver with his foot on the gas, regardless of who lingers in the street. I worry about the ball that rolls beneath a truck, luring a kid with it. And I worry about what happens when it's too dark to juggle, when the city rushes off to ballets and operas and leaves these performers on their own.
Yet the saucer-eyed boy before me wasn't performing. Instead, he seemed confident in the power of a simple stare. I smiled at him, hoping to provoke something,
anything, to prove the street hadn't hardened him completely. I pointed at the balls, fumbling over my Spanish. He interpreted my ill-conjugated statement as a cue to start his act, so he robotically lobbed them into the air, juggling the balls exactly five times. In the glare of the car dealership, I dug through my coins and dropped a few into his hand. There ended our exchange, and my young friend gazed down the sidewalk, scoping out his next target.
I treaded across the street, slightly aghast. Had I just reduced this human being to the level of an organ grinder monkey, forcing him to entertain me before I would bestow a few centavos upon him?
The issue of guilt is increasingly bothersome here. I'm American, blessed with a fantastic exchange rate and global mobility most Argentines can only dream of. I step into a restaurant and wave my magical credit card and leave full, happy, and little the worse for the pocketbook. In many places of the city, this can be hard to handle. Yet in a neighborhood like this, wealth disparity normally feels more like something you read about in the pages of La Naciòn, next to dreary bar graphs depicting the poverty rate. Here, the folks stroll down wide sidewalks with their greyhounds and sip cocktails in posh dimly lit bars. They even wear their sweaters with the sleeves oh-so-casually draped around their necks (possibly their worst fashion faux-pas).
So no wonder my little friend chose our barrio. It was only good business sense — much like his choice to conserve his juggling energy for a situation that demanded it. Pity clearly is the wrong emotion. He knows how to get by, even when up against a tough crowd. Whether I'm in alleys crawling with cockroaches or the familiar streets of Palermo, there´s a common determination worn into the faces I pass, etched through military dictatorships, desaparecidos, economic crises. Yet equally universal is a single truth: There, here, and everywhere, my pity is the last thing anyone wants.
But suddenly, I stopped.
He said nothing, did nothing, didn't so much as twitch. Yet the boy's intention was somberly clear. He held three yellow balls in his hands and bore his eyes into mine, drilling a well of guilt. I had never seen the street kids "working" around here, not in this fabulously comfortable nook of Palermo. They show up in other parts of the city, darting in front of the traffic paused at a red light, feverishly performing a 30-second long juggling act before dipping between the cars, hands outstretched. Watching the whole affair, my stomach tightens as I worry about the impatient driver with his foot on the gas, regardless of who lingers in the street. I worry about the ball that rolls beneath a truck, luring a kid with it. And I worry about what happens when it's too dark to juggle, when the city rushes off to ballets and operas and leaves these performers on their own.
Yet the saucer-eyed boy before me wasn't performing. Instead, he seemed confident in the power of a simple stare. I smiled at him, hoping to provoke something,
anything, to prove the street hadn't hardened him completely. I pointed at the balls, fumbling over my Spanish. He interpreted my ill-conjugated statement as a cue to start his act, so he robotically lobbed them into the air, juggling the balls exactly five times. In the glare of the car dealership, I dug through my coins and dropped a few into his hand. There ended our exchange, and my young friend gazed down the sidewalk, scoping out his next target.
I treaded across the street, slightly aghast. Had I just reduced this human being to the level of an organ grinder monkey, forcing him to entertain me before I would bestow a few centavos upon him?
The issue of guilt is increasingly bothersome here. I'm American, blessed with a fantastic exchange rate and global mobility most Argentines can only dream of. I step into a restaurant and wave my magical credit card and leave full, happy, and little the worse for the pocketbook. In many places of the city, this can be hard to handle. Yet in a neighborhood like this, wealth disparity normally feels more like something you read about in the pages of La Naciòn, next to dreary bar graphs depicting the poverty rate. Here, the folks stroll down wide sidewalks with their greyhounds and sip cocktails in posh dimly lit bars. They even wear their sweaters with the sleeves oh-so-casually draped around their necks (possibly their worst fashion faux-pas).
So no wonder my little friend chose our barrio. It was only good business sense — much like his choice to conserve his juggling energy for a situation that demanded it. Pity clearly is the wrong emotion. He knows how to get by, even when up against a tough crowd. Whether I'm in alleys crawling with cockroaches or the familiar streets of Palermo, there´s a common determination worn into the faces I pass, etched through military dictatorships, desaparecidos, economic crises. Yet equally universal is a single truth: There, here, and everywhere, my pity is the last thing anyone wants.
24 March 2007
Of Gravel Roads and Avenidas
Several years ago, back in the northern hemisphere, I spent a leisurely spring day riding down a lonely gravel road on my bike. As the saccharine air infused my lungs, I marveled at the absolute tranquility of the place. Nothing, it seemed, could so much as bother the lazy fly that hummed its way down the road. Nothing except for a rumbling, rattling pick-up truck. Onward it came, unleashing a tremor throughout the countryside. I braced myself for the onslaught of dust and chaos. Yet before I could even make out the person inside, it sputtered to a silent stop, leaving the road unscathed so I could pass in unruffled peace.
At the time, I marveled at the simple forethought of this farmer, his soul steeped in Midwestern courtesy. People aren’t like this in cities, I thought. This is an affliction endemic only to places with round, drawling names like “Iowa.” Thus, I came to Buenos Aires with my teeth fully clenched. I was entering a city crawling with some 12 million inhabitants — a veritable cesspool of pick-pockets, rapists, and thieves.
In elevators, I stonily stare at the buttons, pretending the other person doesn’t exist. On the street, I look through the man handing out flyers for pedicures or plastic surgery, confident he's a con artist looking to strip me of cash and/or my dignity. Anyone asking me where I’m from is no doubt plotting my murder … and on and on flows my pessimism, a stoniness only appropriate for a city of this magnitude.
Or, more often than not, only inappropriate.
Perhaps the most telling moment came a few nights ago. I was walking down Avenida Las Heras, searching for the elusive intersection with Ortiz de Ocampo. I knew I was near, but my inability to distinguish between Ortiz de Ocampo and the nearby Scalabrini Ortiz had left me baffled. Passing a McDonald’s, I decide to enter, leaning on this beacon of all things deliciously American in pursuit of a benevolent soul. The door is locked. The sad-eyed janitor shakes her head at me, indicating the time for Big Macs has passed.
I next descend on a middle-aged woman standing near the curb. She tells me she doesn’t know, her voice brimming with remorse. Está bien, I say, embarrassed that she is still pondering my question after more than a minute. She gestures toward a couple standing a few meters away, a man helping a woman labor over crutches. I nod, knowing that I cannot ask them, as they obviously have their own difficulties.
I take a sharp right and continue on my quest, passing back under the Golden Arches. Soon, cries of ¡Senorita, senorita! force me to swivel around, only to realize an entire family of garbage sorters had somehow become immersed in my struggle. Remnants of Happy Meals strewed before them and orderly rows of glass Coca-Cola bottles at their feet, they gesture down the street. Alla, they say — over there. Turning on my heels just in time to see the forlorn Mc-employee observing my helplessness, I head toward Ortiz de Ocampo. The middle-aged woman smiles from the corner, where she had sought out directions for me from the woman on crutches, who had, in turn, sought out the family to beckon me toward my destination. The entire collective watches as I cross the street, chuckling at the silly yanqui girl headed off into the night.
Within seconds I arrive at the street, but the act of getting there still left me baffled. A half-dozen porteños had dedicated themselves to helping me, inspired only by pure courtesy — the kind I thought I’d left behind on a dusty gravel road in Iowa. This was only one encounter of many, instances of people going far, far out of their way to help me. It’s an unexpected friendliness that emanates nearly everywhere here, not through crystalline blue farm skies but dank city streets, dingy cafés, and lurching elevators — each time, amazing me anew.
At the time, I marveled at the simple forethought of this farmer, his soul steeped in Midwestern courtesy. People aren’t like this in cities, I thought. This is an affliction endemic only to places with round, drawling names like “Iowa.” Thus, I came to Buenos Aires with my teeth fully clenched. I was entering a city crawling with some 12 million inhabitants — a veritable cesspool of pick-pockets, rapists, and thieves.
In elevators, I stonily stare at the buttons, pretending the other person doesn’t exist. On the street, I look through the man handing out flyers for pedicures or plastic surgery, confident he's a con artist looking to strip me of cash and/or my dignity. Anyone asking me where I’m from is no doubt plotting my murder … and on and on flows my pessimism, a stoniness only appropriate for a city of this magnitude.
Or, more often than not, only inappropriate.
Perhaps the most telling moment came a few nights ago. I was walking down Avenida Las Heras, searching for the elusive intersection with Ortiz de Ocampo. I knew I was near, but my inability to distinguish between Ortiz de Ocampo and the nearby Scalabrini Ortiz had left me baffled. Passing a McDonald’s, I decide to enter, leaning on this beacon of all things deliciously American in pursuit of a benevolent soul. The door is locked. The sad-eyed janitor shakes her head at me, indicating the time for Big Macs has passed.
I next descend on a middle-aged woman standing near the curb. She tells me she doesn’t know, her voice brimming with remorse. Está bien, I say, embarrassed that she is still pondering my question after more than a minute. She gestures toward a couple standing a few meters away, a man helping a woman labor over crutches. I nod, knowing that I cannot ask them, as they obviously have their own difficulties.
I take a sharp right and continue on my quest, passing back under the Golden Arches. Soon, cries of ¡Senorita, senorita! force me to swivel around, only to realize an entire family of garbage sorters had somehow become immersed in my struggle. Remnants of Happy Meals strewed before them and orderly rows of glass Coca-Cola bottles at their feet, they gesture down the street. Alla, they say — over there. Turning on my heels just in time to see the forlorn Mc-employee observing my helplessness, I head toward Ortiz de Ocampo. The middle-aged woman smiles from the corner, where she had sought out directions for me from the woman on crutches, who had, in turn, sought out the family to beckon me toward my destination. The entire collective watches as I cross the street, chuckling at the silly yanqui girl headed off into the night.
Within seconds I arrive at the street, but the act of getting there still left me baffled. A half-dozen porteños had dedicated themselves to helping me, inspired only by pure courtesy — the kind I thought I’d left behind on a dusty gravel road in Iowa. This was only one encounter of many, instances of people going far, far out of their way to help me. It’s an unexpected friendliness that emanates nearly everywhere here, not through crystalline blue farm skies but dank city streets, dingy cafés, and lurching elevators — each time, amazing me anew.
14 March 2007
Pass the Steak, Por Favor
“So, pick I one thing of here and one of here, no?”
So goes my Spanish as I try to decipher the menu at the posh downtown eatery called 1812. Often, Argentine menus feel like hieroglyphics, with their countless words for “entrails” and multiple spellings of “mozzarella.” The “English” versions, while perfect for a good laugh, are no more helpful. Would you order “A gentle pasta to the Maryland style with blow?” Me neither. I haven’t yet figured out if the drug laws are really liberal enough to permit such obvious trafficking, or if there’s a vegetable out there that stumps Google translator every time. A mystery for another day…
But back to 1812. Bryce and I are staring at the menu, puzzled, as we try to discover why the food remains priceless on the menu. The clinking glasses and soft jazz indicate it’s not a soup kitchen, so we inquire. At first, I think that maybe it’s a fixed menu, where you pick one thing from the appetizers, one from the entrees, and one from the desserts — hence my poorly phrased inquiry. But no, the hostess shakes her head. “16 pesos para todo,” she says. It’s not until we arrive at our table that we understand.
For, next to the gleaming mahogany is a smaller, shorter table. What is it? Nothing other than a staging ground for the endless stream of empanadas, corn tartines, Caesar salads, steak kebobs, French fries, breadsticks, and who knows what else headed our way. At first, we tentatively order a few dishes, unsure of what lay ahead. Had we realized when we stepped into the cool gastronomic paradise, we might have taken a deep breath first. Alas, we dove straight in. Some foods we ordered; others came unannounced. It was a restaurant freely flowing with food. The waiters buzzed about, uncorking local wines and prodding the jewelry-draped, older clientele to request a steak or fillet, to top off their heaping plate of tagliatelle or pancetta.
We watched, somewhat aghast, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on. It’s like a buffet, we realized, sans the marshmallow fluff. Or a cruise ship, where the food is amazing and beautifully presented and nowhere near a boat. At last, we came to the conclusion it’s a food amusement park, where you watch the various dishes pass by whilst sipping a fine mineral water and nibbling on olive-laced bread. When something strikes your fancy, you pounce. Otherwise, it’s all about leaning back and enjoying the show … and admiring the waiters, all of who are immaculately dressed and gorgeous. And no matter how long you tough it out, how gluttonous a feast you make your visit, you pay just a meager $16 pesos.
Find me a Hy-Vee Grand Buffet with cloth napkins, heaping dishes accented by swirls of vivid green and red sauces, at-table service, and all for a cost of less than $5.30, and I’ll be stateside in a flash. Until then, well...
By the way, I've put up a few pictures.
So goes my Spanish as I try to decipher the menu at the posh downtown eatery called 1812. Often, Argentine menus feel like hieroglyphics, with their countless words for “entrails” and multiple spellings of “mozzarella.” The “English” versions, while perfect for a good laugh, are no more helpful. Would you order “A gentle pasta to the Maryland style with blow?” Me neither. I haven’t yet figured out if the drug laws are really liberal enough to permit such obvious trafficking, or if there’s a vegetable out there that stumps Google translator every time. A mystery for another day…
But back to 1812. Bryce and I are staring at the menu, puzzled, as we try to discover why the food remains priceless on the menu. The clinking glasses and soft jazz indicate it’s not a soup kitchen, so we inquire. At first, I think that maybe it’s a fixed menu, where you pick one thing from the appetizers, one from the entrees, and one from the desserts — hence my poorly phrased inquiry. But no, the hostess shakes her head. “16 pesos para todo,” she says. It’s not until we arrive at our table that we understand.
For, next to the gleaming mahogany is a smaller, shorter table. What is it? Nothing other than a staging ground for the endless stream of empanadas, corn tartines, Caesar salads, steak kebobs, French fries, breadsticks, and who knows what else headed our way. At first, we tentatively order a few dishes, unsure of what lay ahead. Had we realized when we stepped into the cool gastronomic paradise, we might have taken a deep breath first. Alas, we dove straight in. Some foods we ordered; others came unannounced. It was a restaurant freely flowing with food. The waiters buzzed about, uncorking local wines and prodding the jewelry-draped, older clientele to request a steak or fillet, to top off their heaping plate of tagliatelle or pancetta.
We watched, somewhat aghast, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on. It’s like a buffet, we realized, sans the marshmallow fluff. Or a cruise ship, where the food is amazing and beautifully presented and nowhere near a boat. At last, we came to the conclusion it’s a food amusement park, where you watch the various dishes pass by whilst sipping a fine mineral water and nibbling on olive-laced bread. When something strikes your fancy, you pounce. Otherwise, it’s all about leaning back and enjoying the show … and admiring the waiters, all of who are immaculately dressed and gorgeous. And no matter how long you tough it out, how gluttonous a feast you make your visit, you pay just a meager $16 pesos.
Find me a Hy-Vee Grand Buffet with cloth napkins, heaping dishes accented by swirls of vivid green and red sauces, at-table service, and all for a cost of less than $5.30, and I’ll be stateside in a flash. Until then, well...
By the way, I've put up a few pictures.
The Cob That Makes the World Go Round
It turns out I should have packed my “I heart corn” t-shirt, after all.
For, what does the first person I talk to in my first Argentine bar say? That his brother is getting his PhD at Iowa State. My primer porteño (Buenos Aires-an) pal comes from a family of corn scientists — as does apparently everyone in this country who isn’t a fashion model and/or pregnant. Like in Iowa, corn is king here. It’s inescapable: My host father 'Tin is a retired cereal exporter who used to do business with a Hawkeye state company, and his son, also in the corn biz, turned down an offer to study abroad in Ames. I still can’t figure out why.
So, given the constant barrage of biofuel-fueled news I’ve read in Iowa newspapers, I was curious to hear what ‘Tin thinks about etanol (creative translation, huh?). Especially in light of Bush's voyage to these parts last week, it's all the talk down here, too. Tonight I got my wish. After our usual dinner banter about the myriad varieties of Argentine pumpkins (which appears to be a national food), discussion somehow turned toward geopolitics. And ‘Tin, who normally remains silently bemused at his wife’s English-and-Spanish-laced chattiness, piped up.
I held my breath as he tried to unravel centuries’ worth of trade agreements into a logical explanation of why Argentina works the way it does. Why this country refuses to export its plentiful oil bubbling underneath Patagonia, why it refrains from jumping too far into the sugar cane-etanol trend, why the people here are relatively wealthy and the oil-laden Bolivians aren’t. Did I mention he doesn't speak English?
Needless to say, I didn’t necessarily get everything he said (aka, it might as well have been in Arabic), but it was fascinating, nonetheless. At the monstrous gas station catering to the Mercedes crowd across from our apartment, petrol sells for about US $4/gallon. But, unlike Iowa, there’s no corn involved. Back in the ‘60s, the military made gas from the plentiful maíz gracing the Argentine landscape, but these days, they don’t bother. There’s just not enough of a need, ‘Tin said. After all, Argentina has less than 40 million people, with a third of them in Buenos Aires. So the oil seeping from nearly every region of the country works just fine. Why not just export it and use the money to buy toilets that can actually flush? Doing so would be strategically suicidal, according to my sources. Thus, Argentina was left behind when Bush made his Latin America tour. With regard to etanol, the Argentines say no gracias.
Now it’s back to futbol here, with politics left until the next commercial break. I’m quickly learning that if I’m going to survive, I have to learn to converse about the two national past-times. I’ve got the corn-politics thing down; now, I just need to figure out how to say the goalie made a touchdown…
For, what does the first person I talk to in my first Argentine bar say? That his brother is getting his PhD at Iowa State. My primer porteño (Buenos Aires-an) pal comes from a family of corn scientists — as does apparently everyone in this country who isn’t a fashion model and/or pregnant. Like in Iowa, corn is king here. It’s inescapable: My host father 'Tin is a retired cereal exporter who used to do business with a Hawkeye state company, and his son, also in the corn biz, turned down an offer to study abroad in Ames. I still can’t figure out why.
So, given the constant barrage of biofuel-fueled news I’ve read in Iowa newspapers, I was curious to hear what ‘Tin thinks about etanol (creative translation, huh?). Especially in light of Bush's voyage to these parts last week, it's all the talk down here, too. Tonight I got my wish. After our usual dinner banter about the myriad varieties of Argentine pumpkins (which appears to be a national food), discussion somehow turned toward geopolitics. And ‘Tin, who normally remains silently bemused at his wife’s English-and-Spanish-laced chattiness, piped up.
I held my breath as he tried to unravel centuries’ worth of trade agreements into a logical explanation of why Argentina works the way it does. Why this country refuses to export its plentiful oil bubbling underneath Patagonia, why it refrains from jumping too far into the sugar cane-etanol trend, why the people here are relatively wealthy and the oil-laden Bolivians aren’t. Did I mention he doesn't speak English?
Needless to say, I didn’t necessarily get everything he said (aka, it might as well have been in Arabic), but it was fascinating, nonetheless. At the monstrous gas station catering to the Mercedes crowd across from our apartment, petrol sells for about US $4/gallon. But, unlike Iowa, there’s no corn involved. Back in the ‘60s, the military made gas from the plentiful maíz gracing the Argentine landscape, but these days, they don’t bother. There’s just not enough of a need, ‘Tin said. After all, Argentina has less than 40 million people, with a third of them in Buenos Aires. So the oil seeping from nearly every region of the country works just fine. Why not just export it and use the money to buy toilets that can actually flush? Doing so would be strategically suicidal, according to my sources. Thus, Argentina was left behind when Bush made his Latin America tour. With regard to etanol, the Argentines say no gracias.
Now it’s back to futbol here, with politics left until the next commercial break. I’m quickly learning that if I’m going to survive, I have to learn to converse about the two national past-times. I’ve got the corn-politics thing down; now, I just need to figure out how to say the goalie made a touchdown…
07 March 2007
The Long Journey South
My first waft of Argentina came in Washington Dulles. Tanned and polished, the Argentines invigorated a soulless gate flooded with fluorescent lighting and a collective disgust at the thought of a ten-hour flight. I bid my Estonian plane-mate good-bye and joined the crowd, slipping in as if my blaring “A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N” status didn’t give me away. As my wide-eyed wonderment at their every así didn’t give me away. Yet on the plane, their effect obscured by an American pilot and a horrifying selection of gravy-coated gruel, I was back on American shores, figuratively speaking. The insulation of my fair-skinned study abroad comrades lasted through the flight, the airport, and even the shuttle ride.
But when the driver took the Avenida Libertador at a right angle, shooting straight across some seven lanes and cutting off some dozen Mercedes, I arrived at my home: a towering apartment building with a marble entryway and gold buttons. Squeezed into the elevator with multiple bags marinating in sweat and airplane exhaust, Graciela and I rise toward 7B. Inside, it is old-world glamour, with the worn edges (and plaid kitchen wallpaper) of a home lived in for 20 years. Parquet floors, brass lamps, parlor chairs with elaborate detailing and delicately sculpted legs, and the occasional copper tea kettle. But before I can even look around, it’s lunch. Chicken: Bone-on, skin-on, no trimmings. Then comes a banana, eaten with a knife and fork I never knew cohabitated with the humble fruit. It was the kind of dessert I’ve always heard about but didn’t think really existed. So say the guide books about obscure places in other hemispheres: “Dessert is often a piece of fruit” but I didn’t think it was more than a myth. Turns out, it’s surprisingly delightful. Who needs Toll House when there are bananas?
But enough; on to the ciudad. I would like to say it’s the streets’ fault, but I can’t. I am simply amazing at getting lost. Perhaps I should embrace it; after all, I never would have seen my first Argentine synagogue, toured the back side of the zoo (it's fragrant), or passed every doorman north of the Libertador if it weren’t for my inane ability to take the wrong turn, at every turn. I also wouldn’t have met the gangs of families sorting the trash, impeccably sorting shredded paper, grease-stained cardboard, and bottles into piles on the curb. Or the stylish couples bemusedly watching their show dog waddling about in front of their apartment.
In fact, it appears to be impossible to mind being lost here. Take a left at Paraná instead of a right? No hay una problema — there’s plenty to entertain you at every turn, be it a corner café full of porteños sipping espresso or a mid-crosswalk embrace … with tongue. Yes. As they told us at orientation, Argentines like to touch, and they like to do so at every possible venue.
Regarding the streets, they’re either cozy little tree-lined affairs buzzing with motorcycles or ten-lane mammoths. The widest street in the world, in fact, calls Buenos Aires home. I feel like I need a t-shirt that says I’ve crossed the Avenida 9 de Julio and survived. Truly, it isn’t that scary, even though it takes two crosswalks. And what sweet rewards lay on the other side. Once you’ve powered through the cars, an outdoor café is there to greet you. Umbrella-outfitted tables look out at the thick hedge of trees protecting you from the blare and glare of traffic. And to refresh is cheap (like nearly everything in Buenos Aires, provided American dollars fill your bank account) — a meager 12 pesos for a glass bottle of agua sin gas and a glass of white wine literally filled to the brim. Oh, and a tray of complimentary potato chips. Calculate in the exchange rate, and that figures out to be about … $4 US dollars.
Could be worse, no?
But when the driver took the Avenida Libertador at a right angle, shooting straight across some seven lanes and cutting off some dozen Mercedes, I arrived at my home: a towering apartment building with a marble entryway and gold buttons. Squeezed into the elevator with multiple bags marinating in sweat and airplane exhaust, Graciela and I rise toward 7B. Inside, it is old-world glamour, with the worn edges (and plaid kitchen wallpaper) of a home lived in for 20 years. Parquet floors, brass lamps, parlor chairs with elaborate detailing and delicately sculpted legs, and the occasional copper tea kettle. But before I can even look around, it’s lunch. Chicken: Bone-on, skin-on, no trimmings. Then comes a banana, eaten with a knife and fork I never knew cohabitated with the humble fruit. It was the kind of dessert I’ve always heard about but didn’t think really existed. So say the guide books about obscure places in other hemispheres: “Dessert is often a piece of fruit” but I didn’t think it was more than a myth. Turns out, it’s surprisingly delightful. Who needs Toll House when there are bananas?
But enough; on to the ciudad. I would like to say it’s the streets’ fault, but I can’t. I am simply amazing at getting lost. Perhaps I should embrace it; after all, I never would have seen my first Argentine synagogue, toured the back side of the zoo (it's fragrant), or passed every doorman north of the Libertador if it weren’t for my inane ability to take the wrong turn, at every turn. I also wouldn’t have met the gangs of families sorting the trash, impeccably sorting shredded paper, grease-stained cardboard, and bottles into piles on the curb. Or the stylish couples bemusedly watching their show dog waddling about in front of their apartment.
In fact, it appears to be impossible to mind being lost here. Take a left at Paraná instead of a right? No hay una problema — there’s plenty to entertain you at every turn, be it a corner café full of porteños sipping espresso or a mid-crosswalk embrace … with tongue. Yes. As they told us at orientation, Argentines like to touch, and they like to do so at every possible venue.
Regarding the streets, they’re either cozy little tree-lined affairs buzzing with motorcycles or ten-lane mammoths. The widest street in the world, in fact, calls Buenos Aires home. I feel like I need a t-shirt that says I’ve crossed the Avenida 9 de Julio and survived. Truly, it isn’t that scary, even though it takes two crosswalks. And what sweet rewards lay on the other side. Once you’ve powered through the cars, an outdoor café is there to greet you. Umbrella-outfitted tables look out at the thick hedge of trees protecting you from the blare and glare of traffic. And to refresh is cheap (like nearly everything in Buenos Aires, provided American dollars fill your bank account) — a meager 12 pesos for a glass bottle of agua sin gas and a glass of white wine literally filled to the brim. Oh, and a tray of complimentary potato chips. Calculate in the exchange rate, and that figures out to be about … $4 US dollars.
Could be worse, no?
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