It seems that I always manage to be in Argentina during great sports times of the year. With apologies to a few of my former travel companions – you know who you are – this year I decided to take full advantage of it. Shay and I decided to stick around Buenos Aires this weekend to get a look at some of the spots we missed two weekends ago, and more importantly, because there were two major, Argentina-wide games happening Saturday and Sunday. Most Americans may not get the craze because our favorite sports are largely national in nature, and therefore based on teams and cities, vs. nationality and one’s flag, which in some places can be all people have to look forward to and take pride in. The fairly recent internationalization of basketball is about all I have to make a comparison with, and that’s a weak one at best. Soccer – leaving it at “the beautiful game” when played by Argentines grossly understates the experience – was on display Saturday, matched Sunday by the world’s Cinderella rugby team in the form of los Pumas. “During the rugby world cup, we’re all Pumas…”
Tickets for the 2010 World Cup qualifier between Argentina-Chile sold out fast this week, leaving me with the prospect of scalping tix in a country faced with an increasing counterfeiting problem. Fortunately Shay’s school had been advertising an “excursion” (“excursions” are but one of many reasons I continue to love the concept of studying abroad) to the game. U$s 120 – about what I would pay for two mediocre Jazz seats – got Shay and I lunch, transportation and guides, and two field-level seats at rocking and rolling, 66,000 seat River Plate stadium (again, using the only analogous language I really know, the Argentine equivalent of the L.A. Lakers). We met up with a large, U.N.-style group before the game at one of Belgrano’s fancy pizzerias. Aussies, Irish, Germans, East Asians, Africans, a girl from D.C., and other kids our age spent an hour getting to know one another better over pizza and drinks. I’m convinced that if one pushes him/herself hard enough to live as big a life as possible, experiencing all that life has to offer, said person eventually crosses a threshold where it’s almost impossible not to be able to quickly establish immediate connections with people, and if continued, the experiences combined with momentum, and therefore potential connections, began to exponentially increase, almost like a pyramid scheme. Mexicans talking to me about boarding Snowbird, me talking to Aussies about playing Footy and rugby, Irish asking about Mitt Romney, D.C. folks, big shocker, talking educational pursuits, all taking about Iguazu. It was this kind of experience that reminded me why I still enjoy, or at least will tolerate, bunking in with five strangers at cheap hostels.
The game itself – Shay’s first Latin American soccer game – was an experience I won’t soon forget. The stadium – Buenos Aires’ best and biggest – was jammed full with 60,000 screaming, dancing, flag-waving Argentines, drowning out every few minutes the familiar chants and drumbeat of 5,000 intrepid Chileans. We took our seats – second-row seats 20-30 yards from one of the corners – behind chain link fence and barbed wire – a stark, occasionally annoying reminder of how rabid these guys are about their soccer. I got a refresher course throughout on all of my Argentine insults and cusswords, all of which when heard in Spanish make me laugh out loud.
Though many have commented on the improvement in Chilean soccer in recent years, I don’t think anyone really expected much of a contest going in. The boys in powder blue and white proved us right. Rarely have I seen a team toy with another seemingly so easily. The Argentines combine speed with passing skill that makes the game look easy. The Chileans did the only thing they could do under the circumstances – play hard, and when beaten, which happened often, foul. That proved not to be a remedy, as in the first half the Argentines looped in for goals from 20 yards two successive indirect kicks with the precision of laser-guided munitions. The place went nuts, fans jumping up and down, singing and chanting, “goooool gooooool goooool,” I thought I was going to have to try to physically defend my wife.
With apologies to my Chilean friends and aficionados, I enjoyed it immensely. I didn’t want drama this time out, rather offense and a rout, as I knew the place would get especially rowdy were Argentina winning. The Chileans played a better game the second half, but the damage was done. Once again, Chile went down to Argentina, 2-0. I’d cautiously venture to say that Argentina’s win was probably a good thing, good for the Argentines, who, speaking beyond soccer, have in a number of ways been outshined by the Chileans the last few years.
Recoleta and Rugby…
Sunday we headed to yet another of Buenos Aires’ unique neighborhoods, this one the ritzy, uppity, Beverly Hills-esque Recoleta, home to the Argentine elite, beautiful houses, upscale malls, lush, green parks, “Telemundo girls,” Recoleta National Cemetery, and the city’s best handicrafts market (Shay and I kept commenting on the amazing array of talent on display – we’ll go back one of these weekends and no doubt drop hundreds of dollars).
In conversations at the soccer game with Argentines, I’d learned that the place to be to watch the Argentina-South Africa Rugby World Cup semifinal was a sports bar called “Locos por Futbol” (Crazy for Soccer). Luckily we showed up a few hours before game time, just in time to be able to talk our way into a reservation for one of the last available tables. $33 landed us reservation with free food and drinks up to that amount. Food prices being what they are here, that sounded just about right.
The day was absolutely gorgeous (sunny/75 degrees), so Shay and I strolled – yes, one can’t help but stroll happily in B.A. – to nearby Recoleta Cemetary, Argentina’s Arlington Cemetery. The cemetery is more like a city unto itself. Rather than bury their dead below ground, Argentines build upwards. They compete with one another to build the most elegant, grandiose, ego-stoking memorials to their dead possible. The result is pedestrian alleyways, streets and highways of mausoleums of all shapes, sizes, colors and materials, garnished by statues, crucifixes, gargoyles, life-sized likenesses, and stone-cast eulogies, interspersed with large trees, lamp posts a disproportionate number of cats. In short, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, and is maybe the only place I can think of where small numbers of camera-toting tourists provide some reassurance. We spent a couple of hours in there gaggling at the different structures and snapping pictures outside of Evita Peron’s family tomb and that of Domingo Sarmiento (don’t ask, it’s a history dork thing).
Which brings us to the highlight of the afternoon – the Rugby World Cup semi-final elimination game between traditional powerhouse South Africa and the upstart, Cinderella, Pumas of Argentina. I’ve snapped millions of pictures this foray, because I can’t seem to impress upon people enough – or convince them for that matter – that this is not Mexico down here. There are no dusty roads, no cacti, no little guys in sombreros sitting in the shade, heads covered, nursing a jug of tequila. Why do I bring this up now? It’s simply one more example of how in many ways this city is the New York of Latin America. In all my travels, other than the books at Vegas, this was the best sports bar, in terms of overall enthusiasm and viewing capability, I’ve ever been in.
Like the soccer game the day before, the place was jammed with Puma jersey wearing, foaming at the mouth, Argentine rugby fans. Everywhere one looked there were mega-screen sized TVs showing the game, or highlights from previous games, seasons and glorious moments. AC/DC, Korn, Guns n’ Roses and other samplings of American rock music blared over the speakers. Different shades of neon lights alternatively added to the ambiance. The Quilmes (the Budweiser of Argentina) folks were of course there, handing out free hats, rugby balls and t-shirts. The menu was typical sports bar, of which we took every bit of our u$s 35 ($35 for two for a game at a sports bar – I’d double that at home). Approaching countdown, we knew we were in for another wild time.
Our fellow patrons didn’t disappoint, though the team finally did. As happens with all teams that are still learning, growing, clawing toward establishing a tradition of excellence, the Argentines were simply bulldozed by a better, traditional powerhouse South African Springbok team. Which isn’t to say the Pumas didn’t play a good game. On the contrary, there were portions of it where they dominated the kicking game, field position and the passing lanes. But they made far too many mistakes: dropped passes, a couple of ill-advised pitches, and missing kicks for points. In the end, they dropped the game 36-17. Typical of rugby, the end of the game turned violent, the Argentines losing their cool (Argentines are big. If you want to picture an Argentine, look eastward to Italy or Germany, not south to Mexico.) Equally cool, even after punches are thrown and high tackles made, once the game is over, all shake hands and hug, even kiss, something many American sports stars could stand to learn – a little class.
The Locos por Futbol crowd rocked its way all the way through the game, providing a show in the show for us, the yankee foreigners from way up north. As always, folks looked out for us, and then, upon learning we can hold our own with the language, made us feel at home. A great time – a great weekend, the third such in a row we’ve enjoyed down here. We’ve now experienced most of the sights and sounds of B.A., Oktoberfest in European-style Villa General Belgrano, and the best in sports that Argentina has to offer (though we still need to get to a Boca Juniors game). Next weekend we’re off to the country again for a stay at one of Argentina’s cultural and historical icons – San Antonio del Areco’s famed “Estancias,” or ranches, home to Argentina’s gaucho (cowboy) culture – for BBQs, horseback riding, hammocks and time amongst solitary, guitar-strumming, mate-toting, ballad singing gauchos unchanged for hundreds of years. If the previous weekends are any indication, we’ll have plenty to write home about.
Burnett, 10/14/07
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
El Ombu
Last weekend we experienced another part of the Argentine culture. We went to an "estancia' (aka: ranch) in San Antonio de Areco which is 2 hours from Buenos Aires by bus. We rode in a "coche cama"—which, literally translated means sleeping car. The seats are further apart providing more legroom and they recline almost completely--similar to first class seats on an airplane or your dad’s Lazyboy recliner.
Jeff and I woke up early Saturday morning to catch our bus and arrived in SA de Areco to enjoy some great weather. The coche cama dropped us off at a small bus terminal just off the main interstate. Jeff pulled out a piece of paper he scribbled some information on the night before and called the only taxi service referenced in The Lonely Planet book. Our taxi driver, “Remis”, was an older gentleman with a very thick Argentine accent. Even Jeff seemed to have trouble understanding him. Because of this, we weren’t sure if Remis knew where to take us. Jeff clearly said “El Ombu” and Remis would repeat, “Asi, ahl Obbus”. “Mrre..arhh..mffes…” (That’s what it sounded like to me.) Our drive to the estancia was only 4 miles or so, but it seemed longer for some reason. We turned off the main highway onto a long stretch of dirt road. It made sense we would have to travel along one in order to reach a place fit for a gaucho to call home. The road was bumpy and it reminded us of our trip to the NaPali coast where we had to ride back to the resort in a van full of tired, dirty tourists but that’s a story for another time. When we reached the estancia we were greeted by one of the staff. Jeff and I were expecting to check in, but instead, we were taken directly to see our room and received a tour of the premises. Let me say that the estancia was every bit as charming in person, if not more than the images we saw online. The staff was absolutely wonderful. According to the Lonely Planet book, it’s the best estancia in SA de Areco. In case you’re curious to see what it looks like, click on the link to visit their website:
http://www.estanciaelombu.com/
As you can see from the pictures, it’s very beautiful.
All of the guests were treated to “almuerzo” or lunch, which happened to be parillada (BBQ). They had the best cuts of lomo (some kind of tender steak), chorizo (sausage), and ribs, potato salad (ie. potatoes, onions, and eggs), a house salad (ie. lettuce, tomatoes, olive oil and salt), and pan (bread). Dessert was helado (ice cream). During the time they were serving helados, Oscar, the main gaucho on the estancia, told tales of the gaucho life by singing and playing his guitar. Very much like tango music, he sang about sad times and lost love.
After almuerzo, we walked around the farm a little while and waited for our food to settle. There were quite a few activities to choose from--horseback riding, biking, swimming, billiards, foosball, ping-pong, or relaxing in the shade on the veranda. We opted to go for a ride on horseback and enjoyed it so much that we ended up riding horses three times during our 24hr stay. Jeff is a pro on horseback and managed to get the horses to gallop, trot, turn, stop, and go. My horses only obeyed two of my commands—stop. That’s only one command. On occasion, I was able to get them to trot so that makes two. For the most part, I had to wait for my horse to decide if it felt like moving which usually only happened when other horses nearby decided to charge forward. I just watched Jeff ride off ahead hoping my horse would follow suit. Jeff had to ask one of the gauchos to help spur on my horse so it would catch up with the pack. It was so much fun when I finally felt the horse gallop. Later, we took a walk along the border of the neighboring estancia and continued to enjoy the fresh air and amazing scenery. It felt like being home.
As it became time for “la cena” (dinner), Jeff wasn’t feeling well so he opted to forego his meal and decided lay down. He didn’t miss much. They served boiled chicken and mashed potatoes. The next morning, we went on one last horseback ride and took a taxi back to the bus terminal. We took one backpack with our valuables and left our other bags with the guy who works at the terminal. As I understand from Jeff, that’s not something you can or should do in just any part of South America, however SA de Areco is a lot like the town of Mayberry--nobody locks the doors and it’s common to see bikes unchained.
We walked around town and followed the map to a park and the Rio Areco (Areco River). Situated about a ½ mile past the river, you can find the Museo Gauchesco Ricardo Guiraldes. The museum features gauchesco art, literature, a wall full of branding iron symbols, gaucho attire, etc. One room housed all of the gear a gaucho used everyday to function on the estancia. (ie. knives, lasso, a longer blade knife, bolero.) In the paintings we saw on the wall of the museum, gauchos looked half pirate, half cowboy. One thing that added to my experience at the gaucho museum and El Ombu was listening to Jeff share some insight with me about the history of the world during the time of the gaucho and how their views and way of life differed from other Argentines who lived in Buenos Aires. I love having my own personal historian. It’s a great perk! Poor picked on Jeff was a trooper and made it through the weekend despite having to deal with the traveling bug in his system. The bug decided to calm down about 20 minutes before we made it back to BA. If you ever take a trip to South America and need to get away from the city life, I suggest you check it out. You won’t be disappointed.
Jeff and I woke up early Saturday morning to catch our bus and arrived in SA de Areco to enjoy some great weather. The coche cama dropped us off at a small bus terminal just off the main interstate. Jeff pulled out a piece of paper he scribbled some information on the night before and called the only taxi service referenced in The Lonely Planet book. Our taxi driver, “Remis”, was an older gentleman with a very thick Argentine accent. Even Jeff seemed to have trouble understanding him. Because of this, we weren’t sure if Remis knew where to take us. Jeff clearly said “El Ombu” and Remis would repeat, “Asi, ahl Obbus”. “Mrre..arhh..mffes…” (That’s what it sounded like to me.) Our drive to the estancia was only 4 miles or so, but it seemed longer for some reason. We turned off the main highway onto a long stretch of dirt road. It made sense we would have to travel along one in order to reach a place fit for a gaucho to call home. The road was bumpy and it reminded us of our trip to the NaPali coast where we had to ride back to the resort in a van full of tired, dirty tourists but that’s a story for another time. When we reached the estancia we were greeted by one of the staff. Jeff and I were expecting to check in, but instead, we were taken directly to see our room and received a tour of the premises. Let me say that the estancia was every bit as charming in person, if not more than the images we saw online. The staff was absolutely wonderful. According to the Lonely Planet book, it’s the best estancia in SA de Areco. In case you’re curious to see what it looks like, click on the link to visit their website:
http://www.estanciaelombu.com/
As you can see from the pictures, it’s very beautiful.
All of the guests were treated to “almuerzo” or lunch, which happened to be parillada (BBQ). They had the best cuts of lomo (some kind of tender steak), chorizo (sausage), and ribs, potato salad (ie. potatoes, onions, and eggs), a house salad (ie. lettuce, tomatoes, olive oil and salt), and pan (bread). Dessert was helado (ice cream). During the time they were serving helados, Oscar, the main gaucho on the estancia, told tales of the gaucho life by singing and playing his guitar. Very much like tango music, he sang about sad times and lost love.
After almuerzo, we walked around the farm a little while and waited for our food to settle. There were quite a few activities to choose from--horseback riding, biking, swimming, billiards, foosball, ping-pong, or relaxing in the shade on the veranda. We opted to go for a ride on horseback and enjoyed it so much that we ended up riding horses three times during our 24hr stay. Jeff is a pro on horseback and managed to get the horses to gallop, trot, turn, stop, and go. My horses only obeyed two of my commands—stop. That’s only one command. On occasion, I was able to get them to trot so that makes two. For the most part, I had to wait for my horse to decide if it felt like moving which usually only happened when other horses nearby decided to charge forward. I just watched Jeff ride off ahead hoping my horse would follow suit. Jeff had to ask one of the gauchos to help spur on my horse so it would catch up with the pack. It was so much fun when I finally felt the horse gallop. Later, we took a walk along the border of the neighboring estancia and continued to enjoy the fresh air and amazing scenery. It felt like being home.
As it became time for “la cena” (dinner), Jeff wasn’t feeling well so he opted to forego his meal and decided lay down. He didn’t miss much. They served boiled chicken and mashed potatoes. The next morning, we went on one last horseback ride and took a taxi back to the bus terminal. We took one backpack with our valuables and left our other bags with the guy who works at the terminal. As I understand from Jeff, that’s not something you can or should do in just any part of South America, however SA de Areco is a lot like the town of Mayberry--nobody locks the doors and it’s common to see bikes unchained.
We walked around town and followed the map to a park and the Rio Areco (Areco River). Situated about a ½ mile past the river, you can find the Museo Gauchesco Ricardo Guiraldes. The museum features gauchesco art, literature, a wall full of branding iron symbols, gaucho attire, etc. One room housed all of the gear a gaucho used everyday to function on the estancia. (ie. knives, lasso, a longer blade knife, bolero.) In the paintings we saw on the wall of the museum, gauchos looked half pirate, half cowboy. One thing that added to my experience at the gaucho museum and El Ombu was listening to Jeff share some insight with me about the history of the world during the time of the gaucho and how their views and way of life differed from other Argentines who lived in Buenos Aires. I love having my own personal historian. It’s a great perk! Poor picked on Jeff was a trooper and made it through the weekend despite having to deal with the traveling bug in his system. The bug decided to calm down about 20 minutes before we made it back to BA. If you ever take a trip to South America and need to get away from the city life, I suggest you check it out. You won’t be disappointed.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Day to Day
Click on the link to view pictures: http://www.msnusers.com/BurnettWongFamily
Buenos Aires has kept us on our toes since we arrived. This city is constant energy, movement, sights and sounds. I’m told it rivals New York in terms of neighborhoods, variety of cultures, entertainment opportunities, and hustle and bustle. I wouldn’t really know, so I won’t attempt the comparison. What I can say is that I love it, daresay, we love it, in spite of the fact that we daily pay some form of the “stupid tax,” as I call it (which I pay on a monthly basis anyway in terms of washing/drying clothes I shouldn’t, parking my car where I shouldn’t, leaving the A/C on too long, etc.).
Our apartment, in the middle of the cushy Belgrano neighborhood, is entirely too big and nice for us. It’s one of two on the entire floor. Three bedrooms, something like five bathrooms, gigantic kitchen and sitting areas – occupied by we who showed up with a few suitcases in hand. We literally occupy one wing of the place, maybe a third of it overall. There’s an gelato store just around the corner we patronize nightly. Local fruit stands, flower shacks and restaurants selling everything from alfahores to empanadas to Armenian food surround us. People walk all kinds of dogs and sometimes neglect to pick up after them. It’s not uncommon to see someone surrounded by 15 randomly-selected dogs, his/her job to walk them all. The streets are tree lined, clustered with apartment buildings even nicer than ours and small businesses. Surprisingly, the local LDS church is a mere few blocks away. The subway station is on the next street over. Chinatown is a ten-minute walk, while chic Las Canitas and Palermo are a short walk or taxi drive in the direction of downtown, from which we’re 5-6 subway stops or a 20 minute drive. Just how I like it.
People are friendly to very friendly. I fool about half of them (probably those I speak with less) about my origins into thinking I’m Argentine, whereas the rest will guess either Puerto Rican, Spanish or “norteamericano.” I work hard at this accent, not so much for the vocabulary, some of which differs from the majority of Latin America (as does Argentina more generally), but for the soft-sounding, ear-pleasing “ll” and “y” sounds, pronounced as y’s elsewhere, sh’s here. Our security guys look out for us around here, for which they’re treated to the occasional ice cream. Of course, none of this is to say that one doesn’t constantly have to be on guard, which gets a little tiring. Before you go thinking of Mexico, or confirming a stereotype, it’s not too different than living and working in L.A. or D.C. Pedestrians are constantly reminded that the biggest object on the road rules them all. Some taxi drivers will provide you with a tour of the city if you don’t know where you’re going. Driving resembles Nascar (though in all my travels I’ve still yet to see an accident). A first for me in all my travels, I lost my wallet, a sickening feeling when all the way around the world (we’ve thankfully recovered nicely, and I was at least smart enough to not have too much or cards in the thing anyway). Food bought at the grocery store is actually delivered to one’s home free of charge – though as we found today, one of our pizzas and some medialunas con jamon y queso (croissants with ham and cheese) are probably being eaten right now for someone’s lunch. Certain neighborhoods are no-no’s. We had a flight canceled on us to get back to B.A. from 350 mile-away Cordoba, and were basically told “good luck.” Refreshingly, very few down here know how to drawl “spare a little chaaaange,” I haven’t missed that at all. The subways and buses are jammed – be anything less than ready and you can miss your stop by miles while trying to part the Red Sea of surrounding people. Taken together, I suppose I would say that it’s big-city living, Latin American style. Actually, nicer than almost all of Latin America that I’ve seen, while neither better nor worse than home, merely different. People make it work. Like anywhere else, it’s corrupt, slow, wearying, sometimes dangerous. On the other hand, it’s loaded with culture, pleasant parks and strolls, and adventure for those willing to take the bad with the good.
I can’t recall a time when I have eaten so well. While many prices are climbing, sometimes putting the city on par with the cost of DC or even a little beyond, food/drink isn’t there yet. I’ve eaten more red meat in the last three weeks than I have in the past five years combined. I’ve rediscovered “churipanes,” their version of bratwursts, that are accounting for a disproportionate number of calories in my diet. We’ve had superb Chinese sweet and sour chicken, savory pastas and lasagnas, Turkish cuisine (embassy function), scrumptious desserts, one too many alfajores (Argentine cookies filled with the caramel-like “dulce de leche”), too much ham and cheese, and the granddaddy of all Argentine cuisine – loads, heaps, heart-killing quantities of every kind of savory meat one can imagine. Pork, chicken, beef; ribs, flank steak, tenderloin, T-bone; liver, kidneys, intestines, even the highly-regarded blood sausage. All much better than the meat from home. I really can’t overstate the case here – it’s simply incredible. In sum, as I try to picture our culinary experience here visually, the Scrooge movie with Albert Finney comes to mind, specifically the scene where he beholds the Ghost of Christmas Present, surrounded by a roomful of what must be the world’s finest food and drink. Yes, I like life, Argentine life, and Argentine life likes me.
Weekdays are fairly standard, much like home, though I will say that I’m quite enjoying getting to work at 9:00 and leaving at 6:00. Capable, independent, trooper Shay leaves before I do, taking a bus to get to her Spanish school, which she’s enjoying, and learning more and more from every day. She finishes up at 1:00 or so, comes home, eats some lunch, does her “exercises,” and spends a few hours working remotely via her laptop here in the apartment. I take a short subway ride over to the Embassy, a somewhat forlorn looking structure, surrounded by fences and lines of people waiting for visas to take on the American dream. I won’t speak too much to my work, which deals generally with both the presidential elections due up here on October 28 and trip prep for the Ambassador. People I work with have been nice, very happy to have the extra set of hands to help out, and complimentary. I’m learning that while enjoy living abroad, I’m not convinced that the Foreign Service is for me – which was one of the reasons to come down here. I get home, we change clothes and usually head out on the town, stopping at the any number of dinner options that catch our attention. When we’re lazy, we’ve collected enough magnets and menus to be able to order in. EVERYTHING in this city is deliverable, minimum orders being almost nothing – a very nice convenience.
Buenos Aires has kept us on our toes since we arrived. This city is constant energy, movement, sights and sounds. I’m told it rivals New York in terms of neighborhoods, variety of cultures, entertainment opportunities, and hustle and bustle. I wouldn’t really know, so I won’t attempt the comparison. What I can say is that I love it, daresay, we love it, in spite of the fact that we daily pay some form of the “stupid tax,” as I call it (which I pay on a monthly basis anyway in terms of washing/drying clothes I shouldn’t, parking my car where I shouldn’t, leaving the A/C on too long, etc.).
Our apartment, in the middle of the cushy Belgrano neighborhood, is entirely too big and nice for us. It’s one of two on the entire floor. Three bedrooms, something like five bathrooms, gigantic kitchen and sitting areas – occupied by we who showed up with a few suitcases in hand. We literally occupy one wing of the place, maybe a third of it overall. There’s an gelato store just around the corner we patronize nightly. Local fruit stands, flower shacks and restaurants selling everything from alfahores to empanadas to Armenian food surround us. People walk all kinds of dogs and sometimes neglect to pick up after them. It’s not uncommon to see someone surrounded by 15 randomly-selected dogs, his/her job to walk them all. The streets are tree lined, clustered with apartment buildings even nicer than ours and small businesses. Surprisingly, the local LDS church is a mere few blocks away. The subway station is on the next street over. Chinatown is a ten-minute walk, while chic Las Canitas and Palermo are a short walk or taxi drive in the direction of downtown, from which we’re 5-6 subway stops or a 20 minute drive. Just how I like it.
People are friendly to very friendly. I fool about half of them (probably those I speak with less) about my origins into thinking I’m Argentine, whereas the rest will guess either Puerto Rican, Spanish or “norteamericano.” I work hard at this accent, not so much for the vocabulary, some of which differs from the majority of Latin America (as does Argentina more generally), but for the soft-sounding, ear-pleasing “ll” and “y” sounds, pronounced as y’s elsewhere, sh’s here. Our security guys look out for us around here, for which they’re treated to the occasional ice cream. Of course, none of this is to say that one doesn’t constantly have to be on guard, which gets a little tiring. Before you go thinking of Mexico, or confirming a stereotype, it’s not too different than living and working in L.A. or D.C. Pedestrians are constantly reminded that the biggest object on the road rules them all. Some taxi drivers will provide you with a tour of the city if you don’t know where you’re going. Driving resembles Nascar (though in all my travels I’ve still yet to see an accident). A first for me in all my travels, I lost my wallet, a sickening feeling when all the way around the world (we’ve thankfully recovered nicely, and I was at least smart enough to not have too much or cards in the thing anyway). Food bought at the grocery store is actually delivered to one’s home free of charge – though as we found today, one of our pizzas and some medialunas con jamon y queso (croissants with ham and cheese) are probably being eaten right now for someone’s lunch. Certain neighborhoods are no-no’s. We had a flight canceled on us to get back to B.A. from 350 mile-away Cordoba, and were basically told “good luck.” Refreshingly, very few down here know how to drawl “spare a little chaaaange,” I haven’t missed that at all. The subways and buses are jammed – be anything less than ready and you can miss your stop by miles while trying to part the Red Sea of surrounding people. Taken together, I suppose I would say that it’s big-city living, Latin American style. Actually, nicer than almost all of Latin America that I’ve seen, while neither better nor worse than home, merely different. People make it work. Like anywhere else, it’s corrupt, slow, wearying, sometimes dangerous. On the other hand, it’s loaded with culture, pleasant parks and strolls, and adventure for those willing to take the bad with the good.
I can’t recall a time when I have eaten so well. While many prices are climbing, sometimes putting the city on par with the cost of DC or even a little beyond, food/drink isn’t there yet. I’ve eaten more red meat in the last three weeks than I have in the past five years combined. I’ve rediscovered “churipanes,” their version of bratwursts, that are accounting for a disproportionate number of calories in my diet. We’ve had superb Chinese sweet and sour chicken, savory pastas and lasagnas, Turkish cuisine (embassy function), scrumptious desserts, one too many alfajores (Argentine cookies filled with the caramel-like “dulce de leche”), too much ham and cheese, and the granddaddy of all Argentine cuisine – loads, heaps, heart-killing quantities of every kind of savory meat one can imagine. Pork, chicken, beef; ribs, flank steak, tenderloin, T-bone; liver, kidneys, intestines, even the highly-regarded blood sausage. All much better than the meat from home. I really can’t overstate the case here – it’s simply incredible. In sum, as I try to picture our culinary experience here visually, the Scrooge movie with Albert Finney comes to mind, specifically the scene where he beholds the Ghost of Christmas Present, surrounded by a roomful of what must be the world’s finest food and drink. Yes, I like life, Argentine life, and Argentine life likes me.
Weekdays are fairly standard, much like home, though I will say that I’m quite enjoying getting to work at 9:00 and leaving at 6:00. Capable, independent, trooper Shay leaves before I do, taking a bus to get to her Spanish school, which she’s enjoying, and learning more and more from every day. She finishes up at 1:00 or so, comes home, eats some lunch, does her “exercises,” and spends a few hours working remotely via her laptop here in the apartment. I take a short subway ride over to the Embassy, a somewhat forlorn looking structure, surrounded by fences and lines of people waiting for visas to take on the American dream. I won’t speak too much to my work, which deals generally with both the presidential elections due up here on October 28 and trip prep for the Ambassador. People I work with have been nice, very happy to have the extra set of hands to help out, and complimentary. I’m learning that while enjoy living abroad, I’m not convinced that the Foreign Service is for me – which was one of the reasons to come down here. I get home, we change clothes and usually head out on the town, stopping at the any number of dinner options that catch our attention. When we’re lazy, we’ve collected enough magnets and menus to be able to order in. EVERYTHING in this city is deliverable, minimum orders being almost nothing – a very nice convenience.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Wednesday 9/26
Jeff and I went for a walk in our barrio (neighborhood) and found the small LDS chapel which is about 4 blocks away. We went inside for a bit and realized we were not in the meeting house, but rather the institute building that is situated next door to the chapel. It was a really nice building. They have rooms labeled after some of the prophets both old and new. Jeff took me there so I could experience the feeling of being in a familiar place.
We walked a few more blocks to his friend Sebastian's place. Sebastian is from Argentina but speaks fluent english. Very nice guy--one of Jeff's classmates from San Diego. He greeted me with the Argentine kiss (basically touching cheeks while kissing the air). He told me that he and Jeff greet each other the same way too. Very funny guy. I could see Jeff pull away ever so slightly. It reminded me of the movie Tommy Boy where Chris Farley's character tells his new step brother (Rob Lowe) as they are meeting for the first time, "Brothers don't shake hands--brothers hug".
Sebastian's parents were in town so we met them as well--very nice people. They were having tea and visiting with Sebastian before leaving to see his brother for dinner that evening. We visited with them for awhile until his parents had to leave. Both Jeff and I were starving and wanted to go to dinner around 8pm, but Sebastian reminded us of the fact that Argentines don't eat until about 9 pm or later. It took us awhile to figure out what to do for dinner--whether to go out to eat somewhere or call on of the numerous places in the area and have it delivered. Side note: Sebastian and his wife, Andrea have a fridge full of magnets for all of the surrounding businesses in their barrio. You can have pretty much everything delivered to you including helado (gelato/ Italian ice cream. mmm). We didn't sit down to eat until about 10:00pm.
We walked about a 1/4 mile down the streets to one of Jeff's favorite Argentine restaurants (although I can't remember the name of it to save my life.) I do know it was voted one of the best places in town to get Parilla--a meat lover's dream come true. Parilla or as the say in Argentina "parisha" is a mound of various cuts of meats that include: sausage, chicken, tenderloin, intestine (Jeff liked it, me--not so much), the throat lining (not bad with lemon and salt), blood sausage (I'll let Jeff comment on this one), liver, and other cuts of juicy steak. Andrea met us there after class (she's taking english lessons). The meal was wonderful but neither one of us is used to eating that late so we both felt like we were about to pop. I felt like I'd swallowed a 5 pound bowling ball.
Dinner ended around 11:30pm and we all piled into a taxi to get back home. It was a great evening with only one snag which we didn't find out about until the next morning--Jeff's wallet was nowhere to be found. We think it fell out of his pocket after he paid the taxi driver. What a morning--both of us had a meat hang over and Jeff was supposed to be at a breakfast at the embassy for the department he is reporting to, but ended up having to call the office to let them know he would be coming in later. We scrambled that morning looking everywhere to see if we had misplaced it somewhere in the apartment. Once we realized it wasn't here, he had to rush to work in order to call the bank to cancel his card. Thankfully, no fraudulent transactions were made. I think we lost about $130USD in cash, Jeff's driver's license, and his medical insurance card. Being able to cancel the card that day before anything else happened--priceless. Jeff is still sad about his license and so am I. I'm going to have to do any driving here if we decide to rent a car and I'm not looking forward to it.
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