Patagonia on my mind

It's been a long dry spell in Joy's blog world. If you don't know by now (as most friends and family do) we have left Patagonia. We now live in Fort Collins, Colorado, 30 miles away from Greeley, where Luis started back in as a programmer, this time with Colorado State Univ./the National Park System. Lucas and Maite attend a Preschool parent Co-op, and I am a stay-at-home mom, for now.

Here are a few of the changes in our lives:

• English! Everybody speaks it! My grammar is perfect! I have no accent!! The other three members of the family aren't quite as thrilled. Despite his initial complaint that he couldn't understand anyone, Lucas is doing a good job of remembering English. And Maite is a fast learner, especially quick with phrases like "can I have some candy please?"
• No more Daddy. He's around a lot less these days. Working 8 hours a day really puts a crimp in his style.
• No more camping on a Wednesday. As I mentioned above, gainful employment has its pitfalls.
• We have to clean our own house! Goodbye domestic help. Guess who is scrubbing the floors these days?
• Huge supermarkets! I am overwhelmed by products and choices! Does this stuff truly improve the quality of my life?
• Bikers on established bike paths! Fort Collins is a bike crazy city, with loads of established bike trails. Lots of parents pulling their children in little trailers behind their bikes, all with helmets. Gone are the days of balancing various children on the handlebars as they weave through traffic.
• Orderly traffic. Sigh. Boy I've missed that this past year.
• Retail, retail, retail. This ciaty is ultra jam packed with Lowes, REI, Super Target, Sports Authority, Old Navy, Michaels, Walmart, Kmart, etc., . . . . . the list goes on an on. Nothing new for Americans, but when you see it all with fresh eyes after a year away . . . . just plain wow. For the record, the first place I always head to when I need something is Goodwill. I love a good castoff. People want to know how we saved enough money in two years to spend a year abroad not working. Here's the secret: Goodwill. God bless 'em.
• Giant vehicles. Yeegads the trucks are big here. I wince to think of filling the tanks on those SUVs.
• Blonde, blue eyed children abound. Lucas and Maite no longer stand out on that account. Now they stand out because we speak Spanish in public.
• The size of the houses, the yards, the amout of stuff. If you've ever been inside a house in a foreign country, you will be struck by how much smaller the homes are, (unless your hosts are particularly well off) and how much less stuff people have.
• No more spontaneous late night meals with friends on weekdays. Not surprisingly, our lives have become more structured these days.
• Clean, tidy public spaces. The public parks here in Fort Collins are spacious, gorgeous, and, from I've seen so far, well used. Lots of wide open fields for sports. I've traveled enough to know that huge green parks are very particular to the U.S. It's one of my favorite features of my country.
• And, the number one biggest change is: no more grandparents, uncles and aunts nearby. Now it's just the four of us, on our own, like most other Americans. Unless I can succeed in convincing my parents to move to Fort Collins, that is.

And, of course, I no longer have such an interesting country to blog about. But, I promise, if anymore exciting blog material finds it's way to my finger tips, I will surely let you know!

Now for the bad news

If you’ve been keeping up on my blog, you’ll be tempted to think that life here in Argentina is mostly pleasurable: travel, lazy days with friends, having someone else clean our house, the kids in a delightful preschool a few hours a day. Yes, it's true, there are lots of good things to say about our year in Argentina. I would be negligent in my duties as a blogger, though, if I didn’t tell you a thing or two about why Argentina is NOT the paradise you thought it was.

Driving in Argentina: Not for the faint-hearted.

When you live in a foreign culture, the cultural differences you encounter range from delightful, (ocio!) to slightly annoying, (the idea of “customer service” is pretty different here) to REALLY annoying (long, long lines almost anytime you want to do something). Driving a car, however, is in a whole different category: it's as scary as hell.

Here's a few of the reasons why: red lights are optional. Many drivers will go straight through the red if they think they can make it. Luis almost got plowed down by a semi truck going 100 km (60mph) the other day. Stop signs, likewise, are completely ignored. If you actually stopped, they guy behind you would probably ram into you. Double parking is the norm. Lots of traffic gets stopped up because of double parkers. Even the cops double park. Blinkers are mostly unknown. There are bikers EVERYWHERE. They look straight ahead, headphones on, right out in traffic. It is your obligation, as a driver, to pay close attention to them so as not to kill them, even if it's dark and they have no lights or reflectors. They make no effort to move over --the lives of these riders and the small children sitting on the handlebars are in your hands. Motorcyclists are another fun one: they weave in an out of traffic, rarely with helmets on, as they balance infants on their knees, with two other children clinging on for dear life. I’m not making this stuff up. You can't let your guard down, ever, because everyone and everything out on the road is unpredictable.

A particularly tricky one is approaching an unmarked intersection. Legally, the car on your right has priority, as it is in the U.S. The reality, though, is that the cars on the bigger, “more important” street always go first. If you’re new to Neuquen, it's not obvious which street is more important, so you spend a lot of time watching the other drivers, slowing way down at each intersection just in case. Plus lots of silent praying. If I follow the laws strictly, I will absolutely get into an accident. This ambiguity isn’t only my problem; in the last few months three separate friends have gotten into fenderbenders because of this “right of way” problem.

You won’t be surprised to learn that only freaks wear seatbelts. Even people who have lost loved ones in accidents where a seatbelt would have saved their lives refuse to buckle up. I usually see little kids inside cars, climbing all over the place. Our family always straps in, but we’re serious weirdos.

The horrendous driving conditions is a favorite topic of foreigners living in Argentina. Whenever I check out other bloggers, I invariably find someone who has written about it. How can this possibly be? they wonder. What’s up with the Argentine death wish?

So here is my take on it: People drive this way because they think the chances of an accident are slim, and, more, importantly, they know that law enforcement pretty much doesn’t exist here. For a variety of reasons --lack of training, corruption, avoidance of conflict, laziness-- traffic cops just don’t do their jobs. In just about every third world nation I have been in, in South America, Africa, and Asia, driving is a nasty affair. And like Argentina, these countries all lack a good justice system and effective law enforcement.

Not only is there a lack of law enforcement here, but it's embarrassingly easy to get your license. The hardest part about it is all the hours of waiting in line you'll have to do. When I went in to get my license, this is what happened: first we watched a safety video, which, admittedly, was pretty good. Very graphic scenes of what can happen to a person who doesn't wear a seatbelt, goes too fast, etc. Scared the heck out of me. Then an officer gave a presentation to my group, to review basic road rules. Everyone was frightfully clueless. I mean, there is no spiffy little road manual to study up for your test. Earlier in the month, when I asked for some written material, explaining that I wanted to learn about the laws, I was told "oh no, we don't have anything like that to read. The test is about what you know."

Is it just me, or does that make absolutely no sense?

The driving test itself was a joke, just a drive around the block. At least the officer was able to see if I could handle the car somewhat. There are a few towns in the area where a person doesn't even have to take a road test. Just pay a few pesos, and you can get a license. You have to pretend to be from the town, but coming up with a fake address is not hard; that's why in the town of Cervantes, population 5,000, there are 23,000 legal drivers. Issuing drivers licenses appears to be the town's main industry.

This messy combination of corruption on many different levels, ignorance of traffic laws, and lack of law enforcement makes for some pretty scary driving conditions, believe me. You'll find stories about fatal traffic accidents almost daily in the newspapers.

As we draw closer to our departure, we are already reflecting on the things we will miss. Driving is one of things I will be very happy to leave behind. On my first day back on U.S. roads, I will probably wear a big goofy smile and blow kisses at everyone who comes to a complete stop at stop signs.

Cruising the Carretera

Last November, our family and my parents rented a minivan to drive around Southern Chile. It was a coastal, cultural, family adventure more than anything, with lots of seafood markets and restaurants, sight seeing in several larger cities, with clean, decent lodging, and mostly paved roads. I think I took a shower every morning. A great way to travel, especially with grandparental support with the kids. So civilized.

We just got back from our second trip this year to Chile, this time in a tent. Just the four of us. Meaning, no help distracting Maite from attaching her crying self to my leg, no one to pull Lucas' attention away from rearranging the camp fire with a stick, no extra person to watch the kids when they waded into the river. Some of you might think "what a great, wholesome learning experience for the kids, and family bonding to boot!" Others of you will say, "Sounds like a nightmare! I'd never do it". It was an amazing trip in many ways, but, --I'm not going to lie-- the phrase "I'm just not cut out to be a father", was muttered on more than one occasion. During trying moments when Lucas, for the umpteenth time, refused to do what we asked of him, or there was no escape from little Maite's cries, we thought "How do other parents handle this? How do they deal with such behavioral problems?" The answer, of course, is that most parents don't take their four year-old and two year-old on a two week camping trip into the wilds of Chile. We had the theory that our kids would get better at this camping thing with a little practice. What happened, in fact, is that the whole family eventually learned how to better coexist, peacefully and playfully. Somewhat, anyway.

Kids or no kids, southern Chile was just as glorious as ever. We entered Chile in a tiny town called Palena, and from there drove north. Very, very slowly. But with scenery like this, who wants to go fast? Sharp rising, tree-coated mountains, a ribbon of gravel road that winds through valleys, a tumbling river either on our right, or our left, lakes nestled between mountains. . . Chile gets greener, wilder, and less and less populated the farther south you are. After days of driving on the Carretera Austral (literally "southern road", referring to the road that extends into Chile's most southern area) the beauty didn't let up. Here and there we come to small settlements -- they get called "towns" if its lucky enough to have a school. A town has really hit the big time if it has it's own gas station. In other words, be frugal with your gas, and fill up whenever you can.

One evening, we stopped at a tiny mountain lake, after driving on a truly pathetic "road" for about 30 minutes or so. It was getting dark so we discussed camping on a homestead at the edge of the lake. The place was abandonded, but had trees laden with fruit, and a grassy area where someone had camped before. The owner and his wife and grandchildren appeared (I have no idea how they knew to show up at just that moment) and we asked permission. The man had grown up on this very site, which, until just last year, could only be reached by foot or horse. The little "road" was less than a year old, and the locals were ecstatic. Now they were just waiting for the electricity lines to reach them. "What century are we in, again?" I asked Luis. It is astounding to think of living in such isolation, where to attend school or go to a hospital means many hours on a horse. But there are many, many people who live this way in rural Chile.

In our second week on the road, we drove through Pumalin Park, which is 742,000 acres, owned and managed by Doug Tompkins, American conversationist and business magnate. Much to the consternation of many Chileans, this park cuts a huge swath right out of Chile's middle, stretching from the Argentine border to the sea. Tompkin's policy to leave the land as untouched as possible means we don't see the typical half cut trees, gravel pits, little shacks every few files. Here in Pumalin it's just deep, dense, gloriously untouched green. Huge leaves overflow, at the edges, into the narow, gravel road. The effect is lovely, otherwordly, so unlike Argentina's systematic raze of all trees within 100 feet of the roads.

Luis and my appreciation of this trip directly relates to the lovely camping spots we found, the remote roads, mountains, and stunning vistas we encountered. A memorable trip, for Lucas, and, increasingly, Maite, is about how many airplanes/helicopters/boats/roadwork machines we sighted. They were most impressed with the small airplanes tanking up with water to fight the forest fires, both in Argentina and in Chile. They loved the ferry rides, three all together, including a six hour journey with mountains, small inlets, and fishing boats on all sides. They saw a helicopter up close, and played inside of a parked motor grader.

Besides all things mechanical, they were drawn to every and all bodies of water. We routinely camped near water, meaning our children were usually wet, and frequently buck naked. A few times, we rented little cabins with kitchens to give ourselves a break. These nights turned out to be more work than rest, however, because we bathed the kids, (they love lakes, but hate showers) washed clothes and camp gear.

Leaving the Carretera behind, we ventured past farmlands, passing through unattractive, shoddy little towns, devoid of the natural beauty of their more southern counterparts. In fact, few Chileans towns I have been in can be described as pretty --interesting, yes, authentic, absolutely --but it's the views of the volcanoes, the mountain lakes, and the coast, that keep us coming back. Please note that I am referring to Southern Chile here. Central Chile is a very different kind of trip, its' attractions more city and vineyard oriented.

My feelings were mixed when we got back to Neuquen. I was pleased to unpack, sleep in a bed, not put up the tent. See the cat, and eat our homegrown tomatoes. Sad, though, that our trip to Chile is behind us now, and that the next big trip will probably be the last, for a long while --back to the U.S. The next time Lucas helps thread the tent poles, and Maite helps arrange the sleeping bags, it'll be in the Northern Hemisphere. Good thing that the U.S. is beautiful, too, because a future without mountains, rivers, and trees --now that would be depressing. Not nearly as exotic as southern Chile, but we'll take it.

For pictures of this adventure, click here.

Latino pleasures

Last Sunday morning we packed fresh vegetables, bread, homebrewed beer, and a free range chicken I bought at the farmer's market, and headed to the river with our friends Daniel and Ruth. We unpacked our baskets of food at the barbecue area, and Daniel got busy with the fire and chicken preparation. Luis opened his beer and served. To the American readers, please take note, for what happened next is a whole new concept for many of you: it's called ocio, and Argentines do it very, very well.

Ocio loosely translates as "leisure" in English, but that's not really it. Ocio is relaxing, hanging out, doing nothing (even the translation of this is hard) with pleasure as it's one and only goal. Forget about checking your watch; this is not something you squeeze in between 2 and 4pm, before soccer practice. There is no time table, no structure, no "to do" list buzzing around in your brain. We Americans love to be entertained: we spend gadzillions on movies, entertainment parks, large screen T.Vs, musical events, paintball, etc. But what I am speaking about, here, is a more quiet, simple, restful entertainment, one you don't have to pay for. And ocio, my Argentine husband clarifies, is more than just the love of not working. The whole point is to spend unhurried, unmeasured time with your friends.

Last Sunday was one of those special days. We ate our barbecued chicken and fresh vegetables with no hurry, and later put on our bathing suits for a splash in the river. The rest of the day was spent swimming, playing with the kids, talking, drinking mate. The hours ticked by, the sun started to lower, but no one made a move to leave, no comments such as "I really need to get some work done for tommorrow'. Lucas and Maite played on well past dusk, as did the other little kids who were there with their families. It was almost 10pm when we shook our towels out and headed back go the car. "This wouldn't happen in the U.S.", I remarked to Ruth and Daniel. "People have to get home to do things. You don't just hang out indefinitely".

Here in Argentina, there is no social inhibition to showing up unannounced at a friend's house and spending the whole day there. After a few hours, someone will say, "what do you feel like eating?", upon which a few people in attendance will go off to find a store that is still open. Lucas and Maite will inevitably be up way past their bed time; and Luis will ask me if we need to go home to put the kids to bed, hoping to God I'll be o.k. with it. (and I usually am. I've mostly given up on early bedtimes, at least when we are with company) No worries that we are overstaying our welcome, that perhaps our hosts have things to get done. We have played this scene over, countlesss times.

We had our own little ocio community in Colorado, too: Latino friends would come for lunch, and, simply, just stay. All day. After a few hours, Guido or Luis would bring the guitar out, or perhaps we'd all go for a walk at dusk. Barbara Kingsolver, in her new book "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle", talks about a dinner party, "Italian style" which they managed to stretch into a five hour affair. "Five?" laughed Luis. "Is that all?"

I haven't been to all the countries in Latin America, but I have a hunch that where you find Latinos, you'll find ocio. In Greeley, I always noted that the public parks were more heavily used by Mexican immigrants, who would show up with picnic lunches and spend hours hanging out and playing. I have walked and driven past countless Mexican families hanging out on their lawns, sipping drinks and chatting, the kids running and playing. Homes of the gringo families tend to have uniform, green, and shady lawns, a showcase for their hard work and diligence. The Mexican immigrant families, judging from their scraggly grass, don't put much effort into their lawns. But they actually use them.

"Hard Work" is a value we Americans (or Yanquis, as we are called in Argentina) put right up there next to "family". In Latin America, "friendship" takes a premium position on the priority list. Most Latinos do work hard, but they'd almost surely rather be doing something else. They absolutely will not plan to clean the garage (if they are wealthy enough to have one) with the bit of free time they have. An asado (barbecue) is definitely the more rewarding choice. Americans, in contrast, feel guilty if they abandon their "to do" lists to spend a day at the beach. They feel the need to explain their slothfulness, like "I deserve a break. I've been working hard", and then, to assuage the concious a bit "I'll finish my work in the evening". Spending your weekends doing nothing "productive" (like, at the very least, cleaning the house a bit) doesn't feel right, somehow, to most of us Americans. Argentines require no excuses to spend the day with their friends.

Naturally, American productivity does have its rewards, as we are among the wealthiest in the world, and are infinitely more organized and tidy than just about anyone (excluding a couple of Aisan and European countries). Living in a somewhat chaotic, third world country, I really do appreciate American efficiency and structure, that allows me to paying my bills online, enjoy public libraries, drive on good roads, etc. But as far as the simple, quiet pleasures in life, the lovely days of ocio with friends--well, most Americans just don't know what that is. It is, truly, one of the greatest pleasures of living here.

To The Beach!

My father-in-law Ruben is a true beach lover. Not the crowded, "everybody look at me" type of beach, but rather the solitary sea sides of Patagonia, where he can swim, snorkel, fish, look for mussels, scallops, crabs, observe nature, and eats lots of seafood. He took his wife, Carmen, and the two kids to the remote beaches of the Pennisula Valdes for years, starting in the 1970's. Luis remembers his father rousting him from the tent in the early mornings, snorkeling gear in hand, to dive for scallops in the chilly Patagonia waters.

Images of a Luis as a small boy, his features and wiriness similar to Lucas', trotting along the beach with his father are in my thoughts as our family, including Ruben, headed off to Pennisula Valdes in January. The Pennisula is well known in Argentina, attracting tourists with its superb whale watching and colonies of sea lions. Penguins are commonplace birds, and guanaco (relatives of the camel and the llama, indigenous to Argentina) sprint around fearlessly. Our family, though, was avoiding the tourist draws completely, and going to a beach where a weathered octogenarian friend, Atilio, lived. Ruben told us that his house was very basic, but provided shade, a place to cook, and possibly a room to sleep in. He and Estela were frequent guests of Atilios', and we, apparently, were always welcome.

Argentine Patagonia, if you haven't heard me desribe it before, is a dry, windy, desolate place. Trees are few and far between. The sun is brutal, as there is, reportedly, a hole in the ozone layer directly overhead. We turned off the main road, onto a smaller road-like throughway --a place you wouldn't attempt after a good rain in a car without four wheel drive. We drove twenty kilometers along this road, crested a little bluff, and there it was: in this world of brown and low bushes, my heart leapt at the expanse of deep blue. In the next second, the excitment was replaced with disbelief: our idyllic, lonely Patagonian beach was a wasteland of junky trailers, tattered boats, and strewn empty bottles. You have got to be kidding. This is IT?? We drove eight hours from Neuquen to be surrounded by JUNK?

Welcome to San Roman Beach

Ruben's talents, obviousy, did not include description. How could he have omitted such important facts, such as, oh, the place is a sty? Most of the thousand mile Atlantic coast of Patagonia is largely untouched, so how is it we ended up here? With fallen hearts, we set up camp in the only bit of shade we could find, between a stunted tree and a broken down truck. Next to us was the large motorhome --a revamped city bus, acutally-- of a family who had also come to visit Atilio. This family had a boat on a trailer, and two four wheelers (one for the six year old granddaughter), and a generator, which they rarely turned off. It hummed along in tandem with another generator of a family camping nearby. So much for quiet.

There were, in all, three families visiting Atilio --a total of 16 people, which included four small children and a baby. Atilio, whom I had pictured as a hermit, was anything but. His possessions, and his house, were communal: all 16 of us ate our meals there, together; the house was used to relax in, to clean seafood in, to socialize in. Nobody seemed to mind that the house was stunningly filthy, with dirt floors, dangling cupboard doors, exposed cardboard insulated ceilings, and walls black with cooking oil.

Atilio, at 81, apparently didn't mind, or he surely would have done something to improve his lot. There were, in fact, many families living in this little settlement, which stretched over a half a mile or so, living in wheeless buses, junky motorhomes, clapboard houses. Luis's reaction to this jumble bordered on distress: he is a great lover of natural beauty, and when the disfigured landscape in question is in his own country. . . well, he takes it almost personally. I wasn't too pleased myself, but decided it was a good time to dust off the ole stoicism act I keep on hand for just these occasions.

How to Enjoy Life on a Junky Beach

I kept things lighthearted, Luis mostly kept his cool, and the old saying "things will look better in the morning" proved its wisdom. In the morning, we saw that the low tide revealed a stunning display of seal life. We started to understand why Ruben loves this place: he has eyes only for the ocean. You would never, ever go hungry on these beaches. Ruben and Luis waded out with burlaps bags, and in fifteen minutes had stuffed them with fresh scallops. The sea bottom was chock full of these creatures! Scallops are a very pricey dish, anywhere you go, so you can imagine what it felt like to see such "gold" there for the picking. Many of the families who live on San Roman come to pick scallops to sell, which is legal, I was told, if they are picked by hand. I later learned the selling of scallops and octopus is regulated, and I wouldn't harzard a guess as to who did and who didn't have permission to do so.

Besides scallop picking, Luis and Ruben went "hunting" for octopus (takes some know-how; Luis had a bit of success). Another fun one was fishing for cornalitos, which are miniscule fish that lurk near the shore. Two people wade out with a seining net, 20feet long, two feet deep, and walk back to shore slowly, sweeping up the fish as they go. These fish are too tiny to clean; you just roll them in flour, fry them, and eat them like potato chips. One of the memorable images is of Lucas picking those fish out of the net, and popping them into his mouth while they were still squirming. He had asked me if it was o.k., and I said, go right ahead. Let it be said that I did my best to cultivate open-mindedness and curiosity in my kids' eating habits. Not to be outdone, Maite started munching them, too. (Her current favorite phrase is "yo tambien!" (me, too!))

The Atlantic ocean this far south is chilly, but we swam and snorkeled, anyway. Lucas and Maite had a big time doing "children-on-the-beach" things, like building sandcastles and making roads. These beaches had almost as many broken shells on them as they did rocks and sand! There were empty mussels, scallop, snail, and clam shells, everywhere, billions of them. I had never seen the like.

Apart from the richness of the sea life, we recognized the uniqueness of the social situation. Everybody in our group of 16 pulled together for meals, water, tools, or whatever was needed. All three families collected scallops, and everyone helped clean them and prepare them for sale. (We were the only ones who didn't sell our loot). Incredibly, we were the only ones who ate the seafood. The other visitors were meat, rice, and potatoes folks, which surprised me of people who spend their summers at the ocean. With their motorhome, fourwheelers, guns, generators, their distaste for seafood, and talk about motorcross and pitbulls, we knew we wouldn't be exchanging email addresses with this family. But they were friendly and helpful, and we all kept on eye on each others' kids. Lucas and Maite probably had the best time of anyone, as they both had playmates their own ages. They don't know, or care, about the meaning of "redneck".

Junky Beach tourists?

In my life, I have spent time on beaches as widespread as the Bering Sea in Alaska, Vietnam, West Africa, and the Carribean, to name some of the more exotic ones. The beach of San Roman on the Pennisula Valdes now belongs to that list, but it gets its own special category. Here, we weren't tourists: we were friends of Atilio's, we were seafood foragers, we were wildlife admirers. And, if you take into account the filthy surroundings, the obnoxious non-stop generators, and the lack of water (did I mention the only water we had was to drink? We were sticky with salt water, our clothes stank and our hair was greasy after 4 days. That's a whole other chapter to this tale) I just have to add one more adjective to the list: survivor. Yep, we survived, damp, sticky sleeping bags and all, and came away with a few good stories, a deeper appreciation of the ocean, and forty pounds of scallops. I'd definitely do it again.

Our friend Claudia, when I told her about this post, exclaimed "your friends will think that's the way all the beaches in Patagonia are!" She's right; Argentina's beaches are beautiful, for the most part. Thankfully, San Roman is a very particular case.

Two Filthy Kids, One Erupted Volcano, and New Years on the Mountain

Luis's appreciative social skills do not include sharing nature with anyone who isn't family or friends. He's grumpy if he knows there are other campers anywhere within shouting range. I understand his distate for crowded campgrounds; I, too, would rather stay home than sleep in a tent twenty feet from somebody's stereo. Luis's needs, though, are more extreme: he doesn't even want to see anyone. Just nature, please (or rather, nature, damnit!)

Which is why Calfuqueo, the Echenique way-off-the-map campsite, is such a blessing. Five hours from Neuquen, and then ten miles along a sort-of-a-road, up into the mountains, across a few streams and a bit of mud, and we are there. Most people wouldn't attempt the drive, even with a 4 x 4, given that if you got stuck it would take hours to walk to the main road, but Ruben seems to like the adventure of off-roading with his low-to- the gound, front wheel drive Ford Escort. He has been camping here for years, braving the terrain in all sorts of inappropriate cars.

The place is stunning, and a long, long way from the nearest neighbor. Four very crudely constructed shelters perch on a hill; a five minute walk along a path is a lovely little mountain lake; a one minute path takes you down to a stream, for our drinking water. This is the summer camp of goat herder friends of Ruben's, who, back in the 80's, invited him for a visit. As picturesque as it is, I have a hard time imagining three months sleeping in these "shelters", with only goats for company.

On this camping trip, we are armed with: an astounding quantity of food (on the fifth day, Ana was still bringing out the good stuff. It was bottomless!); borrowed tents in various states of disrepair (thank God for tape. Lots of it); an assortment of blankets and sleeping bags, (which had seemed like plenty for everyone, but a few of us ended up sleeping with our coats on anyway.) And of course, the essentials of any Argentine camping trip: lots of meat, and a few good knives.

Our crew traveled in two cars, and consisted of: One Argentine father-in-law (good ole' Ruben, Lucas' tent mate); my sister-in-law bar owner/scriptwriter (Ana); a friend from Buenos Aires, who looked as good on the fifth day in the mountains as she did on the first (Iliana); one enthusiastic husband who was everywhere doing everything at all times (guess who); one very independent two year old who's filth level, and the inability to stay clean longer than 10 seconds reminded me of Pig Pen from "Peanuts"; her four year old brother, almost as dirty, who spent much of his time "designing" trains in the dirt (Lucas' has been on this train theme for the last two months. His singleminded-ness is truly astonishing); and one, upper class Mexican boyfriend (Ana's) who had never been camping before. Fero, (Mexican boyfriend) we could tell, wasn't used to the mundanities of cooking, cleaning, etc, but he was so affable we didn't hold it against him. And me, the mom, who's main concern was keeping the kids from getting lost in the forest. Which did happen to Lucas, by the way, in a five minute lapse in which I was busy with Maite and no one else was around. The worst twenty minutes of my life, believe me.

During the days we took hikes, some short and one very long (kids stayed back at the camp --thanks Tia Ana), played in the lake, which was marvelous fun for everyone, especially Lucas and Maite. They were naked little nymphs, splashing in the water, screaming and laughing, flittering along (Lucas flits; Maite "chugs" ) the shore. We ate a lot, drank enormous amounts of mate, played card games, sat around the fire late into the night, played with the kids, roasted meat, drank lots of beer. Put more tape on splintered and abused tent poles, shifted tent sites to escape zealous ants, hauled more water from the creek, changed poopy diapers, tried to keep Maite and Lucas from taking off their shoes. You know, camp stuff.

On New Years' Eve, we drove down the mountain, to a little town where Luis's friends own a cabin. "Rustic" is an appropriate word, here. We still had to haul water, and squat furtively behind trees, but at least we had a roof, a cook stove, and eating utensils. Matching plates, even. It was there we toasted in the New Year, with an abundance of food and grog.

Ana, Fero, Iliana, and Ruben left the next day, to tour a bit in Southern Argentina and Chile, and our little family of four was alone once more. We stayed several more days --Moquehue (the little town) and Lake Alumine is so lovely and green, and the cabin is so comfortable (and free), we are reluctant to leave. As we are driving out of town, on the last day, we learned on the radio that a nearby volcano had erupted, just over the border, in Chile. Unaware of the "danger", we had spent that day hiking. No wonder the town had seemed so eerily quiet.

This was the biggest camping trip I've even been on, in terms of number of people, and days out. Unique, too, that the Echenique family, across two hemispheres, could be together. Not a bad way to spend the last few days of 2007, and the beginning of 2008. So Happy New Year to all my readers; may it be a year of promise and adventure for all of you. It will be for us.

Two Birthday Girls and One Christmas Dragon

Christmas time, in our family, means birthday time. Growing up, my parents had to juggle in my birthday (Dec. 19) and my brother's (Dec. 20) around all the Christmas get togethers and church activities. Hectic. I always figured my parents weren't such good planners (or maybe too good). It must be in the genes, though, because many years later my daughter made her grand entrance into the world on, you guessed it, December 19. Five days early. What were the odds of that? I haven't decided if I'm incredibly lucky, or unlucky.

And so it was that last Wednesday, December 19, we had two birthday parties almost on top of each other. The highlight of little Maite's second birthday was a jumping castle. The kids gleefully jumped and bumped around, as I'm convinced all children are genetically programmed to do, no matter what country or culture they're in. They were really thrilled when a couple of the adults got in there with them.

Another party feature was the pinata, Argentine style, which is a balloon filled with candies and toys and white powder(in this case flour), so that it really makes an impression when it pops. There were no blindfolded kids whacking away at paper mache; a little prick with a fork did the trick. Lucas and Maite got the full force of flour explosion. They didn't know their faces were white; they just wanted to know why there was no candy in this pinata. We often make attempts (usually futile) to steer our kids away from candy and pop, so in keeping with our principles, we filled the pinata will little toys, and served the kids homemade fruit slushies instead of pop. I honestly don't think the kids cared that much about the lack of chips, cheese puffs, Coke, candy, etc. (except for the pinata comment) Kids this age (they ranged between 9 months and 5 yrs) don't gauge a party's success on the food served, I've noticed. It was such a hot day, the only things these little people seemed to want was water. We adults sat in the shade of our backyard and drank Luis's homemade beer and ate empanadas.

At around 10pm or so (supposed to have started at 9 pm) people without kids started showing up, bearing gifts for both Maite and me. I don't think the temperature, at that point, was much below 85. We sat around outside, in our backyard, and ate pernil, which is a large meaty cut of beef that has been basted and roasted for 10 hours. It's a new fad here, and it's perfect for large groups. The company we bought the pernil from supply tasty sauces and pan arabe (thin, round bread referred to as "arabic bread"). People put together little sandwiches for themselves, and that is dinner. Yum.

The birthday cake was an original creation of Ana's, that took her the better part of a day: 6 layers, with fruit, cream and dulce de leche (carmelized milk) lathered between the layers. The cake was very tall, and must have weighed 10 pounds. Luis threw in an American twist with a cherry pie, which he made with fresh cherries. That was a new one for people, and pie was scarfed up before I could go for seconds.

People left around 1 am or so. Luis commented that people left early because they had to work tommorrow. I loved that we could celebrate our birthdays on the actual day, a Wednesday, and I could count on everyone showing up, which they all did. Very cool. Thank you Luis and Ana, for two nice parties.

Our Christmas Dragon

I've always kind of thought of the U.S. as a leader in music/dance/theater productions. We've got Disneyland, Vegas, Broadway, and halftimes at sports events. When it comes to school productions, though, Lucas' little preschool puts to shame any school plays I've ever seen. Usually, I think of school auditoriums or gyms, with folding chairs, and homemade costumes. I know about these things: in the second grade I was Rapunzel, crying for a prince from my cardboard tower, which was situated squarely on the gymasium's free throw line.

No free throw lines around here. Jardin de Patri (Lucas' preschool) rented the largest theater in town, the one that hosts the big concerts and plays. The sound system was top notch, as was the fog machine, the lighting, the props. The theme was "A Fantasyland", where each class (there are six classes of 15-20 kids in each group) had a different theme. Lucas's class were dragons. Their costumes were professionally made (the parents paid for them) and all the groups had really lovely, elaborate costumes. The kids danced around, following the movements of their senoritas (teachers) as best they could. Very, very, cute. Impressively, the whole theater was full, and we're talking five hundred people or so. Perhaps what Patri (the owner and director of the preschool) had really wanted to do with her life was produce theatrical productions. . . . she's got a flair for it you generally don't associate with preschool directors.

We've come a long way from my rendition of Rapunzel, with my three foot braids made of yellow yarn.

If you want to see our darling dragon, you can have that pleasure: click here to see the kid who can't stop looking at the lights.

Jab With the Right!

After trying weight machines for a couple of months (boring) and then pilates (too slow) I'm going a whole new direction with my "Getting-In-Shape 2007" campaign (whoops, I guess its a 2008 campaign now): Tae-Bo! Three mornings a week I punch, karate kick, and jab, jab, jab with a right, then the left, and throw in a hook for good measure.

To say I feel ridiculous is an understatement. Marcela, the instructor, is intense, sweaty, and looks like she could give George Foreman a go. I try my best to imitate Marcela's left hook but I lack all resemblance of a fighter --more like a junior high cheerleader. But this cheerleader gets an "A" for effort, though. Luis thinks it's cool (he hasn't seen me in action) and says maybe all this punching will bring out something new in my personality. I personally don't think it's to anyone's advantage that I "discover" my aggressive side. I'm an anti-war, anti-violence soul, and the world would look a whole lot different if everyone shared my ideas.

I sure work up a sweat, and that's the point here. Plus the combinations of moves can get interesing, and a bit complex, and the part of me that always wanted to be a dancer likes that.

The is a year of discovery, and this class counts as one of them. But even if my puny jabs do get a little less pathetic over time, I'm still not giving up my pacifism. That would be taking "discovery" a little too far. I'll stick to punching the air. (at this point, the air is the only opponent I could beat in a fight)

Jab, jab, jab, karate-cha!

The Other Side of the Andes

Chile is like a deep, oxygen filled breath after months of struggling to maintain our yard even minimally alive in windy, dusty dry Argentine Patagonia. What a difference a mountain range can make! Cross the Andes, and it starts to drizzle, and the green becomes dense. Everything must grow here, I figure. Luis shakes his head in envy, "lucky Chileans," he mutters. But Chile has more than enviable vegetation: they´ve got nice highways, with clear signs and brightly painted lines. Lovely homes with huge, interesting windows dot the landscape. Service stations are bright, clean, and there’s toilet paper in every stall. And the food. . . . a plate of seafood is what, like, $10?? (Oh, for the days of a $4 seafood plate. . .) This is NOT the Chile I know. Something is happening here.

On a trip to Chile with Luis in 1998, he and I camped quit a bit, rented rooms in family homes at times, took buses, hiked a good deal, and kept our expenses lower than $1000 for the both of us, for two months. Now ten years later, we have shed our backpack slinging, hitchhiking ways, for a whole new style: we are in a big, white, rented Ford Windstar, with enough room to accommodate our two children, my parents, lots of luggage, and all the books, maps, cameras, binoculars, crackers, toys, cherry pits, etc. that are strewn about or tucked into various corners of the vehicle. We stay in nice hotels and cabins with kitchens and bedrooms, and frequently eat at attractive little restaurants. The times, they are a-changing.

But first, a short stay in Neuquén . . . .

My parents spent three weeks with us, the first one here in Neuquen. There are a few images that will stay with me, from that short week: My mom presenting Ruben and Estela with a very lovely, colorful, Teddy-quilt. Quilts are unknown here, and Ruben and Estela knew what a treat it was. Taking my parents to meet Luis’s uncle Chiche and aunt Yolanda, who were happy and surprised to have foreign visitors. Chiche, who is a storyteller and a jokester, kept us all giggling. Meals with friends, a couple of whom spoke English. And the one memory that we got on film: the two Grandfathers changing Maite’s diaper. It only took a couple of gallons of water, two diapers, a roll of toilet paper, and a very patient granddaughter. Too funny.

Chile part 1: The Lake District

The six of us crammed into our car and drove from Neuquen to Temuco, Chile, in a long, exhausting, cramped day for the unlucky ones in the backseat. In Temuco, a busy commercial hub of 260,000, we rented the Windstar. Pretty bougeious for the likes of us, no? It is so long, we dubb it "Kittyhawk" after a U.S. Cruise Carrier. My mom has a gift for finding the guy selling cherries on the street, and there was usually a bag of them making rounds in the car.

We might be riding in style, but we like to pretend we’re in a 4 x 4. We leave Temuco and the take the back roads --very back roads-- through the stunning countryside where oxen-pulled carts along dirt roads tell a very different story than the hustle of Temuco. Chile has a growing, capitalistic economy, but the wealth hasn’t “trickled-down” to everyone quite yet. My dad works hard to snap some clandestine shots of people plodding along on their carts. Luis makes futile efforts to ask directions from people walking along the roads. Locals apparently aren’t accustomed to people who don’t know where they’re going. A couple of times we follow roads that peter out in someone’s farm. The poor ability to give directions has been a repeated theme in our various trips to Chile over the years.

On our 1998 trip to Chile, Luis and I "discovered" a fishing village, Queule, whose charms must have been too simple to warrant mention in any guidebook. Ten years later, it’s pleasures are much the same: walk along the wharf to look at the fishing boats and talk to the fisherman. In the evening we climbed up the hill to a small, tastefully decorated seafood restaurant with a view of the bay. In the morning, we bought clams from a man in a wetsuit who had just pulled in after a morning of diving. We took them back to our little cabin, steamed them up, and ate them with white wine. My dad is especially pleased with our foray to the wharf, remarking over the unexpected experiences traveling can bring.

From Queule, we travel to Valdivia, where we got: rain; Lucas "driving" the boat along the river (thanks to the helpful captain); sea lions slumping on the dock; an amazingly friendly hotel, where the cook dropped by our cabin to show Luis how to cook fresh sea urchins; a tour of a 300 year old Spanish fort; more rain.

In Puerto Montt, (no rain!) our next stop, we were surprised by the changes over the last ten year. This is a country on the move. New buildings have sprung up, there are banks and nice hotels. We take a long walk along the new, snazzy waterfront, for the kids to run and play. Puerto Montt has a large seafood and artisan’s market, which has become much, much bigger since we were last here. I understand why: a cruise liner was parked right out in front of it. Unbeknownst to us, a neighbor of my parent’s in Tucson was on that particular boat, and we bumped into her at the market. Weird.

Part 2: Chiloe Island

Chiloe is one of Chile’s poorest, most undeveloped areas, a bit backwards perhaps, famed for its superstitions and folklore. We toured the gorgeous island in our Windstar, stopping in small towns to wander around and admire their famed, simple yet elegant wooden Catholic churches. We stayed in several remote cabins, and ate loads of fresh seafood. Lucas was delighted with the various ferry rides between the islands (we poked around several of the small islands near Chiloe), and was particularly happy when the boat driver let him "drive" on an excursion to see penguins.

One of my favorite stops was the town of Chonchi, with its old rickety wooden homes. We found a little museum on the main street, a century old house with one whole floor dedicated to display tools and machines from the turn of the century. Lucas wanted to know the workings of all of them. He kept the guide very busy, with his questions and observations.

Other favorites were a remote cabin nestled into a mountain with a spectacular view of the ocean. From our porch, there were no signs of civilization; just rocky shores, an island, and the ocean. It was Thanksgiving day, and I guess the view made up for an unremarkable meal we had at the resort’s restaurant. There was a large group there for a retreat, and they got a big kick out of Lucas and Maite. Lucas brought down the house when he and my dad started dancing, and Maite was the belle of the dining hall. The next day we took a boat tour to see a penguin colony. (which is where Lucas got to drive the boat). Luis, incidentally, finds penguins a rather uninteresting bird. A common bird, for a South American.

The ongoing theme, throughout our trip, was seafood. Clams, mussels,sea urchins (plus other shell fish I can’t find words in English for) abalones, salmon, sea bass . . . We left a trail of empty shells wherever we went. We ate in nice restaurants, at eating joints in the markets, and in little holes in the wall where locals dined. Lucas and Maite liked most of what we ate, and it was particularly fun to watch Maite trying to pull the clams out of their shells with her chubby fingers.

For those of you who know my parents, you won’t be surprised to hear that my mom stitched away on pot holders whenever she could, and my dad was pretty involved in reading the Book of Daniel. Lucas and Maite explored, played, and climbed as much as is humanly possible. They liked Grammy’s willingness to read to them. They rode together in the back seat, laughing hysterically at every bump in the road. Luis kept busy as head guide and driver, maneuvering The KittyHawk around the islands and on and off ferries.

Chile part 3: Back to the mainland, and goodbye to Grammy and Uppie

Back in Temuco, we turned in the Windstar, and saw my parents’ off. They headed to Santiago, the capital, to spend a few days seeing the sights before returning to Tucson. We made tracks back to Argentina, stopping for a completo (Chilean hotdog, loaded with avocado and mayonnaise) along the way. We returned home to find our grass had turned yellow, burned by the sun. Also, we had no water. In fact, much of Neuquén was suffering water shortages. Luis and his cousin Eduardo have spent the last two days working on a new water system that will supposedly allow us to always have water. Sigh. I miss Chile already.

Chile was as gorgeous as I remember it, and, impressively, the economy is growing more than any other in South America. This country is working hard to organize and improve itself, and it shows. Likewise, it’s a comfortable place to be a tourist, although don’t count on saving any money. Food and hotel costs are approaching U.S. prices, we felt. It must be a hard place to be poor, because we were told that many salaries are somewhere between $300 -$400 a month --similar to what they are in Argentina. But Argentina is generally cheaper, and unlike Argentina, education and health are not free.

Chile gets five stars from me. Did I mention how nice Chileans are? We were treated kindly and graciously by just about everyone. See for yourself. And while you’re at it, stop by and visit us. We live just on the other side of the Andes, the parched side; no worries, though, we’re getting a new water system.

For pictures of this trip, click here

To the North and Back

We're either nuts or stupid. A week long roadtrip with two small children? But the desire to travel is so strong, we're going for it. Abuelo Ruben is coming, too, in his own car, so separating the kids should help with the noise/bicker level when on the road. He plans to part ways with us later on in the trip.

No electricity, and plenty of rocks

If I had only one word to characterize Argentina's province of San Luis, from the part I saw of it, it would be: rocks. The whole province seems to be littered with stone structures, from the 18th century houses that are still lived in, to the hundreds of miles of short walls, called pircas, that snake the rolling hills, constructed before the days of wire fences. I think of the poor saps who built those walls and wondered how much they were paid for their toil. Sheep must have been pretty darn valuable.

Who ever said Latinos weren't hard workers? Hah. I haven't met too many people in my life like Cecilia and Damien, originally from Buenos Aires, who built their home and two small guest houses out of the stones they unconvered on their several acres of property. They did it alone, and it took them years. Their artistry and attention to details shows in the house's interesting angles and curves, in the sinks and the firplace shaped with their own hands, the curtains they sewed, the candleholders they desgined. I have never in my life stayed in such a labor of love as that gorgeous little house, nestled into the dry desert-like hills near the town of Trapiche, in the province of San Luis.

How in the world did we find such a jewel? We got a list of guest houses at Tourist Information and Luis made a few calls. "This one," said Luis excitedly, "is very remote, made of stone, there's no electricity and it's heated by firewood! It's perfect!" And it was. Check our their website for a better idea: http://www.cumelcalen.com.ar/.

Unquillo Impresionism

Traveling with small children, I'm learning, is best enjoyed by spending time, along the way, amongst long time family friends who love children. Ruben has known Ethel since the 1960's, before they all had children. Later, Luis and Ana played with Ethel's four children on the beaches of the Patagonia town of Piramides. Fast forward to 2007, and the families are again together, with a passel of busy grandchildren. Nowadays, Ethel is a widow, and has recreated herself as an artist. She shleps her easel up into the hills to paint, and returns with lovely impresionistic landscapes (which she sells). Unquillo, where she lives, is a painters' enclave, and it's so appealing I can understand why. The pretty little town climbs the mountains behind the city of Cordoba, and we spend several afternoons hiking and exploring the hills.

Ethel's grandchildren come to play with Lucas and Maite, and they spend hours in the backyard, "cooking" and digging with their spoons, bowls, and backhoe loaders. Ethel has the perfect grandmother attitude: "What fun is there in having a clean house? I need children here to mess it up!" I like not having to apologize for the bits of playdough our kids leave everywhere. We celebrate Lucas' 4th birthday with an inflatable jumping castle in her back yard, a choclate cake, and Ethel's large family. We end up staying a week (A WEEK!! Unthinkable in the U.S.!) and Ethel is completely serious when she pleads with us to stay longer. She takes hospitality to a new level.

We Come Bearing Chaos

Negrin is a retired composer and musician. He recites poetry to me as he pounds the meat for milanesas (breaded steaks). Negrita, a seamstress, stops working on a leather jacket to drink coffee with us. Valeria, their daughter, breezes in from her job as a costume artist, as always stylishly dressed and perfectly made up. Ileana, another daughter, is somewhere in the city, explaining the complexities of Spanish grammar to foreigners, and their son, Eduardo, who teaches music, drops by to visit on his way to a lesson. Everyone wants to see us, to kiss our children and talk about how we are faring in Argentina. We are back in Ramos Mejilla (a city in greater Buenos Aires) to visit, six months after we first arrived in Argentina and stayed with them for a few days. Lucas and Maite make themselves right at home, enjoying the attention and the chocolate milk.

Negrin and Negrita seem to welcome the noise and mess our small children bring, especially since their four kids flew the nest, and left the house quiet. Ruben's and Negrita' families share a long, colorful history of friendship: as children, they lived across the street from each other, (1940s) and later, as adults, their own children spent many happy hours playing together. Neighbors for 30 years, and friends for 60.

Little Farmer Girl, Little Farmer Boy

On Oscar and Nene's small farm in the province of Buenos Aires, Lucas and Maite were busy litte children. They: rode a horse; chased chickens; saw sheep, goats, and cows; rode a tractor, climbed around in a 100 year old wagon; spent the night in a 100 year old farm house. This is another one of those places with lots of family history to it. In the 1970s, Ruben often took his young family to this farm on weekends, and Luis has often reminisced about these visits. He has always said that his love of the outdoors started right here.

I listen to Oscar, who is Ruben's first cousin, Nene, and Luis update each other about various family members. Oscar talks about the "old day", when his 15 year old aunt raised her 13 siblings after their parents died. Nene tells me about growing on a farm so remote they rarely went to town, and when they did it was with the horses and wagon. They reminisce about the early years on their own farm, as newlyweds, when Oscar plowed and planted his feilds using horses. (the late 1950's and 60s!) Not even my own grandfather, who grew up on a farm in Nebraska worked the feild with a horse. Back in the 1920s, they owned tractors.

After weeks of traveling, every nook in our car is filled with crumbled crackers, and the kids' books we read in the backseat are a bit roughed up. Spontaneity and the desire to keep traveling got the better of us, and our one week trip turned into three. Luis, in a former lifetime, must have been a farmer, because in no way did he want to leave. The kids and I are ready, though. Lucas has missed three weeks of preschool, and Maite does better with a stable situation. Back to Neuqen, back to our routine, and back to plan our next family vacation, when my parents come: Chile. Stay tuned.

. . a few more travel highlights worth mentioning . . .

two days and two nights spent in a cabana (a little house, complete with kitchen, dining rom and bedrooms), several kilometers off the main road, near Merlo, in San Luis. This cabana had no neigbhors, had a mountain behind it and a creek running nearby. We had a lovely morning hike up the creek. A real find for only 80 pesos a night (less than $30!)

A day driving through an area called Traslasierra, on our way to the city of Cordoba. The road wound its way through little towns, one of which was particularly pretty: Las Chacras. Along the roadside, we saw pottery stands, and artisan's selling their work from their houses. Following the sign that indicated "Vivero Bar" (Greenhouse Bar) we followed a dirt road to a small house nestled in greenery where the owners had set up a little bar in the livingroom. They fixed us lunch, and talked about they had left Buenos Aires in search of an alternative lifestyle. The whole town was starting to fill with artists and families from Buenos Aires.

Sightseeing in Cordoba. Ruben watched the kids back at Ethel's, and Luis and I played tourist in Argentina's second largest city. Jose, Ethel's son, showed us around. Cordoba is an amazingly old city, with a cathedral dating back to the late 1600's, and the second oldest University in Latin America. Very striking.

Back road driving. We meandered our way through San Luis, passing through little towns, observing lots of grazing animals, and gauchos on horseback. Plus lots and lots of rock structures.

Back road driving, part 2. On the way from Azul (Oscar and Nene's) to Neuquen, we took lots of secondary roads, and were rewarded with almost zero traffic, green vistas, out of the way towns, one of which we stayed the night in: Gualtrecho. It must have been a special day in town, because plenty of men were dressed in traditional gaucho finery: white, billowing shirts, dark cotton pants that button around the ankles, called "bombachos", a bright colored sash around their waists, and black berets perched on their heads. Very elegant looking.

And most of all. . . . A HUGE THANKS to: Ethel, Jose and Amado, Andrea, Gabriel, Hiluen and Aixa, Lorena; Negrin and Negrita; Oscar and Nene; and most of all, to RUBEN, who was a great help with the kids, and a pleasure to travel with.

For pictures of this trip, check out: http://picasaweb.google.com/luisetxe/September2007

Just call her "La Gorda"

"Maitsey", "Maitingles", "Maitsits". . . . our family has a million names for little Maite, and the list is forever getting longer. If you´re not a family member, and not familiar with all of our pet names, you can just call her "La gorda". (Fat girl). None of us will take offense at this; babies are often referred to as "La Gorda" or "El Gordo" (for a boy). Believe me, it sounds much cuter in Spanish.

Spanish speakers have a terrific propensity for nicknames. Common nicknames are: "Negro" (blackie) if you´re dark skinned; "Turco" (Turk) if your origins are from anywhere in the middle East (Arab of any kind, Lebanese, Syrian, Palestinian, etc.); "Chino", (Chinese) if your descendents are from any country in the far East, or even if your eyes have a more Asian shape; "flaco" (skinny) if you are particulary thin, (or not. Can be used generically). "Enano" means midget, and is usually used for small children. Luis used that one on Lucas. If you are from the U.S. you will be referred to as a "Yankee". Luis had a friend from Georgia who took great offense at this. If you come from Italy you will be dubbed "Tano", and if from Spain, you are a "Gallego".

The nickname "gordo" (fatty) is common as well, but it is used in an affectionate way, by family, and very close friends. It doesn't necessarily mean you are chunky, either. Luis tried it on me once, but my cultural sensitivity wasn't quite up to it. ("It doesn't mean you're fat", Luis argued. "It's just a affectionate name." "Fine", I responded, "then why not call me "flaca" (skinny) if its all the same?") The use of "gorda", unlike many other nicknames, can be offensive, depending on who says it and way it's said. In other words: use it with extreme care.

On a more generic level, you can, and will be referred to, at any given time, "Mama", "madre" o "comadre" if you are female. It has nothing to do with your age, or if you are in fact a mother. Maite is frequently referred to as "Mama" or "Mami" and Lucas gets "Papa" or "Papi". Ruben, Luis' father, uses "viejo" (old man) indiscriminately; it's his favorite name for Lucas.

What is it about Latinos and their nicknames? In the U.S. we are so careful not to offend, lest anyone thinks we are a racist, or just a plain jerk. Imagine, going around in the U.S., referring to people as fatso, midget, or blackie . . everyone would hate you. I always try to say things correctly, in the English speaking world, so here in Latin America I felt, initially, a mixture of amusement/surprise/horror at the stuff I´d hear. Don´t people have pyscological issues when they go through their whole life being called "fat boy" even if it's said lovingly? I mean, isn´t it degrading in some way to be called "blackie" ? I have to keep my North American feminist conciousness in check when I hear important women referred to as "chicas" (girls) or "minas" (chicks). Will Christina Fernandez, the likely winner of the upcoming elections, be referred to as a "girl president"?

I´ve been asking around, and no one seems too concerned about any of this. Rather, people here seem to pay more attention to the way the nickname is said, the context, and who is saying it. Issues of race are not as sharp and as debated as they are in the U.S., and feminism, as I know it, hasn't seeped too much into the Spanish language.

So be it. I am an observer, not a judge. And I'm the first one to recognize the fun of a nickname; just ask Lukeño and Maitena. I've got to go now. "La gorda" and "El enano" are calling for their "Yankee" mother.

Lucas' Argentine Soul

“Lucas,”, Estela addressed him, “do you want to ride with Analia and me? Your mommy and daddy will follow us in the other car”. We were at the airport, in Buenos Aires, having just met Ruben, Estela, and Analia (Estela’s daughter). Lucas said yes, he did, and I said it was fine with me. As soon as the car pulled away, however, I realized in horror what I had done: Lucas barely knew them. He had spent time with Estela a year earlier, but I don’t know if he remembered her much, and Analia was completely new to him. He’d always been extremely shy with strangers, and cried for a long time whenever we left him. He must be freaking out!

Thirty minutes later we were reunited, in the house of Luis and Rubens’ long time family friends. Lucas was smiling, drinking chocolate milk at the table, and chatting away. I couldn’t believe it. Was this my son?? We spent four days with this family, who treated Lucas and Maite as long lost grandchildren. In this new world, they were the center of attention. Everyone wanted to listen to Lucas sing, they gave him sweet things to eat, and kept him up late. Different people took him on little walks around the neighborhood to observe the goings on, and he got to ride on the train and the bus. What happiness!

Maite’s story was a bit different. At 18 months, what’s important to her is where Mom and Dad are. A house in Argentina versus one is the U.S. means nothing to her; its just another place to explore. What Maite did feel, undoubtedly, was the loss of her daily routine. When traveling, its hard to keep a schedule, and the result was a cranky, overtired baby who had trouble sleeping in a different crib, in a new room.

In Greeley, I had Maite on a schedule of regular naps and early bedtimes. Following the advice I found in books, I was successful in getting Maite to take naps and go to bed without a whimper of protest. It was a truly glorious thing, after the miserable outcomes we’d always had with getting Lucas to sleep. Lucas wasn’t aware that routines are supposed to be important to children. We established a regular bed time, preceded by a bath, tooth brushing, topped off by a few books. We have ALWAYS done this with Lucas, and still do. But no matter how much prepping we did, and do, he still hates going to bed. Only when Lucas is on the verge of absolute collapse does he get into bed without arguing. If we left it to him he’d be up till 11pm every night, or longer.

Now here comes the part that is so surprising to me, as a North American: an 11pm bedtime is actually early for many children in Argentina. Very few of the parents I’ve talked to believe that children need more than eight hours of sleep a day. My general perception is that parents don’t actively train their children to sleep at certain times; the kids just go with the flow of their parents' schedules. And adults keep a late schedule here: people usually get home from work after 8 pm, and dinner is at 10:00. Bedtime may be around midnight or 1 am. Argentines go to work as early as in the U.S., but, here in Neuquen at least, many people get several hours off in the early afternoon to eat and rest. The result of this schedule is that kids, and adults as well, sleep a lot less than the average American. I have heard quite a few parents complain about their children not being able to wake up in the morning, yet, unbelievably, they seem not to associate it with the child needing more sleep. They treat it as a behavior problem.

We eat quite a lot with family and friends, so this cultural feature has really been a hard one for me, with my firm ideas that children need lots of sleep. People are astonished when I tell them that we try to have Lucas in bed by 9pm, and Maite by 8:30 or so. Of course, whenever there's a social gathering, there's no way my little son will stay in bed. If it's a weekday, he's a bit of a zombie the next day at preschool. The nights he spends over at his grandparent’s house he’s up till past one. They have no concept of putting Lucas to bed; he just gets into bed when they do.
With Maite, we've taken to carrying her fold-up crib (pack-and-play) with us on evening outings. We have varying degrees of success in getting her to sleep in other peoples' houses.

Of course, Lucas loves it. It seems that he was born to stay up late and socialize. Children here are much more a part of their parents’ activities. Parties are for everyone. Adults talk to the children and play with them, and take them on their errands. When we go out, adults in shops talk and flirt freely with Lucas, and particularly Maite, who is at an adorable age, and unbelievably cute. It’s a refreshing and humanizing change from the anxiety that plagues American parents and our society in general. Unfortunately for us, candy gets doled out with the same warm indulgence.

All in all, it makes for warmer human relations, a more affectionate society. And what child doesn’t like affection? For Lucas especially, the attention and the affection on the part of his preschool teachers, his family, and the friends of his family, has brought something new and lovely to his world. I try to keep this in mind, when I complain about the candy, and late bedtimes. At this point in his young life, Lucas has found his place.

Betty and the Curse of the Middle Class

Three mornings a week, our floors get mopped, our bathrooms scrubbed, the evening dishes washed and dried, the rooms picked up. And, hallelujah! I’m not the one doing it. Drum roll please . . . . We have a cleaning woman. I hear a few gasps in the audience, from friends and family who know our frugal ways, with our 25 year old Volkswagen van, our insistence on second hand everything, our preference for eating at home with friends instead of dining out. But things are different in Argentina. A woman who works in your house is not seen as a luxury; having more than one car, or a large house with a yard. . . Now THAT’S luxury. Here in Argentina, we can actually afford to have a cleaning woman, and happily, I have quite gotten over the philosophy of my American middle class upbringing that a cleaning woman is akin to slavery.

For years, I didn’t agree with having someone else clean your house. In my 20’s, I lived in Ecuador, where most of my friends, students, and acquaintances had help in their homes, and later in Argentina, where anyone who was remotely middle class had a cleaning woman. The way I figured it, to have an empleada (an employee, in this case one working in your home) was a form of classism and exploitation.

Luis, who grew up with empleadas in the house, explained that his mother worked long hours in her leather tailoring business. She was an active woman with a lot of interests, none of which were cleaning. And men could not possibly be expected to clean back in those days. “We hire people to fix our car, to work in the yard, to fix the plumbing, to take care of the kids. . . What’s the difference? It’s a paid service, like any other,” Luis frequently argued. I started to see his point.

The final, deadly blow to my middle class principles was the arrival of Lucas and Maite. The untidiness of our house multiplied by ten. The laundry was interminable, toys were everywhere, food in the carpet -- clean it up, and 20 minutes later I was back where I started. In my case, the choice came down to having a tidy house, or using the time to play with and enjoy my children. Not a hard choice: I found Lucas and Maite infinitely more interesting than housework. Of course, there are women who manage it. My mother worked double duty, with a full time job, and then home to cook a balanced meal, and clean. When I told her about Betty, my mother said “Good for you!“ . My father’s reaction to the news of our empleada was less enthusiastic. He was concerned about how much we were paying her. It sure is easy to take the high ground when you’re not the one scrubbing toilets year after year. Cursed middle class values!

But wait, it gets even better: Betty looks after Maite, too, when Lucas is at preschool. She changes her diapers, gives her milk, takes her on little walks, puts ponytails in her hair. Betty is unfalteringly sweet and patient with our youngest. Three mornings a week, my time is my own. “But what do you do with your time?” I know many of you are wondering. Well, I can tell you what I AM NOT doing. Man I love this country.

The land of strikes

I have entered the land of discontent, it seems to me at times. For all the warmth and affection Argentines display on a personal level, they are major league complainers when you get them talking about: the government (number one), politics, economic situation, crime, unemployment, work conditions, the schools, the weather . . . Complaining, as Luis always says, is one of the national pastimes. More than a few people have explained to me that Argentines are chagrined to find themselves living in a messy, underdeveloped country; why aren´t they more like Europe, from which they are largely descended? Argentina, in the first part of the 20th century, showed great promise; economically it was well off, in its exportation of meat, wool, and grain. Argentines mournfully wonder what went wrong.


None of this is news to me. What hit me like a truck, this time around, is how this cultural idiosyncracy plays out on a larger scale. This is the land of the strike. The day we drove in to Neuquén, the local teachers had cut off the bridges entering the city, with their cars, tents, and signs demanding better pay. The alternative route took us an additional 45 minutes. The teachers strike kept the public school kids out of the classrooms for almost three months. Those months will not be made up, and, as part of the deal the union worked out with the government, the teachers would be paid for the months they were on strike. It turns out that the teachers do this almost every year all over the country, resulting in a huge loss of overall class time for students. Particularly shocking, this year, was when a policeman killed a teacher during one of the numerous demonstrations. Instant martyr. Teachers´strikes are one of the major reasons parents choose private schools, if they can afford it. Lucas´private preschool, consequently, was not affected by the strike


Demonstrations are so common here, that most people won’t park in front of the government administrative building, where most demonstrations start. Parking space, in this crowded city, is hard to find, so people must have a good reason not to park there. The last time we risked it, we later found our car mired deep in protesters unhappy with the local government. Another favorite of picketers is to cut off the bridge that connects Neuquen to its neighbor city, Cipoletti, as well the main route towards the the east, to Buenos Aires. This is a real pain for daily commuters, as well as the trucks who transport goods in and out of the city.


The maddening inconvenience of strikes and demonstrations really stung us in June: our telephone line, for some reason, was broken, and the workers of Telefonica Argentina (phone company) were on -you guessed it- strike. We were phone-less for 24 days. The repeated trips Luis made to the telephone company to talk with the head honchos didn´t do a lick of good. Finally, as of last week we can use the internet again, and my parents can call me at home.

July 9 was Argentine independence day, and there was a noticeable lack of fanfare, compared to American's 4th of July. "We're too cynical to be patriotic,", Luis commented. What Neuquen did have, a few days ago, was a 5,000 person demonstration as a call to justice for the death of the school teacher who was killed during a demonstration. Naturally, a lot of people left work to participate.

I don´t want to say that organizations don´t have good reasons to strike. It is unfortunate, however, how the frequency of strikes and demonstrations have dulled peoples´sympathies. I come from a long line of union workers, so I have always been sympathetic to the cause. Argentina, though, is in a whole different league. I had little empathy for the phone workers --I just wanted a phone! And if my child were out of school for several months due to a strike, I'd be spittin' mad --at the state AND the teachers.

I am not a complainer by nature, besides the fact that I've traveled enough in Africa to know how good I have it. But perhaps a year among the super critical Argentines will rub off on me a bit. Let me know if you notice it, when you see me a year from now.

An Alaskan in Argentina

I grew up in a town of mostly dirt and gravel roads, with zero traffic lights. Bethel Alaska, population 6000 or so, is so isolated you have to fly to get there. Leave the town limits and you’ll find miles and miles of tundra dotted by countless lakes, sloughs and rivers. Quiet, but for the birds, the mosquitoes near your face, and the sound of the blueberries hitting the bottom of your bucket. The Yupik Eskimos of Bethel and the nearby villages are generally low key folks, and the gussaqs (white people) who live there have, somewhat, followed suit. Living in rural Alaska brings out different priorities; we just mostly wanted to stay warm and dry. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in a tie.

Now jump ahead to 1997, and where am I? Living in a city of 14 million, traveling in buses and subways crammed with people, where the din of the street passed through the walls of my tiny apartment on the 7th floor. Kind of a strange choice for a rural Alaskan. But Buenos Aires, for a young, single person looking for a new experience, was fun. Restaurants, bars, cafes, tango halls, concerts, theaters, parties, the race track, sporting events . . . This is what I did when I wasn’t teaching English. A typical Saturday night for me might be going from one dance joint to the next with a group of friends, and then breakfast together later in the morning. Weekdays were almost as lively; my Argentine friend Sandra and I would go to tango halls, to take a few turns on the floor and watch the couples. The tango is a complicated dance, but I found I could follow along somewhat if the man was experienced at leading. Between Sandra and her friends, and fellow English teachers, I always had people to do things with. When I met Luis, who had moved to the city to study at the University of Buenos Aires, my social life got even better.

Nevertheless, after 8 months or so, the noise, traffic, the subway and the crowds, confirmed what I suspected: I’m better suited for tundra. I can’t deny that Buenos Aires has its charms. I love the culture of the coffee house, where people read their newspapers or talk with friends over espresso and medialunas (croissants). Buenos Aires is a very old city, elegant in its architecture, and a history lesson in Spanish colonialism, war and independence, and arrival of immigrants from all over Europe. It’s an artsy city, with its theaters, art galleries, dance halls, and pretty shops. But in no way can you ever confuse Buenos Aires with a first world city. You can see, immediately, that there are few resources to keep the city clean and in good repair. You will notice that it is more chaotic than European cities, that lines are longer, bureaucracy is messier, and some organization is on strike, causing huge delays that are felt in many sectors of the city. It’s a nice place to visit for a week or so, but it’s a challenging, often exhausting place for residents. I am extraordinarily grateful that Luis is NOT from Buenos Aires. I doubt we would we have taken a year off to live there.

. . . .and now on to Patagonia . . . .

There are, in fact, plenty of people who aren’t happy about living in such a monstrous city. Ruben and Carmen lived there most of their lives, but, once married and with children, they wanted a more peaceful life. In 1978, they packed a hired truck with their worldly possessions, put their kids, Luis and Ana, in their tiny car, and headed 800 miles south and west, to the region known as Patagonia. Ruben had jumped at the chance to head up the chemical laboratory of a paint factory at its newly opened branch in Neuquén. Twenty-nine years later, Ruben is still here, happy to be retired, with time to visit friends, take siestas, travel, and, most recently, play with his two grandchildren, Lucas and Maite. Sadly, Carmen passed away in 1999. Ruben has since found a new companion, Estela, to share his life with.

The city that Carmen and Ruben chose for their new home, is not, unfortunately, one of Argentina’s finer efforts, aesthetically speaking: it reminds me of part of Wyoming, with its wind, dust, and low-to the ground desert vegetation. It gets hot in the summer, and in the winter it rains some, and occasionally snows. People here complain about the cold when it gets into the 40s, or, heaven forbid, the 30s. Lucas, who has spent lots of time playing in the snow of the Colorado, has learned, here in Neuquén, how to complain that his hands are cold when the needle drops below 60 degrees.

It’s apparent that most Argentines, who are largely descended from the heat loving Spanish and Italians, don’t come to Neuquén for the weather. What makes Neuquén, a city of 300,000 and counting, such a rapidly growing city, and one of the most expensive in the country, is oil. The oil companies are busy in Neuquén, and they pay their employees well. I can see the economic jump from the last time we were here, in 2003. Prices for most things are higher, there are more shops, and many more cars. Incredibly, housing prices and rents are actually cheaper in Greeley than they are here. (More on the economic situation of the locals in a later post) We are fortunate that Ruben is letting us live in one of his rental units, the original house that he and Carmen built in 1980.

How does Neuquén homes compare to American ones? Houses are generally much smaller than American homes and made of brick; walls are built up against the neighbor’s walls. Gardens and yards, as we know them in the U.S., are rare, as plots of land here are much smaller. Most people have a tiny patch of open space behind the house, where they hang their clothes to dry (dryers are not common), and a spot to make a fire for their asados (barbecues). Sidewalks are usually broken and cracked, or nonexistent, despite the large amount of pedestrians. Open green spaces lack attention by the city. They are certainly beautiful neighborhoods in the city; but more common are the cramped, dusty neighborhoods of the working poor. The disparity between rich and poor is greater in third world countries than in wealthier countries such as the U.S.

Our house in unusual, in that it’s fairly large, free standing (no neighbors on the other side of the wall), and we have a big, grassy (sort of grassy) yard. (Luis likes to tell people here about how fanatical Americans are about their yards. Argentines shake their heads in wonder about Americans spending so much time mowing and caring for their lawns). Despite the spaciousness of our house, we are not living a life of luxury. Our neighborhood is not upscale; with an unpaved street, living here is a dusty, sometimes muddy affair. We are not complaining (at least, not too loudly); we are better off than many, many people.

As far as tourism --well, Neuquén doesn’t get much of it. Tourists usually skip right over the city, which lacks the elegant colonial architecture of Argentina’s older cities, and the mountains, trees, and ski resorts of the Andean towns San Martin, Bariloche, and Villa La Angostura. But don’t let this stop you from visiting us!

Despite the differences in appearance and climate between Neuquén and other well known cities of the country, it is, at heart, a thoroughly Argentine city, with it’s slower pace, lively social life, its slow and sloppy bureaucracy, and its flakey plumbers. What sets it apart, for us, is the presence of friends, and, above all, family. We have two very young, very challenging children who are quite content spending time with their grandparents, and Ruben and Estela love to have them over. Balm to a beleaguered parent, and worth crossing a couple continents for, I’d say. And as far as living in a city that falls short of American standards in terms of general wealth and overall tidiness -- I’m learning that constant comparison will not help me in my quest to adapt to my new situation. This is not an easy task, but I’m working on it.

Green peppers galore

A typical snapshot of me in during the day: plodding along, Maite on my back in her red carrier, Lucas dancing along, holding my hand; the other hand is occupied with my large nylon/plastic bag, either empty or stuffed full of fruits or vegetables, depending on which way we’re traveling. Our little corner market is about a 5 minute walk away, and I’m there almost daily, to sort over the pick of plums, pears, mandarins, apples, spinach, squash. . . . A myriad of color and freshness for a fraction of the cost in Colorado. This stuff is not coming from long distances, and it is not chock full of preservatives. Eat it quick, and go back the next day for more. I buy tasteful green and red peppers and eat them raw, as much as I want. Our family gobbles small red plums with abandon. Not worrying about the prices is one of my favorite perks of living here.

Surprisingly, (to me, anyway), our little corner grocery is actually cheaper than Walmart and the other large supermarkets for fruit and vegetables. Similarly, the best prices for baked goods are the local bakeries, the best, cheapest meat is the butcher on the corner, the tastiest pasta is always found at the fresh pasta shops you find every few blocks. There are small businesses everywhere that are not, it seems, being run off by monstrous chains. We make a trip to a larger store once in awhile but these trips are a pain; the lines are long and slow. Cashiers, in fact, are all seated as they work.

In Colorado, I was annoyed by having to drive every time I needed something. Shopping by foot, buying only what I can carry in my nylon bag, feels right to me; it appeals to my ideals of living simply, of exercising more, of feeling less chained to a car. In the U.S., I tend to feel overwhelmed at Walmart and other super stores, by all the available products, the prices, the people buzzing around, the size of the store, in which it can take a person a good twenty minutes to find their friend if they get separated. I imagine Americans probably save some time by getting most of what they need at one giant store. I doubt most of us actually save much money, however; I usually left stores with more than I intended to buy. Our corner market, with its assortment of the necessities, like pasta, flour, bread, milk, spices, soap, is a relief.

At the small counter, the clerk writes down the prices of my items, and quickly adds them up in his head. Does he realize that this is the 21st century, that cash registers have been around for a while? That there’s more efficient ways to do things? There are many complex reasons why, in Argentina, time often DOES NOT equal money. One of our greatest tasks is to learn to live with this, for better or worse. Shopping, happily, stacks up on the “for better” side.

Monday night and time to PARTY!!

A long banner that read “Feliz Cumpleaños”, and a table packed with cold cuts, cheeses, and other finger foods, balloons here and there. . . . Ana (Luis’ sister) and I had it all ready for a serious get together last Monday night. It was Luis’ birthday, the first one he would celebrate in Argentina in many years, and we weren’t going to let a small matter like it being a Monday night get in the way.

Luis didn’t know about any of this. Ana and I made plans in whispers, and called friends when he was out of the room. I was pleased when everyone said they’d be there. On Monday, Ana went off to buy the food, and later Ruben whisked Luis and the kids off to play at the pelotero (an indoor play area), so that we could prepare.

Now, there are a few important differences in the way Argentines have parties. In the U.S. I would invite 25 people to a party, and cross my fingers that 15 would show. In Argentina you invite 25 people to a party, and 35 come. Another difference is the concept of a surprise party. Argentines, as a rule, arrive at least an hour late for a party. If you arrive “on time”, you’d probably find the hosts still in the middle of the preparations. Surprise parties, as it turned out, are no different. And so it was that Luis was the first one to arrive at his surprise birthday party. Oh well. He was surprised, nonetheless, by the pure fact that we were going to have a party that he didn’t have to do a bit of work for. (In our family, Luis is the party planner) Nice.

People started showing up around 9pm. Our house quickly filled with friends from Luis’ childhood, from his university days, and family friends whom he hadn’t seen in years. No one came empty handed. Maite, the belle of the ball, was in top form in her blue party dress and white stockings. Lucas circulated the room, meeting folks (with a little prompting) and hugging those he knew. Bottle after bottle of red wine disappeared, including a home brewed bottle of white wine.

People didn’t start to leave until 11:00, and the last guests straggled out well past midnight. Lucas was still going strong, due to a long afternoon nap. Most everyone had to work the next day. But no matter. Friendship and fun come first in Argentina. You may be wondering, “and sleep? Isn’t sleep important? Being functional the next day?” As a gringa, I admit having a hard time understanding it myself. Luckily, I DON’T have to work in the mornings, so it works out just fine. I’m on sabbatical. Party on!

Lucas goes to school

Three weeks ago, my little man started a new chapter in his life. Five days a week, from 9 to 12:30, he spends his mornings at Jardin de Patri, playing and doing activities with 15 other 3 years olds and two teachers.

The preschool is an inviting place: spacious, bright and colorful, with lots of toys, and pictures on the wall. Lucas’ teachers, his señoritas, Ana and Karina, adore every single student, and everyone gets hugged and kissed on a regular basis. The curriculum includes P.E. class with professor Pablo, folklore class, where the children put on traditional Argentine clothing and learn about Argentine customs, excursions to a farm to feed the animals, and various fieldtrips throughout the year. This includes a camping trip. Yes, you read correctly: they take all the 3 year olds camping. As is the custom in Argentina, all the children where uniforms. In this case, it is a yellow and green smock that they wear over their clothes. It’s to help keep their clothing clean, and it is unbelievably cute.

The best part is that Lucas loves it. His first week, being the new kid, he got special attention from the señoritas, and now he’s totally enamored with them. Ana and Karina report that he is adapting well to the group. He especially loves snack time, because he has discovered the delights of warm milk sweetened with sugar. The teachers are amazed that Lucas drinks so much milk --three cups at a time. I’m not -- if it’s sweet, he’ll go for it.

Some of the other daycares we checked out had the kids on computers every day, learning how to manipulate the mouse and playing games. Technology, however, hasn’t much reached Jardin de Patri. There is only one computer in the building and it appears to be about 15 years old. It is used to print out little announcements for the parents that are then individually glued into each students’ notebook. All notes and recordkeeping are written out by hand in a huge book that looks to be from the 1950s. There are only two telephones in the building, answered by whoever is around. (There’s no secretary) With only one line, you have to go searching for the person.

Jardin de Patri is one of the more expensive daycares in the city --it’s setting us back 280 pesos a month (about $90 U.S. dollars). There are always the free, state run daycares, which are a godsend to many of Argentinas’ working class. Other private daycares offer English classes and computer instruction. But we didn’t come to Argentina for the English, and he’s got his whole life to learn about computers. We’ll take the Argentine folk lessons.

Meat -- The great uniter

If you gave me a choice between a bowl of bean soup and grilled meat, it would be a close call. You’d think that after years of Argentine barbecues, asados as they are called here, my appreciation for a perfectly grilled steak would have deepened a bit. And I do like a little meat now and then, but as far as I’m concerned, the less it looks like an animal body part the better. My opinion is not shared by 99.9 of all Argentines, and it’s one I tend not to advertise (I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, though). What I do love about Argentine asados, though, is the whole social occasion. There are no shortcuts here, -- a gas grill would only deprive the grill master of making a fire and getting the embers, most often from firewood, just right. Guests, meanwhile, hang out around the grill and chat while the asador, the grill master, pokes and shuffles the embers around, checks and positions the meat. In Argentina, this is an art form.

Since we arrived 6 weeks ago, we have been to countless barbecues. The other day we arrived at a party where a goat, skinned and splayed was roasting over an open fire, which was in a fire pit. After 4 long years in the U.S., Luis was drooling in anticipation. Lucas was fairly intrigued by the display, and Maite was fascinated by the fire, which was just at her level. After several hours of roasting, the goat was taken down and carved. All the guests -20 or so- sat around a long massive table and each place setting had a sharp knife and a round wooden cutting board the size of a plate. Meat eating is serious business --there was no porcelain or plastic plates to be had. There were bowls of salads and bread, but no one paid them much mind. I was a little dismayed to see every single guest --even the very feminine ladies --eating with their hands, ripping meat with their teeth, sucking bones, licking their fingers. No one was using their knife. I turned to Maite, and found my sweet little girl with a bone in her tiny fist, sucking on it eagerly. Good grief. I was reminded of a barbecue years ago, at Christmas, where a skewered pig --eyes, hooves, snout and all --roasted over a fire. I found it so graphic that I couldn’t eat the meat. I always strive to be culturally sensitive, but in these situations my resolve wavers.

On this particular occasion, with the goat, I managed to eat some of the meat, which wasn’t too bad -- a little more fatty than beef, I thought. I always leave a lot of meat on the bones, and Luis happily takes them off my plate, which is a win-win situation. I don’t want the hosts to think I didn’t like their offering. Besides the meat, there was abundant wine and beer.

Argentines are very talkative, and everyone, it seems, has an opinion. There is rarely a lull in the conversation, which, with a little red wine, can go on for hours. People stay long after the meal is eaten --no one is rushed to go home and do some important chore. People played with Maite as she toddled around, and everyone wanted to hear Lucas sing in English. Parties are for everyone here --no one is excused because of their age.

Once in a while, we get invited to dinner where pasta is served, or pizza perhaps. But the asado is something very special. Here, there is no better way to spend the day than with a group of friends, a little red wine, a fire, and massive portions of meat. My soup and salad just wouldn’t cut it.

At home in Patagonia

Our new home is the house that Luis grew up in, which has to feel kind of strange for Luis. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, an office, a living room and a roomy kitchen --a large house, by Argentine standards, and much bigger than our house in Greeley. Ruben has had renters in it for the last 13 years, but a few months ago he kicked them out and spent three months scrubbing, painting, and trying to rectify a decade of neglect. The house, they tell us, was pure filth when the renters moved out. It was indeed clean when we showed up -thank god, because it’s a serious downer to deal with other people’s toothpaste splatters and mustard stains right off the bat. I’m not one to get too sanctimonious about sloppiness; our last week in Greeley my parents showed up with scrub blushes and bleach in an attempt to annul four years of very little effort in the house scrubbing department. Thanks mom. Thanks dad.

Despite Ruben and Estela’s efforts to get this house into shape, we are daily finding more projects: leaky sinks, two running toilets, missing door handles, broken shutters. Did the renters live with bare bulbs dangling from wires, or did they take the light fixtures with them? Luis practically wept when he saw the state of the front and side yards. He and his mother shared a deep love for growing things; they had fruit trees, vegetables, spices and flowers. What’s left now is a lemon tree that’s never been pruned, and grape vines that traipse the metal structure over the driveway. Dripping with grapes, you can stand underneath a vine, look up, and pull grapes into your mouth without moving your arms. “Under the Tuscan Sun” Luis remarks, referring to a book that recounts a couple’s summers spent in Tuscany, refurbishing an ancient Villa, and discovering the joys of living in rural Italy. I’m not sure if Luis was talking about the abundance of grapes, or dealing with a crumbling house.


Slowly, the house is becoming livable. This country is bringing the handyman out in Luis: he has rewired the light fixtures, completed plumbing projects, repaired the window shutters. We have cleared out the yard, and planted grass. Luis even went to work on our neighbor’s electricity lines when their electrician didn’t show up. This is a do-it-yourself kind of country. Unfortunately, I’ve always been a “just call the landlord” kind of gal, so I’ve been feeling kind of useless. So far I’ve learned how toilets work, that you should wear shoes when you touch a fridge to avoid a potential shock (Luis was incredulous I didn’t know that.) and lots of other tidbits of information. Even if you do have the money to hire someone to fix stuff in your house, there’s a good chance he won’t show up anyway. If you’re lucky, he’ll come a few days late. Everything takes a long time here. We hired a guy to reupholster a ripped up sofa (which is much cheaper than a new one. And no one ever throws anything away, so forget buying anything second hand) and what was supposed to take four days turned into two weeks. The window repairman and the gas repairman haven’t bothered to show up yet.

And the Grand Total Is . . . .

I was grateful when the repair man showed up as scheduled, to work on the great, white and green beast that is our fridge. I don’t know where Ruben scrounged it up, but it’s old and ugly as sin. But its free. After 4 or 5 hours tinkering away inside and outside the brute, the repairman wiped his brow, pushed the fridge back into place and gave us the grand total of his toil: 120 pesos for the part ($40) and 50 pesos for the labor ($17 ). Wow, labor is cheap! Now if we could just get more of these guys to show up . . . .

So now we have a working fridge and a pretty little blue sofa. It’s all starting to fall into place.