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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 4, 2007
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.
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, May 28, 2007
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!
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!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
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.
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.
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