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!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
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
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
Friday, October 5, 2007
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.
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
Friday, September 7, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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