Romancing Argentina

Argentina: Add Spice & Feel Your Oats!

2011-08-06T13:41:00.001-03:00

Chili peppers and oatmeal may be the most notable "cultural markers" of my culinary life here. Northern friends who visit are always surprised by the lack of hot and spicy Argentine dishes. And if you hated oatmeal as a child, don't worry, no one is going to offer it to you.

THE ARGENTINE CHILI AVERSION

Oh sure, they add a teaspoon of dried mild chili pepper in a "chimichurri," a sauce for grilled meats, but when I add a little chopped jalapeno to rice or a teaspoon of powdered chipotle to a tomato soup or sauce, the locals decline with a fervor that borders on rudeness. (Mind you, I had to grow my own or beg them from Bolivian immigrants until the French supermarket chain Carrefour came to town!)

A little trivia: The really hot chili pepper here is called "aji puta pario," or politely, "aji de la mala palabra," since "puta" means "whore. No matter what chili it is, it is generally considered unfit for consumption.

Why the aversion to chilies? It seems they ascribe to the myth that chili peppers are bad for one's health, especially the stomach. (However, health reasons not prevent them from gorging themselves on red meat and refined sugar and flour.) What a pity, I think, since the research shows that chili peppers actually can protect the stomach lining and reduce cardiovascular disease, among other good things, as noted:

Recent research tells us that hot chili peppers are an up-and-coming health power. A laboratory study in the United Kingdom, for instance, found that capsaicin, which is responsible for the burning sensation chilies provide, can kill lung and pancreatic cancer cells without
harming the surrounding cells. Researchers believe this may explain why people living in Mexico and India, who eat a spicy diet, tend to have lower rates of some cancers than those eating a bland Western diet.

Our friend Carlos, more open-minded, adds, "It's just custom, really."

He's right of course. Habits are never about science. All of us have cultural preferences and taboos that we adopted unthinkingly as kids...and then our rational mind insists on making up some acceptable reason for what we do. As Jonathan Haidt described it, the mind is like a rider atop an elephant--the elephant chooses the direction, and the rider makes up a convincing rationale. This is as true of North Americans as it is of South Americans (who do consider this one continent, but that is another story).

Listening to the rationales for customs here sensitized me to my own cultural customs--and the silly reasons we make up for them.

For example, you will have hunt for iced coffee and tea (or ask the waiter to bring a glass with ice and make your own). At the same time, folks tell me that the reason they eat a cold buffet on Christmas Eve is that "we live where it is very hot." So why not serve more cold meals the rest of summer, e.g., chef salads? Why not put ice in your drinks?

It's usually best not to ask those kinds of questions of others until you look at your own habits first.

In the U.S., I often was guilty of putting gobs of butter on slices of Italian bread while waiting for my entree while eating out until I tried olive oil and balsamic vinegar at a posh Italian restaurant in the U.S. Here the waiter brings an organ-based pate (and in cheaper cafes, a bowl of marinated "nervios," which I'm told are some cow innards). You will never see a plate with celery and carrot sticks on an Argentine table, and I've made a recent rule to decline all those cheese and meat-based appetizers that precede a heavy meat entree at parties and restaurants.

WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST?

Argentinians have actually made gagging noises when the subject of North American breakfasts comes up. Why? They jump out of bed like the Energizer bunny, grab their mate or coffee and down a some medialunas or crackers with roquefort cheese, and then head for the office or school. When I explain that health-conscious U.S. Americans do not stuff themselves with eggs, bacon, and muffins at 7 a.m., they get a little more curious. Roberto loves to tell them all about OUR tradition, which is a super-duper version of oatmeal, and how his cholesterol has dropped to the point that he ditched the meds. It's been important for me in losing considerable weight and improving my health, and the research backs this up and more. (Thanks, Mom, for sharing your updated oatmeal recipe!)

"Oatmeal?" my friends ask with a raised eyebrow. "We only serve that as a soup for toddlers and young children!" So Sunday evening at the home of our dear friends in Don Torcuato, I ran to the store and picked up oats, dried peaches, almonds, and brown sugar. In about 5 minutes they had a steaming bowl of fruit- and nut-studded "hot granola," as I imaginatively christened it. They appeared to like it! (Okay, I did put a pat of butter in the bottom of the bowl as I always have, rather than cream or milk. And thanks, Mom, for sharing the updated version of the family classic.) Of course walnuts, sliced fresh fruit, and berries are other options.

Living here has encouraged me to pick up some healthier habits, though in general, it seems that Argentines eat too much meat and refined carbs and too little fresh (or lightly cooked) vegetables. I eat less fried chicken and more grilled chicken, and have developed a taste for mussels. Given the good olive oils coming from the Mendoza and San Juan wine regions, it just made good sense to forget buttering veggies. Even so, I still like to add a bit of chili pepper!

Perhaps more than anything, I've become accustomed to eating local food in season, fixed fresh whether at home or dining out. Forget chain restaurants with frozen "portion-control" chicken breasts and factory-processed foods. Given that Argentina produces dairy, beef, grains, vegetables, and fruits, it means the only things that I really need to import to enjoy tasty, healthy meals here are coffee and chocolate!

Here's a challenge for you: What food habits would you refuse to change if you lived in an environment that thought they were disgusting or strange? What strange or disgusting foods would you be willing to try?

Malos Aires? Volcanic Ash Reaches Buenos Aires and My Favorite Argentine Resort

2011-06-08T16:00:00.000-03:00

Here's a Russian Television video, complete with lightning, of the spectacular ash plume spreading from the Puyehue volcano just over the border in Chile. In this next video you can see plows attacking the ash in the area of Villa La Angostura, my favorite Argentine resort, as if it were snow. . .but of course it is not going to attract any skiers this season, which starts in two weeks. Reminds me of all that lake snow I used to shovel in upstate New York, compliments of the cold air coming from Canada over Lake Ontario. Guess it shows that Nature knows no boundaries. Do you suppose there are some folks up in Oswego NY who might like to come down with their monster plows and lend a hand?

Flights were canceled at Buenos Aires airports earlier this week, though the latest news says the shifting winds will carry the ash to parts of Chile (where many residents are defying evacuation orders, alas). By the way, Chile has more volcanoes (500ish) than any country besides Indonesia. Makes me glad I'm a 10-hour drive away.

Surprising Benefits of a Two-Hour Lunch

2011-05-13T18:38:00.000-03:00

One of the most dramatic changes in my lifestyle revolves around lunch.

Here in Argentina's interior, where life is slower, folks stop working by 1 pm and go home for a hot lunch. No eating at one's desk. No drive-thrus. No ordering pizza for delivery. Not even Campbell's soup or Ramen noodles. Gone are my days of going out with colleagues for a quick bite in a trendy bakery or cafe. (Sniff...)

The "two-hour lunch" has taken new meaning. It takes about that much time total, I'd guess, when I figure the total prep, eating, and clean up time for lunch for me and Roberto. Luckily I work in my home office, so when I take my 11 or 12 o'clock break, I can do a little prior prep, then go back to work, and just check on things periodically. Beans can simmer, bread can bake, or chicken or pumpkin can roast away, filling the air with delicious aromas.

Sitting down to eat leisurely at the dining table with my dearly beloved is now one of our most entrenched rituals. The place mats and cloth napkins come out of hiding, and today we even used candles as the sky is very overcast. Much of the year we can transport all this outside and eat under flowering trees. We conclude the meal with a small coffee followed by a quick clean up and back to work.

At first I adamantly resisted giving any importance to the midday meal, but over time I have come to appreciate its many benefits:

1) Better Nutrition. I am eating healthier food (chef salads, savory vegetable soups, well balanced overall meals). We eat almost no processed foods, except canned tomatoes and jams.

2) Quality Couple Time. Roberto and I enjoy quality time with each other, sharing news, stories, and small pleasantries, while savoring the taste of each dish, and at times doing the preparation and clean up together.

3) More Daily Grace and Beauty. The beauty of the table and setting themselves put a smile on my face. (What a treat having a partner whose sense of aesthetics extends to choosing complementary colors for linens and dishes!)

4) Greater Perspective. It puts work in perspective by giving me a solid break. Interestingly, it allows for some incubation as well as input from my very well read out-of-the-box thinking husband.

5) More Energy and Focus. Given the good nutritious lunch, I'm seldom tempted to snack in the afternoon, except for a late day smoothie (okay, and the occasional brownie) and can work with good focus. I have plenty of energy for the rest of the day.

Argentinians do know how to eat leisurely (if not always well). As the menu of my favorite local restaurant, the Savelli, says, "Those who knows how to eat know how to wait." And I'd add, "and they know how to savor a meal slowly."

And I'm really glad that my Argentine husband will eat anything I fix and has become quite the international breakfast and dinner chef himself. Plus I never have to call him twice to come to the table!

U.S. Americans in Buenos Aires: the New Expat Mecca

2011-04-25T00:26:00.000-03:00

Looking for an expat Mecca? It looks like North Americans have found it in Buenos Aires.

La Nacion reports today that there are more immigrants to Buenos Aires from the USA than anywhere else, if you the exclude neighboring countries of Bolivia, Paraguay, Peru, Chile, Uruguay, and Brazil. Over 26,000 U.S. citizens are documented as living in Argentina’s largest city, while it is guesstimated that more like 60,000 are actually calling the once Paris of South America home.

Documentation is actually a bit tricky since the U.S. census does not count expats. Besides, many live here as either illegally or by renewing their tourist visa every three months by crossing the river into Uruguay to get their passport stamped anew.

“They come as tourists, others as students, and even newly retired persons. But they quickly fall in love with its city—its artistic activity, cuisine, nightlife, and devalued currency—and decide to grow roots in this land,” writes journalist Evangelina Himitian for the national newspaper. (Click here for full article in Spanish.)

Buenos Aires and Peking show up as the two new popular expat destinations for U.S. Americans, according to a study by University of Maryland anthropologist Judith Freidenberg, a native Argentinian. Far and away, the largest U.S. expat communities however are in Mexico and Canada, with over two million each. There are just 10,000 in Peking. (Do you suppose the language has something to do with this?).

Freidenberg divides the immigrants into four classes:

(1) Students who come to learn, have a great time, and then decide to stay, living off their parents and/or by teaching English. (This and the next group share tips and adventures a lot at www.baexpatforum.com, by the way.)

(2) The twenty-somethings who are taking an early sabbatical, many of whom end up working in call centers operated for clients in English-speaking countries. They often choose to live in the hip barrios of San Telmo and Palermo.

(3) The young professionals, possibly affected by the recession, who figure they can live better here by working for a multinational or starting a small business.

(4) Retired middle-class persons who sell their U.S. home and get a nice apartment in Buenos Aires and live better than at home.

I'm going to add the class of “fools for love,” which describes me and my closest expat friends here! And while no one in their right mind would move here for the politics, I've been intrigued by the older norteamericanas whose passion for the tango brought them here.

In a country of 40 million Argentinians, can the new immigrants influence the culture? Probably not yet, though over a century ago, political philosopher Juan Bautista Alberdi advocated increased immigration from the U.S., England, and France in order to bolster a pathetic work ethic, which continues to this day, according to my own cultural informants here. Will this modern-day wave from the North make a dent in the increasingly anti-capitalistic trajectory of the current dictatorial President? Probably not, especially since most won't even be voting, but surely these folks will have a good time until inflation and joblessness end the party for everyone. Meanwhile, I plan to enjoy the company.

Welcome, compatriots!

Vive Los Oscars!

2011-02-28T02:43:00.002-03:00

For a Southern Californian with movie business kin, watching the annual Academy Awards on TV was as much a revered family ritual as eating Thanksgiving pumpkin pie or hanging Christmas stockings, along with watching all the film credits (and thus being the very last patrons to leave any theater salon).

So here it is Oscar night, and me without access to a real TV. Ayyy! After a desperate search for a live streaming Oscars site (after critiquing the actress’s dresses and hair during the Red Carpet show), I resigned myself to reading. Justin TV had shut off the feed due to the copyright holder's demand, and all other searches led to either to a shoe ad or a direct streaming scam. . . until Roberto found a live stream from Spain of Tinsel Town’s biggest party.

The simultaneous interpreter lets me hear the first half of each utterance, and if the screen does not freeze, I can lip read the rest. If there has been a good joke, I missed it, though what nostalgia to see the Bob Hope clips! Gone are all the commercials--instead, the Spanish panel chats pleasantly until the broadcast resumes. If they were disappointed that their countryman Javier Bardem did not win his second statuette, they diplomatically refrained from saying so. By the way, research shows that the winners live longer than the mere nominees, so we can look forward to decades more of Colin Firth's talent. More Oscars are living the expat life, it seems!

It is really amazing to think that nearly the whole world wants to watch a U.S. guild (can you remember its real name?) give out awards in a rather boring stilted show. Sure, they show some clips and singing, but much of the show is silly banter and long thank you's by and to people who otherwise would escape our notice. After all, only a few minutes is dedicated to the major awards that most people recognize, e.g., Best Film, Best Actress, and Best Actor. And they are almost all English-speaking if not entirely United States.

For whatever reason, it is a global community event. And the show, as always, has run over, and Roberto is snoring softly. But I am determined to find out which film will make history by being this year’s “Best Film.” The list of nominees was just read, though I confess that without a decent theater for 70 km, I haven’t seen a single one. . . though it shouldn’t be too hard to rent any of them. I’ve always used the Oscars as a way of picking films to see more than for affirming any I actually saw.

And now for the winner. . . . Ta dum! Yes! My speech pathologist friend Audrey is not doubt cheering in Kingston, Ontario! And no doubt pirated copies of “The King’s Speech” are already available and will now flood the Argentine video market. Last year, when I complained to one proprietor of a “reputable” rental shop about getting a copy with that tell-tale notice that “this copy is for Academy Award members only” or some such thing, she insisted rather defensively that it was the only way she could stay in business.

What can I say to that? I suspect that the live streaming show that I just finished watching was not “official” either. I feel like a kid sneaking in the “exit” door of the movie house. Not that I ever did that of course, living on a military base. (My dad would have let them throw me in the brig!) Besides, it is free to watch in the U.S.

However, I promise to seek authentic DVDs to rent as my own gesture of thanks to those who bring us such cinematic pleasures. I also offer my congrats to all the winners! And gracias to the Spanish team that reminded me how movies can unite us despite differences in language and culture. And I’d like to thank my husband, who made tonight possible, parents and my family for their steady love and support, and my dear friends. . . .

[Musical theme now to loud to continue; exit stage left.]

Ten Things Argentines Won't Eat?

2011-02-10T14:42:00.001-03:00

By and large, Argentinians are obsessed by food and eating. Social life centers on meals.

Frankly, that’s one of the things I like most about them. Folks here take time to cook and time to sit down and enjoy the food. Yet people do seem rather picky by my standards as a California foodie. The menus seem so limited in ingredients and cooking styles. (One journalist estimated there are only about 25 ingredients commonly used here, in comparison to 80 or 100 in other cuisines.)

So this morning I jumped to the article, “The Ten Foods Argentinians Hate Most” in La Nacion, which reported the findings and commentaries from a recent local survey. Here are the most despised foods, according to what was a nonrandom and apparently only somewhat representative sample:

1. Tripe. Okay, raise your hands: Who wants parts of the cow’s stomach for lunch today? As the writer noted, eating tripe is about as appetizing as swallowing a hot towel. Celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay revived this cheap staple a few years back for his menu. Did it catch on in the UK?

2. Liver. I’m with them on this one. I haven't eaten it since my former husband forced it on me while pregnant (okay, the kids turned out fantastic!). Slabs of glossy organs and coral looking blogs abound in the meat counters, but I'm not ready yet. If I need to raise my blood iron level, I head for chocolate.

3. Cauliflower and Brussels sprouts. Cruciferous veggies, so healthy for us, are pretty hard to find in good condition, especially Brussels sprouts. I adapted an old Martha Stewart recipe that calls for chopping the latter in a food processor and then sautéing with olive oil, onions, and spices. Not for Valentine’s Day dinner, but good! I still have not found the nerve to offer guests a dip with cauliflower and broccoli sprigs as folks here prefer meat and bread before their dinner of meat and potatoes. Actually, vegetables in general seem to be rather unpopular.

4. Roquefort cheese. The blue cheese here works great in salads and other dishes, and posted article comments suggest that the survey respondents were not typical. Alas there is no cheddar cheese, which in a mild form would no doubt be popular. Bland is more or less the order of the day for Argentine foods, including cheeses, of which there are sadly limited varieties. (Please send me cheddar, jack, and feta for my birthday! No customs or postal agent would touch them!)

5. Morcilla/Blood sausage/black pudding. This is a love it or hate it dish. My Scottish heritage must be at work here as I actually like this sausage made from pig’s blood, onions, and spices, if it is well grilled. (Will this make up for skipping the liver?)

6. Polenta. Apparently this is kid food. I think it has potential in other forms, but experimentation with food is not common here. My Argentine husband and guests gobble up corn bread made with polenta meal and raisins. Fried or baked polenta specialties could be such a nice change from all the highly refined wheat flour bread served here when you want to feel “full.”

7. Chinchulines and kidneys. More strange things in the butcher case. Frankly, I have to admire the Argentinians for eating a lot more parts of the cow than I knew existed. Even so, I’ll pass on these and the “nervios” and leave the marinated tongue for my son, who craves it. I once tried to make a version of the steak and kidney pie I ate in England, and even the dog wouldn't touch it.

8. Sushi. Real men don’t eat sushi, according to this poll. Since Argentines eschew fish in general, don’t even try to convince them. Sadly, the only restaurant in my town to add sushi to the menu skipped right over the traditional to embrace the cream cheese rolls. Ugh! I've found some of the makings for sushi and will look for a good youtube instructional video when I get the urge.

9. Gnocchi. This surprised the pollsters as gnocchi has a popular image. I think it fits right in the same category as Kraft mac and cheese. Fast and fattening comfort food.

10. Fish in general. Unpopular in any form. “The truth is that here nobody cares that these marine creatures are high in Omega-3 fatty acids,” the article notes. Argentines scarf down an incredible 143 pounds of beef per person per year according to some reports. And while beef is sold in lots of markets, you have to go to a special fish store to buy fish (or a health food store to get those Omega 3 capsules).

Well…there you have a nonscientific report on what Argentines hate. Of course this only covers the foods that actually exist here. It would be cool to see a report on the most popular.

My short list of disliked Argentine foods, by the way starts with those slimy “nervios” and any other white part of the cow and ending with the super sandwiches that have a fried egg and cheese piled on top. I also find the highly popular dulce de leche in any form sickeningly sweet.

Of course I know that what we Californians consider standard fare (including Mexican, Thai, and Indian food) would get two thumbs down here in the land of simple, bland fare. I've had several Argentine guests refuse (or say that they'd rather not have) anything spicy, iced coffee drinks, bittersweet chocolate, cranberries, pumpkin pie, among other things.

What we eat says a lot about what we are willing to “digest” from another culture. I can’t think of a better starting place than a great meal with local hosts.

So what’s for dinner?

On Gun Control, Dictators, and the Second Amendment

2011-01-16T18:01:00.005-03:00

After all the sorrow for the tragedy in Tucson we hear commentaries from all sides on the issue of gun control. While my Canadian friends try to hide their air of moral superiority (deserved or not), I find my Argentine husband’s views worth considering.

Given that Roberto has lived almost one-third of his life under dictatorships, including four coups d’état, he’s got quite a different take. While was lamenting the relatively availability to U.S. citizens various weapons of serious destruction, he came back with this:

“If it had been the same here in Argentina, perhaps things would have turned out differently. In a country where many of the citizens have powerful weapons, it’s much more difficult to install dictatorships.”

Something to think about.

Also worth reading is this commentary by Joyce Lee Malcolm, The Right of the People to Keep and Bear Arms: The Common Law Tradition, which appeared in the Hastings Constitutional Law Quarterly. Here is part of her 1983 essay, which highlights the need to write clear, unambiguous sentences. (Are the Tunisians listening?)

In a report on the legal basis for firearms controls, a committee of the American Bar Association observed:

There is probably less agreement, more misinformation, and less understanding of the right of citizens to keep and bear arms than on any other current controversial constitutional issue. The crux of the controversy is the construction of the Second Amendment to the Constitution, which reads: "A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed."

Few would disagree that the crux of this controversy is the construction of the Second Amendment, but, as those writing on the subject have demonstrated, that single sentence is capable of an extraordinary number of interpretations. The main source of confusion has been the meaning and purpose of the initial clause. Was it a qualifying or an amplifying clause? That is, was the right to arms guaranteed only to members of "a well-regulated militia" or was the militia merely the most pressing reason for maintenance of an armed community? The meaning of "militia" itself is by no means clear. It has been argued that only a small, highly trained citizen army was intended, and, alternatively, that all able-bodied men constituted the militia. Finally, emphasis on the militia has been proffered as evidence that the right to arms was only a "collective right" to defend the state, not an individual right to defend oneself. Our pressing need to understand the Second Amendment has served to define areas of disagreement but has brought us no closer to a consensus on its original meaning.

So what next?

P.S. If anyone would like to tell me how to change the color and spacing errors that inserted themseves against my will and repeated attempts to change them, I'd love the steps. (See where the text suddenly turns to a brown color and becomes double spaced?)

BUY LOTTO TICKETS (BUT DON’T GET HOOKED)

2010-12-31T19:29:00.000-03:00

Here's the PSA from the Provincial Lottery authority, whose motto is "Entertainment for you, benefits for everyone." I found it on the back of the advertisement for December bingo games in nearby Ramallo (with my translation). Just thought someone out there would smile at the irony.

¿FRACASAS CUANDO QUERES CONTROLAR EL IMPULSO DE JUGAR?

Do you fail when you try to control your impulse to gamble?

¿ENGANAS A TU FAMILIA PARA VOLVER A JUGAR?
Do you mislead your family in order to return to gambling?

¿TENES DEUDAS POR EL JUEGO?
Do you have gambling debts?

¿SENTIS QUE PERDES EL CONTROL CUANDO JUGAS?
Do you feel that you lose control when you gamble?

SI PERDES, ¿BUSCAS REVANCHA?
If you lose, do you seek revenge?

TE PODEMOS AYUDAR, LLAMANOS.
We can help you, call us.

0800-444-4000…………Loteria de la Provincia
Programa de prevención y asistencia al juego compulsivo

Program for prevention and Help for compulsive gambling.

Suddenly I feel a distinct urge to buy a lottery ticket...after all, it's New Year's Eve...surely my lucky day! Actually, I prefer casinos...time for a trip to the luxury resorts of Punta del Este or Vina del Mar!

A Goldilocks' Argentine Christmas

2010-12-27T15:14:00.003-03:00

One of the great things about being an intercultural couple is that we can share the best of both worlds, including holiday customs. After years of wavering about how to do it, we took time this year to make a conscious decision to fuse our Christmas/Navidad customs to create our own holiday, from gifts to meals to socializing.

First, we waited until mid December to adorn our Argentine-made tree with the ordinary light strings available here as well as the various special hand-blown and handmade ornaments that I brought from the U.S. (What a kinship I feel at these moments with pioneer women who dragged boxes of crystal and porcelain westward ho to settle California).

Next, we exercised Argentinian restraint in gift buying, with just one present per person, for our very short list. Meanwhile he quickly took to the concept of small token gifts for our stockings, which I had brought and which he had hung by the chimney, with due care. We had fun browsing for a few apt gifts for others on our lists, and he humored me while I bought 15 meters of fancy ribbon at the button
store and real holiday wrapping paper at the stationer's. We let the pet shop wrap the leather bones for Mila and Goldie.

So on Christmas Eve, to the strains of holiday carols (courtesy CalmRadio.com), we worked like elves. R mastered gift wrapping and ribbon curling, and we soon had a nice display under the tree and stockings bulging with small useful gifts and candies. Later we had some tea and homemade shortbread, the kind I used to leave out for Santa.

On Christmas Day, the best thing for me was the Skype video call with both my children at once, Sara in California and Eric in Massachusetts! In the afternoon, R’s daughter and boyfriend came by to spend some time in the pool and share a toast of “sidra” (sparkling cider) and “pan dulce” (a fruitcake that is actually edible). Oh right, we did open the gifts, and you know, they do take second place to socializing and eating here, as the young Argentines wisely observed.

At day’s end, by candlelight we feasted on an amazingly savory grilled turkey breast with stuffing, cranberry sauce, a Waldorf salad (with palm hearts instead of celery), and a good bottle of Torrontes (an Argentine white wine), savoring the last few hours of the holiday in true Argentine style.

It was all good, very good! In retrospect, I realize that I really did not miss my old excesses: too much time baking and decorating and card sending, too much time shopping for and wrapping too many presents, too much rich food and drink, too much trash and too many bills afterward. It was a Goldilocks’ celebration: not too much, not too little, but just right!

I hope yours was too!

You Might Be a Yanqui If. . .

2010-08-09T06:00:00.003-03:00

Over at the Seashells and Sunflower blog, my expat friend Katie listed clues that you might be a “Yanqui,” as we get called here by the natives. (By the way, don’t call us “gringos,” as here that refers to Italians.)

So here’s my own list. You might be a Yanqui ….

• If you consider a wedding dinner at 1 am to be a tad late

• You don't know what to do with the "bidet" (and totally soak yourself trying to figure it out)

• If you dare to dine alone in a good restaurant

• If you are surprised that it costs more to obey the law than break it (as in the $100 fee for renewing a visa, versus the $50 fine if you don't)

• If you imagine that customer service wants to fix your problem or that repair centers will have genuine parts

• If you think only affluent families have regular domestic help

• If you expect to pay US$100 to get a plumber or electrician to fix something, or if you think by paying extra they’ll come on a weekend

• If you expect to pay with a credit card and pay the same price as if in in cash

• If you say “please” or “thank you” instead of “bueno” when someone offers you a favor

• If you itch to "do something productive" after chatting with folks for two hours at lunch

• If you buy a fancy power mower instead of hiring a local gardener

• If you entertain the idea of attending or holding a garage sale

• If you think you can call your Senator or Representative for constituent service

• If you believe that everyone knows how to tango and/or ride a horse

• If you are surprised by the lack of “Spanish” or colorful architecture

• If you expect to find stores open on Sundays (outside of grocers & shopping centers)

• If you thought that a postal service exists to deliver mail on time and pick up mail

• If you prefer chocolate to dulce de leche and brownies to alfajores

• If you long for PBJs and BLTs, Campbell’s soup, Kraft Mac & Cheese, etc.

• If you hear someone shout “Che” and expect to see a certain rebel

• If you send Christmas cards or keep a stash of wrapping paper & ribbons

• If you think traffic stop signs mean you should brake.

• If you think nothing of driving 5 miles out of your way to drop a friend somewhere

• If you wear baggy clothes or forego jewelry or make up (depending on your sex/tastes)

• If you eat your French fries or pizza with your fingers

• If you routinely wash your hands in a restaurant before eating (and expect to find soap and towels)

What tell-tale signs can you add? How well can you pass as a native Argentinian?

No Blondes on the Bus

2010-08-06T10:05:00.002-03:00

Lately I’ve been using public transportation often here in San Nicolas de los Arroyos, and I’ve noticed a few things:

1) No blondes on the bus. I AM the blonde on the bus, even though my hair gets called auburn or light brown in California. Okay, there was one with a really bad bleach job once, and another time a taller-than-me real blonde.

2) No reading on the bus. Quite a contrast to the book-reading T-riders in Boston and the newspaper aficionados on the DC metro. Here solo riders stare in to space or doze or play on their cell phones. Groups chat. I have never seen even one person reading. Not once.

3) Lots of families on the bus. Toddlers with big brown eyes and silky dark hair, little girls with pink coats and ponytails, 4-foot tall wrinkled grannies, young couples, entire families (dad holds the baby while mom minds two toddlers). Lots of cuddling of kids. The wildest behavior might be a three-year-old who stands on the seat to smile at everyone. Notable.

4) Nursing on the bus. Moms casually lift their blouses and feed the squirmy babes. As this happens in
cafes and parks as well, no one even blinks at this. So no crying infants ever.

5) Gentlemen on the bus. Even teens get up to offer seats to old folks.

6) Dirt on the bus. These local buses are dirty inside and out since the route is not all paved. They are slow, noisy, and incredibly uncomfortable. My friends in Toronto, New York, DC, etc, can feel green and good at the same time taking mass transit. (Boston has it worse since the screeching rickety old trains break down with third-world frequency.)

7) Coins on the bus. The one-way fare into town is 1.80 pesos (about 45 US cents), and you must pay in coins. If I buy a sheet of advance tickets, it drops to 1.60, and the driver manually cancels it, noting his driver ID. Forget magnetic cards, we get personalized service. A taxi, by the way, costs 30 pesos, a remis about 20.

8) No ads on the bus. The only signs are for Tansha, the bus company, and a sign that says you must exit at rear. No maps of routes, no clever ads for colleges or cafes.

9) Fashion on the bus. Typical attire for guys is jeans, sneakers, sweatshirt, modest jackets in dreary colors, and perhaps a small backpack. The chicas wear painted-on jeans and something in a rich plum color, this winter’s fashion statement. Reused plastic shopping bags abound. Only old ladies wear skirts or glasses or carry handbags. Now and then a woman climbs aboard with fancy leather boots (even in red) with pointed toes, spiked heels, with studded designs.

10) No handicapped persons on the bus. I have yet to see anyone try to board one of these with a cane, much less a wheel chair (and nary a stroller, come to think of it). Even for me the steps seem high and steep, and I am glad there is a grab bar. (And of course there are no spots for bikes, as you would see in cities like Santa Cruz, California.)

Wittiest Review of Argentine Cuisine Anyone Will Ever Write

2010-07-12T00:12:00.004-03:00

If you want straight facts and great photos of Argentine cuisine, the sensible alternative is the wikipedia article (click here), where you'll learn that Argentinians used to consume an average of 100 kilos (220 pounds of beef per year. The photos of grilled beef, empanadas, alfahores, and even a plate of spaghetti, will serve as a basic guide.

But if you want to laugh until you wet your pants, read the blog post, "Argentina on Two Steaks a Day." The author, Meciej Ceglowski, would surely be a hit on late night TV for original wit blended with obvious credibility. Think The Daily Show crossed with the old PBS Julia Child shows. Here are some choice excerpts, but really, read the whole thing here.

Now for the rationale for the title, written back in 2006 when beef was still plentiful.

The classic beginner's mistake in Argentina is to neglect the first steak of the day. You will be tempted to just peck at it or even skip it altogether, rationalizing that you need to save yourself for the much larger steak later that night. But this is a false economy, like refusing to drink water in the early parts
of a marathon. That first steak has to get you through the afternoon and half the night, until the restaurants begin to open at ten; the first steak is what primes your system to digest large quantities of animal protein, and it's the first steak that buffers the sudden sugar rush of your afternoon ice
cream cone. The midnight second steak might be more the glamorous one, standing as it does a good three inches off the plate, but all it has to do is get you up and out of the restaurant and into bed (for the love of God, don't forget to drink water).

When he ridicules the national sweet, dulce de leche, I finally found the vindication that I've been seeking for avoiding this omnipresent sugar high that reveals the unrefined tastes of Argentinians when it comes to dessert. I mean, what can you say about a culture that does not know about chocolate yet? This:

There is a more serious kind of confectionary panic that goes beyond glazing, and it brings us to the true dark side of Argentine cooking. I am talking about dulce de leche.Dulce de leche is a culinary cry for help. It says "save us, we are baffled and alone in the kitchen, we don't know what to do for dessert and we're going to boil condensed milk and sugar together until help arrives". This cloying dessert tar is so impossibly sweet that you wish you were ten years old again, just so you could actually enjoy it. It is everywhere.

There is a special dulce de leche shelf in the supermarket dairy case, and the containers go up to a liter in size. Even the churros are stuffed with it - the churros, Montresor! For anyone who has had pastries in Europe, the added horror is that dulce de leche is identical in color, texture and consistency to a number of much less sweet, tasty fillings, like the earthy chestnut material the French call crÃ¨me de marrons, or the tart kind of plum butter popular in Eastern European bakeries. You see a thick layer of dark brown jam-like material and think, this couldn't possibly be caramel, there's just too much of it. And so worldliness leads you to great giant bites and then disaster.

Thank God, therefore, for the ice cream.

And he wins hands down for the explanation for the nearly invisible breakfast (coffee or mate and a croissant):

I spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out how meals work in Argentina, and they remain a mystery to me. Dinner is clear enough: people tend to go to restaurants beginning at ten o'clock (for those with small children), with the main rush around eleven, and dinner is pretty much over at one or so in the morning. And breakfast - or rather, its absence - follows as a logical consequence of eating a steak the size of a beagle at midnight. But I have yet to figure out whether people eat some kind of meal in the afternoon, and if so, when. Wander into any bistro or restaurant between eleven and six and you will be served a delicious lunch-sized meal, but you are likely to be the only person there, with the waiter mopping floors in the corner and the parrilla stacked with raw meat for the midnight dinner rush.

“Let them eat fish!”

2010-07-07T00:59:00.003-03:00

“Where’s the beef?” is fast becoming “Where’s the fish?” here in Argentina.

As with other residents in the land of gauchos and cheap malbec, Roberto and I are eating a lot more seafood these days. Good cheap beef has totally disappeared from butcher shops here, replaced by some fresh and much frozen seafood from Argentine fisheries.

Hard to believe, but Argentina, once known for its fabulous beef, might have to start importing beef. For me, this was another Economics 101 lesson: Central Planning tends to boomerang.

The Peronist government, headed by the widely detested Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, continues to restrict beef exports. The result: a drastic drop in cattle herds, according to local and international reports that is threatening the Argentine way of life.

The goal was to keep domestic prices down. But instead, beef has become so scarce that the sirloin steak has quadrupled in price since I moved here seven years ago, with much of that increase in the last two years.

In a carefully planned photo op this year, "Queen Cristina" (as she is called by her unhappy subjects) stopped by the local pescaderia to pick up some nice Argentine fish to sauté for herself and hubby Nestor, the previous President. (This is on the heels of her appeal to eat more pork, which she termed a great alternative to Viagra.) So it looks like this is an unexpected chance for Argentinians to give up some of that red meat, generally considered their birthright, and eat healthier seafood.

At last, Molly Malone would feel quite at home here! With butcher shops full of tough lower grades of beef and increasingly expensive pork cuts and chickens, the real bargains are to be had in the supermarket freezers overflowing with cockles, mussels, and hake. The selection is surprisingly good, better than it has been since I moved here, and I am grateful! In fact, for a few more pesos, you can go home with some clams, calamari, shrimp, scallops, and salmon.

The upside for Roberto and me are some absolutely delicious, healthy, waist-slimming meals from the sea.

We’ve been experimenting with mussel chowder, fried mussels, shrimp over pasta, and good old sautéed hake, a close cousin of cod with surprisingly good results! We complement this with wonderful organic vegetables from our friend Britta of Alma Verde. We are definitely eating better and feeling better!

Are other Argentinians following suit? But don’t bet on it. There’s still plenty of pizza and pasta to go around.

But who knows for how long. These disastrous federal policies are now provoking wheat and sugar shortages too. (When was the last time you could not find flour or sugar at a U.S. supermarket?!) At the same time imports are mysteriously being stopped at the borders and ports. When the European and Brazilian exporters created an uproar, Cristina claimed there is no official ban. Something fishy is going on!

So just to play it safe, I’m going to go buy a fishing rod—before they become scarce too! Then again, I could just eat chocolate!

World Cup Mentality & My Parochialism

2010-06-23T10:35:00.003-03:00

I did not have to check the news to know that Argentina won their World Cup game yesterday. The fireworks blasting in the streets, the horns beeping, and the dogs howling told me! I'm delighted, really. Good news is so rare here!
When the competition is narrowed, I'll go find a café and watch some games. . . and the fans. What can I say? I am a tennis and baseball fan. The passion for soccer mystifies me. My dear Roberto is fond of reminding me that it is the most international sport. Could be. But I just can't focus on that green expanse with the dots of players running helter skelter for 90 minutes. Apparently I am not the only parochial U.S. person to admit to this.

Two New York Times columnists, Gail Collins and David Brooks were discussing this very topic last week. Brooks's comments so delighted me that I want to share them here, emphasis mine. (For the full column,
click here. ) And yes, I and am ready for the criticism & comments! David Brooks:

The World Cup calls this parochialism to mind because soccer is not just a sport, it is an entire mentality. We in this country prefer pastimes that are rational and quantifiable. Football plays can be drawn up in a playbook and baseball lends itself to statistical analysis. Americans prefer pastimes that are rational; the rest of the world rewards resilience and neuroticism.

But the rest of the world follows a sport that rewards resilience and neuroticism. Soccer is a sport perfectly designed to reinforce a tragic view of the universe, because basically it is a long series of frustrations leading up to near certain heartbreak.

The author Nick Hornby once had the brains to turn around while at an Arsenal match to watch the faces of the fans instead of the game. He observed that over the course of 15 minutes, the fans reflected frustration, rage, bitterness, despair, false hopes and discouragement. That's because the players are perpetually pushing the ball forward, and it often looks like something is about to happen, but in reality it almost never does.

The goals are never scored.

Soccer is a sport that rewards neurotic creativity. Many of the greatest players have been marginally insane. They see a situation unfold before them and they respond in unpredictable ways, not straightforward ones. Their neurons are just a bit off. I guess you could say that about some of their fans, too.

But it's also a game that teaches you that life is unfair. Because goals are so scarce, it is possible for a team to be outplayed for 89 minutes and yet still score one fluke goal and win the game. Superior performance often does not translate into victory.

And may the best team win! (That would be the Argentine team, of course.)

Bug Off!

2010-06-06T01:08:00.011-03:00

Today Roberto and I tried a new parrilla (grill restaurant) that opened up just down the street from his childhood home. We immediately approved of the ambiance, perhaps "early gaucho,” very woody and horsey, with comfy booths. As it was nearly 3 p.m., we quickly ordered some grilled beef, naturally, a salad of arugula with parmesan, plus a Coke and small bottle of malbec.

Well, the salad showed up in about 10 minutes with a bonus--a little extra protein in the form of a small black bug. The beetle, smaller than my pinky's nail, was nestled in the chopped arugula. It was surprisingly entire, so it probably entered after the knife. I called the waiter, who whisked it away with a zillion "I'm sorry's" (in English!). He brought me a side of hot
crispy french fries as a consolation, which I graciously accepted, and we just went on with the meal. Still aghast at bill time, the waiter insisted on explaining to me the bags of chopped greens came from a supplier, and surely the intruder had come from there. No matter, I said (but do let the supplier know, I added).

I was pleased to notice that I felt totally unfazed by the beetle in my arugula, taking it as more confirmation of my growing equanimity. It also reminded me of how much my relationship to the natural world has changed since moving here. It seems I am not the only live creature to prefer Latitude 33° South to Latitude 43° North!

From tiny gnat-like insects to humungous flying beetles that can cause concussions if you are in their flight path, insects are part of my day. They bite me, I swat them. They nibble on my food, and I suspect I've eaten some of them. In summer outdoors, I breathe them in. They buzz in the morning and during siesta hour. Mosquitoes are just a fact of life here, and I see more in one day than I saw in a year in upstate New York.

I can coexist with most of these, but not the fire ants. I've innocently stepped on their mounds and had to rush to the clinic for cortisone shots, watching my foot swell and blister within minutes. The pain is so awful that I cannot work, nor can I read or play Lexulous, so it is really a drag! I break all ecological vows and have Roberto pour ant killer on their domed homes the minute I spot them now. I'm not fond of the carpenter ants that munch on the rafters either, leaving small piles of sawdust in their wake.

At other times, I am transfixed by the life all around me, on ground and in sky. For example, on a brilliant fall afternoon, I can see dozens of amazing giant cobwebs floating across the sky, silver threads on an azure background, taking spiders to their new homes. I rejoice that the temperate weather tempts me to spend so much time outdoors.
My perennial favorites are the fireflies (los bichos de luz), a fabulous kinetic art show in our garden on summer nights. Sometimes when I've forgotten the clothes drying on the line, I've run out in the evening into thick clouds of these little bioluminescent latin lovers dancing under the jacaranda and magnolia, along with the T-shirts and towels. It makes me glad that I am not very efficient about laundry tasks!

The stars of the daytime insect dramas are surely the dragonflies (los alguaciles). Roberto and I have lingered over many a summer lunch on the patio, mesmerized by their air shows. Think back to any WWII documentary you ever saw that showed swarms of planes zooming around in combat--and then imagine the planes to be dragonflies, swooping, hovering, capturing prey, and all the while their lacy wings glinting in the midday sun.

Who will later eat these angelic hosts? Who knows? But I do know that there are lots of resident frogs and birds, and even one iguana, who consider my garden their permanent buffet. Given that no one here uses pesticides on lawns, this miraculous chain will continue. . . and I am a part of it. Amen.
P.S. The waiter took the salad, fries, and a coke off our bill. So we will go back! Beetles beware!

Celebrating the Bicentennial. . . Sort Of

2010-05-26T15:44:00.006-03:00

Yesterday Argentina celebrated a Bicentennial of sorts, commemorating its first government independent of Spain, at least in Buenos Aires.

No doubt we’ll see additional festivities celebrating the Declaration of Independence (July 9, 1816), which marked the beginning independence for the whole country. In fact, a lot of South American countries will be doing the same, remembering the epoch of their freedom fighters, led by Generals Bolivar and San Martin.

But what is there to celebrate, really?
It seems to me to be kind of a mixed bag. On the one hand, we can honor those who had the courage and vision to change the world by liberating these lands of the tyranny of foreign kings and queens. On the other hand, the last two centuries have seen plenty of home-grown tyrants, whether they assumed the post through "elections” or by force. (And yes, I know that some of these were aided and abetted by foreign powers,
including the U.S., but that is for another discussion.)

I’ve asked locals what the Bicentennial means to them. . . and the answers revolve around family barbecues, parades, exhibitions, and the re-opening of the magnificently restored Colon Theater. No one mentions any great pride in the way Argentina has governed itself for the last 200 years or any hope for a better future.

And some are unaware of the holiday. When I gave our housekeeper the day off with pay, she had no idea what it was for. At the same time that she was pleased at being offered a paid holiday, I saw she was a bit puzzled about my enthusiasm for an historical event about which she knew nothing. (Growing up in the remote province of Chaco, she had to quit school at age 8 to pick cotton. What does that say about education and equal opportunity?)

"National independence" has little value, in my opinion, if it is not followed by an appreciation for the interdependence and well being of all its residents. What good is an independent country that does translate its power and resources into a better life at every level?
Alas, very little happens here that promotes the development of individuals and communities. Just drive through most any place far from Buenos Aires and you’ll think you traveled back in time. The view most people offer me of politics: the typical leader quickly tries to reap as much personal profit and strengthen his or her hold on the reins of government in order to keep dipping his/her hands in the till. Sadly, many just accept as “the way things are.”

You won’t be seeing any so-called Tea Parties here! At the grass roots level, I sense that ordinary people feel rather disempowered by the “system.” When things go wrong, they cannot call a "senador" or "diputado" and complain, as voters do in the U.S. (Remember Alfonse D'Amato, the "pothole Senator" from NY known for his constituent services?).

From the legislative and justice systems to schools and mail, things just do not work well here, and complaining or organizing is seen as pointless. Most residents just quietly accept the status quo, and others organize street protests that snarl traffic endlessly in "grand Buenos Aires." While this may seem a rather passive aggressive approach to citizen action, if these groups had money, they’d be wheeling and dealing with federal or local officials, making deals and bribes, as that is how things are frequently done.)

So what is there to celebrate, really?

Political independence ought to be tied to the notion of greater personal control (as celebrated in new cinematic version of Robin Hood, which shows the English barons attempting to wrest control from King John, which eventually lead to the signing of the Magna Carta.)
In today’s Argentina, the sense of personal agency seems much diminished, certainly in comparison to the US, and I can see why. People do have less control. (This constant experience of no power does have a benefit: My Argentinian friends are better than I am at acknowledging that and then moving on to focus on other sources of meaning and pleasure. I admire that, though at times I wonder if they don’t then give up some control that they might have since they expect so little.)

As Transparency International regularly notes, political corruption is seen as rampant here, about on a par with central African countries. The rules of the game can change overnight with a few well-placed phone calls, as the recent bizarre import prohibitions show. The country is always for sale to those who are willing to play those games. Sometimes Argentina reminds me of the island in Lord of the Flies. My heart breaks for the honest, good people I know who lose in a system where power is openly used for personal profit rather than national development.

Where are the San Martins of today? Where are the real leaders with a vision of a better future for all citizens? There are no signs of anyone or any group emerging who could ignite the kind of passion and hope that would unite this country.

If I could give Argentina a real birthday present, it would be this:

A shared vision of a democracy of the people, by the people, and for the people.

I have no idea where that might be found, but I do know that it is not for sale anywhere.

U.S. Embassy Warning Today

2010-02-05T14:02:00.009-03:00

The U.S. Embassy sticks out like a concrete thumb in a park-like setting in Palermo, an embarrassment to good taste made necessary by the negativity the U.S. provokes in Latin America. . . and today is apparently a red-letter day for that.

Inside the fortress, you find very helpful people when you need them. If you register with them as a U.S. citizen living in Argentina, they will send you reminders about how to replace passports and get visas. . . and the occasional warning, like the one I am pasting below that just arrived.

Past warnings have warned about swine flu, dengue fever or protesters blocking roads. . . and this one gets closer to home--a demonstration in front of the embassy against the U.S. deployment of troops in Haiti. The prediction
is a modest turnout "that could turn violent." The warnings always add that just in case. Or is it so no one can complain later (as if we could sue for malpractice?).

Gee, where were the demonstrations THANKING the U.S. for being the first and most generous to offer help? Hmmmm...
.....................................................................................
This warden message is being issued to alert U.S. citizens that as reported in the local media, there will be a demonstration directed toward the U.S. Embassy at approximately 6:00 pm on Friday, 5 February 2010. The demonstrators plan to voice their objection with U.S. military forces in Haiti.

The demonstration is estimated to be around 200 individuals. Groups expected to participate include: Partido de los Trabajadores, Partido Obrero, Nuevo MAS, Izquierda Socialista, Movimiento Socialista de los Trabajadores, Convergencia de Izquierda, Partido Comunista de los Trabajadores, and Frente Obrero y Socialista.

The demonstration is expected to be of a peaceful nature. Be advised that demonstrations may turn violent at any given moment for myriad reasons.

U.S. citizens may also call the Office of Overseas Citizens Services in the U.S. for the latest travel information. The Office of Overseas Citizens Services can be reached from 8:00 am – 8:00 pm Eastern Daylight Time, M-F, at 1-888-407-4747, or if calling from outside the U.S., at (202)-501-4444. For any emergencies involving American citizens, please contact the American Citizens Services (ACS) Unit of the U.S. Embassy’s Consular Section, located at 4300 Avenida Colombia, 1425 Buenos Aires; telephone+54-11-5777-4354; after hours emergency telephone +54-11-5777-4873; ACS unit fax +54-11-5777-4293; e-mail BuenosAires-ACS@state.gov; web page http://argentina.usembassy.gov/.

Americans living or traveling in Argentina are encouraged to register with the nearest U.S. Embassy or Consulate through the State Department's travel registration website, https://travelregistration.state.gov/ibrs/ui so that they can obtain updated information on travel and security within Argentina. Americans without internet access may register directly with the nearest U.S. Embassy or Consulate.

24 Enchanted Hours in Buenos Aires

2010-01-30T13:10:00.031-03:00

Travel writers love to tout Buenos Aires as a tourist destination for North Americans, especially in the throes of winter. In fact at the top of this weekend's New York Times "most e-mailed" list this is none other than "Thirty-Six Hours in Buenos Aires."

Sure, read that if you want to overspend and go home with a skewed idea of Buenos Aires as funky, modern, and costly. . . and miss most of what I adore about "the Paris of South America" and will cost you less than a night in the Benjamin Hotel in mid-town Manhattan if you can survive without Frette linens and a pillow menu.

As their readers may expect, the New York Times guide leads readers to the hippest new artists, the oddly futuristic hotels, and the snobbiest restaurants, mirroring experiences you could have in Paris or Milan or even San Francisco and New York, albeit with cheaper steaks and cabernet here.

Now on the other hand, if you are not Big Apple elitist, or if you prize more representative experiences, or if you simply want to enjoy Argentina's capital city for less, consider my enjoyable and less costly itinerary suggestions.

So if you want a fabulous stay in this world-class city with more bang for your buck--and bump into fewer tourists!--read on about our 24 enchanted hours in Buenos Aires with ideas for doing it your own way.

Last September, my husband (and native Argentinian) Roberto and I chose to celebrate our civil wedding anniversary with a short trip to the big city. We spent exactly 24 hours there, arriving on a Saturday early afternoon and leaving the next day after a fabulous time that I cannot imagine having anywhere else. And isn't that the whole idea of travel?

DAY ONE: ARRIVE AND START SAVORING!

1 PM. INSIST ON A FRIENDLY, WELL-PLACED HOTEL. After a comfortable three-hour bus ride from our home city on the northern fringes of the province of Buenos Aires, we landed at the busy Terminal de Omnibuses in the bustling barrio of Retiro. A short taxi ride later, we experienced a check in that was
smoother than butter at the Wilton Palace Hotel on Callao, our favorite in Recoleta/Barrio Norte, since I reserved ahead via on-line.

As a four-star hotel, the Wilton Palace lacks the luxurious appointments that I don't need and features the comfortable beds and impeccable bathrooms that I do. Moreover, it boasts a truly privileged location! Just step outside to access the famed Avenida Santa Fe shopping district. I consider the Wilton the best bargain in the area at about US$70 per night. You can rely on a knowledgeable, accommodating staff (who will remember you!) and eat hearty at the cold buffet breakfast, which is the one thing I'd really like to upgrade.

Note: Less than four stars in Argentina and you won't get a bath tub, or if you do, it will lack a stopper! (I travel with an extra one.) Here's a photo of a great designer bathroom from a shop in Buenos Aires design, and you may encounter some top-notch designs in newer five-star hotels, and the ladies' room at Aires of Patagonia restaurant is one of my Puerto Madero favorites. Given the sorry state of the typical Argentine public restroom, it delights me to stumble across some that are real works of art! (I may do a blog just on bathrooms soon!)

1:30 PM. ENJOY WINDOW SHOPPING IN BARRIO NORTE. [Uppermost photo.] Fantasize all the parties you could go to in the colorful array of party dresses! Find designer clothes (for kids too!) and gorgeous distinctive handcrafted handbags and shoes in enough colors and designs to stir your inner Imelda Marcos! I was intrigued to note a much bigger selection of comfortable shoes in the zillions of zapaterias that used to showcase only spiky high heels and fragile lacy sandals. I snatched up a perfect pair for travel--comfy and but not clunky! Not a bargain at US$70, but they were put to immediate use and I danced out the store!

1:40 PM. STOP AND SMELL THE FLOWERS. From one of the kiosks dotting the sidewalk, Roberto bought me a lovely bouquet of freesias (US$2) to perk up our otherwise ho-hum room. Street vendors also offered fragrant jasmine posies for a few pesos each.

For more flowers, check out the grand boulevard 9 de Julio or the parks in Palermo with breathtaking jacarandas in November. Be sure to look UP because the most glorious of all is the palo borracho, a thorn studded tree with a canopy of blooms as big and beautiful as stargazer lilies!

2 PM. ENJOY SLOW FOOD. We decided on a quiet Chinese lunch in an unexpectedly nice place for about (US$20) off the main shopping avenue, Santa Fe, as we can't get Chinese food where we live. For visitors who can, I'd recommend you go for traditional instead of trendy. Try some parrilla (grilled beef & innards), pasta (e.g., handmade squash-filled calamari-tinted raviolis), or pizza (my fave has hearts of palm, pineapple and ham and zero tomato). (If you are a vegetarian, you can still enjoy regional specialties at the Restaurante Bio in Palermo for Andean grains and Indian teas.) Then walk around enjoying the architecture. Isn't the Ministry of Education gorgeous?

Tip: Forget fast food if you want to experience Argentine cuisine (not counting empanadas). As the saying goes, "He who knows how to eat knows how to wait."

3:30 PM. FIND SPECIAL EXHIBITS AND ACTIVITIES. We took a taxi to the Tribunales, the city's historic, elegant racetrack and doubled our fun. Our first stop was the renowned annual spring exhibit known as "Casa FOA"---a huge expo of architecture and design at the racetrack! For about US$15 total, we got to stroll for a couple of hours, totally ga-ga, through full sized designs for bedrooms, living rooms, offices…with touches that remind me why I love being so close to the design capital of Latin America…from the sleek to the vanguard to the rustic…it was all there…and so many pretty young architects! Where are the guys? Here's a photo of the hall of individual bathrooms [between each light frame], each with a distinctive design, enough to bewilder and delight all those who felt nature's call.

Twice I was fortunate to make it to the fantastic South American design fair, the Ferio Puro Diseño, this year May 20 - 25 at the La Rural grounds. I think it is well worth a special trip, as is Casa FOA. These deserve mention in the NY Times for their size and quality. The University of BA is the top design school in Latin America--and these shows are proof! Maybe we should call this place the Milan of South America! Of course if you are not into design, you'll find plenty of other fairs and events--just type in your favorite kind of envent and "Buenos Aires". . . then plan your visit around your pasttimes or conferences or whatever. It's all here, from polo games and gourmet food fairs to tango competitions and film festivals.

After a scrumptious gelato at Volta's (remember that Argentina is nearly half Italian!) in a fabricated garden patio setting set up just for the duration of Casa FOA, we scampered next door and for free watched two races from a great perch in the bar. Who cared if the service was slow and the cheap food mediocre after so many memorable moments? Total cost: about US$10 (If you are a polo fan, come between August and December and goes to the Palermo Hippodrome!)

6 PM. HOTEL: REST & GET READY. The really great thing is that the distances in this whole venture were short enough that we could walk--and enjoy block after block of shops and historic buildings--or take a very quick taxi ride. No time was lost just getting somewhere. That is part of the wonder of Buenos Aires, unlike some place like Los Angeles, where as one of my favorite Occidental College (yes, Obama's alma mater) professors, Dr. Winters, noted, anything interesting always seems to be 17 miles away from anything else of interest. (I love LA--for other reasons!)

If your hotel is convenient, you can take a siesta like the natives do so that you will be all set for a night on the town as restaurants open at 9 pm. We had time for a 20-minute rest before getting dolled up to go out.

7 PM. JIVE WITH BUENOS AIRES LIVE. By reserving ahead just one day ahead, I managed to snag center front-row seats for the most acclaimed show in town, El Regreso del Tigre, which featured great actors in a family drama with an upbeat ending. Total for two tickets ran about $60. (What would that get you on Broadway?)

By the way, that was the early show; there were more folks for the 9 PM show--the ones who like to dine at 11 or midnight! Find dozens of theater and hundreds of live music show listings on line in La Nation, Clarín, the Buenos Aires Herald, and other sites. Prices are variable, but cheapter than you might expect. For tango shows, consult the hotel concierge or internet booking agents; do this in advance if you want the most popular ones on a weekend night.)

10 PM ROMANTIC DINNER. The Peruvian chefs on Canal Gourmet fascinate me and yet we just never seem to make it up to Peru. Next best thing we figured was dinner at the new Pozo Santo in Palermo, which is gaining a reputation for its Peruvian-Mediterranean dishes. We were inspired by the magical lighting and ambience, the peppery pisco sours, the freshest seafood. . . and too much chocolate! Bill was about US$70. And folks kept arriving after us! I wanted to check out the impressive patio but I didn't want to interrupt two lovebirds (and the guy very well might have been proposing--it looked good!). Here's a photo of a detail from the door to one of the restrooms--can you guess if it was the "little boy's" or "little girl's" room?

MIDNIGHT. Back to the Wilton to enjoy that verrry comfortable beds with lots of pillows. A party was just revving up, as midnight on Saturday is early in Argentina, but we fell asleep any way after a day of shopping, fairs, theater, and dining!

DAY TWO: LIGHT AND EASY ON US--AND OUR WALLETS

9 AM. BROWSE THE BOOKS. After the standard boring cold breakfast of ham, bland cheese, boring pastries, fruit, and yogurt (that always makes me long for a good old American breakfast of scrambled eggs, blueberry muffins, and crispy bacon), we checked out and left our bags at the hotel desk. We also asked them to reserve a car and driver for us for 1 p.m., our departure time. Then we sauntered half a block to the world's most beautiful bookstore, The Ateneo (photo, right).

A restored theater, The Ateneo's gilded balconies beckon you to sink into a club chair and peruse at leisure. If you prefer to linger with coffee, head for the cafe located where the stage was--its entrance still bracketed by heavy velvet stage curtains. We dithered around for a while and somehow escaped with just one book this time. To save time for more sightseeing, we hailed one of those ubiquitous yellow and black radio taxis instead of walking to the Plaza Francia.

NOTE: "Books are Us" could be a Buenos Aires motto, because you will find small bookstores tucked all over the city! You may have a hard time choosing which of the many great coffee table books (in English too) to take home with you! If you come in April, don't miss the annual family-friendly book fair, the Feria del Libro, with hundreds of displays and free lectures. . . and a million visitors!

10:30 AM. THE RECOLETA CEMETERY AND CULTURAL CENTER. As we did not have visitors with us, we skipped Evita’s black marble tomb this time and instead of entering the famous cemetery, we slipped inside the Cultural Center Gallery next door to the chapel (photo left). For free we enjoyed a great photo exhibit and some really crazy guy’s paintings & sculptures. (Just like you could find in NY!) I did find one detail that I thought worth sharing with you (see below right).

The Museum of Latin American Art of Buenos Aires, the MALBA, is one of my favorite museums of all time (with a pleasant cafe too). There are others still on my "be sure to visit someday list," from tango to decorative arts that might interest you more if you want to see things you won't find at MOMA or the Met (but maybe at the Smithsonian or British Museum as they seem to have "everything").

11:30. SIGHT-SEEING ON FOOT. We simply meandered the ritzy neighborhood of Recoleta, including both the exclusive shops and a gallery in the underground "Buenos Aires Design" and the park above it, just enjoying views. For budget purposes and for enjoyment of the plaza panorama, we opted for a simple, inexpensive, healthy and tasty lunch at Aroma followed by delicious Freddo ice cream (below). Total: about US$17.

1PM. We picked up our bags at the Wilton and got in the "remis"--the hired car with driver--who drove us to visit friends near San Isidro for the rest of the day. Our 24 hours in Buenos Aires was officially over.

It was the most fun-packed 24 hours I spent in a long, long time! Not including my shoes or taxis (negligible), the total price including four-star hotel, three restaurants (including one gourmet), theater (front row seats), design fair tickets, and flowers for the two of us came to US$260. (What would that get you in San Francisco or Milan?)

To be honest, we don't usually spend that much in BA, but as it was our anniversary, we treated ourselves a bit. When pinching centavos, we head for parks and museums instead of the theater and eat more humbly (which is still good in Argentina!). Instead of a sit-down lunch, we might grab some salami, cheese, and a bottle of water at one of the local delis and find a bench under one of the rubber trees in the Recoleta plaza, watching people gawk at their 100-foot spread. You can nearly always count on pleasant weather! Later we might go to the cinema instead of the theater. We go home happy either way!

One thing is for sure: you can do Buenos Aires your way. . . and be as chic and sleek or laid-back and budget-minded as you like. When you do, I hope you'll have a ton of fun, take lots of photos and great memories of this enchanting city home with you, and send the travel writers at the NY Times your opinion!

A Really Bad Day in Argentina

2010-01-15T03:44:00.007-03:00

Tuesday was a really bad day in Argentina. At least for me. I mean REALLY bad.

The sad, the absurd, and the scary between breakfast and dinner.

It really made me want to get on a plane and go home. Here's how the day unfolded.

9 A.M. The Sad Part: A Dead Dog in My Garden

Shortly after breakfast, Roberto came in from the garden: "Honey, I have some bad news. Tonto died. I don't know when, maybe a day ago. He's behind the trees in the back of the garden."

Tonto is our neighbor's really dumb mutt. Roberto noticed last week that Tonto's leg had a terrible injury, that he had perhaps even been run over by a car. He called the owners, who live next door, and at receiving no answer, left a dire note, "Your dog needs urgent medical attention; we are concerned he may die." A couple days went by, and no action. I left an urgent call for advice on a veterinarian's phone, but no one called back. Severe thunderstorms kept us inside most days until Tuesday. I felt terrible that this poor animal died alone, in pain, and possibly with no more refuge than a bush during pelting rain. Poor Tonto! May he rest in peace in Canine Heaven, with all the big beef bones he ever wished for!

11 A.M.: The Absurd Scenario. A Customs Official, My Books, and the Iraqis

There is a dark secret in Argentina to which few are privy. It is the Borgian Institute for Petty Officials, where lowly government staffers learn surprising techniques
to wrest any vestige of personal control we may have. I think of it as a kind of Zero Tolerance for Uppity Citizens who go so far as to think that government should be of the people, for the people, and by the people.

First the usual stupid delay at the Post Office: My daughter kindly sent me three small books before Christmas, and so with great anticipation, I kept a daily vigil for the letter carrier (who comes about once a month). Last Wednesday, I found a small note in my mailbox saying he came by during the one day I was not home all week! So I hurried into town, expecting to pick up my books. Nope, I was handed a larger note saying to come back on a Tuesday or Thursday morning when the customs office would be open. "Why not leave this second note instead of the first one to keep folks from making two trips?" I asked. I got a scowl and a repetition of the instruction to come back Tuesday or Thursday.

Tuesday morning I handed the slip to the agent at the customs window. The 60ish burly guy fumbled around in the office the size of a typical US bathroom, finally locating the standard Amazon box. He quizzed me and upon verifying that the books were in English, he said they would only be permitted if they had been printed in a Spanish-speaking country. Of course they were not (how many are?!!), and I protested that this was unbelievable. "Your country does incredible things too--just ask those poor Iraqis," he replied smilessly. Suddenly my Argentine husband showed up, and when I explained what was happening, he duly expressed outrage and demanded to know what law prohibited free entry of books. "One from the Ministry of Culture. Look it up on the Internet," said our petty official, seemingly perturbed, avoiding Roberto's gaze. He then handed the books over, slowly, adding that another agent might not have been so generous. We stalked out.

Later my friends and readers of the BA Expat Forum clued me in: The guy was clearly asking for a bribe as I was a US American! Their tips for future incidents: take a cattle prod, record the conversation, get the refusal in writing, hint that I am connected to very powerful people and his job could now be in jeopardy, or send an Argentinan to pick up the package (and I admit that something shifted when Roberto appeared). Ya gotta laugh here. . . or you'll hurt yourself banging your head against the wall. Then again, you could just pay the bribe and be done with it. . . you know, "when in Rome. . . "

5 pm: The Really Scary Part: Armed and Dangerous, and Dead?

After collecting my books and my wits, Roberto and I sought a little sanity and a cup of coffee at the nearby Cafe Augustus, where I bumped into Marisa, Tonto's owner. She was meeting someone, so she later stopped by my house. Over another cup of coffee, she dropped the bombshell--they had not been home for a month. Her son had been surprised by intruder at their home in early December and barely escaped as the burglar shot twice at him as he fled. Her husband had been similarly accosted two weeks before. So they are selling the house, having left a housesitter in charge (and said housesitter paid scant attention to poor Tonto, alas). Marisa assumed that I knew all this via the small-town grapevine, forgetting that as a foreigner, I am scarcely acquainted with it. She was smiling the whole time she related the dreadful account--because all's well that ends well. She is delighted that the family will soon be living in a well-guarded development in a nearby big city, which is what she has yearned for years.

I am NOT smiling. Each night I now close the shutters and bar my bedroom window and lie awake wondering who might be out there. (I mentioned this to a young woman today, who sighed and she said she has been mugged FOUR times in this town; one mugger stole her motorcycle, and when she spotted him later on the street, the police were not at all interested). That Police Station photo you see at the top? After standing empty for months, the structure was vandalized. Eventually it was demolished. Why pretend?

Meanwhile, it seems that the perpetrator that shot at my neighbor might have been the notorious NM. . . and if so, he is no longer a threat. He was killed when his companion in a later heist accidently shot him. Is that poetic justice? If so, it is sure swifter than any justice in Argentina.

Final Note: I am not making this up. I swear on a stack of the Complete Works of Sarmiento! In fact, I left out more sad, absurd, and scary details so you and I both can enjoy a little peace of mind.

Living Gratefully in Argentina: Three More Good Things

2010-01-11T11:18:00.009-03:00

No, the title is not an oxymoron. When I find myself feeling swamped by bad economic and political news (so common here!), bad weather (been raining since November!), and expat nostalgia (during holidays), I get out a pen and paper and write out at least 3 things I love about my life here. It is a good way for an expat to surf instead of sink when the waves get bigger! These lists change with the seasons, external and internal, so here's today's list:

1) The avian chorus.

I wish you could hear them right now! It's kinda like being in the San Diego Zoo aviary! This is the kind of tweeting and twittering that lifts me! I love the lilting song of the calandria and zorzal, the cooing of the mourning doves, and the energetic cittering, cheeping, and peeping of a zillion birds who have not yet introduced themselves to me. I like to imagine that the swallows have
come from San Juan Capistrano! We don't have flashy tropical birds on the Pampa, but we do have geese, ducks, ibises, and even pink flamingoes in the wetlands.

Once a pair of egrets took an hour break in our pool! A friend in NH once told me that she figured that if she awoke from a coma she could tell the season just by looking at a few leaves. Here I think a really mindful person could tell the hour of the day as well by listening to the birds. I have the authoritative field guide and binoculars, plus an Argentine husand who is a walking encyclopedia, but please don't ask me to list them all. . . yet.

2) The perfumed air.

Just breathing is a sweet marvel here in summer! I meditate, and that deep breathing pulls in air that has been perfumed with jasmines, lavender, magnolias, lilies, roses, and even the grasss. It gives a new meaning to "inspiration"! I'm aware of it when hanging clothes on the line or swimming in the pool.

I lost my sense of smell for a whole year in 2008 (and could only smell burned onions!), so I consider this a blessing, as good as savoring a dark fudgy brownie or a well aged cab. Just looking is a joy too, with abundant hydrangeas, and lilac-hued agapanthus that contrast with the vibrant red of the lilies...a designer's dream, with a thick green mats of dichondra and Brazil grass framing it all!

3) Homemade boysenberry jam.

As a Knotts' Berry Farm fan (and hailing from very near there), I was thrilled when Roberto planted some boysenberry vines on our farm. Here folks rarely see a fresh common raspberry, much less a boysenberry (which is a raspberry x loganberry x blackberry cross). Given a preference for the traditional here, locals have zilch interest in buying or even trying them, and they are too fragile to travel well. Thus we make tons of beautiful jam for ourselves and to give to special friends. This morning, despite my diet, I spooned three heaping ruby-red spoons fulls on the whole-wheat toast. . . edible jewels! The blueberries, our bigger crop, are great too--but the boysenberry always makes me feel like I am in California again! I love savoring this taste of my homeland all year long.

Well those are three things and it isn't even noon! How about you?

As Elizabeth Barret Browning advised, "Light tomorrow with today!"

The President Should Resign!

2010-01-06T16:10:00.008-03:00

I never thought I would have high praise for bankers. But today, at least at mid-afternoo Wednesday, January 7, I would like to honor two who just stood up to the incredibly inept and unpopular President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner in her unconstitutional attempt to raid the Central Bank.

The nefarious manipulations of Cristina Kirchner are being covered as I blog... if interested, just go directly to a major Argentine newspaper, e.g., Clarin or La Nacion, whose freedom she tried to curtail recently and thus are likely to print all the dirty details.

Here is the bare minimum: Ten days ago Cristina sent an order to the Central Bank requesting US$ 6,000,000,000 to repay international debts. (And you thought YOU had debts!!) Of course I think paying that back is honorable--and she should use the funds already appropriated by the Congress instead of raiding federal reserves. Can you imagine a US President at WHIM taking money out of the Federal Reserve instead of following the budget AUTHORIZED by Congresss? That is what is happening here. This would enable Cristina to use the originally authorized funds HOWEVER SHE PLEASES, including pork barrel projects to buy legislative votes.

Martin Redrado, President of the Central Bank refused to release the funds, rightly claiming the independence of the Central Bank and reminding all of its purpose, which is to maintain sufficient reserves to guarantee the stability of the Argentine peso.

This morning Cristina demanded his resignation for defying her order. HE REFUSED TO RESIGN, noting his mandate runs through September and that she has not right to ask him to resign.

MARTIN REDRADO, I would like to offer you The Medal of Honor for showing courage and integrity in the face of threats . I hope you don't have young children or other family and friends who might be menaced by the Mafia K, as it is known. Being honest in Argentina has carried a heavy price tag in some eras.

The news continues to emerge from Capital Federal as I write.

Cristina's right-hand hatchet man, Anibal Fernandez, announced this morning that Redrado had indeed resigned, as he had allegedly told the President some time ago that he served at her pleasure, and as she is no longer pleased, he is out.

Redrado says he never offered such a resignation nor would the President have any right to request it as the Central Bank is not under her control.(The President has the right to nominate, the Senate to approve nominations according to the Constitution, which is not much read by Peronists.)

At noon, the Minister of Economy called a press conference to say that the President had appointed a new Central Bank President, without naming him. And things really got crazy!!

Almost immediately, the proposed replacement, Mario Blejer, who is skiing in the French Alps, was contacted and he emphatically rejected the offer. He said he must refuse the offer first because he agrees with Redrado, that the Bank is independent, and second, he consideres Redrado is still Central Bank President, and thus the position is not vacant. [Will Cristina offer the post to her husband Nestor, the recent ex-President?] So another medal please, this time for the skiier!

Meanwhile LaNacion just published a survey showing 95% of those polled side with Redrado. [People are sick of how the K's and kronies have multiplied their riches exponentially while trashing constitutional niceties.]

Cristina shows a real aptitude for shooting herself in the foot, for digging in over unpopular and suspect causes time after time as she runs this country into the ground. What a pity the Executive Branch did not close for January vacations as do the Legislative and Judicial branches.

When her husband was President of Republica Argentina, the federal motto was "Argentina, un pais en serio" ["Argentina, a serious country."] A bit laughable, I thought, for a country that shuts down in January and takes years to process simple documents. Now it has become a mockery with a band of fools at the top (and I'll soon blog about a really nutty letter that compares it to Obamacare and Democratic rule).

This is second time a woman has led Argentina, and I really was rooting for her to bring dialogue and transparency to this beleaguered nation. . . and now she is an embarrassment to her party, to the nation, and to her sex. What can I say?

Yep, the President should indeed resign--the President of the Nation, not the President of the Central Bank.

So any of you in the US think that politics are dirty or that the President is doing a bad job, just remember us. . . and go ahead and cry for Argentina. Or laugh. Given the absurdity, I do both.

Felices Fiestas & Adios 2009 !

2009-12-14T12:46:00.004-03:00

In San Nicolas, province of Buenos Aires, it is beginning to look a little like Christmas. Given this small city’s name, you might expect more evidence the citizenry to deck the halls more, as it was actually named for the saint who inspired the Santa Claus legend.* But they don't.

Frankly, I miss the holiday glitz and cheer of December in the USA. . . from Christmas carols and the Messiah community sings to fabulous light displays and fragrant balsam trees, from gingerbread houses to Christmas cookies and fudge, from hand blown glass ornaments and snow globes to Christmas stockings and candy canes. You won’t find those here!

Sure, as of December 8, the official start of the season, some shop windows sparkle with holiday adornment and perhaps one house in 5,000 has holiday lights. The small artificial trees in public and private, with their shiny plastic globes, fail to stir nostalgia or awe. But where is the holiday music? The Salvation Army kettles?

The only Christmas cards I get are from US friends and family (thank you, one and all!!!). Boxed cards cannot be found here. . . but no one trusts the Argentine Post Office to deliver them. I tried it once, and it took three weeks for my card to travel the 6 blocks from the PO to my friend’s downtown apartment.

To avoid holiday melancholy, I am going to approach the holiday with “the beginner’s mind,” as the Zen Buddhists put it. As positive psychologist Todd Kashdan (author of the wonderful book Curious) would encourage me, instead of going through the door marked “Nostalgia,” I’m going through the one marked “Curious” in order to see and appreciate what is.

In this season of “Christmas Lite,” far from big cities, commercialism is not yet rampant. I have saved days, perhaps weeks, by not being able to browse Xmas tree lots, holiday cards, wrapping paper, ornaments, not to mention gifts. My credit card bill in January will not stun me.

I’m delighted to report that the politically correct phrase “Felices Fiestas,” or “Happy Holidays,” is the custom here. Conservative Christian groups in the USA have no counterparts here to foment boycotts and alienate the few Jews, Muslims, and Buddhists. (Argentina has the second largest Jewish community in the world outside Israel, and religious tolerance is the norm, despite a 92% Catholic majority. Who needs to prove anything?)

Thankfully, Argentinians call their December parties “fiestas para despedir el año”—farewell-to-the-old-year parties. I just love that, the phrase and the concept. (Ages ago, I boycotted the Skaneateles AAUW “Christmas party” after the board refused my suggestion to use a more inclusive term; I hear they have since changed.) Across Argentina at these parties, organizations and groups of friends get together to share a good meal. More formal groups may take the time to list and celebrate the achievements of the past year.

Already the restaurants and cafes are brimming with jovial diners at large tables. For the brindis, or toast, everyone must “clink” everyone else’s glass, so with great cheer and commotion in a large group, everyone gets up and squeezes and shuffles until they have bid everyone salud and felices fiestas. I like the way everyone makes verbal and eye contact with each other person in this process! I am really looking forward to getting together with other coaches in Buenos Aires on the 23rd for our own despedida del año.

The other important get-together will fall on Christmas Eve, La Noche Buena, when families convene for a cold repast (and housewives cook and refrigerate it earlier so they are free to enjoy it) and another champagne toast at midnight. Somehow in all that commotion, Papa Noel sneaks in and leaves gifts for the children, which are opened at midnight (and then the Three Kings reprise this on January 6). No early to bed for these kiddies! I haven’t had the chance to spend Christmas here with a family with small children, alas, but I have been struck by how the evening is about family sharing.

Ditto for New Year’s Eve, which is another family celebration with midnight toast, and I've been honored to be invited to others' family celebrations. Us fuddy-duddy can feel relieved at the low expectations and demands, and party animals will have to create their own excitement by setting off their own fireworks in the streets at midnight both Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve (as is done when one's soccer team wins as well...why leave fireworks to professionals?).

One thing I don't miss--a White Christmas. After over a quarter century in upstate NY, I am just fine with a dip in the pool on Christmas Day, surrounded by lilies, jasmine, magnolias, and hosts of choiring larks, doves, and more. Nor will the highways and byways be crowded. That starts in the New Year, when the summer holidays begin (and hotel prices skyrocket at the beaches).

Only Christmas Day and New Years Day are bank holidays, though schools start their vacations sometime around mid-December. The country semi-shuts down, even the courts, and the real partying begins! What a country, eh?

Okay, my "curious" beginner's mind plan: Enjoy open-mindedly the local customs while still preserving some of my own. I am going to bake those holiday cookies and fudge with my young German friend Britta, craft some presents, string lights outdoors, roast a turkey, and. . . ? We’ll see.

In the meanwhile, Felices Fiestas!

La Californiana in the Pampa

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*Nicholas of Bari , born in what is now Turkey, was a Bishop at the time of the Emperor Constantine (and took the side of the Trinitarians in the Council of Nicea). His remains rest in Bari, Italy. He is known as the saint who will help single girls catch a man and live happily ever after. Legend says he aided three poor sisters in finding husbands by dropping gold coins down the chimney on to woolen socks that were drying below. But the city of San Nicolas promotes itself as “the city of Maria,” as the Virgin Mary’s appearances to poor illiterate Gladys were confirmed by the Vatican and are commemorated in a huge domed basilica that draws over 1,000,000 devotees per year.

Michelangelo of the Pampa

2009-09-26T15:23:00.002-03:00

Michelangelo, meet Miguel Angel, kindred spirit!

Though he works in recycled iron, not Carrara marble, you will recognize him as a kindred spirit.

He does larger-than-life statues, just like you did. One of them sits atop the Cathedral right here in the middle of San Nicolas. In fact, he's done all the important sculptures in this town, including the Malvinas War Memorial and a gigantic statue of the revered educator Don Bosco.

All the same, he is underappreciated. Despite his prodigious ability to fashion iron scraps into art, he makes his living trning out wrought iron gates.

Roberto and I pass by his workshop on our trips from our barrio into town, and I've especially admired the horse. Today I noticed the above singer sculpture perched over his entrance, and within one I'll call Death Calls. Roberto acceded to my entreaties to stop--and then took me inside to introduce me, as he and Miguel Angel have known each other for years. (Why didn't my husband tell me this years ago?)

After tying up his ferocious dog, Miguel Angel, with reticent pride, showed us his work in progress--a huge iron gate for the entrance to his own home. Imagine a huge wrought iron gate whose central vertical bars have been replaced by a sculpture of Earth within an oval,much like a map of the world's continents, flanked by two very pregnant women. When you visit San Nicolas, you will want to drive by his house! And if you know any one looking for great recycled iron sculptures, drop in his studio as well. You could end up shipping home a sculpture of a tennis or basketball player, a pair of eagles, or whatever this genuis creates in the meanwhile.

Those Gorgeous Argentinians

2009-09-12T15:08:00.006-03:00

How about that!

In today's msn.com, "Countries With the Best-Looking Locals" puts Argentina up there with Australia, India, Brazil, Venezuela, Thailand, Japan, etc.

To quote the article: "The seductive tango is one of many talents that make the people of Argentina — and the country — so alluring. The beautiful coastline, cosmopolitan cities and world-class wines are some of the other reasons to visit this South American destination."

While I haven't seen too many people in the above tango pose from the article, I'm gonna agree with this....and be grateful for my own charming, handsome "local" husband. I remember the singer Ricky Martin also extolling the beautiful faces, attributing it to the "mix of races." Lots of gorgeous eyes, hair, and bodies....and a certain pride in looking good and moving gracefully. They also learn how to pose with big smiles and even a bit of seduction about the age that North Americans are learning to tie their shoes.

Who else (besides Mark Sanford) wants to come on down and see for her/himself?

Destiny: Closer than Imagined

2009-07-12T15:50:00.005-03:00

Last night Roberto and I had our socks blown off by a new tourist destination: El Destino.

No, we did not go to the Big City nor the Andes nor the glaciers nor the seaside. Usually we have to drive at least seven or eight hours to go anywhere worth talking about, with the exception of some attractions in nearby Rosario.

We simply drove a mere 35 kilometers to the nearby pueblo of Ramallo, population 30,000, and known locally for its 1000 meters of natural sand beach. . . and a municipal government which has been thoughtfully developing it. (My years here have taught me the difference between good and bad city government as San Nicolas, long "managed" by Peronists, continues to lag behind Rosario, Villa Constitucion, and even little Ramallo, all run by Socialists and Radicalistas. Is this a pattern?)

The old road paralleling the beach has become a well-lit, palm-tree studded avenue, lined by several brand new clusters of cabanas--log cabins for summertime visitors. Totally by accident we stumbled upon the newest bistro, La Playa Blanca, and wondered if it would be as good as the tried-and-true Lo de Cacho, justly famous for its grilled fish, or the vanguard cuisine at the new Howard Johnson (yes, HoJos!).

In fact, it called us like moths to the flame with its pristine Cape-Cod white building among a small grove of towering trees. As it is mid-winter, it was easy to park near the entrance: a gazebo leading to a serpentine elevated bridge that connected with the multi-level deck of the be-windowed restaurant. Just getting to the door was a wonderful little foray through the tree branches, and around a trunk that the designer and carpenters left right in the middle of the walkway.

The chatter in Spanish assured me that I was not in Provincetown despite the sturdy plain white tables and Shaker type chairs, each one with a small fishbowl of alstromeria and a nautical candleholder. The outdoor panorama--the Parana at dusk and the lush greenery all around--was sufficient decor for us!

We sat down, and Florencia (as it turned out), smilingly took our order for cappuccinos and an extra glass of water for my Cretacolor watercolor pencils. The coffees arrived, and Roberto took to reading a book on Argentine history while I tried sketching the only other patrons. As the sun set, the indoor candles and soft lighting made for an intimate atmosphere, if not good drawing or reading light. A young couple entered, three boys in tow--and we quickly greeted them as they are our neighborhood pharmacists. We all commented on how delightful it is to have a place as wonderful as this so close (but why not in San Nicolas, we wondered?).

We returned to our table, but our romantic interlude was interrupted by the appearance at our table of a casually elegant 40-something blonde woman. She wondered if we were enjoying the evening. I was suddenly anxious that this was another person I should have recognized, and with some hesitation, asked her if we had met. "No, I'm Ana Lia, and this is our new place."

We offered our compliments and made just one suggestion: that the disco music be changed to something more in keeping with the ambience. At that point we were introduced to her sister and assistant, who explained that today technical difficulties were the only thing keeping them from something more listenable. Ana Lia soaked in our continued felicitaciones, murmuring that it was her dream to live in Ramallo. Then she offered to show us "the rest of the place." We placed an order for fried calamari and a salad of rucula with parmesan and donned our coats.

And that is what astounded us totally.

We crossed the avenue to "El Destino," so named because Ana Lia felt it was her destiny to build it after losing her rosary in the Taj Majal, if I understood her correctly. Although not yet open, the cabanas and service buildings are all up and ready, glistening white even in lamp light. Already tall palm trees grace the pathways. Ana Lia grabbed my hand to lead me through the few dark spots and up the wide porch stairs to the first of the cabins.

Robert and I gasped at the interior: again the clean white luminosity struck us. . . as well as the king-sized bed with white linens and hand-embroidered pillows. We marveled at the natural tree trunk table (a bit like a cross-section of a broccoli stem, with that asymmetrical shape), the carefully appointed bathroom. Everything was perfectly beautiful. . . a rustic statement of art and modern comfort.

We continued cabana after cabana, each one with its special touch: one with wicker picnic basket with stoneware plates and crystal, another with swaths of gauzy white and white wicker chairs, and so on. Our "oohs" and "aahs" were well received, and Ana Lia explained that she had personally ordered the custom-made furniture and art and the premium quality linens. She had already noted that this was not a place for children, and I could see why, and we followed her example in tamping the sand from our shoes as we continued our tour.

The Spa center was not yet viewable, and we can only imagine what visitors will say when they have cross the moat by bridge to enter it. Ditto for the "mirador," the lookout tower, "where you can enjoy a champagne toast at sunset," our hostess smiled. The design of the chapel left me puzzled, so I can't wait to see how it turns out. We continued through the main building with breakfast area, bar, and reception with hand carved art, and up to the reading room with the most beautiful of all the natural wooden tables, which is in the photograph.

Ana Lia's celular rang--our dinner was ready. We tramped back to the restaurant, our imaginations already satiated from our tour. Now fully night, our hostess proudly waved her hand to show us the decks, with two large TV screens (2x3 meter?) beaming the face of a young Paul McCartney crooning. Clearly the music challenge had been met. Daniela, our neighbor, was poised on a step, watching her sons and friend gamboling in the well-lit grassy strip separating the restaurant from the beach. The only thing missing were about 100 other patrons--but they will come!

Finally, we enjoyed a well-prepared, beautifully presented meal (at a very reasonable cost), and took our leave, knowing that this will be one of our favorite destinations from now on.

I absolutely loved meeting Ana Lia—and seeing what passion, vision, and, yes, a million dollars (my wild guess), can do to improve a place. And I believe that a lot more locals could make this a wonderful place to visit as well as live if they’d invest their own passion and vision. . . and it won’t take a million dollars each. And I’ll even offer them professional coaching at a highly discounted rate to make my own contribution to the quality of life here.

Any takers?

Kiss of the Swine Flu

2009-07-06T17:39:00.010-03:00

The lovely local custom of greeting with a kiss is now greeted with suspicion as Argentina has become the the epicenter of the swine flu epidemic,with 55 deaths so far. Yep, there is a bit of a panic as health officials tangle with the escalating epidemic.

This afternoon it was announced that all the live theaters in the country will close for 10 days starting now, notes the Argentine national paper Clarin; attendance has already dropped by 80%. Meanwhile Bolivia is seriously considering closing the border with Argentina, according to its national newspaper, La Razon.

Even here in our little city, life has changed in the last two weeks. For example, Roberto just returned from downtown. . . and said the usually crowded sidewalks are nearly empty (with some pedestrians wearing the now familiar blue "barbijo" mask), although there is some car traffic. The flu is the first and foremost topic of conversation and news reports--not football! (And no one noticed Sarah Palin's bombshell announcement.)

My teacher friends are all home, even those with private English studios. Schools throughout the city and province of Buenos Aires, which usually close for the last two weeks also closed the schools, the sports clubs, community centers, discos, and any gathering place. Restaurants (for reasons I don't get) are to remain open only during lunch and dinner hours (which was declared to be 8 pm to 1 am).

Retailers are considering surgical masks, or "barbijos" as they are known, although the national Health Minister Juan Manzur says it can be counterproductive. In some places bus drivers already use them (and no doubt the ladrones who rob them will as well). The masks were distributed to poll workers in last week's elections as well. I just googled "barbijo, influenza, argentina" and found over 2,500 hits, including a lot of ads, and the two photos above, from Hogar de Noticias. So the marketers are already milking this one!

The Buenos Aires Herald reports 55 deaths in the country from the H1N1 influenza, with 2,409 confirmed cases. The federal Health Minister estimates as many as 100,000cases. Sources say young people, especially school age, are at more risk than the over-50 crowd.

As "gripe" (flu) also happens to be the local catch-all term for feeling sick (as it is in the US), I know many people who claim to be suffering from it. Some no doubt are, but my own hunch, unconfirmed of course, is that many of these cases are food poisoning, colds, or other. So the confirmed cases of the H1N1 influenza will probably be a small percentage of the self-diagnosed cases.

Advice abounds on how to avoid infection in all the media. People are being urged to avoid congregating and to wash their hands thoroughly and often with soap. The kissing and mate customs are on the endangered cultural habits list. And, the Health Ministry advises, the prolonged school closures should not be see as an opportunity for extra holidays to crowded places. So families can practice a lot of togetherness at home, which is one of the things I like best about Argentine culture. (You don't have to leave home or ditch the parents to have fun.)

Maybe something good will come of all this. For example, I dream of a public that insists on and uses public bathrooms equipped with toilet paper, soap, and towels or dryers. Maybe the germ theory of illness will catch on.

Sometimes I am surprised by the absence of basic sanitation and the paucity of elementary knowledge about disease and contagion at all levels. Everywhere people continue to leave food out that should be refrigerated, even in shops that sell prepared meals. Unless I intervene, nearly everyone I see washes dishes in cold or at best tepid water (hardly sufficient to kill bacteria). Folks eat in public without washing hands (and I always feel terribly conspicuous when I'm the only one in a group who leaves the table after ordering to go wash mine). But I digress.

I think I'll go wash my hands!

I Love Lexulous!

2009-06-28T16:19:00.010-03:00

Want to know the REAL reason that I need high-speed internet: Lexulous!

Have you tried it? Sure, the "real" board was better back when the site was known as Scrabulous, but playing faux scrabble is almost as good.

It's still about being clever with English words, which just means a lot to me as I never meet a native speaker here in my small city.* I love silly words like ZA and QI and ULU, or show-off ones like ZYGOMATIC (really, I played it once!) and ABACII.

Of course my opponents have stupendous vocabularies. And even more amazing is that I get to play--and chat with--women and men of all ages from all over the world. There are always hundreds, even thousands, of people on line, as well as a few robots, if you prefer a machine to someone from Canada, England, Australia, India, the Philippines, South Africa, Jamaica, Scotland, Haiti, Chile, Venezuela, or Peru, just to name a few of the countries of my recent opponents.

Not surprisingly, since I choose to play the US dictionary instead of the UK dictionary, most of my opponents are from the good old USA. And I guess they assume their opponents are there as well, because instead of saying "hello from England," or "I'm in Hong Kong," they say, "Howdy from Atlanta" or "Hi from MI." And some get confused when I say I am in Argentina. One asked me to say hello to the folks in Lima (Peru) or Rio (Brazil). A woman from Pennsylvania insisted that folks here speak Portuguese, not Spanish. One got miffed when I said I'm in Buenos Aires, Argentina. "PUH-leeze, we Americans know where that is," she retorted. I always add quickly that I am an expat so if they lose they don't feel as bad as I did losing to a Chilean (who goes by the name Atacama, for whom English is a second language).

Unless you've lived where you never hear your native language spoken, all this might seem rather trivial. But I love my native language. . . be it spoken, written, or sung! For me, it has been one of the principal ways of connecting with others as well as making a living. Some people like to go running or biking, others pick up a guitar. . . well, I log in to lexulous.com as Iguazu and get into flow putting little tiles on a multi-color board. In fact, I think I'll do that right now!

See you in the Lounge or Coffee House!

*People insist that there are others US folks here, but no one can tell me where to find them. I even have set up two Facebook groups, one for expats here in San Nicolas, the other for English-speaking women in Argentina, just in case someone wants to be found by me. To be honest, I did meet one native speaker four years, a US pastor who was running an orphanage, but he was very uninterested in talking to me. Then again, I bet he never plays Scrabble!

Show Me the Money--Please!

2009-05-31T19:25:00.005-03:00

This is my latest experiential lesson in Economics 101. Perhaps more apt than bare trees (you know, the ones that money grow on!) would would be a a chain of dominoes set to fall...representing the zillions of chains of expected payments for bills.

No one ever says, "The check is in the mail." Hardly anyone uses checks or mail as done in the US to pay bills. Bills are often arrive late by mail and get paid even later. An incredible percentage of transactions take place in person and in cash. I've shocked several people by paying my bill early (but some refused to accept it as they had no way of recording it properly!).

Even so, the credit crunch seems to have hit. Where has the money gone? The guy that delivers chlorine for the pool comes by personally. And he is okay about waiting for the current payment while I wait for a steel company and a computer wholesaler to pay me for translations. . . and they are waiting for their customers to pay them. . . and so on.

Roberto would like to pay a couple bills, like health insurance, but he's waiting for the non-profit group Cooperanza that rents his house to make the next house payment. . . and that group is waiting for health insurance companies to pay them for taking care of handicapped children...and the insurance companies are waiting for their clients to pay them.... Cooperanza is also waiting for a major government subsidy--which is more than a year overdue. (One jaded person said the payment would come the week before the late June elections.)

Meanwhile, life goes on. The local grocer and pharmacist keep a running tab for the neighbors who are waiting to get paid as well. . . and the other day I was a couple pesos short, and the veggie delivery guy said, "next time, no problem." (I can't imagine Wegman's supermarket letting me walk out the door with a dozen oranges on the promise to pay next time!)

These are just a few of many examples I could give. This week two people told me stories of how the feds have paid some of their bills to individual citizens or companies with bonds that mature in five or ten years! Can you imagine a defense contractor for the US agreeing to that one? I hear that one of the steel company's subcontractors got so fed up with months of delayed payments that he held one of the steel company trucks hostage in his own parking lot by locking the gate until he got paid...and he did get the cash that day.

At least we are owed more than we owe, we're on top of most everything, and so I just try to keep tabs on it. . . and go on with my day, enjoying my work and play time. . . It will all work out eventually. . . or not. . . and life will still go on. . . without the justice or security one would want. . . but with enough beauty, joy, and love to make it worthwhile.

By the way, that tree is in one of many beautiful groves of an old estancia, now a School of Agriculture, in Zavalla, outside Rosario, in the province of Santa Fe. Just in case you wondered. As for me, I wonder what species it is. . . any ideas? They look like something out of Hogwarts!

Being Green in Argentina

2009-04-26T01:00:00.010-03:00

"Verde que te quiero verde."

"Green, I want you green," wrote Federico Garcia Lorca, possibly the most noted Spanish poet, in his poem Romance Somnambulo .

I want things green too. So all last week I celebrated Earth Day here in my little house on the Argentine pampa in thought, photo, and deed. The most deeply gratifying thought is that my ecological footprint has shrunk from a size 12 EEE to something like a 7B. As it wasn't all voluntary, so I'm not asking for a pat on the back.

First of all, even with a less visible environmental movement, it is easier to live greener here, more due to necessity and custom than any kind of eco-consciousness. So here's how I've become greener since moving here:

1. I drive less. In fact, I don't drive much at all. I average less than 40 kilometers per week—and that is in a 17-year-old Ford Galaxy powered by compressed natural gas. I do average about two trips a year back to the US—so that eats up any credits I might have earned, I suppose.

2. I hang clothes out to dry—a rather pleasant task beneath the towering magnolia and jacaranda trees. Roberto was insistent that I not buy a dryer, and almost no one I know has one anyway. The sun does a pretty decent job, and I've learned to hang the brighter colored garments in the shade. (You can see the "sun line" on a number of my T-shirts!) In inclement weather, we drape damp clothes over the loft balcony, over doors, on dresser drawer knobs, etc. I wash dishes by hand, but I've read that is not an energy savings. Then again, we don't have to throw one out when it breaks down or just gets out of fashion.

3. My consumer days are over. Here there is less to tempt—and I've discovered that I don't need much that isn't here. (Except great semi-sweet chocolate!) There's no pressure to buy the latest anything, and we have very few gadgets around the house besides a refrigerator, stove, microwave oven, mixer, food processor, and a small vacuum. We have a 15-year old stereo and a sadly ordinary TV for watching videos as we chose not to have any TV service. The average age of our PCs is 6 years, which is a little dismaying actually. Our big thrill is the antenna which allows us to get broadband.

4. The packageless, nearly paperless home. Since I buy less, there's less packaging. Besides, very little comes in those cardboard and bullet-proof plastic packages here. I didn't even get one of those great cartons when I bought a refrigerator—it came with a thin plastic film on the door and a blanket around it. We use maybe one tin can a week and reuse any jars to store food and spices. We get very little mail and almost zip junk mail—no catalogues, no charity requests, etc. Just an occasional copy of the Jehovah Witness pamphlet, Awake! Our notepads are recycled paper--I cut the pages up myself!

5. Slow Food, Local Food. Most of our food is locally produced foods and we grow our own berries. My new German expat friend, Britta, stops by with a crate of organic veggies (see photo) from her farm about two kilometers away. Those crispy gorgeous greens, along with domestic cereal grains and other produce, have become a mainstay of our diet. The butcher cuts up the meat while I wait and puts it all in a plastic bag.

6. The Minimalist Trash Can. We throw out a couple small bags of trash three times a week—it's so little it fits in a driveway-side basket like the one pictured. We use things up, reuse things, recycle things right at home. You never see piles of junk on curbsides (unless it is someone's parked jalopy!). Folks here use cheap toilet paper and reuse containers for economy's sake. . . and I do it for that and to lessen waste.

7. Our Energy Savings. Except during mid-winter, the weather is very hospitable, often absolutely delightful. So our small chalet-style home lacks central heating, though I confess I put an A/C in my loft office for use on the sweaty days. Mostly we rely on fans or just the breezes, doors wide open, especially since electricity costs more here. Since our small gas wall heater only puts out a few BTUS in this poorly insulated house, during the winter I stuff old newspapers in the window cracks and live in my polar fleece jacket, even to bed at times. Amazing what you can get used to! We've learned to take two-minute showers since our hot-water heater is quite small.

8. Simple Pleasures. Entertainment for us and our neighbors and friends usually involves socializing over meals, walking or biking, reading or playing board games, a dip in the pool. We fill the pool with water from our own pump, and it leaks back into the same ground, and then we fill it up again. Our vacations are generally a day's drive to the ocean or mountains for a respite, where our activities are all non-motorized.

Most of the middle and working class folks that I know here live fairly simply, enjoying their family and friends, and never give much thought to their environmental impact, as low as I perceive it to be here on the family level. Of course the farming and crops have taken their toll on the pampa, and deforestation and water pollution are common. So there is definitely room here for more awareness and more action. I hope to be a part of that too.

May all your days be green!

Knock Knock, Who’s There?

2009-04-13T13:57:00.003-03:00

A whole different set of characters shows up at my door here. Not a single Avon lady with catalog, no Girl Scout with cookies, no ice cream truck, no college students with petitions for NYPIRG or political candidates, no Street Coordinators for cancer or heart associations, no kids asking to play with my kids. On rare occasion, a Jehovah's Witness or Mormon has stopped by, as in the U.S., but for the most part, this is a drama with a different cast.

First, as my front door about 60 feet from the street, anyone who arrives rings the bell at the gate and waits for me to walk out to greet them. Those who don't see the little brass bell hanging from the gate post clap loudly several times, as is the custom here. (No shouting "Hey, anybody home?") Of course my dogs bark with excitement when someone stops in front of our house, so that really alerts me. No one enters a private yard without an invitation.

Here's a list of typical visitors that stop by our little house in our little barrio on the outskirts of San Nicolas:

Green Grocers. The horse-drawn vegetable wagon passes by with Miguel and Oscar from the countryside, every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, with seasonal produce, e.g., lettuces, onions, tomatoes, oranges, squashes, apples, eggs, bananas, and even the occasional free-range chicken. Oscar knows I prefer the potatoes "sin ojos ni narices," i.e., without eyes or noses. And Miguel hand carries the produce to my door. If it rains, they take the day off. They accept credit, which can be very handy.

Couriers. Mail is so untrustworthy that companies send their monthly bills by special couriers, or "cadets," who arrive on a bright, noisy motorcycle, much to the dogs' obvious delight. At times I have hired a courier to pay my bills, bring me roast chickens, pizza, ice cream, and office supplies from town. Once the local pharmacist, Daniela, kindly brought me the prescription herself since a courier was not available, and I needed the antihistamine to keep my foot from swelling up like a balloon after stepping into an ant hill (with those little tiny red ants that sting like the dickens!).

Mailman. Shows up maybe once or twice a month. No one leaves letters in the mailbox for pick up of course! The date stamps show weeks of delay even for domestic mail; it can be months of delay for international mail. Some stuff never arrives (and I'm told by locals that postal employees frequently steal and just leave boxes of undelivered mail piling up in offices).

The "Cobradora." The neighborhood association has hired Ana Luisa to collect the dues for street maintenance and the night guard. She usually shows up on a Sunday afternoon with the bill, her young son (whose English gets better every time) in tow. She also sells Mary Kay, and left me a catalogue at my request, but I have yet to buy anything. She never mentions it. I worry about her as everyone pays in cash, and we are talking about hundreds of pesos, and she assures me that Sunday afternoons are quite safe. Plus she comes by car, not on foot.

"Paper boy." It's a grown woman, Dolores, and this is her livelihood. She also manages a kiosk with magazines and newspapers on the main route near us. She honks for me to run out as she is intimidated by our agitated dogs (who have now been trained to resist jumping on people). She is one of the very few persons who complain about how hard life is here, although many others certainly could justify doing so. They just don't. I offered to coach her, but she never took me up on it.

"Pool guy." Okay, so I exaggerate, but it would be nice to have one! Maxi, a teenager, drops off the weekly jugs of chlorine for the pool, with his dad at the wheel of the truck. He's the only middle-class high school student I've met with the initiative to work weekends to earn money. We should clone him! He is energetic, cheerful, and no doubt a good student too. I wonder if they do this to help with the costs of their other son, left paraplegic after a car accident some years ago. They don't mention it. . . I just happened to find out by asking about siblings.

The Internet guy. After years of struggling with dial-up internet, we jumped at the chance to get high-speed via a private antenna, which Marcello installed and manages. He stops by when we have problems and to collect the monthly payment, always unannounced and usually during dinner time of course, despite repeated requests to come before 8 p.m. He has such a passion for what he is doing that he is still smiling at 9 p.m. Amazing.

The "Gardener." A glorified term not really applicable to Ismael, a mechanic who took up gardening when the factory laid him off, who comes to cut the grass once a week and keep the bamboo from taking over our back yard. He also prunes trees without the slightest knowledge of the subject, so our palm tree went headless for an entire year. I admire him because he manages to make it here under very trying circumstances, including distance, weather, and transportation, all in good humor. For a while he had to come by motorcycle, pulling his wagon of supplies behind him, including a succession of lawn mowers in various states of functioning. I begged him to repair or replace the one that belched black soot for his own health, and I've lent him money for that. Sometimes he brings Raul with him, a stooping older man who lovingly tends the flower beds, but unfortunately chronic illnesses keep him away most of the time. Whenever I start to think I have things hard, I just think of Ismael and immediately realize just how lucky I have been in this life. He took his first vacation in ages last week—which just meant staying home and relaxing!

Neighbors. Once a week or so, Manuela (now 14 years old) used to bike here with her little brother Agustín seated in front of her, plastic bag dangling from the handlebars. From the poor barrio on the other side of the highway and as skinny as rails, they always wanted food, which we always gave them, with candy and cookies for fun. They've come for years; I wonder why they have not stopped by this month. As for neighbors here--maybe every four months or so, when the phone is dead, my next-door neighbor Sylvia shows up at the door, not the gate, to ask if our phone service is also down, and then she sits down and enjoys coffee and conversation. (She is the only person besides R's daughter who can get past the dogs, apparently!) Marisol, a new neighbor who hails from Cordoba, drops by every other week or so to chat. I don't know the other women here in our small neighborhood of 50 houses; on the rare occasion that I see a woman in her yard or walking in the street, she shows no interest in saying hello. So I assume extreme privacy must be the norm and respect that.

Family and friends. Given that we live "so far from town" (7 kilometers), almost no one ever stops in unexpectedly. Oddly enough, most who visit us are under 30 years old. Roberto's daughter and boyfriend. Two local English-language teachers. The young German woman who brings organic veggies (and has started an Expat Club with me). Gonzalo and his girlfriend from Buenos Aires. Would-be Unitarian Universalists (this includes older folks) who make a point of traveling to San Nicolas to meet one of the two official UUs in this country.

I think that covers our list of visitors. If you want to stop by, please email or phone first—and I'll even bake some brownies!

P.S. For privacy, the gate and house in the photo are similar to mine, but are from another neighborhood.

From Chorizo-Salad Wars to Lower Cholesterol

2009-04-02T11:52:00.002-03:00

Imagine a duel between a big fluffy California green salad and a plump, savory grilled Argentine chorizo. That pretty much sums up the food battle here in our intercultural marriage.

Food often looms large as an issue in intercultural marriages. My inner Californian does govern my diet—and thus my yearning for fresh, low-fat, low-sugar foods, whole-grain breads, "real" breakfasts, and low-calorie lunches, bumped up hard against my Argentine husband's eating habits. I balked at the "gaucho diet" of asado, chorizo, fried milanesas with fries, sugary cookies and dulce de leche as too fatty, too sweet, and with a low nutrition-to-calorie ratio.

My fourth-grade health teacher and Dr. Atkins would roll over in their graves if they could have surveyed his typical daily fare when I arrived. My darling Roberto was happy with coffee and a roll for breakfast, a heavy long lunch of meat, bread, and potatoes (followed by a siesta), a late-afternoon snack of crackers with cheese, and perhaps a supper of pasta with sauce.

Greens, veggies, and fruit made occasional cameo appearances during the week, but not daily, and certainly not at every meal. Meat and carbs were the stars of the show!

Sure, he would eat fruit for dessert—and half the time it was from a jar of conserves, laden with sugar. Visitors would often bring pretty little cookies and sugar-laden tarts and cakes with zero nutritional value whatsoever to accompany the rounds of mate. I feared for my waistline and possible diabetes, but most of all for Roberto's high cholesterol level.

Ten years ago when his cholesterol hovered at 280, he began the prescribed daily drug regimen, which over the years managed to reduce it to 230. And there it remained steady until I started messing around with the meals here. It began to drop more after the first two years, and he reduced the pills to every other day. This week he saw his physician—who was stunned to see it had dropped to 175. "Excellent--you're a kid again!" he marveled. Roberto raced home to me with the good news, as proud as a kid with "100" on his math test.

How did he reduce his cholesterol another 55 points in less than half the time with half the medication?

We agree it is his new low-fat, nutrition-dense diet. Roberto, bless his soul, has adopted a more California-style eating pattern. And really, there were no battles so long as I fixed the meals, as he had no clue how to fix these foreign dishes. Gradually and gracefully he adopted my own culinary habits, so although we may follow something of the Argentine dining schedule, the food that graces our table differs radically from our neighbors' menus.

We start the typical day with oatmeal (dotted with diced dried fruits and nuts) or homemade granola with yogurt and blueberries from our farm. (On Sundays, make that blueberry pancakes or yummy omelets). Lunches may be giant salads with some slices of ham or roast chicken or perhaps a spicy vegetable soup with a bit of beef, tofu, or wontons. My favorite is pumpkin-tomato soup. When served, we alternate the typical baguette with homemade breads (oatmeal, banana, corn, whole wheat), and consume considerably less refined white flour. Dinner includes some meat or tofu protein, a "starch," and a salad and/or other vegetable. It could be Chinese stir fry, Indian curry, or pepper-rubbed filets of beef.

Smoothies and Chocolate Chip Cookies Rule

I usually skip desserts—so he still has that piece of fruit. The cookies to accompany coffee or mate are my very popular, nutrition-dense homemade chocolate chip cookies (with whole-wheat flour, oatmeal, wheat germ, and nuts). He's become adept at whipping up tasty smoothies with yogurt and our farm-grown berries. I've learned to shake up a pan of popcorn on the stove (as microwave popcorn is hard to find and very expensive).

Okay, we still do the typical Sunday barbecue here, but instead of fatty meats, Roberto often does chicken or filet mignon. He does fabulous skewers of marinated chicken and beef! Any day now he's going to do grilled vegetables, I'm sure of it! And I've decided that those chorizos are mighty good after all. So once a week, we have chorizo. (I split mine open and use an espresso spoon to take out at least half the fat before cooking, surely treason, and may explain why I still have not received my Document of National Identity.)

The really cool thing is that in addition to Roberto's lower cholesterol, we both have lost more than a few kilos as well. The food wars are but a faint memory, and we truly enjoy the chance to whip up something tasty and healthy together—and then dine like royalty in our lovely garden or dining room. For me, sharing these good meals with the person I love is one of the best things about each day!

Life Gets in the Way of Blogging

2009-03-23T14:58:00.010-03:00

Truth is, I love to write.

I love to blog, write letters, and write, translate, and edit articles. I live for the written word, especially English. It is my connection to my culture, to my past, present, and future. Dare I admit that my favorite pasttimes are reading, playing Scrabble, and solving crossword puzzles? Oh, and conversations!

So what is my excuse for not blogging for FOUR whole months?

Actually, I've written at least 23 blogs in my head during this time. . . while peeling potatoes, chopping onions, washing dishes, hanging out clothes to dry, weeding the lawn, cleaning the pool,walking the dogs, showering. (But not while coaching or writing professionally or trying to sleep. And certainly not while making love or socializing with friends. Some moments ARE sacred!)

The irony: During this time I even wrote a page of tips for my own writing clients on how to stop procrastinating on writing!! (They all started writing more!)

So I am now taking some of my own good advice. JUST DO IT. It is so easy for all those "urgent, not as important" things to fill up a day, a week, a month, a season. . . even a lifetime. I made a commitment to journal my life as a California immigrant to the pampa of Argentina, and I intend to keep it!

At first, I was just taking a vacation from blogging while visiting beautiful Santa Cruz, California, for almost a whole month during the US winter holidays. Then when I returned, I needed to catch up on things.

And a week after returning, the internet pretty much shut down here at home, and I had to go to internet cafes for the bare minimum of work and play. The funky internet service became a daily excuse for weeks. Turns out the main antenna that serves our private antenna developed a kink that went undetected for over a month. (Luckily I did not heed the service tech's early advice to heavily prune one of our two majestic jacaranda trees!) So I wrote blogs in my head and some in Word while waiting for that tech to answer the phone twice a day for five weeks. Then I never posted them as they seemed dated.

Anyway, it's been fixed, so then I had to start thinking up other excuses, like too much domestic work. Truth is I do spend probably invest at least 10 to 15 nore hours per week on household tasks and repairs than when I lived in the US. Hey, I'm not complaining, in fact I enjoy cooking 90% of our food from scratch and maintaining our lush park-like yard in the midst of an historic drought. But those are the things I want to blog about! (Next blog: how I got an Argentine to eat salad regularly and reduce his bad cholestrol by 50 points!)

Lately I've been procrastinating saying that my fast-growing coaching practice had eaten into my free time. I love coaching immensely--and working with individuals, groups, and leading a resource group for new coaches, plus doing marketing for all that, does take time. I'm THRILLED to have a full coaching practice now. Still, I need to think about how to reserve and enjoy my free time.

Of course no one is paying me for this. I don't even know if anyone is reading it. Why do I bother? Because it has become the place where I take time to reflect on "the rest of my life" here in Argentina aside from work. I need and deserve this time to consider what it means to live as a stranger in a strange land. . . as a curious, passionate soul in transformation.

Reflecting is good. Writing it down is better, as it is amazing how we forget what we have learned and have to learn it all over again. Reflecting gives me the chance to savor the good stuff and hammer in the learnings...

Like how not to procrastinate.

So, I'm back!

Wow, that wasn't so hard! And I feel great!

P.S. If you want to challenge me at Scrabble, find me at http://www.lexulous.com/, user name "Iguazu" as in the waterfall. I'd love to see you!

Girls Just Wanna Be Barbie

2008-11-17T14:56:00.010-03:00

Guess what’s new in Buenos Aires? The world’s first stand-alone Barbie store, Casa Barbie !!

Yes, Argentine parents and even international tourists are chaperoning their little princesses to Mattel’s first retail store featuring everything for the Barbie wannabe, including clothing and costumes, tea and pastry shop, and even a hair salon (for hair and makeup). Girls can now beg their moms to schedule their birthday parties at Casa Barbie. You can read all about it in the Los Angeles Times.

In a country where anorexia, obsession with appearance, and the sweet tooth are more or less “normal,” it will probably be a huge hit. The brainchild of an Argentine marketer, there are already two shops on Santa Fe and Scalabrini Ortiz. Won’t it be a little ironic if this consumerist feminine fantasy is then exported back to the US?! (Or am I the only girl who never wanted to grow up to be a princess?)

The US Barbie phenomenon forced me to allow my own daughter to have Barbie dolls (or else throw away presents from others), and I hope by now, at age 27, that she has forgiven me for not buying her that Barbie house she put on her list to Santa.

So what will I do when she or her brother sends us those future granddaughters from California and Massachussets to visit me, and they clamor to visit the Barbie store?

Why, of course I will take them. . . and then give them a really nice tennis racquet or better yet, a soccer ball for their birthdays. That would be the responsible thing to do as a feminist in Argentina!

Luckily I have a few years to figure this one out.

Living Democratically: 25 Years to Life?

2008-11-01T11:33:00.004-03:00

Some personal values become even clearer when living in a different culture.

Take democracy, for instance.

Living in a democracy was something I took more or less for granted growing up in the United States. Seeing military coups, dictators, and juntas come and go seemed less likely than happening upon purple cows and flying pigs.

The former were things that happened in other people's countries (and alas, as I was to discover, often aided and abetted by the United States). Now I live in one of those countries.

Yesterday Argentina celebrated 25 years of continuous democracy. Hurray!

Although established as a democratic republic in 1810, elected leaders have only managed to hold the reins of government for about 158 years during two centuries, and even some of those elections were considered outright fraudulent. (Signicant election fraud was also something I never expected to see in the U.S.)

My 59-year-old husband observes that he has lived under democratic rule for only about two-thirds of his entire life. He gets misty-eyed every time the subject comes up of Raul Alfonsin's election in 1983, after seven years of brutal rule by a military junta that kidnapped and murdered as many as 30,000 citizens for daring to espouse more liberal ideas (or being suspected of espousing those ideas or being suspected of associating with those who espoused such ideas) . With shock and sadness, I absorb accounts of the last junta and the Dirty War and the continuing revelation of gravesites and "recovered" children who were born of mothers detained in torture centers. I am left speechless by the horror.

What it might be like for me to live under tyranny remains impossible to imagine--although the current high-handed government which cares little for Congress or divergent views gives me a taste of its ugliness. Diversity of opinion is not welcome under dictators or under Peronism. (Some of my neighbors here tell me that the problem with Cristina is that she imagines that she was Queen with absolute rule, rather than merely President, with a need to develop a shared vision and consensus. But she has had to give in to public opinion and sheer intransigence on farm policy and may have to make concessions in her nationalization of pensions.)

Had there still been a dictatorship here, I would never ever have moved here. I'll be on the next plane if I ever sense that one is on the way, which seems very unlikely for now. All the same, I will never ask for Argentine citizenship. I will always be a U.S. American. I still value my US citizenship, visit regularly, own property, and pay taxes there. I get to vote absentee for Federal offices, so I did just cast my ballot for President and Vice President. I will always remain loyal to the shared ideals of my culture, of democracy, liberty, justice, and equality for all. Those stand as our cultural ideals despite violations by any sitting President and or Congress.

Those cultural beliefs permeate my life 24:7, not just on voting day. It colors how I think most social institutions should be run, including the family, state and church. As far as I can tell, these views are NOT shared by the typical Argentinian, whose formative experiences as a child, student, citizen, and Catholic result in an acceptance of hierarchies and one's general powerlessness. There is no Attorney General to call when the insurance company delays payment for damages for four years. There is no legislator to call when the residential streets have more potholes than pavement, unlike New York, where Alfonse D'Amato was proud to be known as "Senator Pothole" for his responsiveness. Parishioners do not choose their priests or elect governing officials. The provincial Ministries of Education determine school budgets, books, and rules.

From my observations in this small provincial city, feminism has not made a dent here. Women unquestioningly continue to do the bulk of domestic duties even while holding outside jobs as well. Nor do they rise often to powerful corporate posts. Finally, don't be fooled by the visibility of women in government: Many of those with high government posts are escorted there on the arm of a husband or brother, including the current President (whose husband preceded her) and the Minister of Social Action.

At times the differences in our experiences of "living democratically" even show up in our intercultural marriage. Most notably, I expect that we will talk through major issues (finance, vacation, car purchase, job changes) and aim for consensus before acting, whereas Roberto, who consciously is very egalitarian, slips into a mode of acting without consulting and then getting shocked when I express disapproval afterwards. Offering various opinions, brainstorming until we find a mutually acceptable one is simply not a habit with him as it was for me in my prior roles in my family, university career, and civic and church volunteering.

Words like "assertiveness" and "consensus" are not common here. In fact, I attended a business seminar in which the trainer spent fifteen minutes introducing the concept of "assertiveness" to a mystified audience. While Argentinians are delightfully sociable and have intense meaningful friendships, they have not yet transformed that kind of relational magic into the realms of business, church, and state. One can easily be equals here when love, but not money or power or salvation, is at stake, it seems.

Dialogue is missing. Assertiveness is missing. To believe in those one must first believe one has some power to influence. And that too is missing. So instead of dialogue and reasoned opposition, Argentina ends up with general apathy about politics, lots of suspicion about corrupt politicians, and endless street protests and encampments in front of government offices. As I recall, Elizabeth Janeway in analyzing the power of the weak found that a principal tool is passive aggression: When you don't have the power to do, you use the only power you have, which is to block the doings of others.

I love living here in Argentina. I love my Argentine husband and my Argentine friends, the vast Pampa, Buenos Aires, the mountains, the glaciers, the desert, the forests.. . . and yet I keep wondering:

How wonderful would it be if democracy ran truly deep and strong and permanently here in Argentina. What kind of political, entrepreneurial, spiritual, social, and personal energy would be liberated to create a really great country? I wonder. . . and I hope.

LESSONS FROM A GPS: START FROM WHERE I AM

2008-08-31T10:50:00.001-03:00

When I visit my daughter in California, she generously lends me her Volvo and the GPS unit so that I can thread my way around Santa Cruz and environs without losing myself on the myriad paved snaking roads through hills and trees, around sloughs, past shopping malls and bungalows, all just as fascinating and absent from my pampa panorama as the majestic ocean that keeps me from veering too far west.

As I buzz along wide city avenues or the serpentine back roads, the disembodied feminine voice streaming from the portable Garmin unit pleasantly offers me the turn-by-turn directions , eg., "Turn left in 100 yards." Best of all, when I make a mistake, this unseen navigator never hollers, "Hey, you just missed the off ramp! Aren't you listening!?" Furthermore, she never once has criticized me for adding time to the trip by making a wrong turn (and you might wonder how this is possible, but if you've driven on Seabright Avenue where there's this funny intersection right by the Laundromat and burger place parking lot, you know what I mean).

The great thing is that every time things go wrong, every time I start to get lost, she just resets our compass and starts giving me directions from where I am. No harping on where I could be or should be, no patronizing cheeriness about the fun of exploring unplanned byways. She doesn't even care if the detour was due to a closed road or to driver error; she is focused on the goal. No blame! Just back to the task.

I like that attitude: Just take a deep breath, and let's go at it again! In living the expat life, (when I remember to use it) this perspective has helped me channel my energy constructively.

I am going to take Ms. Garmin as a role model for how I talk to myself and others when things get off track. Let's just get back on track. Let's start from where we are and move forward. No recriminations. No regrets. Keep your eye on the goal.

There's just one little change I might make. (Are you listening, Garmin folks?) When I arrive at my pre-selected destination without any detours (especially driver-induced ones), I'd like to hear that pleasant voice say one more thing: "Way to go, high five! You did it!"

Es Feriado Hoy? Is Today a Holiday?

2008-08-29T22:13:00.001-03:00

"Have a good holiday weekend!" So chirped my friend Kathy's email this week as she was leaving for the final fling in the sand over the US Labor Day weekend. "Enjoy YOUR holiday," I replied, because Labor Day is one custom I gave up by moving here.

Argentina chooses to honor workers on the same day as do most other countries (but not the US or NZ), on International Workers Day on May 1. As it occurs in mid-autumn here, with no last-chance barbecues and trips to the cabin, no back-to-school buying frenzies, etc. It's just a welcome day off work for everyone here, including shopkeepers. But this Monday we will all be working.

All said, the change of holidays works out to be fair trade, though at times I feel nostalgia for the Labor Day picnic or the President's Birthday White Sale. More than once I have forgotten one of those Monday holiday and tried calling a US office, or wondered why my children haven't answered my call for three days.

Worse, at times I have ended up working both US holidays (because everyone here is working) and the Argentine holidays as well (since so many of my clients are in the US). No longer! Now that I am starting to get into the rhythm of things better, I'm changing that. I worked July 4 this year but NOT July 9. (So do I get my National ID card now, please?!) But I think I will work Monday as usual.

Given that holidays don't get the commercial hype here (in general, no special sales, cards, or decorations!), they can sneak up on you! Instead of sales extravaganzas, stores actually close!

Thus it took some time for me to start remembering most of the Argentine holidays. Some mornings I would get up, expecting to be able to go into town to pick something up at the store, and over breakfast my dear Argentine husband would surprise me. "Pero querida, hoy es feriado." "But darling, today is a holiday."

But the next holiday here will not catch me napping! I finally copied the major holidays from a website and put them into my Outlook calendar. If my dear friends and family in the US and Canada would now follow suit, we can exchange holiday greetings. Get ready: the next one important holiday is Dia de la Raza. If you don't know what or when it is, time to Google!

Enjoy Labor Day!

I Wanna Burrito: My Inner Mexican

2008-08-06T12:26:00.003-03:00

Sitting here in Los Pericos, a tiny corner taqueria in downtown Santa Cruz, California, I feel blissfully at home in a sea of burritos, chile rellennos, enchiladas, tacos, nachos, guacamole, and mariachi music. It's nearly 3 pm, kinda late for lunch, but there's a good range of folks here reflecting California's multicultural heritage: a young Asian in long sleeves and jeans, a shorts-and-T-shirt Anglo couple (how do they stay so pale in a beach city?), an aging pink-faced hippie fellow with a grayed pony tail (wagging as he adds lots of hot sauce to his take-out bag), a three-generation Mexican family, and of course a Mexican quartet managing the grill, counter, and serving.

Taquerias are popular lunch spots since, for the money, you get your tortillas with a lot of rice and beans, as well as free chips and salsa for orders over $5. Add a Corona beer (see photo), Mexican soft drink, or a coke and for under $10 you can eat enough to hold you for days. No fancy duds needed either.

When I'm in Argentina, I do long for Mexican food, so this is my second trip in three days to Los Pericos, which also has free parking for 5 lucky patrons. (If you've ever tried finding parking to hit the taco bar at the Palomar, you will appreciate this!) While Burger King and McDonalds have made inroads into the land of gauchos and great grilled beef, Mexican food is less common than snow. . . and can be rather pricy, even for a simple meal. My U.S. visitors are surprised that Argentinians, who will eat beef "nervios" and intestines, generally won't eat chili peppers and actually gag at the taste of cilantro.

Having spent most of my formative years within a day's drive of Mexico, plus a truly memorable foodie trip to Guadalajara, I know there is more to the Meican menus than one finds in a US taco shop. Carlos Fuentes had one of his short-story characters assert there are really only four or five world-class cuisines: Mexican, French, Italian, Chinese, and….Argentinian. (Italian-Argentines make sure we get plent of homemade pasta, pizza, and other delicacies, but otherwise, international dishes are the province of "Patagonian" or five-star hotel restaurants). Not one to quarrel with such an esteemed gourmet and writer as Fuentes, I'll just agree and ask him if he's tried any Thai, Indian, or Japanese food. (Any other nominations for world-class cuisine?) And then we can talk about the distinct regional cuisines in Mexico, which I'd like to sample on-site, though I've yet to convince my Argentine husband to make the trip.

Language scholars have said that we are born with the capacity to pronounce the sounds in any language, but that we lose many of the sounds that do not occur in our own language, such as the 48 clicking sounds in !Kung or the funny sounds in French that doom me to eternal disdain in Paris cafes. (Thankfully the Quebecois welcomed me with my English, though my French-speaking Argentine husband had to rescue me from going down the hall to the men's room instead of the ladies'. I hope the Brazilians will be as kind about my Portuguese.) Do you suppose we are also born with the capacity to enjoy all kinds of foods, from Habanero peppers to cow innards? Or is that something that we can acquire? Where do our food tastes come from anyway? It can't all be family and culture as I absolutely refuse to eat okra (that slimy fuzzy vegetable that my Texas-born mother loves) and can detect the disgusting taste of eggplant no matter how much well-intentioned friends have hidden it in purees or lasagna. Might our food likes and dislikes evolve not only from family and social experiences but also from genetics?

I think I have an inner Mexicana, alive and well, at least as long as I fulfill the annual quota of enchiladas, pollo con mole poblano, avocado on anything, carne asada, tamales, jalapenos, and so on. When I arrived in Argentina, one of my step-daughters charged me with "speaking Spanish like a Mexican," apparently because I hiss rather than aspirate those s's as do folks in the area of Rosario (which makes "escuela" sound like "ehcuela" to me!). She wondered if it were my teachers, but I told her it was from listening to too much Luis Miguel. Anyway, I took it as a compliment as she could have said I spoke it like a "Yankee." (I know, you thought I was going to say "gringo," but around San Nicolas, that is reserved for Italians.)

Why is the world of food so tied up with the language for me? Because since my earliest recollections, eating Mexican food, listening to Mexican music, and hearing Mexican-accented Spanish all runs together. The food/music memories stretch back as far as early childhood trips to Olvera Street in LA. One expert in diversity training said that getting folks to eat "foreign" or "different" food is one of the easiest first steps to a fuller appreciation of the culture. And yes, years after the first tacos and burritos spread from coast to coast, the U.S. has witnessed the rise of the Latino voter, with representatives and Cabinet Secretaries. Do we need upscale restaurants like the fabulous eateries I tried in Guadalarja (where I had the most beautiful, tasty meals of my life) before we get a Supreme Court Justice or President whose name ends in a vowel (besides a silent "e")? Oh, wait….we may be headed there already with a certain dark-skinned man whose last name ends in "O." We shall see!

Viva Mexico! Viva el burrito!

Making Date Nut Bread on a Winter Morn

2008-06-14T13:38:00.004-03:00

I’m standing at the counter in my yellow-tiled kitchen. Thank the goddess for fruits, vegetables, and wool sweaters! I say to myself as I chop dates on a wooden plate and drop them in a glass bowl, imagining the fragrant bread I’ll have this afternoon.

Thank the goddess, because we’ll be using them a lot, I say. No one is listening, so I say it again, relishing the sound of "muchisimo."

Roberto flicks the TV on, and yep, the farmers are still striking and the truckers continue to block roads. All over Argentina, grocery shelves are increasingly bare. But even if they were full, we couldn’t drive into town since our VW Bora has run out of gasoline—and so have many local gas stations. We've got stuff in the fridge, I assure myself, and in the pantry.

Besides, and luckily for us on the outskirts of town, the verdulero (green grocer) will stop by this morning, his horse-drawn covered wagon bringing lettuces, tomatoes, oranges, onions, garlic, leeks, potatoes, and eggs, much of it locally produced, along with the good cheer he always radiates.

Roberto needs to go into town right away, though. If his ancient Ford Galaxy wasn’t gathering dust in the street waiting for repairs, we could use it, as it runs on compressed natural gas, which is easily available for now. He comes in the kitchen from outside, brandishing a Nescafe jar full of blue liquid—a bit of gas from who-knows-where that he thinks will be enough to get into town and back. He’ll be watching for a gas station with a long line of cars—that’s the clue.

As I chop the walnuts, I am planning my own day. I think I will alternate some office work with cooking breads and soups. I love cooking—and besides having something to eat, it will take the nip out of the air here. It suddenly occurs to me that the breads are going to need extra time. The small wall gas heaters that barely heat our chalet once exuding less heat than usual. (When my chocolate chip cookies needed fifteen minutes to “set” one day, Roberto explained that the gas company adds air to keep the pressure normal when supplies run low.) I run upstairs make sure the desk fan in my loft office is on and aimed at our downstairs in hopes of keeping our little brick chalet at least 55 degrees.

The wool sweater and the preheating oven seem enough for now, and if the wind doesn’t stop blowing, I’ll soon be stuffing newspapers in the cracks of windows. My wooden clogs insulate my bare feet from the frigid green ceramic tiles as I click-clack into the living room to switch the TV to a sports channel. (These floors are so amazing, like a foundation of vitrified grass! I say a prayer for the woman who had the courage to pick them instead of beige.)

Back to the kitchen. The recipe says to pour boiling water over the dates. I grab the whistling teapot and put it under the spout. No water comes out. Oh, right, the crew working in the street putting in our barrio’s first sewer system has already shut off the pipe. (Hey, at least for now I don’t have to worry about the toilet tank running constantly, sometimes onto the floor and right into the floor drain. Lately we’ve been leaving the toilet tank lid on top of the bidet to make it easier for us to insert the wayward stopper. Plumber A said he’d come last week, then this Monday, never called…Plumber B tried to come Tuesday but his car broke down en route and still isn’t fixed.)

As I fill the kettle from the hot water tap, I give silent thanks for what I used consider a nutty and ugly system here, namely having hideous roof storage tanks that get replenished at night and supply hot water pipes. In a few minutes I am steeping some tea and pouring the water, spitting and feisty, over the dried fruits, just as Joy of Cooking instructs.

The phone rings—it’s the newspaper delivery senora, who in a few minutes arrives at the gate with the bill, warning me about the long lines for gas in the city. I look down our packed-earth road and see the vegetable wagon coming, so I wait, watching the horse with its blinders going clop clop cop past the workers and stopping right at our driveway. How useful to have transport that consumes oats, not gas, for once!

With fingerless gloves, the gray but spry fellow picks out eight huge potatoes, heavy flattish ovals, rather like edible blonde versions of the speckled granite stones I used to collect on the rocky promontory near Jenness Beach (Rye, NH) each summer to line the summer house gardens. One of Nature’s most appealing shapes. Is it safe to heat a rock like that and use it as a bedwarmer? I wonder.

I put the potatoes away in the bin under the phone, which reminds me to check our long-distance service, which has been out for 10 days. I press the memory button for my son in Boston—and get that welcome ring! But no answer, so back to the kitchen.

Now I can finish. I cream the butter and sugar, blend in eggs, dump in the dates, add the flour and baking soda, and finally scrape the mixture into the heavy Calaphon bread pan my daughter sent me when I first arrived. Setting the timer, I see that another morning come and gone at my little house on the Pampa. I smile, realizing how resilient I’ve become here, and take another sip of mint tea.

The Nemo Blog: Ponder

2008-06-07T14:15:00.000-03:00

The Nemo Blog: Ponder

Acto Rosario 25 de Mayo Photos & Commentary

2008-05-27T11:29:00.005-03:00

It was a day for the history books! The pro-agriculture rally on Sunday in Rosario attracted 300,000 supporters--more than any demonstration since the election after the last junta, and three times as many as the last papal visit. The crowd was peaceful, and showed enthusiastic attention to the speakers who acknowledge the signicance of the event, the scope of the problem, and hopes for resolution.

Signs and speeches emphasized the unity that the agriculture sector feels now, as well as its alienation from the federal government in Buenos Aires that has no farm policy other than tax to the hilt. As one farm leader noted, producers could even give the country all the wheat it needs free and still have plenty to export--if they were allowed to make a decent profit doing so.

As a participant observer from a country where farmers have poliltical and social standing, I am left with many questions. The President calls for "redistributing wealth," but apparently only from farms, not from industry. Why aren't the provinces given any leeway or control here over production? Why is no wealth ever redistributed to farmers in bad years? Why no incentives for production? Why a very low cap on profit for agriculture--which fails to consider that farmers too have been hit by inflation? How in the world will farmers find any incentive to continue producing when at any moment the feds can prohibit exportation or tax it at extortionist levels (up to 95%)?

And most of all, why does CFK personally get to decide where all these millions of dollars go? What ever happened to democracy? What did the federal legislators imagine would happen when they voted to give away much of their fiscal control to the President during the financial meltdown and then re-approved that power-give away? Did they foresee this? How will they ever get it back?

How will the Argentine people ever get their own country back from the Kirchners, who seem to think they know what is best for everyone, in spite of a lot of evidence to the contrary? The President's popularity rating has sunk below that of Bush during this crisis, and that is really saying something.

Note: The above wonderful mostly aerial photos were sent to me without any credits. If you know who took them, please let me know so I can give them credit. Thanks. (I was on the ground taking photos, so if you want some closeups, just ask!)

How To Celebrate 25 de Mayo

2008-05-24T15:55:00.006-03:00

Tomorrow is “25 de Mayo” here, the commemoration of Argentina’s “Revolution Day,” to label it as simply as possible. Why and how should we celebrate? Given the current political climate, the prediction is that tomorrow could be a very memorable day here.

First, the holiday itself does provide sufficient motive to celebrate. Tomorrow will mark the 198th anniversary of the end of Spanish rule and the beginning of local rule. That earliest government turned out to be the first of several juntas in Argentine history. However, it was a civilian one elected by and composed of Buenos Aires “criollos,” i.e., the Spanish-heritage upper class. Taking advantage of the power vacuum that had recently been created by Napoleon's defeat of Spanish King Ferdinand, these civic-minded citizens were installed without the usual military coup.

So how should we observe this date? Roberto tells me that during his childhood, the day was marked by military parades, but after the horrors of later military juntas, the soldiers and tanks gave way to marching school children. And now even that has pretty much withered away.

Stymied, I did a quick web search which landed me on Ehow (where you check out its hysterical 7-step guide to becoming a gaucho as well). I reviewed the few suggestions for "How to Celebrate Argentina’s Revolution Day in Los Angeles," most of which centered around talking, tango and eating. Find your local Argentine restaurant or make the famous colonial stew. Chat with some Argentinians. Food, fun, fellowship are all very Argentinian, so go for it, I say.

And in fact, few years ago on this date, I enjoyed just that with a local family that thoughtfully invited me over to taste the traditional dish, called “locro.” I scarfed down two servings of this amazingly chunky stew with corn (still on the cob!), white beans, beef, intestine, pork, squash, onions, fat, and seasonings. I have yet to make it but now have a good recipe.

Instead of slurping stews or savoring grilled gaucho beef, tomorrow we will brown bag it with ham and cheese sandwiches in order to attend a huge pro-farm rally at the Flag Monument in Rosario, the nearby big city, second in importance only to Buenos Aires (okay, maybe tied with Cordoba). Rosario, natives told me, was once known as the Argentine Chicago. I innocently assumed the nickname stemmed from its dominance as the grain-shipping capital, but no, no, no! Eighty years ago Rosario teemed with immigrants, mafias, corrupt police, and bordellos, the latter luminously, colorfully captured in the paintings of a local artist Pat Vidour.

So tomorrow, in what is now arguably the most livable city in Argentina (thriving under 22 continuous years of progressive Socialist management), perhaps 500,000 persons will enjoy a sun-filled rally and the biggest headache for the viciously anti-farm Peronist President. Cristina, much to her dismay, is stuck with her prior arrangements to celebrate in Salta, leaving her beleagued staff scurrying to attract folks to the government rally by adding a top-notch free music show.

Fearing the likely attendance comparisons which will follow, government ministers pressured farm leaders to quash the farm rally by refusing to negotiate over the soy blockade. No way, they said, and besides, how can you stop a half a million people who've already figured out that hanging out by the Flag Monument on the shores of the Parana is a very patriotic and pleasant way to spend a national holiday?

[A writer smarter than me will figure out how to get more miles--oops, kilometers--out of the 1810-2008 parallel of grass-roots activism against a perceived tyrant obviously out of touch with the people. Please send me a copy.]

Then after we get home from Rosario, just to meet the Peronist ante and raise it, we’ll get out the malbec, put on some traditional Argentine music followed by some tangos, and then call it a day. A really good day!

[Note: Independence Day is celebrated on July 9, for on that date in 1816 all of the existing provinces issued a declaration separating them permanently from Spain. Let's hope Argentina will be able to celebrate town-country unity then!]

From Chile with Lava

2008-05-09T13:32:00.004-03:00

Today the sky over my little house on the Pampa is not the startling cerulean blue that drew me here. It has been replaced by a glaring pewter shade, presumably from the ash plume spewing from the volcano Chaiten, the sleeping volcano that woke up abruptly May 2 after dreaming for nine millenia.

Several videographers managed to capture the actual explosion--just search for "Chaiten" on youtube.com. One taken from a small plane shows incredible close ups:
http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=qqdKZuTKZMo&feature=email

For really crisp powerful photos of the volcano and its effects, take a look at this website: http://inglaner.com/volcan_chaiten.htm

And for updates, let me recommend this blog: http://volcanism.wordpress.com/category/volcanoes/chaiten/

Who is affected? While the scant rural Chilean population near Chaiten have been evacuated mostly by boat (take a look at a map to see why!), the Argentine city of Esquel has no way to escape the falling ash.

I deeply appreciate the communications from my US friends, and hasten to assure you that we are 800 miles to the northeast and will probably just miss the bluest of blue skies for a while. The plume is predicted to continue over the Atlantic and on to Africa. Air traffic has been disrupted, including domestic flights and American Airlines flights from Buenos Aires to the USA. We were more affected by the smoke from the island fires, which blanketed the river cities with ash and smoke for three weeks in April, ending when it finally rained.

By the way, Roberto and I have visited the area of lakes and volcanoes in Chile, though not Chaiten, which is not even on our map. As we drove up the smoking volcano Villarica, we were not even tempted by the numerous signs, "Land for Sale--Cheap." We will visit again and resist any temptation to buy land in one of the most beautiful areas on earth.

The loss to to folks in the current geologic disaster is tragic. It is a powerful reminder of how uncontrollable nature can be. There must be a lesson in there somewhere for us beyond the French adage, "Never dance on a volcano." What might it be? At the least I hope it will be an occasion for the two most southern countries to collaborate to ease the suffering and damage. It would be great to see Chileans and Argentinians dancing together after this episode!

Smoke on the Water. . . and Land

2008-04-20T11:17:00.007-03:00

Here's a NASA satellite photo showing smoke stretching all along the Parana where I live to the Rio de la Plata in city of Buenos Aires. It apparently is due to fires raging on the islands being cleared for cattle. The smoke has created a haze over the region, disruption air travel and transport on the Pan American Highway.

I've seen those fires before, rather eerie at midnight, while crossing the 65-kilometer bridge-island-bridge-island-etc from Rosario to Victoria. No one ever expressed any concern, though occasionally the toll booths put up a warning sign about the smoke. But these fires are out of control, possibly due to the late summer dryness, which followed early spring floods that stranded plenty of cattle that could not be evacuated. (We had island cattle refugees hanging around any available pasture in San Nicolas for months. Of course the government did not show any interest in the island farmers' problems.)

My husband and friends give me updates on the situation while I travel, and I am grateful that they are fine. I also feel lucky not to be struggling to breath there. Boy, after the farm strike, this disaster. . . which the President and Interior Minister have blamed on farmers, calling burning illegal. I don't know why they burn to clear, although the difficult access to the islands probably means it is a lot more economical than lugging farm equipment by barges to the hundreds of islands dotting the Parana.

I am not justifying this, but will note that laws in Argentina are enforced rather selectively as everyone knows. Somehow I have a sense that some farmers are about to feel the full force of Presidential fury in the aftermath of the farm strike. Let's hope folks do not confuse a few island farmers who are responsible for this with "the farm community" in general. (Besides, do we know who actually set these fires?)

It's another sad situation in Argentina.

About Pro-Government Demonstrations

2008-04-03T11:56:00.007-03:00

Tuesday's huge pro-Cristina demonstration in the Plaza de Mayo totally fazed me. As a self-respecting former activist, I had a lot of nagging questions to answer. Here’s what I found out, and it isn't pretty.

1. Why is there a demonstration IN FAVOR of the government?

All the US protests I've ever been in or seen were to protest the government or raise an issue that had been ignored or marginalized. So I’ve known civil rights protests, anti-war protests, environmentalist rallies, pro- and anti-abortion marches, gay and lesbian parades, and even parades by Armenians decrying Turkish genocide during a visit to Manhattan.

But 30,000 people waving protest-type banners and signs TO SUPPORT the nation’s leader?

Never. Unless you count all those Hitler films that used to fill up the programming hours in the early years of the History Channel.

Maybe that’s what makes it scary to live here, realizing where some of these traditions come from. The history is shocking. What makes them possible today? How far can this be taken . . . again? So the next questions:

2. Who are these pro-government demonstrators? Who is paying for this?

Well, it turns out that the pro-government public rally was imported half a century ago from the Italian Fascist leader Benito Mussolini by Juan Peron, one of his deepest admirers and the founder of the party in power today. As journalist James Neilson of the Buenos Aires Herald explains, these “rent-a-crowds” should not be confused with the spontaneous assembly of the citizens who take to the streets banging pots and pans to protest government policies.

“Whenever a Peronist president feels that he or she deserves an ego trip, trade union bosses, the mayors of the sprawling townships of Greater Buenos Aires and the characters who lead private armies of piqueteros start chartering buses and trains, arranging payments whether in cash or in kind plus anything lese it takes to get as many people as possible into the Plaza de Mayo.” State employees are also “encouraged” to attend these rallies paid for by tax dollars.

Can you imagine the Republican Party orchestrating a huge rally in front of the White House to support George Bush's failed policies? Could they get away with using tax dollars to bus in professional protesters while government office employees are told to march themselves down Pennsylvania Avenue, grabbing the signs and banners from the storeroom on the way out?

Of course not. Until I moved here, the idea that a “democratic” government could engage in such tactics was inconceivable. But living in Argentina is a constant challenge to my ideas about democracy and citizenship.

Who is being fooled by these charades? No one that I have met so far.

So during that massive outpouring of "support" for Cristina on Tuesday, which happened to be April Fools Day, who was really the fool?

The Accidental Vegetarian: Argentina's Farm Strike

2008-03-27T10:56:00.010-03:00

You won't see any slabs of beef on Argentine dinner tables this week. . . and maybe not for a while, if the farm strike continues. This could be good news to the vegetarian minority, but it looks like bad news overall.

Luckily, Roberto and I long ago cut back on the beef consumption, for our physical and financial health, so we will not miss the juicy steaks and chops for a while. But we are definitely concerned for farmers, including ourselves, and the country.

We're into Day 14 of a nationwide strike which has blocked major routes in soy and cattle country, including our nearby Pan American Highway linking Rosario, the grain capital, with Buenos Aires. The soybeans and cattle are staying put for now, in the fields or silos in the "interior" of the country, which is how the "portenos" of Buenos Aires refer to anything outside their urban enclave.

Frankly, it's getting a little too scary for me.

Tuesday evening President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner gave an angry speech, safely ensconced in a room of supporters (shades of G W Bush!) that provoked a spontaneous outpouring of multitudes of citizens to bang pots and pans in the plazas. Everyone knows this was just what happened before De la Rua was forced to resign from the Presidency for mishandling the economy.

But CFK or "Kristina," as you will, is not about to learn anything from history. Instead of seeking a dialogue, she is now digging herself in a deeper hole by threatening to remove these peaceful "piqueteros" by force and jail them, calling them "extortionists."

Extortionists?

Then what do you call a President who, without consulting the farm sector in any way, allowed her Finance Minister Martin Lousteau to raise the export tax on soy to from 35 to 44% overnight! According to the Buenos Aires Herald, this represents an increase of 136% in revenues--and they will be controlled by the President without any input from the legislature. As farm exports, led by soy, accounted for 52% of the nation's foreign revenues, this is incredible.

Will we see violence? I worry. Her spokesperson claims not to know picketers intentions (!!!), but insists that they will not be allowed to block the roads illegally. The hypocrisy defies imagination, as the former President, Nestor Kirchner, allowed protestors to tie up Buenos Aires streets constantly. Meanwhile Argentinian environmentalists have blocked the international bridges for over a year to protest the construction of paper mills in Uruguay.

It terrifies me to live in a country where the goverment can decide to use its police or military force for political ends. How eerie that Cristina chose this week to show her dictatorial nature, as the public just observes its annual remembrance of the beginning of the last junta.

I'd like to be supportive of "CFK," Argentina's first elected woman President, but her divisive, authoritarian posture and makes it mighty hard. Earlier in the month the feds announced immediate price controls on beef, again without warning or dialogue. Her tough measures, she claims, are for the good of Argentina, though she panders to nationalism at the expense of its most important sector.

Since when are the only real Argentinians the urban consumers--who have no concept of what it takes to produce their food?

Does Cristina fancy herself the reincarnation of Evita as she describes soy producers as rich barons exploiting poor workers and the vulnerable public? That may be true for a few, but if you watch the Rural Channel or hang out in a country bar, you will discover the vast majority are small farmers who make a modest living, and whose costs are rising with the speeding inflation here--grossly underreported by the feds of course.

CFK and her curly-haired, 36-year-old Finance Minister claim this tax gouging is intended to discourage soy monoculture and promote greater production of foods for the Argentine table (where soy foods are notably absent). The beef price controls are to ensure affordable beef for all.

"Sounds like the Communists of my childhood," said my Romanian-American friend. It sure doesn't look like good economic planning to anyone with a lick of common sense.

If encouraging diverse production for domestic consumption is the goal, this is sure a dumb way to do it. With his Master's degree from the London School of Economics, why can't young Martin figure that out?

Does anyone imagine that Cristina use the new millions in her purse to foster a switch from soy to wheat? Or even better, to raise the standard of living for farm workers?

Or how about providing some support for those who grow wheat or rice or. . . strawberries? How about providing government assistance for crop disasters? Nope, here the agricultural sector supports an obviously ungrateful national government and urban sprawl.

As the wife of a small soy producer, I am both scared and outraged. And of course completely helpless. Unlike farmers in the First World, we do not get a penny of governement help and find it nearly impossible to procure even a small farm loan to expand our variety of crops. (Oh, are we surprised young Martin was President of the BA Provincial Bank, which of course has always preferred to help big industrialists and give the shaft to small businesses and farms?) There's no local Congress representative to call to give our point of view. We are without a voice.

Ojala that we were rich soy farmers! Not a chance. Todo el contrario!

We've gone into huge debt by trying to grow strawberries for the local market. We'll get no thanks from the goverment for creating a healthy product and more jobs. After two years of frosts and resulting bad harvests, we and other growers are desperate for capital. Decent profits from our one small soy field would enable us to pay off some of those loans and raise our own workers' salaries, for which CFK and her ilk spill alligator tears. I've never met one of the soy barons, which do exist. I just know ordinary people like us struggling every day to make ends meet.

Now we don't know what will happen with our imminent soy harvest. You can bet none of that soy tax is going to help folks like us! Nor will it go to farm workers or the services they need, e.g., hospitals and schools. Gee, where WILL all that money go?? To pay Peronist picketers, one wag informed me.

As a former resident of California and upstate New York, I am accustomed to respect for the needs of the farm sector and appreciation for their contribution to the nation. Here, the Peronists have fostered a city-country split for decades that has seen the rural areas stagnate economically while Buenos Aires prospers. Anyone tourist who ventures far from the tango dinner shows, funky Palermo discos, and the shopping in Barrio Norte will be transported back in time decades, even centuries. Public services, from education to sanitation, are shockingly abysmal.

Why is there so little investment in the interior? Why doesn't the steel industry, with its astronomical profits, get slapped with more taxes? What is really going on here in Argentina?

Decent profits that stay in the interior would mean that provincial governments could actually raise taxes and improve the infrastructure. Or heck, the feds could send more money back to the provinces from any source! I doubt that my U.S. readers can imagine that many of the main roads that connect the pueblos and small cities to the major highways are rutted dirt roads that are impassable in rain. Rural schools, if anyone cared, would be a national shame.

But Cristina, Martin and Nestor do not deign to speak to anyone who gets their hands dirty raising the cattle and crops that have made Argentina one of the major agricultural producers in the world. They didn't even send a representative to the major agricultural conference a year or so ago. "Just hand over your wallet" is their message to producers. And they don't lift a finger to help the rural poor who are useless as picketers for Peronist protests.

It is a dark day here, overcast, literally and figuratively. The only silver lining I see is that in kitchens across Argentina, housewives are developing their skills as vegetarian chefs, with more pasta, rice, potatoes, and veggies.

When Roberto and I sit down tonight to eat a risotto of lentils, peas, corn, and wheat, we will drink a toast to all of the valiant farm producers and supporters who finally found their voice.

Living Economic Lessons: From Inflation to ATMs

2008-02-27T18:16:00.009-03:00

Expats get more than language lessons here. We get free lessons in economics too, the kind tourists will miss of course, which is good because we want the hordes to come, have a great time, and drop a lot of dough!

Naïvely, I skipped college Economics, imagining it didn't have anything to say to me. So I am playing catch up now on a very practical level (and getting great tutoring from by my daughter, a Phi Beta Kappa Economics grad and Senior Business analyst, and my husband, Argentine architect and small farmer as well).

Here are some of my lessons thus far, and the schooling continues:
· How to live with inflation
· Why one good chocolate bar costs more than an entire filet mignon
· Why Argentinians pay cash instead of credit cards and checks
· What "export quality" means

Living with Inflation. Actually I haven't figured out how to live with inflation in my five years here--I've never seen inflation like this (well over 10 percent a year, no matter what the feds say)! My grocery bill has more than doubled. Gas just went up too. The cost of a simple dinner for two with wine and dessert has jumped from around $US 10 to US$30, so we rarely go out. Even filet mignon has jumped from $1.50 to around $4 per pound (just a wee bit more than chicken). Other costs have risen similarly. We buy less meat and fowl, eat more rice, and have limited ourselves to wines under $5 a bottle for the most part.

What a disastrous shocks for expats relying on fixed incomes from abroad since the exchange rate has stayed more or less the same the whole time, 3 pesos to each dollar. Of course in Argentina various labor sectors are exerting tremendous pressure to raise wages (which generally seem to about 60% less than half US salaries for similar jobs). I am seriously thinking of raising my rates for translation and coaching here. My cleaning lady deserved her raise, but it meant I had to cut back her hours (and she easily found another employer for that time, I am glad to say!).

"International Prices." Chocolate, coffee, cars…for the same quality, we spend more (in dollar equivalents) than US folks. Why? Because these are imported product and have an international price. Why would Toyota give us a break? On the other hand, some offer cheaper or stripped down models you won't find in the US, e.g., the VW Polo (a step below a Jetta), the Ford Ka (kinda like the Beetle), and Fiats that would fit in most California bathrooms with room to spare. Meanwhile, the same model computers, cameras, TVs, and other electronics cost more. Import taxes, you know!

On the other hand, many agricultural products have a burdensome export tax-- so a lot of beef, dairy, and flour products remain within our reach. But given other federal” central planning" tactics, e.g., raising export taxes when international prices goes up, there's not much incentive to increase or even maintain production. (So you guessed it—some days there is no milk, bread, or beef on the grocery shelves!)

"Export Quality." For those Northern Hemisphere residents who buy our counter-season citrus fruits (very juicy, yes?): for every perfect lemon or orange you put in your basket for a moderate price, I can buy a dozen of the “non-export quality” lemons and oranges here. . . the “Charlie Brown” fruits. I was amazed to watch the conveyer belt at La Campanita orchards…the deft hands that snatched the rejects so only the Grade AAA fruits would roll into the crates for chipping abroad.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy to pay a fraction and eat an orange that is too big or has a green blush now that I realize that a fruit’s beauty is often only skin deep! On the other hand, national brands of appliances have a deservedly poor reputation. When the glass broke on my domestic-brand Longvie kitchen stove, the company refused to send a replacement part. ("We use the glass for new stoves only," they told the technician.) We are absolutely delighted with our Italian-made Ariston now! And I keep meaning to glue the knob on the locally made fan. . . if I can find it under the sofa.

Flowing Cash. This is a cash economy, by and large. I have never seen anyone use a check to buy anything at a stop. When we first got married, Roberto used cash to pay bills, making stops at all the offices (phone, utilities, insurance, cable TV, etc.). I tried switching us over to credit cards and paying by phone, but many firms still do not offer that option! Retail shops offer discounts for cash (because they pay a hefty fee for accepting credit cards). I meet working adults who have neither checking account nor credit card or debit card of any kind.

Encouraging people to run around with cash seems a good way to keep muggers and thieves happy, seems to me. (NOTE: I avoid doing it!) I was delighted that our insurance company just started accepting credit card payments as I worried about the young women who work alone in these offices! Plenty of offices and shops keep their doors locked during business hours—and let clients or customers in only after they ring a buzzer. (Even so, our accountant was robbed in his office, by the way.) The lack of faith in banks and the mistrust in strangers is, of course, well justified here, but boy, the ramifications are tremendous. Alas, the ATMs here are frequently out of service or just plain out of cash--and I can see why!

Dreams of Home Sweet Home? Without a hefty inheritance, buying a decent home now remain a dream for the younger generation. While a house might only cost three or four times one's salary, the buyer will need about 30% for a down payment and pay off the mortgage in four or five years!! I know my children in the US could not do that, and I sure hope more of the young adults here are going to figure something out.

Well, in the meanwhile, anyone for a premium chocolate bar?

Ten Very Personal Reasons for Staying in Argentina

2008-02-26T10:48:00.011-03:00

Okay, after nearly five years, let me re-examine why I am still enjoying Argentina:

10. 360-degree horizon

Living on the Pampa gives me an incredible panorama of the entire horizon, all 360 degrees! I thought the plains would be...well, plain. ...but this enormous expanse of sky and earth is exhilharating, transcendental. Memorable moment: stopping on the Rosario-Victoria bridge one night to gaze at the sprinkling of stars that reached all the way to the waters of the midnight black waters of the Parana.

9. Chile is next door.

It's a mere two-hour flight to Santiago, and then a short drive to enjoy rugged beaches, seaside resorts, volcanoes and lakes. (Nice expats there too)

8. Uruguay is next door.

Two hours of driving and then two on the ferry gets us to Uruguay with its miles and miles of desolate ocean dunes between ritzy Punta del Este and the Brazilian frontier. (And there are MORE countries nearby!! Brazil, Paraguya, even Bolivia and Peru aren't too far.)

7. Lots of friends under 30.

They like practicing English and sharing their dreams. It's nice not being seen as irrelevant by folks half my age--they keep me young.

6. Politics.

I never have to defend being a political liberal. I sleep well knowing a conservative Republican will never be President. More pluses: No Fox “News.” No Rush Limbaugh. And yes, a woman President.

5. Buenos Aires and Rosario. When I need civilization, there it is. Museums. Restaurants. Plazas. San Telmo, Recoleta, Palermo in BA, the costanera and peatonal in Rosario. More bookstores, cafes, and candy shops per block than in any US city.

4. Great climate. Sunny days the norm, with a wide-open azure sky. The palo borracho and other flowering trees. Months of pool weather and gardens. Orchids. Glaciers and Andes snow available year-round if desired.

3. Slow food, good food. Savoring good food and wine. Attentive waiters. No eating at desks. Long Sunday dinners. Our own strawberries and blueberries!

2. Social climate. The pervasive warmth and friendliness. The genuine interest folks have in other folks. Lingering over meals or mate for conversations. Talk (not shop) 'til you drop. Little interest in keeping up with the Garcias.

1. My dearly beloved. The world’s greatest smile & it is meant for me. A husband who keeps me at number 1 on his list! My very own walking encyclopedia. And this is his country.

Playing the Waiting Game

2008-01-13T16:42:00.000-03:00

“How much of human life is lost in waiting?” asked Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of my favorite philosophers.

A surprising amount in Argentina, I’d say from my experiences here. Argentines wait and wait and wait. . . and then wait some more.

An anthropologist form Mars might go home saying that waiting is the national sport, after soccer anyway.

They wait in lines in banks and public offices and grocery stores. (With nary a peep, not even from the children!)

They wait for plumbers and electricians and gardeners to show up. Esta tarde. Mañana. La semana que viene. (This afternoon. Tomorrow. Next week.) You never know. (As one arty friend here wagged, “Sometimes a day can take a whole month here!")

They wait for bills and other mail to arrive. (Why does the letter from NY take 3 days to reach Buenos Aires but up to six weeks to make the additional 200 km to my mailbox?)

They wait for buses and they wait for food at restaurants. (Yesterday's "quick lunch" at a local grill took 40 minutes to arrive at our table! And as customary, we waited another 10 minutes at the end for the check.)

Waiting is so ingrained that folks accept it without grumbling.

Yep, I have twiddled thumbs for 20 minutes or more to buy stamps or groceries, and even hours to be served at public offices. Admirably, the lines are fairly orderly, with line-cutting rare. Personal space, though, is generally condensed to the thickness of my shirt. In shops and offices, Folks generally assume a zombie pose. . . that glazed-over expression. Okay, some do grumble. One of my coaching clients listed waiting for the bus (and then the slow ride home) as a major irritant. . . and she has committed herself to using the time for deep breathing and fantasizing about being on a tropical beach.

Waiting is so endemic that it has become a job!

If you don’t want to wait at various offices to pay your bills or submit documents, you can pay someone else to do it. We started patronizing a local service named “GO” after I convinced Roberto that it was worth $1.50 (US fifty cents) to save a half hour or more per bill. I trust GO because I heard that the woman owner herself tracked down the bandit menacing one of her motorcyclist messengers en route, holding the brigand at bay until the cops arrived. A woman like that will make sure my money gets there!

Waiting is so rampant that it also invites corruption.

Apparently some folks put two and two together. . . and figured they could make a racket out of waiting. So if you want one of the limited travel visas from some of the foreign consulates, I'm told, you may show up early for a good spot in line only to find several racketeers, called chantajistas, already waiting with an ominous sales pitch: "How bad do you want that visa? Buy my place in line!"

Waiting has also spawned legal creativity, with kids as young as 6 or 7 juggling four balls at once at red lights on the sprawling Avenida 9 de Julio in downtown Buenos Aires. Older youth commandeer the corners here, and some juggle fiery batons by night! (But beware the aggressive window-washers in Rosario who don't take "No" for an answer!)

“Waiting is the great vocation of the dispossessed.”

So declared Mary Gordon, a contemporary US author. It is an insidious tax, pronounced a US analyst. Waiting eats up time that could be used in more productive or enjoyable pursuits. It is something demanded by someone with power of someone who does not (in a given venue, of course).

As Argentines have been infamous for not paying taxes (yet another national sport, they say here), it intrigues me to see where they pay the waiting tax. When does impatience rear its ugly head??

So when do they refuse to wait? On the road!

With 2000 cars a minute passing through the toll gates on the main autopista to Mar de Plata this summer, you can bet folks can get a little hot under the collar when delayed! As soon as the toll line there or elsewhere gets clogged with five or six cars, the cacophony of honks and blasts that break out probably shatter glass in the Teatro Colon back in Buenos Aires. The law, it seems, requires that toll gates be opened if there is more than a one-minute wait. I've only seen the toll gates opened once so far (and I only beeped my horn once, really!), but then again, I haven't had the courage to hit the beaches in the summer!

Sometimes I feel guilty or even afraid, waiting for the light to turn green because so many drivers swerve around me to run the light. At first this angered me, but I’m beginning to see the light, so to speak. First, many signals are in dumb places, giving equal weight to the major arterial roads and unpaved side streets with no traffic. Second, signals can take over 90 seconds to change since first you wait for cross traffic from the left, then from the right, then from the opposing lane!! At least the stoplights have been synchronized now, which helps cut down on delays. Even so, I still catch plenty of red lights, so I choose to sing boleros with Luis Miguel at the top of my voice. . . makes for pleasant interlude for me.

Thus the frustrated, time-taxed Argentines empower themselves by running signals and flying down the road at 200 km per hour. Their anonymity protects them from their compatriots but not the laws of physics. (Of course speeding is not for the poor folks on bikes, motos, or in 30-year old heaps held together with paper clips and chewing gum; these drivers know to scoot over quickly as the BMWs, Passats, and Lagunas whiz by, headlights flashing!) This self-empowerment, elsewhere known as reckless driving, contributes to a highway death rate that puts Argentina in the top five worst countries. Some empowerment!

Patience is a virtue. . . up to a point!

Argentines are so accustomed to waiting that they rarely question it. And sometimes they should! For example, last August in the resort town of Pinamar, Roberto and I were waiting with about 50 other patrons for the 9 pm piano concert to start. At 9:40 PM, my inner Yankee forced me to start looking for someone official to inquire about the delay. To my surprise, I encountered the Cuban pianist (whom I met serendipitously while lunching at the town's only Mexican café) peeking out from a side foyer door. He encouraged me to find out when the curtain would open. So finally I located someone in the outside ticket office: "We are waiting for the pianist to arrive." “Well,” I replied, “your artist has been inside waiting for you!” That set things in motion, and the concert started five minutes later. Imagine--if I had been properly trained as an Argentine, we could have sat there another hour or more!

While waiting for Godot. . .

So can we just connect the dots to provide yet another reason why Argentina has not reached its economic potential? Or is it a question of which came first, the chicken or the egg? Does time wasted in waiting lead to a poorly developed country, or does a badly designed infrastructures lead to fiddling away the time in "colas"? When a government registry still files legal papers in shoe boxes instead of computers, should we attribute it to poor planning, siphoning of funds via corruption, or just insufficient financial resources? Or all three? What is the relationship between disorganization and underdevelopment? I really don't know.

But I know that there are some deep cultural factors. This morning, as Roberto and I conversed about this topic for the umpteenth time, he shook his head wistfully, "Alas, Argentina never had a Benjamin Franklin." I broke out laughing, as I am forever sharing aphorisms from Poor Richard's Alamanack: The early bird gets the worm. A stitch in time saves nine. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. Roberto assures me there is no similar cultural phenomenon here to promote efficacy through socialization that begins in the primary years.

So where shall we begin to make changes? When the new President, Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner cozies up to the likes of Hugo Chavez (an autocratic President of an even more chaotic country), I suggest she makes friends with someone who could really whip this country into shape. Let's call in Julie Morgenstern, the New York-based time and organization maven!

In the meanwhile, I have invented stress-free waiting. The strategies are endless: people watch, talk to strangers, read a book or magazine (which I carry with me), jot notes for articles, fantasize about my own tropical paradise, or count my blessings. But mostly I just breathe deeply and empty my mind, knowing that I am not expected to cook, wash dishes, answer emails, etc. And my mother will is not here to say, "Don't just stand there, DO something!"

Here, now, it also serves simply to stand and wait, if one does it with a lightness of being.

May your new year be filled with many such moments of stillness! Happy 2008!

Immigration Limbo: From Residency to National Identity Card

2007-10-30T15:43:00.001-03:00

I continue to live in immigration limbo here. . . with no end in sight.

Why?

Because I have no national identity card, just a 2-page Dec 2006 letter of residency from the Rosario delegation of the Ministry of Interior.

As a former proud card-carrying member of the American Civil Liberties Union (www.aclu.org), renowned for its stand against national ID cards, I am distressed to report on my recent visit to the official psychological torture chamber known as the Civil Registry, which I hope will grant me just such a card. The Civil Registry is the official police-state agency which documents all citizens, their whereabouts, marital status, and family connections. Until the CR issues you a "National Identity Document," (called a "DNI") you have no legal identity in Argentina. And if they make a mistake, you pay for it!

Without your DNI, you cannot open a bank account, get a driver's license, or even buy a cell phone! Believe me, I have tried! (I envy some bloggers who say it can be done. Meanwhile, you can use a passport for some commercial and official transactions, e.g., using a credit card, renting a hotel room, or getting a tax ID number so you can get those taxes in!) Citizens cannot get married or collect social security. And DNI-less folks have to pay higher airfare on the national airline and at various international hotels!

Saturday afternoon Roberto found a crumpled "Urgent Notice" sans envelope in our mailbox. It was from the Buenos Aires Provincial Registry of Persons directing me to report post haste to the Civil Registry office in San Nicolas. Accordingly, on Monday morning, as soon as I finished handling a scheduled international call and an unexpected electrician's visit, I rushed to the downtown office which closes at 1 pm. I took all the short cuts, careful not to hit a single Evel Knievel wannabe or death-defying pedestrian or rusty ambling pickup, and I arrived just before 11 a.m.

Where do I go now, I wondered? Not a single sign offered me a clue. I surveyed the classroom-sized stuffy office jam-packed with sweaty bodies lugging glazed expressions. I managed to pull the attention of a badly dressed matron at a door-side desk away from her papers. She scowled at me, took the now smoothed official note, scowled more, and then directed me to the longest line.

Forty stifling minutes (and 10 pages of my E-Myth book) later it was my turn. The long-tressed young senorita displaying a very sexy tummy below her very cropped top, dismissed me quickly: “NO, you need to be in THAT line!” So 20 minutes later, after a cell-phoned SOS to Roberto, it was my turn again at exactly noon. This time an older greasy haired brunette eyed me, eyed my note, then eyed her cheap watch: "Sorry, too late, can’t help you today. Some other day."

Me: “No, it’s not my fault I was sent to the wrong line by your colleague!” I pointed at the empty so-called information desk. I persisted--plus Roberto, arriving in the nick of time, joined in the cause. She heaved a sigh and turned to search for my file on a long shelf lined with tattered shoe boxes with hand scrawled letters, A-C, D-E, etc, scattered along the shelf behind her.

Three minutes later she returned with the verdict: "The Buenos Aires office refused your request for a National Identity Document because you didn't submit an official translation of your birth certificate."

"Yes, I did!"

She flicked the pages, bored: "No, you did not."

Roberto: “Yes she did—18 months ago, and you all are just getting back to us now?? Do you realize she can't get a driver's license, work, or even buy a cell phone because she doesn't have this?"

A shrug.

Me: "But the Civil Registry must have it--I turned it in with all these documents you have here!"*

More shrugs, and a second clerk, a short anorexic strenuously frowning woman, joined the first. I confess I was now upset: ”You need to explain to me how this document was lost! Moreover, this is not the first time! This office lost a document when I first applied to get married!"**

Clerk 2: "Calm down; I can't think when you talk like that."

Me: "I’ll calm down when someone offers me an apology for the loss of my document and the huge inconvenience and delay this is causing me." More shrugs.

Roberto: "She’s not used to this kind of bad service.”

Both clerks: “Poor thing.” (I think I might have detected a mixture of envy and compassion for a split second there!)

Roberto, ever calm: “If she turns in another copy, can her file be resubmitted right away?"

Clerk 1: “Well, yes, I suppose so…but of course the new document would have to be a LEGAL copy." She smirked and another of those well-developed shrugs that clearly said, "Tough luck, kid."

Me: "Well, no problem! I have one because I've learned to make copies of everything I submit here. And [to her doubtful stare] it most certainly is a LEGAL copy. And because I happen to be very organized, I can find it in less than 5 minutes when I get home.”

Clerk 2: "Okay, bring it here." Roberto: "We will want someone to sign an official receipt." More shrugs and they turned away without comment. He steered me to the door as my eyes filled with tears at the total disempowerment this system provokes.

Anyway, I used the 15-minute drive home to transcend my frustration. I realize tha I had just had a truly Argentine experience because everyone here confirms equally bad treatment at the Registry office.

This experience helps me see why people give up more easily here. . . and why from birth to death, disorganization reigns. Imagine a national registry (which is after all, a records office!)that should be used as the global bad example for office organization!

This is a branch of the government with offices that cannot even put a sign up saying “DNI here" and "Birth Certificates Here." Not even a sign saying "Info Here." I watched as visitor after visitor entered, looked around helplessly, then snaked his or her way to the front of the line, and with an apology to his/her compatriot, interrupted the staff person to ask directions. I am beginning to think the disorganization is intentional, a lesson in authoritarianism.

Can you imagine the effect on worker productivity, not to mention citizen morale??? It is training in powerlessness! The cheerless expressions on staff and office visitors reminded me of the street photographs of Leningrad taken by my friend Dmitri. ["Dmitri, I notice that in your entire book, there is not one smiling face." His reply: "What is there to smile about?" From the looks, the Registry "customers" all feel badly served, and the staff members feel no pride in their work.

A popular urban legend claims that one senior citizen visited his local registry to claim his pension. "Sorry, your claim was denied." "Why?" "Because our records say you died last year." Ditto for the young man who applied for his first DNI so he could then apply to get married. “Sorry, but our records show that you died shortly after birth.” And there is NO recourse!!! No legislator, no "pot-hole" senators. Not surprising that all the employees are women (who just do what they are told "because") and that they have developed thick skins.

Update: Roberto tried to submit the new legal copy of my birth certificate translation to Registry's administrator, who refused his request to sign a receipt for it. "I am not authorized to do such a thing," she replied. Roberto was dismayed. We consulted a former Registry administrator as well as a lawyer, who advised me to just hand it in, that no lawyer wants to take on this agency because the Registry staff is known to wreak revenge by making future transactions more unpleasant (including making a mockery of the required civil wedding for any participant who complains). Such is the power of the weak there, that office full of mostly women, "just doing their jobs," cheerlessly, badly.

Sometimes I think it would have been a good thing if the British had been in control of Argentina for at least a generation, i.e., sufficient time to set up a post office and civil service that works. Sigh. [Could this be one reason the Falkland/Malvinas Islanders resist the return of their precious isles to Argentina? Who'd want to be a member of this badly run club?]

Then again, maybe it is not to late to call organization maven Julie Morgenstern (http://www.juliemorgenstern.com/to organize the Registry, hey, the whole country, from the inside out, is it? Or maybe The E-Myth author Michael Gerber (http://michaelgerber.com/) would like to use his small business development skills to fashion the Civil Registry franchise? Hmmm... then again, maybe it's better that police-state agencies do not run all that well!
.................................................

*To be completely accurate, I turned them into the local National Immigrations Office representative (who triple checked to make sure the file was complete), who forwarded them to the Rosario delegation of the Ministry of the Interior, which in turn sent me the official letter of Residency dated December 2006 which arrived in January 2007. Said letter includes a note saying my file had been sent to the Buenos Aires provincial Registry office for processing a DNI. No legal residency would ever have been given without that particular document. So which office lost it???]

**Believe it or not, the Registry insisted on "an official document showing the residence of my ex-husband at the time of the divorce." ["Why?" "Who knows? But it is required." "Where will I get such a document??" "From the Civil Registry where you lived." LOL!] My ex-husband kindly sent me our home's residential tax bill from that era. I made a copy and submitted the original--and sure enough, they lost the original. They also refused to accept Roberto's original divorce document--why? Because it was from Cordoba, and that Registry does not use the exact same wording!! "Bring us a legal copy instead," the boss lady intoned in all seriousness. Ayyy!

Photo: Colonnade in Rosario's lovely, expansive Independence Park. . . not exactly a Borgian labyrinth...but notice the bump in the road and the endless path...May I remain as serene as those untroubled waters!

A Day in the Life. . .

2007-09-18T19:54:00.000-03:00

Clock says 7:45 PM. . . yikes, where did the time go???

I know, I know. . . those who really want to achieve big KNOW where their time goes. . . they invest it. They can squeeze an hour out of ten minutes. Yet sometimes here ten minutes takes an hour. And me? I've decided not to panic about time, just to be more mindful of what I am doing. . . and how I am doing.

So here's inventory what this immigrant housewife squeezed out of the ripe, luscious hours today in San Nicolas, Buenos Aires, Argentina--and all before dinner:

Fixed breakfast (from scratch of course, omelet, left over homemade cornbread, sausage, cocoa)
Made list of errands for town (8 km and 20 minutes away, weaving through Evel Knievel wannabes!).
Called coach for great half hour session for planning WAY AHEAD for holiday visitors (repairs, rentals, decorations, etc) since the plumber always says "I'll be there tomorrow."
Got dressed, slapped nailpolish on my totally blackened nail (slammed in iron security door, all houses have them) and 9 other pink ones.
Picked up lamp at repair shop. Cheerfully accepted five minutes of praise from shopkeeper electrician for it being such a solid and beautiful brass bedside lamp, "like they don't make anymore," and five more while he wrapped it, and ten more while Roberto pried from him a list of electricians who make home visits.
Resolved major bank issue by phone. Phew.
Picked up two packages from US at post office (after only 5 minute wait in line after 2 month wait for transport from N to S America!).
Wandered through two new downtown stores, checking out hot water heaters and light fixtures. (More on the San Nicolas Renaissance and the Chainstore Threat later.) No point looking in the tiny clothing boutiques--it's almost all size 2 with bare tummy!
Visited dry cleaning shop praying I could pick up the silk blouse and jacket (top half of my wedding suit) that forgot to pick up. (They will hunt for it, but shop changed owners, and rule is to give "abandoned" stuff away!!!) (Update: it was in the back of my own closet, phew!)
Waited for R as he resolved legal issue. I didn't even want to know the details!
Dared to go into major supermarket to shop. Found the veggies and milk and stuff in 20 minutes. Waited 15 minutes for cashier. Gave ride home to neighbor who was waiting with me--one of many women my age or older who do not drive.
Started the pork chop & rice lunch; R unloaded the groceries from car and made a great tossed salad (sadly missing from Argentine diet despite having all the ingredients locally grown!).
Surfed for recipes and started making tonight's totally homemade tuna casserole and starting the dough for oatmeal bread. I thought R deserved to know what a tuna casserole was--a sort of cultural lesson. Not likely to make it again for a year.
Washed the dishes by hand, kneaded bread, left it to rise. Stored leftover rice to use in soup tomorrow.
For better or worse, lacking Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup here, I hovered over the white sauce after lunch to finish the casserole; stored it in fridge.
Made a cup of tea and found two homemade chocolate chip cookies to go with it. Made with my hand imported Nestles chips of course.
Read homework chapters for Small Business in book that arrived in mail today (after only 3 weeks of waiting).
Read and answered a couple emails. Printed one for Small Biz class.
Called in to Small Biz class (one hour).
Remembered dough just in time; formed one large loaf, one small loaf (with cinnamon and amaretto-soaked raisins), and 12 rolls. Enough for several days! Can't buy raisin bread or dinner rolls here, just refined flour baguettes and such. (Soon will try to make English muffins.)
Added crushed cornflakes to the tuna casserole and popped it in oven. Looked at it and laughed out loud. Why in the world did I fix this?!
And started writing this blog, lol!

Some days, like today, multi-tasking actually energizes me, and I can zip through the heavy cooking and cleaning tasks (not chores!) while reading, taking client calls, etc. Yet other days I just want to do one thing at a time. So then its leftovers and nutrition-free bakery bread, repairs and repairmen forgotten along with this blog!

Today I am pleased to have completed several town errands and cooked up a storm (though admittedly more fat than usual). Tomorrow will be a more focused day, with more writing and coaching, so it feels good to have some of these "administrative" [1] and culinary tasks well done today!

This routine of alternating activities actually appears in my household and professional calendar which I have developed over the last couple of months. I like the way it gives a predictable but syncopated rhythm to my days! Ta dum dum ta dum. . .

May it ever be so.

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[1] for this handy term I thank my son Eric, who used it to refer to his need for timeout during our last visit to get shopping, laundry, etc., and other tasks done. Love to see that kind of self-discipline in a 20-something!

[2] image is my photo of my homemade Cointreau-soaked raisin bread...hey, if you're gonna do it, do it right! (Thanks, James Beard!)

The Lure of Niagara & Iguazu Falls: Two Natural Wonders of the Word

2007-09-13T01:03:00.000-03:00

Holding a memory of something beautiful in the past and savoring its pleasure rather than aching over its loss has been my secret strategy in managing the transition from one country to another. Learning to find pleasure in the present moment is another. These two principles function not only in the interpersonal realm, but also in the unlikely area of natural wonders.

Cataractically speaking, I have traded a bi-national emerald for a bi-national pool of dulce de leche! Perhaps an odd way of putting it, but it feels great to still live relatively close to one of the Natural Wonders of the World.

For years it was my not-so-secret joy to stop at Niagara Falls as often as possible on my trips between Syracuse and Toronto for the Unitarian Universalist cause. It may be called a “forgotten natural wonder” by some [1], and sure, most of my friends could not be bribed into foregoing the speedy bypass, but the lure of the thundering falls always snagged me if I had the wheel!

In glorious springs, touristy summers, blazing falls, and even rock-hard cold winter, I would park by Table Rock, cross the street, picking up the pace as I walked, and then stop only when I reached the barrier, where I would remain transfixed by Horseshoe Falls, sometimes enshrouded in mist or frost, other times elegantly adorned in rainbows. Surely this was worth an extra 15 or 20 minutes in a four-hour trip!

So strong was the Falls lure that, before moving to Argentina, I drove to Niagara to good-bye to the Falls, considering myself not so much a resident of New York State or even the United States, but of the Great Lakes and Adirondacks bio-region. The liquid image of streaming, frothy liquid emerald etched itself in my memory along with the irreal blue of Skaneateles Lake and the icy transparency of Nine Mile Creek. That the Falls also connects two countries that I love, Canada and the United States, is no small part of its attraction.

Now I live close to another cataract, perhaps not so famous as Niagara, but over 200 times bigger! It’s Iguazu Falls, and like Niagara, forms part of a bi-national frontier. Situated on the border between Argentina and Brazil, Iguazu Falls is over two kilometers wide, with as many as 300 separate falls on our side, depending on the river flow, with a huge horseshoe-shaped falls on the other. The roar and the mist can be seen from over 10 kilometers away!

My second visit was on Christmas Day 2006, surely one of the least visited moments of this amazing panorama. While thousands of tourists visit Iguazu annually, on this lovely summer day we were able to enjoy considerable solitude and great photo opportunities, with just touch of misty rain right as our tour boat neared some of the misty latte-hued cascades. Our “Adventure Tours” also included a "jungle safari" and an eerily quiet boat ride, in which our guide oarsman threading our way through a labyrinth of island channels, bringing orchids and even an alligator up close and personal.

Roberto, who visited the falls as a teen when access was only by boat, commented on the changes, yet we all admired the continuing focus on enjoying the natural beauty of the falls and the wonder of the tropical forest filled with monkeys, parrots, lush verdure, and a humid mysterious ambiance.

You won’t find a honeymoon haven on the Argentine side, thoughtfully protected by its status as a national park. Alas, there is a very ugly, outrageously expensive, yet highly recommended hotel right in the park which I’ve never been able to afford. We always manage to do well at one of the surprisingly well appointed tourist hotel-with-cabin establishments (try the Orquideas Palace Hotel) on the main access road.

Just be sure to make it to this Natural Wonder of the World before Madame Tussaud and Ripley stake a claim on the place! With luck, they’ll choose to locate on the Brazil side!

~~~~~~~~~~

1. http://www.allwondersoftheworld.com/seven-forgotten-natural-wonders.html

Banking on It

2007-08-27T20:07:00.000-03:00

After breakfast, before I could open my new positive psychology coaching book, our long-time house cleaner poked her head into the dining room and shyly asked in a whisper if I knew how to open a savings account. "No, but let's find out!" I responded.

I do know that lots of families here never open one, and thus worry constantly about robberies at times when they actually have cash.

Currently my accounts are all in the US, but I am thinking of opening a local account, so this was a good moment to find out how. We locked up the house and drove into town with Roberto. We dropped him off at the monumental, crowded national bank, which he recommended against them and other large banks due to tiresome waits and poor service. I decided to head for the small, tidy branch of Credicoop, the only public credit union type bank.

We ventured into the brightly lit modern building. No lines! Juan, a very amiable young man, quickly attended us at one of the three desks. As he explained, “We have members instead of clients; we’re more like a family, with offices all over the country.” His colleague, a young woman, as if on cue, beamed at us.

He continued: "The monthly maintenance fee is four pesos (about US$1.40), with negligible interest, but when using the associated debit card, there is up to 5% return of the IVA tax (the whopping 21% federal tax on all purchases, including food, in this country!)." Sounds like a good deal, I advised Angelica. He asked her for identification and proof of salary. "She works for me, and this is for the money her husband sends her from another city." That seemed good enough for Juan.

In less than fifteen minutes, Angelica was making her first deposit into her first banking account ever! Next week she can pick up the debit card and pay with plastic. . . I’ll have to ask her how it feels.

Alas, Juan also confirmed that I remain ineligible for any bank account until I get my national identity card and number. (Four years and waiting!) In departing, Angelica watched carefully as I used my Chase ATM card at the only machine in the lobby, which as in all Argentina, allows withdrawals of up to about US$100 at a time. (Do banks do this to force customers--or members--to pay more service fees?)

After paying all those service fees, I can't wait to have my own account. . . that is, if I can be convinced that an Argentine bank is indeed a safe place to keep money. The federal finance minister was forced to resigned recently after about $70,000 was found stashed in her executive washroom, her alleged down payment for a house. “It was just for safekeeping,” explained Felicia Micelli.

Why not a bank then? But then that's another story. . . .

NPR and Pampa Home Companion

2007-08-13T09:37:00.000-03:00

Listening to US public radio in my little house on the Pampa: Surely this is one of the greatest joys of finally getting broadband out here!

Clicking each step to reach live-streaming US radio raises my hopes like tiptoeing down the stairs on Christmas Day. What daily surprises await me under the cyber tree: NPR with All Things Considered, Talk of the Nation, Science Friday, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. . . podcasts of This American Life from Chicago Public Radio. . . Minnesota Public Radio with the Prairie Home Companion. . . .

And the shiny new bicycle with the big red bow? It’s my favorite station from home, WRVO,[1] whose potpourri includes not only NPR news and talk shows, but also the CBC’s marvelous As It Happens and an evening of vintage mysteries, dramas, comedies--plus weather reports that usually affirm my choice to live here rather than in snows of Syracuse.

Today the coy winter sun has taken refuge here behind a pewter gray curtain worthy of Central NY, so I am in the kitchen trying to make my first cheesecake with Argentine ingredients. I laugh along with Garrison Keiller and his show Prairie Home Companion, while figuring how many tubs of 200 ml of Serenisima Queso Finlandia equal 16 ounces of Kraft Philadelphia Cream Cheese. (I decided about two and a quarter.)

Today's PHC rebroadcast features authors reading from their own works interspersed with a fractured fairy tale about a boy who disobeyed his mother by putting his tongue on the water pump handle by the ice skating pond, requiring the local firefighters to help unfreeze it, and who then undergoes a personality transformation. When he is kidnapped by the Ice Queen and taken to her kingdom, not unlike Syracuse apparently, I am interrupted and miss the exciting frosty conclusion.

Roberto is wandering around the house within earshot. And yet, when the Kansas City writer reads his description of his now chigger-free life in Greenwich Village and when the silly Keiller vignette slips in northern Midwest humor (("It can't be heaven if there is no cheese”), I realize I am chuckling alone. There is just no way to translate this humor for my Argentine husband. I’m glad that the far away and some time ago audience keeps me company with its chortling and tittering.

Afterwards I try to explain the concept of PHC to Roberto. “Imagine a radio variety show hosted by an intellectual with an adolescent sense of humor in the middle of the province of Entre Rios or Santa Fe, with a bits of traditional music, story telling and silly scenarios, with absolutely nobody from Buenos Aires allowed. Something totally noncommercial, but so good that it becomes a smash because it includes something for everyone, liberal and conservative, like The Simpsons."[2] He gets it. No, he doesn't know of any such show here. Yet.

Sometimes I listen to local radio here. I havet my favorite music stations—one that plays pop music from the US and Latin America, and another than sometimes features tangos or traditional music. If I stray from those, I note non-stop talking. . . and a surprising percentage women's voices.

When I can decipher it, talk radio here turns out to be about one of Argentina's two religions--the one with God, Jesus, and Mary or the one with football. And wow, those pumped-up commentators can hold a note ("gooooooooal") as long as any diva. Then there are the chatty shows with political commentary, social commentary, and just plain chatty commentary that goes nowhere. There must be an Argentine Blarney Stone somewhere! Late at night the deep sexy FM voices take over on some stations with the profuse romantic song dedications or fabulous tales of healing miracles.

Radio for car travel disappoints me as I have to do a new scan every ten minutes, and there are hundreds of radio-free kilometers here in the vast Pampa. Besides, signals here are often weak, with competing stations in the same city. Last year a San Nicolas station invited me for an interview on Positive Psychology. When I arrived at the little store front office on a side street, front window shattered by vandals, I was welcomed by the owner, Graciela, a gregarious and warm 60-ish woman. While waiting for my on-air time, she described losing her partners (her husband and son both died recently). Yet she has dedicated herself to keeping it going. "I want to give something good to the community," she explained. Her optimism and commitment touched me deeply.

That's grass-roots public radio at its best wherever it happens.

Postscript: After baking and chilling, the mocha cheesecake proved to be a scrumptious accompaniment to a podcast of This American Life.

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[1] The notable five W's of the Syracuse area: WRVO-FM (NPR plus news and talk), WCNY-FM (NPR plus classical), and WAER-FRM (NPR plus jazz), Wegman’s supermarkets (best produce and checkers anywhere), and Winter. Four of these justify living there.
[2] Though I imagine the average PHC age is at least 20 years more than average Simpsons viewer.

A Parana Sunset with Coffee, Gas and Good Cheer

2007-07-30T22:32:00.000-03:00

Watching the sun sink into a violet haze over the Rio Parana from the YPF gas station café in Villa Constitucion will never get a nod in any Argentine guidebook. . . but tonight I savored two hours in its bright, clean, warm refuge while awaiting a miracle cure for the fourth windshield for my three-year-old VW Bora ( Jetta).

Rather than buy yet another windshield to replace the one most recently scarred by flying pebbles from badly paved and unpaved roads, I've decided to let Carlos fill the crack "with an injected liquid," or so he tells me, perhaps wary of getting more technical. I repress more questions so he can get to work. Given my former inclination to simply toss out worn things and buy shiny new stuff, I had been skeptical of this treatment until I saw his repair of the gouges and cracks on Roberto's teen-age Ford Galaxy. Wow--almost good as new! And that's good enough.

Folks here who have never heard of ecology or greenhouse gases don't throw out anything if it can be repaired. Cars are kept until they weather away into pulverized oxidized steel and disappear into La Nada. No big used car lots, no huge junkyards can be seen around here! (This rule of “use it 'til you wears it out” seems to be applied more to machines than clothes, I might note.)

Besides, I figure repairing the windshield instead of replacing it raises my EC (Environmentally Correct) quotient, and I will accept any remaining scars as visible proof of my planetary conscientiousness.

Given its out-of-the-way location, Roberto had to lead me to this “taller” or workshop, me tailing his Galaxy over a truck-rutted road that endangered my tires as well as my already sad windshield. After dropping the Bora off, Roberto stops for gas. Instead of letting him ferry me back and forth to some nice cafe in San Nicolas, I insist in staying here at the YPF gas station—hoping to save him some wear and tear.

Besides, for me these odd moments in public have their benefits, not the least of which are those brief pleasant social encounters which make Argentina so special. I don’t know anyone in this town, but it’s hard to feel alone in these parts.

The first bonus is the clearest blue eyes--more cerulean than aquamarine--in all Argentina, right high on the pale face of Santiago, the tall, lanky blond gas station attendant. Taking my credit card to cover filling the Galaxy tank, he asks the inevitable question: “De donde sos?” (“Where are you from?”) “California, pero vivo en San Nicolas,” I replied. “So where did your blue eyes come from?” He grins and replies proudly in English: “The father of my mother--he came from Germany.”

A little more chitchat with Santiago and I enter the brightly light shop and ask where to find the potato chips. Upon hearing my voice, the young woman brightly asks me the expected, "Where are you from?” I almost never tire of saying "California" because I love the surprise and delight it seems to provoke. It moves her to bring me a real glass for my soda.

Really, these YPF gas stations should be listed in Argentine guides. In this one, across from the industrial park, at least 60% of the floor space is given over to the 15 café tables—currently empty--and two bar counters for the patrons to enjoy an espresso and “factura” (pastry) or ham and cheese sandwich or other light fare. I can smell the cleanliness.

I pick one of the window seats with a view of the distant Parana. I see that Roberto still has not yet driven away. Apparently his rebellious Galaxy needs a bit of coaxing. Three guys come quickly to his aid. I watch from the shaded window, sipping a Coke and the Lay's blue-cheese flavored potato chips, devoid of any urge to get in the way.

Unlike the mini-marts of US gas station chains—a boon for suburbanites who need to pick up a half gallon of milk or some toilet paper on the way home from work, the shops in YPF (and Petrobras) gas stations function as the cleanest, nicest snack bars on any route. You can find hot coffee, candy, pastries, other munchies, telephone booths, and well-maintained bathrooms, something hard to find away from international tourist destinations.

In my pre-immigrant life in central NY, I confess that I used to sneak off to a Dunkin' Donuts at the top of rural Onondaga Hill, not so much for the coffee and donuts (which I now miss!), but for the same simple amenities any writer needs—peace and quiet, good light, a window with a view, and a clean table. This YPF gas station fits the bill!

Peace and order--lacking in much of this country—reigns within the YPF shop. Thus able to concentrate, I have whipped out my laptop to write. The hour hand is slipping past six, and customers wander in and claim other tables. Right now five tables are occupied by nine men. And then there’s me. The huge flat panel TV is turned off, and I can barely hear the radio's pop music. No one is thumbing the pages of today’s Clarin newspaper, neatly folded on one table. There’s just the hum of quiet conversation and very slow coffee drinking. I order coffee with lots of milk and a roll of dwarf Oreos (inexplicably 30% smaller than in US).

As the clock hits seven, Roberto enters! Oh! He says he didn't want me to feel abandoned, so he drove the 20 km back from San Nicolas to make sure I was okay. The cashier brings him a cup of coffee in a real cup, and he polishes off the remaining cookies in a single gulp, chattering away. We pay his bill and head to the car glass shop, where the price of fixing my windshield has mysteriously risen from 60 pesos to 100 pesos while I was gone.

The results are not quite miraculous, but most of the crack has disappeared, leaving only a slender horizontal thread of ingrained dirt about six inches long at the lower right. Good enough for driver and passenger to enjoy the view. I hand over the pink and purple 100-peso bill* and thank Carlos, who offers to drive the car to the curb for me. I accept with thanks.

Later Roberto tells me that my obvious foreign accent—the one that gets me the cheery smiles and drinking glasses—added that extra forty pesos to the bill. Plus Carlos certainly took note of my “luxury” turbo Jetta. “Se cobra por la cara," Roberto sighs (One charges according to appearance).

Ahh, a kind of home-made sliding scale, I laugh to myself, But it does not phase me. Maybe it was a bigger job than expected, and besides, what a peaceful, pleasant, productive late afternoon. And given these roads, I just might get to do it all over again!

* * * * * * * * *

*This bill is as politically incorrect as it is “pretty”! One side features the profile of General and President Julio Argentino Roca, the other side a famous painting of his uniformed cavalry in its famed Desert Conquest of 1879, whose explicit goal was genocide of aboriginal peoples. But that’s another story.

Snow Kidding: Independence Day Surprise

2007-07-10T18:35:00.000-03:00

Yep, that's snow on Roberto's Basque cap!

Yesterday noon we were just delving into our hearty Independence Day lunch of grilled chicken, roast beef, chicken salad, and potatoes when everyone dropped their forks and their jaws to stare out the window.

White stuff falling from the sky!

My stepdaughters became absolutely giddy, and Patricia insisted that I--as a former Snow Belt resident--go outside and verify it as snow. Dutifully I abandoned the table for the garden, and watched the white crystals collect on my dusky blue sweater.

My 20-plus years of shoveling Syracus snow told me it was sleet, but then again, one can never be quite sure until the meteorologist speaks. I stepped back inside to several hopeful faces. "Es nieve nicolena," [San Nicolas snow] I proclaimed. Smiles all around. As soon as the last bite was downed, coats and hats went on, cameras came out, and the party moved outdoors.

By dessert time, the TV was parked on a Buenos Aires channel: folks dressed in skiwear and smiles were dancing in the streets while a fine mantle of lace was tatting itself over trees and grass. Reports said it was the first snow fall in Buenos Aires since June 22, 1918--an event which inspired its very own tango, "What a Night," though we didn't hear a note of it. Roberto remembered a bit of snowfall in 1975--but that still predated his daughters and their boyfriends, whose own little tangos in the yard are now committed to human as well as digital memories.

Day slipped into evening, the snow here flirted with us a bit more hesitantly than in the Capital, so we missed making snow angels or "snow dolls," though no one was short of ideas on how to build the latter. Even so, the gaiety continued for hours on TV and in our own group, as we played Yahtzee and watched the occasional flakes flutter past the huge sliding glass doors. The subject of fireworks did not even arise, and everyone seemed elated to be present for an historic meteorological event.

As I moved here from Central New York to avoid snow, I was grateful that not enough fell to warrant shoveling or even a swipe across the windshield when our guests finally left, assured that the roads here would not be any more dangerous than Argentine roads usually are.

In my four years here, I've never once awakened with the hope of finding my garden covered with white stuff, and it's not likely to happen. Yet it was a special happy day to share with those never so blessed. As a TV headline noted, the snow was free and available to all. How democratic! And how appropriate for the day marking Argentina's 89th year of independence from rule by Spanish kings and queens.

July Fourth Idea: Let's Tango!

2007-07-04T17:26:00.000-03:00

Happy 231st Birthday, USA!

Here the Fourth of July falls on the Ninth of July, so while we wait to celebrate Argentina’s Independence Day, here are a few timely observations on US-Argentine relations.

Only 16% of Argentinians have a positive view of the US, according to surveys.*

Of Argentina’s 4.5 million visitors, 300,000 came from US, noted US Ambassador Earl Anthony Wayne as he signed an agreement yesterday to allow additional Argentine flights to the USA, acknowledging Argentina’s appeal as a tourist destination.

Meanwhile Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has pumped millions of dollars (not millions of tourists) into Argentina. A favorite in the Casa Rosada of our wannabe-leftist President Nestor Kirchner, Chavez this week announced an ultimatum for Mercosur (the trade bloc for Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay, and Uruguay): “Approve our entry into Mercosur by September or we will withdraw our application.”

According to reports, he hopes to fashion Mercosur into an anti-US alliance, both political and economic. The only obstacle in Venezuela’s admission is approval by the Brazilian legislature, as the other national legislatures have already done so. Even if the Brazilians hold out, as expected, Chavez makes no secret of using petro-dollars to make friends all over Latin America.

Some folks I know are fond of saying that “it takes two to tango.” What kind of relationship would the US like to develop and maintain with Argentina? And vice versa? Is Argentina to remain just an exotic tourist destination for well-heeled tourists. . . or will it become a valuable political and economic ally? Frankly, I worry that Argentina has been waiting so long for the US to ask it to dance that in desperation the government is willing to accept the hand of self-styled US enemies.

Given that President Kirchner’s wife Christina, an announced candidate, has high hopes of succeeding her husband, what would it take to get the music going again?

I would love to see my native country and country of residence embracing for a soulful tango or a lively Virginia reel. . . and I think that the US only has to ask (nicely of course). Then next year we can truly celebrate a Pan American Interdependence Day!

________________

* This refers to the US government, not its people or culture, all of which are welcome here by most of the people most of the time

My Growing "To Fix" List

2007-06-12T20:44:00.000-03:00

In the USA, I remember getting in the morning and check my “To Do” list. Here in Argentina I get up and check my ever-growing “To Fix” list too. Here’s an hour-by-hour description of how the list grew today. When things don't work, we lose huge chunks of time just trying running in place. No wonder folks here say “mañana” so often—-we hope tomorrow things will work better!

8:00 am: Took shower—turned ice cold after 2 minutes, reminding me to exchange faulty hot water heater for new one which might or might not solve the problem. You never know.

8:03: Dressed in bedroom of 60 degrees. Must call Carrier vendor about AC/heater not functioning. Meanwhile have portable electric heater with long extension cord.

9:00: Opened the heavy exterior wooden shutters to the sliding glass door in the living room to get some light for working—and one finally fell off the hinge as the hinge itself half-fell out of the brick wall. Called three possible repair persons, including our wonderful plumber, and left messages.

9:30: Tried to download e-mail, but no Internet access from our recently installed antenna. Called provider Marcello who said he’ll check into it. Will go into town because I have urgent messages to receive and send.

11:15: Stopped working to show housecleaner and her daughter how to sand the peeling varnish of the gazebo due to lots of great summer sun. Noted that we need to replace various wooden supports too.

11:30: Impossible not to notice that the pool still needs to be completely emptied, scrubbed with bleach, cracks filled, and surfaces repainted. Called Roberto to pick up the pump as scheduled, but he already had too much to do. This afternoon will try again. The in-pool pump stopped working last year and costs too much too replace.

12:15: Housekeeper and daughter departed and returned immediately as their motorcycle suddenly developed a gasoline leak. Offered to drive housekeeper to nearby repair shop, but our second car would not start. Called Roberto in town to look for new hose and more gas en route to home—but shops had already closed for the afternoon.

12:30: Plumber arrived to check out the deteriorating bricks and promised to return sometime this week.

12:40: Roberto and I drove the two housekeepers home and took advantage of the trip to dine in the city at the one no-smoking restaurant.

1:40: Tried to download mail at restaurant with wi-fi, but could not access Internet. Called Marcello again, who said he configured my laptop so that it would only work at home with the antenna that he installed. He’ll stop by tonight to take a look.

3:10: On way home, stopped at housekeeper’s house to pick up her nephew and bring him to our house to fix the motorcycle. Definitely worthy of his name, “Angel.”

3:30: Tried reading before taking siesta, but bedside wall lamp has stopped working.

8:25: Marcello stopped by to diagnose Internet problems: He says that he needs to continue updating his equipment, that we need a new router (which he will install as soon as he can get one delivered), and that there is just too much Internet traffic in Argentina for the Telmex system.

Did this dispell any myths you may have about the carefree lazy life in Latin America? In fact, I read just this week that Argentinians work more hours per week than most other nationalities. . . so no wonder stuff doesn't get fixed here! But I plan to give it a good try--and you can see I've got a lot of support from the housekeeper to the plumber.

And in the long run, people here put their time where it really matters: other people. So if you visit, and the paint is peeling, the roof leaking, the amenities lacking, remember that we don't intend to treat you like royalty--we're gonna treat you like family! You'll love it!!

A Really Good Day

2007-04-28T11:38:00.000-03:00

Phone on the blink all week again, but my call to my NY coaching client last night from a public phone booth, went smoothly. Well, except for the staccato--CLANK! CLINK!--of a locksmith's hammer and chisel 4 meters away.

Plumber detoured on his way home yesterday—fixed the toilet again and confirmed that the newly installed, top brand hot water tank must have a factory defect. (Made in Argentina, not for export.) He's gonna have a little chat with the vendor, and he swears we will have hot water showers that last more than 87 seconds. . . mañana.

Now, look here, dear blog reader, get this straight: Yesterday ranks as a GOOD day. Roberto and I toted up our successes and good moments while we waited for some slow-grilled food and fast fried potatoes--and we came up with over TEN* between the two of us. We washed down the tasty hot fries and savory chicken with some ice-cold Argentine beer--and a toast to a good end to another day in our little home on the pampa.

*the good side: scenic tranquil round trip to Pilar (BA exurb), great meeting with two Argentine coaches for Gayle and excellent meeting with blueberry ag engineer for Roberto, pleasant lunch with the coaches (one of whom paid the whole tab), toilet truly fixed, good call with client, phone message from my Boston-based son Eric, satisfying interview about working on a coaching newsletter. Plus a smoke-free, delicious, cheap dinner for two. That's more than good enough for me!

Getting in Hot Water

2007-04-27T22:10:00.000-03:00

Aggravation-resilience time again! Arrrrrrrrgh!

1000…999…998…997…996…995……phew. Counting backwards from 1000 is one way I calm myself and stop cycling the negative thoughts.

What’s eating me? Having to boil water and hand carry it to fill the bath tub AGAIN! Not my favorite dance routine. though this time I did make Toll House cookies since it took a half hour to boil enough water in my pots.

The new "high recovery termo-tanque" (hot water heater) was thus supplemented by several fillings of one blue tea kettle, one Revere saucepan, one Revere Dutch oven, and a large pasta pot.

994…993…992…Dang it. I just want a nice hot bath without having to EARN it!

Tank plus installation ate up nearly a month's rent, and it was supposed to solve the constant hot water outages due to the old "calefactor," a sort of primitive instant-hot water wall unit that only worked after we installed a pump to increase the water pressure. Alas lime deposits constantly clogged it, and we resorted to the tea kettle for preparing dish water too.

991…990…989…at least now we do have a reliable supply of hot dishwater. But the 30 liter (8-gallon) tank, which purportedly is the best available here, just ain't gonna fill up a 40-gallon tub fast enough. The first gallons get cold in an unheated bathroom (in a poorly heated, uninsulated brick house) before the final gallons can pour in.

988. . 987. Well, at least I won’t be wasting much time or water with baths any more. Or showers. . . because an 8-gallon shower is gonna be pretty short.

986. I can take pride in living greener, using of our precious water resources and less gas to heat it! Go ahead, export that unused gas to Chile!

985. Aggravation gone. Next?

Time & Orientation: Lessons from Great-Grandma's Clock

2007-04-17T16:02:00.000-03:00

Today a kindly Argentine watchmaker taught me something important: You can wind something up all you like, but if the orientation is off, you won’t get too far. He was thinking of clocks, yet for me the unexpected lesson was more profound.

This morning, Señor Ventura, a local watchmaker, surprised me by calling on us to see if he could figure out why my wall clock had stopped running less than a week after I brought it back from his shop. He’d cleaned the works, and the door received new glass-this time with a nice bevel. It looks better than when I inherited it!

This antique Waterbury clock (styled after the one pictured) is one of my most treasured family heirlooms. It has probably clocked more miles than hours in the last century, trekking from New England to California (including a Yosemite cabin), then with me to New York and now Argentina.

Keeping this family clock running means something to me. Its constant ticking and tinny chiming every thirty minutes keeps me grounded in something deeper than time. Winding it is an almost sacred ritual for me on Sunday evenings. Thus when it stopped recently, I was delighted to make the acquaintance of a local watchmaker who expressed genuine interest in working on it.

So this morning, Señor Ventura, bespectacled and balding, contemplated the clock silently. “Miguela,” he whispered, "Listen to the clock."

“Tick TOCK tick TOCK tick TOCK,” it said. Reminded me a bit of a heart murmur with its irregularity.

“Now watch--and listen again.” He pushed the bottom of the clock case a few degrees to the left. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. No more syncopation! Just a steady even rhythm.

“It was not hanging straight,” Señor Ventura explained.

“That’s all?” I asked, amazed that such a small correction could make such a huge difference.

“We can wait five minutes to make sure,” he smiled. So we enjoyed some espresso, homemade chocolate chip cookies, and chatting about sailboats, with the sturdy heartbeat of the clock in the background. Then after perhaps ten well-regulated minutes that sped by like five, he quietly took his leave.

Pretty metaphorical stuff, eh? Being properly oriented matters as much as being energized, even for a clock. There's definitely some learning in there for me.

Five hours have passed since Señor Ventura’s visit, and the clock continues to wag its pendulum like a happy dog with a tail.

My Irish great–grandmother Sara, who bought the Connecticut-made clock years ago in San Francisco for her Montessori school camp in what is now Yosemite National Park, is surely smiling down on me. She's smiling all right, and she's asking me: "Okay, Gayle, you got the clock working. Now what do you intend to do with all that time, my dear?"

Steeling Home

2007-02-26T23:40:00.000-03:00

The fiery brimstone scene in the photo looks like something out of my Calvinistic Sunday School class, and it really is an awesome sight--but much much more benign.

It’s one of the world’s largest steel plants, and it is just down the highway from me, a black windowless hulk right out of Charles Dickens. But inside is a different story!

The way I see it now, a steel plant is the birthing room for our civilization, spewing out daily that which makes life as we know it possible.

For someone whose nose was always in book, the opportunity for a private tour of a huge steel plant was irresistible. I love seeing how “real” things are made! The ostensible purpose was to give me some visuals to help me translate everything from lessons on deoxidation steel to conference papers about blast furnace burn-throughs. But I had a hidden motive—I was dying to peek inside the potentially most dangerous and off-limits place for miles. . . oops, kilometers.

Of course the safety regulations meant I was first outfitted in a hard hat, safety goggles, and steel metatarsal boots before passing though a PC-filled control room with large glass windows. Then it was through the magic door and into the world of secondary steelmaking.

What could seem further from the psyche than buckets of glowing red molten iron and aluminum surrounded by piles of hardened gray slag inside a cavernous dimly lit warehouse? Given the smell of hot metal occasional sprays of molten sparks, I alternated between stopping to gasp in awe and running for cover from man-made flowing steel lava deftly being managed by knots of workers. Each was dressed in a hood with mask and a white ankle-length flame-resistant robe, a jolting juxtaposition of the image of medieval monk and space alien.

In route, it dawned on me that I had depended on steel all my life and had not the faintest idea of the drama involved in fabricating it.

Of course my guide was leading me safely through a maze of ladle furnaces, transfer cars, and the other behemoths that make possible the end result—slabs of cold steel that are later processed into the sheets and trusses and wires that become cars and shopping malls and even the cutlery in our kitchen drawers.

Without these plants, without steel, I could never have immigrated here. I got here on wings of steel and go about on wheels of steel. At home we cook, serve, and eat using steel. Even things that might not have any steel content, such as my food and clothes, need steel buildings, vehicles, and machinery for production, transportation, and marketing.

Look around you right now and count how many things in your environment contain steel or clearly required steel “input” somewhere between imagination and reality.

As a coach, I often think about how folks transform ideas into something concrete by creating a plan of action and executing it. In a steel plant, all this is writ in capital letters! You can’t think small and be in steel! I offer my admiration and appreciation to all those who work in steel.

Oh, and I also offer a challenge: May those who are getting wealthy emulate Andrew Carnegie by becoming important philanthropists. We need more libraries here!

Since my tour, I’ve really gotten into flow translating those concrete steps in secondary steelmaking from Spanish into English for the North American subsidiaries. You know, in some ways, turning out steel seems to me to be the magnified version of making really good brownies. . . first melt some high-quality ingredients, add some other solids, heat and form the mass into bars, and enjoy!

Hey, any one for a slice of fresh homemade steel??

Got My Legal Residency, Folks!

2007-02-15T20:14:00.000-03:00

What a New Year’s Present! The Argentinian government decided they do want me after all! At any rate, it looks like I convinced them to let me stay. It wasn’t easy!

On January 2, 2007, I received the letter from the Ministry of the Interior, Immigrations Department, granting me permanent residency in Argentina.

This means I’m legally here! NO MORE BORDER CROSSINGS EVERY 90 DAYS!

And to think it only took 3 years, 4 months, and 12 days!! (Okay, and a few tears, acid words, suppressed screams and laughter, and a lot of stunned silence.)

Why so long? Does every US citizen suffer this much? I’ve heard of some who have it easier, but they tend to be single people who move to Buenos Aires, a more cosmopolitan place where there are immigration services who specialize in streamlining the process. Argentina prides itself on being open to immigrants—but that sentiment does not extend to making the system either rational or welcoming.

In fact, governmental bureaucracies show an uncanny resemblance to the popular tourist destination of the Perito Moreno glacier: huge cold blocks that move imperceptibly, with progress measured in years not days.

Are you a First Worlder considering immigrating here? Well, don’t hold your breath waiting for residency if your case is at all unusal. I would bet a week’s stay at the five-star Alvear Palace Hotel that I am the only US divorced woman who has ever been crazy enough to move to San Nicolás de los Arroyos to marry a divorced native. That tripled the time spent on the bureaucratic carousel, it seems.

(Any takers? Let’s make it in dollars, not pesos, if you please!) Did we break out the champagne? We were going to. . . and then we discovered that I am not likely to get the “Document of National Identity” (needed for such trivialities as getting a driver’s license or bank account) until the Civil Registry gets around to processing my request, and that same office says it takes a year, but with luck, just six months.

In the end, I remind myself I moved here for love and sunshine, not for good government. (For you Canadians raised on Arctic winds and short summers, who thrive on life, liberty, and good government, but who hope to thaw out in this life time: choose New Zealand!)

This experience desperately seeking residency allowed me to share what most Argentinians experience when faced with the smallest official issue that requires a rational, timely response: long lines, long waits, immense frustration and helplessness, and a growing doubt about benevolence and usefulness of government. You can bet I won’t be seeking citizenship! (Even if I wanted to, I’m sure I don’t have enough years left.)

Now let's see what happens when my Argentine husband request U.S. residency! That ought to be a real hoot!

Frontier Living

2006-11-27T15:27:00.000-03:00

Okay, so Argentina is not the Third World, but sometimes it gets pretty close. Especially the farther you get from Grand Buenos Aires. Each kilometer takes you miles and years away from the 21st Century.

You could call this frontier living. Not exactly Little House on the Pampa, even though we do have gauchos and horses roaming about.

But I have to give up a major illusion. I cannot recreate the First World here in my little corner of South America.

It has finally dawned on me that what has frustrated me most over the last couple years is this: attempting to continue to live “modernly” where the infrastructure just doesn’t permit it.

Looks can be deceiving. There are cars, telephones, cell phones, televisions, airplanes, electricity and indoor plumbing, and why, two years ago the first shopping centers materialized in the nearby metropolis of Rosario, offering all the First World wonders of Nike, Gap, and Sony.

Even so, how rare it is for my car, telephone, and bathroom plumbing to be in working order at the same time! Is that too much too ask?

Underneath a thin veneer of progress is a tradition of lentitude and entropy, proportionally stronger with each kilometer further from Capital Federal. This is where Europe met South America. . . and the relationship takes its twists and turns.

Case in point: Telecom, the Italian-based communications company that pretends to offer us telephone service, wavers in its explanations for the phone outages that have plagued us since June, leaving me without a convenient connection to my family and clients in North America. They blame copper thieves and at times our house wiring. But one day a Telecom employee let it slip that the major culprit is the failure-prone antique equipment at the central station. Can it be that those Italians feel no pressure to modernize stuff in a country that earned fame for being the world’s biggest debt defaulter?

And so we can continue to thank Telecom for call-free meals at home, averaging a week’s outage per month. Instead of comfortably using my home office, I’ve been forced to take up residence in phone booths at gas stations and “locutories.” (And in the meanwhile I can’t figure out why my neighbors aren’t rioting in the streets over this! They just pull out their cell phones, as does Roberto to keep up with his strawberry buyers.)

The near worst-case scenario—no car, no phone--does happen on occasion. Then I call a remis (near cousin to taxi) to pick me up and drive me the 15 to 20 minutes into town to the best “locutorio"—a business with phone cabins and PC booths. On lucky days, I can buy a phone card that will let me make a half hour or hour call without interruptions at a rate only double what I pay on my home phone. On unlucky days, I dial direct and pay the buying equivalent of US$1 a minute! (Yes, I do stock up on these cards when they are available!). On really unlucky days even that connection breaks up or breaks off. Sigh.

On the bright side, there are some compensations for frontier living! In between client calls, I mosey over to the best ice cream shoppe in the whole country for some great gelato or an espresso with a scoop of good Italian ice cream!

While waiting for the interior of the country to catch up to Buenos Aires, which may someday catch up to Rome or New York, we might benefit from tuning our TV sets to the Retro channel, where we could profit from some good tips from daily reruns of The Little House on the Prairie. Some frontier values never die!

Soccermania: From Cradle to Grave and Beyond?

2006-09-08T15:57:00.001-03:00

In a country where soccer has replaced the Church, the most devout of all are surely the fans of the Boca Juniors soccer team. The Boca sacraments commence at birth and now stretch to the grave.

Boca soccer moms and dads already swaddle their children in the blue-and-yellow emblematic colors of their favorite Buenos Aires team. The Boca faithful not only can attend the games in their Boca apparel, but they can get to the Boca temple--La Bombonera, by Boca taxi, and celebrate the frequent victories with Boca wine.

Well, now they can even rest in Boca peace a private cemetery plot dedicated to players, managers, and “the most rabid fans.” The blessed few who get in this limited sacred space will no doubt first purchase one of the coffins with the recognizable blue-and-yellow shield for the perfect final touch.

Orlando Salvestrini, a Boca club official at the inauguration of the cemetery plots, observed that this will help address the barrage of requests to scatter ashes of deceased fans at La Bombonera. The first two plots were filled yesterday by the remains of two former players, with a Catholic priest on hand at the Parque Pereyra Iraola cemetery to officiate.

No one dared ask him the obvious question: Will they now go to Boca heaven?

Who can doubt that God is a Boca fan? After all, didn’t he give a special Hand to team supertar Diego Maradona during World Cup play 20 years ago, allowing them to beat England? (Did this also demonstrate His preference for Argentine soccer over Argentine war? He apparently lifted nary a finger to help the South Americans beat the very same First World rivals in the Malvinas/Falklands War.)

So maybe God really has designated a special celestial salon for Boca fans. . . that is if He was not put out by those who have strayed to the Church of Maradona [http:www.iglesiamaradoniana.com]. Founded by two Rosario sportswriters, it celebrates the Nativity of the Boca star player, renumbering the dates from his birth year, thus converting 2006 AD into 42 DD (“después de Diego”).

Its holy commandments include honoring soccer above all else, attending temple events, spreading word of Diego’s miracles, and even naming sons after their idol (who is worshipped en ausencia, as Maradona maintains a respectful distance from this worship).

Before you start laughing, note that the Maradonian Church already boasts 20,000 international members and continues to grow. That’s more than you can say for the Roman Church here. Maybe the Church could learn a few things from the Boca Juniors and Maradona about how to inspire life-long believers!

Those Sociable, Friendly Argentinians

2006-08-23T12:32:00.000-03:00

Finally we have objective proof that Argentines are the most sociable folks in the world.

Well, at any rate, they have more contacts listed in their Plaxo email address book than other nationals, according to a recent survey by the “smart address book” company. Argentina led the “Connected Index” with an average of 479 contacts per address book, nearly 100 more than second-place Australia. The US, tied in 29th place with the Dominican Republic, trailed with a mere 293 contacts.

Frankly, I wasn’t surprised. This has always seemed to me to be a country of friends. Sure, family ties matter too, but the role of friends here seems more central than in the US. Folks know how to make them and keep them!

In fact, the extraverted nature of so many here helped induce me to immigrate. No longer is it up to me to start or keep a conversation going—everyone from green grocers and dress shop owners to waiters and bus seatmates cheerfully chat me up. It does take time of course to develop deep friendships, but at least making contacts is as easy as leaving the house. Most folks are simply warm and welcoming.

This weekend Roberto took me to the beach resort of Pinamar, where the small hotel owners, their niece, and her husband feted me with a rousing chorus of “Feliz Cumpleaños” and savored the best chocolate cake I’ve had since my birthday in Seattle in 1991. Granny and Mom encouraged the apple-cheeked one-year-old with his fudge-frosted grin to pose for my camera. The socialization to be sociable begins early!

While I continue to mull over the origins, meanings, and implications of this intense sociability, I continue to be amazed at its manifestations in so many dimensions of life--in communications, dining, urban design, vacation choices, and even in burial practices.

Folks are just more “groupy” here. I receive a higher percentage of group emails (those sentimental power point presentations, for example) from my Argentine contacts than my North American friends. Romantic dinners for two seem less common than gaggles of friends for coffee or asado. A small intimate wedding would be a surprise if not an insult to the hundreds who were hoping to gather to celebrate for hours. Grown men (including my husband) actually get together weekly in stable, long-term friendship groups to fix dinner or dine out—definitely a cultural practice worth exporting! All in all, Argentinians invest time and energy in their friendships.

North Americans would be astounded to see that few residents choose to live outside dense city centers, where you can be sure to bump into lots of those contacts on a daily basis. How can I recognize a vacation spot here? It will have at least 27 high-rise apartment buildings (generally ugly) and countless discos and restaurants.

Peace is not solitude, but togetherness--even after death. While I have seen some graveyards with individual tombs, I have found more mausoleums here, as in the famous Recoleta Cemetery. In the San Nicolas Cemetery, for example, the French Argentine Society’s “pantheon” boasts three stories of caskets stacked five high, allowing 500 members a final resting place among family and friends. (Note that just about equals the number of contacts the average Argentinian Plaxo user reported.)

“El Día del Amigo,” or “Friends Day,” is bigger than Valentine’s Day, which is an imported holiday anyway. (It intrigues me that the chosen date marks the anniversary of the US moon landing, “because it made the world seem smaller,” someone here explained. Why doesn’t the US celebrate it?)

Without a doubt, one of the hardest things for an immigrant is abandoning regular contact with long-term friends and associates. Research shows the importance of such social networks for happiness and resilience. While three years still has not been enough time for me to re-establish truly deep ties, I do find comfort in the pleasant social contacts that are commonplace here. Only time will tell if these deepen into lifelong intimate friendships. At least there is hope as I am already one of those 479 Plaxo contacts for several Argentinians!

Argentina—Land of “Tomorrows”

2006-08-09T11:59:00.000-03:00

How can I keep a sense of time when I live in a time warp, or at least in a country with a very different time perspective?

I seldom wear one of my three watches. No need for that! We don’t count minutes here on the pampa, we count days or weeks. If the plumber says he’ll stop by “tomorrow,” it could indeed be tomorrow. . . or next week. . . or maybe never. Hard to guess which! With seven pipes-a-leaking and no reliable hot water, the last six days have seemed an eternity.

But this is not new. The owner of a small computer tech firm promised us broadband “next week.” That was January 5. Today is August 9. Roberto (with a straight face!) told me at lunch that another tech firm is putting up an antenna at a factory down the road this week, and the fellow says we can expect the signal “next week.” I burst out laughing: “Lo creo cuando lo veo!” I made that one up to say “I believe it when I see it.” It might not be good Spanish, but it expresses my doubts and a general uneasiness at all the “broken promises,” as I tend to see these things.

Case in point: When I applied for the requisite Letter of Good Conduct from the Federal Police in February for my residency application, I was told it would be ready in two months. It arrived four months later—expiring in transit! Now that really is snail mail! “Yep, sometimes a week takes a month here,” laughed one of my art classmates, a señora with lots of smile wrinkles. Appreciation for the absurd helps here!

So why do I bother with a clock in every room, even the bathroom? For calculations, they are only slightly more useful than my carefully shipped measuring cups and spoons in this metricized country. What a shift from New York and California, where I could measure life in minutes and teaspoons! The cultural differences in measurements are substantial.

When I was five, Disneyland opened up 14 miles down Harbor Boulevard from me. On our frequent visits, “Tomorrowland” totally mesmerized me with its moon rocket trip and gadget-filled kitchen. . . a land of “tomorrow” that actually materialized in the First World. Given my dad's fascination with gadgets, we were the first on our block to have a stereo, then a dishwasher, and even an electric typewriter.

But of course, in Argentina “tomorrow” (the famous “mañana”) is a different kind of diversion, a waiting game. To live here, you must learn to play it. No Type A’s need apply for residency here!

Forget the dishwasher--I don't even have a dryer! I hang clothes out—and hope they dry before rain or night falls. Customers regularly zone out in sluggish lines in banks and supermarkets. The shopper who grabbed milk and eggs off the shelf usually gets stalled for 10 minutes in the priority checkout lane. Yet no one complains or rushes to find a shorter line. No one runs anywhere, not even across the narrow city street to miss the cars that swerve to dodge them. (Do drivers speed here because it is the one place they can hurry?)

There’s a lot of waiting, and people accordingly manifest an unhurried pace (and wouldn't dream of moving out of my busy way on the sidewalk). When I complained to a nurseryman that he still had not delivered a gift of two trees to a friend despite one month and two reminders, he was taken aback, and seemingly offended that I would complain. Instead of apologizing, he justified it: “Nosotros Argentinos no somos muy cumplidores.” ["We Argentinians aren't very good at finishing what they start or keeping promises."] Was I expecting Disney standards for "guest services"?

Argentina may be the land of “tomorrows,” and simultaneously, it seems the land of yesterday. Rusty Fiats, Renaults, and Fords, vintage farm machinery, timeworn buildings, unpaved roads, handwritten archives. People here ride bikes and walk, not for pleasure, but to get to work or school (and they do it without helmets). Work is done by hand that North Americans let machines do. When was the last time you swept a carpet? Made homemade pasta? Boiled water to wash dishes?

Of course a "vintage lifestyle" means things take longer. . . and so a lot less gets done. Luckily no one seems overly concerned! Efficiency, productivity, progress. . . these are the bywords for some places north of Cuba. My young porteña friend Eliana is anxious to move to Madrid after her recent visit there. “It’s like Buenos Aires could be—in twenty years. Do you know what I mean?”

Sure I do, though San Nicolas might need forty years to catch up. Or more. Maybe it isn’t even a goal, and maybe it shouldn’t be. I must confess that find comfort in some aspects of traditional life here. On Thursdays after art class, I stroll over one block to one many tiny local drugstores. The elderly pharmacist invariably welcomes me with a grin, embrace, and kiss, after which his daughter pharmacist--my friend Maria--pours me an espresso in the back room. And maybe the next customer will lose a few seconds while she admires my latest watercolor attempt or shares on of her latest profound thoughts on spirituality.

As of now, there is exactly one public place with wi-fi—the incomparable Italia ice creamery, where the owner still relies on her highly sensitive palate to create fabulous gelatos. (The blueberry sorbet, among others, should make San Nicolas an international tourist destination!)

When broadband and wi-fi are everywhere, will the green grocer still inquire about our strawberries and carry my bags of tangerines, potatoes, and artichokes to my car? Will the butcher keep three other patrons waiting to teach me how to make a pizza by baking his super-sized chicken milanesias with tomato puree in the oven? Will the ice cream lady still take time to fix me an espresso with a scoop of vanilla and a dusting of chocolate shavings? (Try it!)

When the twenty-first century finally arrives, will Roberto still share a leisurely breakfast, lunch, and dinner with me every day? I wonder. Meanwhile, while I am waiting for broadband, the plumber, and tomorrow to arrive, I might as well enjoy another espresso!

P.S. When broadband arrives, I will have fewer excuses not to post blogs more regularly!

Magic Rain Drops!

2006-08-07T16:22:00.000-03:00

This morning’s raindrops mark my first in my Book of Argentine Wonders.

I felt the first drops while pruning back some frost-damaged jungly plants under my yearling palm tree, “Margarita.”

“Gayle, take a look at the pool.” Roberto had that mischievous grin. I was expecting the usual pretty pattern of dots and ripples from the rain, beginning to drizzle more steadily.

Was I surprised! Tiny bubbles punctuated the entire surface of the pool! Air bubbles the size of hazelnuts formed with each splash of a raindrop. . . and popped when torpedoed by the next. It was like watching some invisible tiny feet pop one gigantic sheet of blue bubble wrap!

“There’s a saying here in Argentina that when the rain drops form bubbles, the rain will be heavy.” Roberto pointed to the ash-gray sky to the west.

Well, the promised rain has been no more than intermittent sprinkles--not that such disconfirmation will dampen enthusiasm for folklore!—and the pool continues to roil with joy under a gray sky.

From ACLU Card to National ID Card: Getting Residency

2006-08-01T17:21:00.000-03:00

I can see the light at the end of the Borgian tunnel—and it is illuminating my very own Argentine National Identity Card! Hip hip hooray!

The prospect of carrying the government-issued ID card next to my ACLU membership card strikes me as a perfect metaphor for the kind of mental gymnastics you need to live here, where freedom is secondary to bureaucracy.

Once I have this card and accompanying official booklet, the government will be able to track my purchases, my hotel stays, my trips, any changes of residence or spouse, and even my voting record. Scary, isn’t it? Not that any one here seems to think so!

Of course I’d rather not need one of these tracking devices. But it beats the 90-day tourist visa!

Obtaining one was not easy—at least not the way I went about it! I moved here in August 2003 to live with and later marry my Argentine fiancé. We planned and celebrated our spiritual union first (importing my Unitarian Universalist minister for the first UU wedding in South America). Then, as only civil unions are recognized, we asked to get legally married here.

As we had both been married previously, this required eighteen months of submitting documents, waiting for replies, getting requests for more documents (including proof of my ex-husband’s address at the time of divorce), and even a retranslation of my divorce decree.

Finally we stood side by side, with our witnesses, in a small chamber in the Civil Registry and listened to two officials read the scripted list of matrimonial obligations and rights. We signed the ledger and walked away with a certificate. I was no longer a legal concubine! I was married—and eligible for residency!

All the documents have been submitted to the federal immigrations office via the local Naval Prefecture office. . . and in a couple of months, I should have that new little booklet and card. So now let’s move to the important stuff: these documents will need a lovely new Argentine leather wallet to protect them and show them off! Do ID cards go better with carpincho or calfskin?

Our Lady of the Cosmos

2006-05-19T01:25:00.000-03:00

Let us never underestimate the power of one tiny woman to improve her corner of the world. And this senora does it by planting cosmos seeds along the highway that runs past her humble home on the way to a small resort town in the hills of Cordoba. This is a real live Miss Rumphius! What an inspiration for me. See blog below for more.

The Gift of the Cosmos

2006-04-20T00:22:00.000-03:00

At times my coaching clients benefit from visualizing clearly their goal and sending it out as a “request to the Universe.” Afterwards, the petitioner must watch for the signs that the Universe is answering. It will. This I know from many personal experiences.

Earlier this month, when the shadows of geographic nostalgia had grown deep and dark, I asked the cosmos to send me to a secluded, sylvan vacation spot, complete with crystal water cascading over boulders like my great-grandmother’s cabin in Yosemite, complete with good weather, forests, and wildflowers.

The endless flat expanse of the pampas. . . the wide brown waters of the Paraná. . . the bustle yet boredom of San Nicolás. I yearned for the break usually made necessary by my 90-day tourist visa. But this time, instead of crossing borders (as on nine previous occasions), I followed my husband’s advice and paid for a visa extension.

The moment I plunked down my 100 pesos at the local Naval Prefecture office and got my visa stamped (instead of getting it stamped upon return from Uruguay, Chile, or California), I was overcome by aching for long stretches of rugged coast, or forested steep river valleys.

That was when I issued my little request to the universe for an affordable retreat to a seaside or mountain paradise. I also made sure to mention it to Roberto!

“Honey, I really need a nature break,” I told my dear husband, who was anxiously awaiting our first shipments of blueberry bushes. “I can go on my own if you don’t have time,” I added. Bless his soul, within 24 hours he rearranged everything and put me in the car for a three-day vacation to the mini-mountains of Córdoba.

Neither of us had ever been to our proposed destination, though it sounded promising. Even so, I jettisoned my Thoreau-esque fantasies: anything that undulated and flowed would be acceptable. Besides, better Córdoba with Roberto than Yosemite solo!

To my amazement, we ended up in the paradise pictured above. It is such a secret, off-the-beaten-track marvel that I’m only sharing its location with my nearest and dearest. (Okay, try a bribe!)

Then again, do you want to drive seven hours on a two-lane road dodging tankers and semis, then rattle 55 kilometers on a dirt road through soy fields, then endure eight scary kilometers on something that may have been a dirt road 30 years ago? After fording a stream and crossing a crumbling bridge, we suddenly found ourselves in Paradise! (Of course Roberto drove--I really thought the roads impassable!)

Our grueling expedition was rewarded with the last of three pretty and well-appointed cabins in a semi-wilderness. Wildflowers and blackberries lined the paths that led me to the arroyo, complete with crystal water pouring over boulders! I drank in the scene for nearly an hour until the sun had nearly set. We agreed that we’d rather starve overnight than attempt those16 daunting kilometers to and from the nearest market by starlight. My request had been answered fully, I thought, by bringing us here.

But the Universe had more to offer! First our cabin neighbors—a delightful Cordoba family—brought over a liter of ice-cold beer. Later the caretaker couple delivered a platter of yummy gourmet appetizers, followed by a steaming pot of saucy pasta, and even good bottle of wine! Amazed and thankful, we savored every bite. (Argentinians like to eat well wherever they go!)

All lights, including the picturesque outdoor lamps, blinked out at midnight when the generators were turned off. No radios, no traffic. We hit the sack—a really comfortable bed—and were lulled to sleep by the music of water rushing over rock and of wind soughing through pines. No blaring amps, no dogs, no highway traffic. Heavenly!

Many pleasant dreams later, the brilliant sun already high in an azure sky, we awakened just as our thoughtful hosts showed up with a tray full of coffee, pastries, jam, and fresh OJ. Later the neighbors invited us to share a traditional barbecue lunch with all the trimmings. Later, with leftovers in the gas fridge, we did no cooking—my idea of a relaxing vacation!

In between we explored the arroyo, sat in natural jacuzzis, skipped stones, explored the pine forest, picked berries and rose hips, and sat on the cabin porch watching the stars come out. . . . zillions and zillions of them.

Sunday midday, on the long journey home, right at the bend in the road where one loses the panorama of the cute little mountains and pueblo, I burst into tears: “I’m not ready to leave.” So Roberto turned the car around to head back. The final gift was yet to come.

Striking stands of billowing pink cosmos flowers greeted us anew at the outskirts of town. “I want a picture!” Roberto pulled over. A crinkled senora hobbled out of the nearby humble abode to greet me with a smile, and I convinced her to pose (shyly!) with some of the six-foot flowering cosmos—all planted by her with her son over the years simply for the joy of passers by. Upon leaving she thrust a whole bag of cosmos seeds to plant back in San Nicolás—oddly enough, the origin of her first cosmos plant. A circle of wonder would be complete! I would take back a little of this paradise to sow at home and be the Miss Rumphius of the pampa (and if you’ve read Barbara Cooney’s wonderful children’s book, you get it!).

And so it was. . . for a whole weekend, we enjoyed this amazing response from the Universe. It was far beyond any expectations! I feel assured that the Universe really is listening to me. . . and in return, I vow to listen and respond to the Universe. What will it ask of me?

So how about it? The next time you have a goal or a dream, take time to visualize it clearly, then share your desire with the universe—and, if you want to hedge your bets, with someone who loves you! You’ll be amazed at what comes back! And remember to savor the gift of the cosmos on every dimension!

70 Things You Can Do with Soccer at School

2006-03-28T11:50:00.000-03:00

You can tell a country by the crises, controversies, and scandals that capture media attention, be a stained blue dresses or the secret diaries of dead princesses. So what’s the hot topic here? With the solemn observance of the thirtieth anniversary of the last Argentine coup over, attention returns to a pressing social issue:

Should schools let students watch the Argentine team games during this year’s World Cup in Germany?

[Just in case some US readers--whose national pastime’s championship is called, oddly enough, “the World Series”--still don’t know what the World Cup is: It’s soccer, my friends, or “fútbol,” as they say everywhere else. Thirty-two teams from six continents make up the field for the 2006 FIFA World Cup™ finals in Germany, a truly global championship. See http://fifaworldcup.yahoo.com/06/en/ for more.]

The state religion in Argentina may technically be Catholicism, but everyone here knows it is really fútbol.

We are talking about a country in which children, upon meeting me, immediately ask me, “What’s your favorite team? Boca or River?” and where you can find 3 or 4 games on TV at any given moment, including on two are three strategically placed screens in all but the classiest eateries. Last night, after our tango lesson and during our 11 pm café dinner, Roberto and I were treated to a play-by-play analysis of “the" game of the season—the Boca-River match the day before. (It's 0-0 final score probably preventing rioting in the streets by fans of the winners and losers.)

The frenzy hits the max when the World Cup rolls around. With three matches scheduled for June, the Argentine team will be watched on every TV from Iguazu Falls to Ushuaia in this futból-crazed nation.

As happens every four years, the country is paralyzed watching their blue-and-white uniformed long-haired athletes running around on grass for ninety minutes of ball-kicking and body-bumping against the likes of England, West Germany, Nigeria, Croatia and neighboring rivals Brazil and Uruguay.

In this southern hemisphere nation, June is winter—and a school month. Eyeing absentee records from past World Cup years, pragmatists in the provincial governments of Mendoza and Cordoba announced that they would let school children watch the Argentine team’s games. The brouhaha quickly broke out.

Purists denounced the move, saying it lowers educational standards. Realists replied that the kids won’t come to school if they aren’t allowed to watch. Both are right, of course. . . so what to do??

Federal education minister, Daniel Filmus, quickly intervened this week with a brilliant resolution to the issue: He announced that the ministry will distribute a handbook that lists 70 educational activities to do with soccer during the World Cup. In collaboration with the Germany Embassy, the Argentine national education officials have compiled exercises that link soccer with language, history, and geography.

Math wasn’t on the published list. Then again, you don’t need much math since the total points in the winning game only exceeded the number of fingers on one hand on two occasions since 1930!(Let the US DOE and NCAA work on that for March madness curricular pizzazz.)

As a tennis and baseball fan, I confess I never watched much soccer—unless it was the Marcellus High School girls team, sometimes NY state champs, and for which my daughter Sara played. But I will take a page from Filmus's book and do a little studying on June 10, 16, and 21, when my adopted country's team will take center stage at the WC. Then again , I just might try cultural adaptation and join my own Argentine peers who do what they do in Fenway or Yankee Stadium--and just enjoy the games with some good beer!

Culture, Adaptation, and Happiness: Adventures in Positive Psychology

2006-03-24T11:43:00.000-03:00

How and where do we find authentic happiness? Are the tools for finding happiness really universal? Or at least “transportable across cultures?”

Happiness, Seligman explains, is found on the three roads of pleasure, flow, and meaning. On our journey through life, we find respectively, routes to sensory gratifications, engagement of character strengths, and encounters with the transcendent.

While Seligman and other positive psychologists illuminate significant general processes that lead to wider, deeper, and longer experiences of human happiness on those paths, I find myself wondering about the cultural differences in the contents of those processes.

From my new perspective south of the equator, it seems evident to me that our families and cultures collaborate to direct our inherent nature towards particular targets. Certain preferences are purely personal, of course, while others are cultural markers. For example, we know in simple culinary pleasures, culture plays a powerful role. Not many of us would knowingly eat a bull penis (a Chinese aphrodisiac) or a caterpillar (a Congo protein staple), while Hindus and vegetarians eschew the U.S. signature dish, the Big Mac. The tendency to “lose oneself” in certain activities--such as operas or bullfights, as well as the propensity to find meaning in others--be it ancestor worship or astrophysics, surely has cultural roots.

What happens when individuals “expose” themselves to new cultures? How can we use Positive Psychology to enhance the positive experiences and minimize the negative? Understanding how to promote happy encounters with “the Other” might go a long way toward promoting acceptance of diversity and multiculturalism on a national or international basis.

Meanwhile, for me, studying Positive Psychology via the Authentic Happiness Coaching program has furthered my very personal quest as an immigrant to Argentina.

This six-month joint exploration of happiness gave me (a California native and recent quarter-century survivor of New England and upstate New York), a most welcome and perhaps necessary opportunity to contemplate the generality or transportability of character strengths in finding pleasure, engagement, and meaning in a distinctly different culture.

While there are practical, narrower questions of relevance to other travelers and emigrants who hope to find happiness on distant shores, the larger issues of culture and happiness loom are no less intriguing. Here is what I hope to answer in my future work:

For the traveler: Does it make sense to pack a Positive Psychology toolkit in your carry-on bag for our next visit to a foreign land? What would it contain? How would it work? Are there particular strengths or exercises that would prove valuable?

For the immmigrant: How relevant are insights from Positive Psychology in facilitating and understanding the process of a successful, happy adaptation? How can Positive Psychology coaching assist in such a major transition? How can an individual's personal strengths be leveraged to promote success and joy after such a major move?

In general: Finally, How does the experience of the tourist or traveler illuminate the more general processes of finding pleasure, engagement, and meaning in a particular culture? In other words, what might we take back home with us? What might we share with others? How might this lead to greater tolerance in a multicultural community?

--to be continued---

Note: This is part of an essay written at the conclusion of the very last Authentic Happiness Coaching training offered by Dr. Martin Seligman, author of Authentic Happiness, former President of the American Psychological Association, and distinguished professor at the University of Pennsylvania. Since then, I undertook formal training as a coach and am incorporating Positive Psychology into my work with general clients as well as expatriates, graduate students, persons in career transitions, and others seeking more happines. . .wherever their road may lead them!