As winter lingers here in Buenos Aires, disappointed football fanatics hang up their remeras, or team shirts, and replace them with winter abrigos, or coats – a sight I never believed I would see during my year-long jaunt in Buenos Aires. I was among those ignorant extranjeros, or foreigners, who automatically linked Latin America to tropical climates and sunny living. My expectations were met with great force upon my arrival in January when the greedy Argentine humidity hit me in the face as I stepped out of the door at Ezeiza International Airport. However, January, February and March came and went. Before I knew it, I had delved into my sweater supply which I had once so bitterly resented in the dog days of Enero, or January. Furthermore, my winter coat was soon summoned out of the abandoned suitcase in the closet, and quickly demanded I buy ear muffs to match it (N.B. which were shortly followed by mittens). Ashamed to admit to anyone back home that yes, Argentina does indeed get “rather chilly,” I convinced myself for quite some time that it was merely a “phase” and something to do with that sneaky and detrimental pest we refer to as Climate change.
As I complained long distance about the winter to my mother, and then as she reminded me of how much I had already complained during the Argentine summer, I tried to make a list of all the positives that an Argentine winter actually had to offer. And not just any Argentine winter, but this very Argentine winter, which offered us Mundial, or World Cup, festivities galore. One day on the number 132 bus, I had delighted in hearing a group of uniformed school children commenting on the fact that this year was the year of “White and Blue”, or, in other words, quite a year for Argentine patriotism. With a two hundredth birthday having been celebrated in May, the country now eagerly looked towards the hopeful team carefully selected and organized by perhaps one of the greatest players and Argentinean personalities of all time, Diego Maradona himself.
The mental preparations for the World Cup were no small chore, and it took quite some time for the Argentine people to get not only their white and blue ready, but also their vocal chords, their physical fitness levels (with which they would fight the crowds to the front of the pantallas gigantes, or giant television screens), and their complete conviction that Argentina would win and bring home the shiny golden cup. These measures took only a few months in the eyes of an extranjera, like me, whilst to the porteños it had been a four year wait. An advertisement campaign released on Argentine national television comically highlighted the passion and emotion prevalent in the majority of the country when the national team stepped up to compete against another country in the Mundial. “If their team loses,” one actor posing in the street commented, “they just go home and weep. No one speaks for days.” I suppose I took this advertisement too light-heartedly.
When Tevez, Messi and friends said their final goodbyes to the chance of bringing home the oro, or gold, against Germany, I did not hear a peep out of the majority of the city for hours. For what is normally a hectic and at times overbearingly loud ciudad, Capital Federal ever so uncharacteristically wrapped itself up in a blanket and shut itself up in a corner, avoiding conversation and contact with anyone or anything. I comforted the city in any and every way that I could, by engaging anyone I found in small talk about other topics. “Forget Messi’s fatigued final performance for now,” I encouraged, “and concentrate on finding that perfect overcoat for your dog to greet the winter with open paws!" (N.B. Dog coats are so popular in Buenos Aires that they are not solely modeled by lap or handbag canines, they are even favored by Alsatians and Labradors alike). As always, my good friend Susana Gimenez approved my choice for conversational topics with the feature of her July issue entitled “How to Dress your Dog for Winter.”
Friday, July 30, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Feliz Bicentenario – Avoiding the Churro and Other Impossibilities
As thousands of damp patriots congregate on the wide and never-ending 9 de Julio Avenue, I sit, bundled up in my small Almagro apartment, contemplating the last 200 years of Argentina’s history and the dreadfully un-fair tempting and taunting nature of churros y chocolate.
When last Thursday came around, I did not permit the tears to fall down my face as mis padres waved goodbye from their radio taxi window. I stood waving in my pink wellington boots and all of a sudden felt eighteen again. I was rapidly reminded of my first day at the University of Warwick. The fear of the unfamiliar took over as we were showed around Arthur Vick hall, my new home for the year of 2005. In fact, I recalled even begging my mother not to “leave me” there. For this, I mentally apologized to my mother and did not let the same immature sentiments leave my mind and exit my body via my mouth.
For an amazingly lengthy two weeks, I had turned into a tourist again and joined my mother and father on jolly jaunts around not only El Capital Federal, but also around the vast and diverse country of Argentina. A swift yet overdue escape to La Pampa had soothed my soul and re-kindled my amicable relationship with caballos, (or, horses). We trekked through acres upon acres of desolate and tranquil countryside on horseback which resembled nothing of my last riding experience - I was twelve and was paired with a rather sleepy, poncho-dressed North American horse named Lance. Lance and I were getting along perfectly well until he made the rash decision to gallop up a hill. I never forgave him, and recall walking the rest of the trail through that novel ranch in Massachusetts, turning my head to the side occasionally, only to glower at my chosen horse for his terrible choice. This year, at the ripe old age of 22, I was ready to put my differences with Lance aside and make friends with a new horse. Pelu, a beautiful cream-colored horse, was assigned to be mine for the weekend and we trotted along together, stopping occasionally (dare I say rather abruptly at times) to snatch a small bush from the soil to chew as we walked.
We soon bid farewell to our friends at Las Viboras, (also the ex-estancia of a rather important Argentine governor) and boarded a plane to the Cataratas, (or, waterfalls) of Iguazu where we met the same falls which, upon seeing in the early twentieth century, former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt exclaimed “Poor Niagara!” That plane trip, I was told a week later by one of my students, is “one of the most dangerous plane journeys you can take.” “Oh really?” I mumbled, in a tone which would make most people stop and move on to other less fatal conversation topics. “Yes. Really.” (N.B. most people except him that is…) He continued “Two years ago… In fact, it was probably last year. Maybe even this year… A plane on its way to Iguazu city crashed and fell into the falls.” I sat with my mouth open. The silence must have lasted about a minute (which, I will have you know is a long time sans-noise in MY English classes).
Shortly after my parents departed Buenos Aires, I decided to be kind to my body and digestive system by saying goodbye to my factura (or, pastry) friends and all the fresh pastas and pizzas of the city. It was as if, after two full weeks of lavish and at times rather counter-productive feasting, all the enzymes in my stomach were chanting “No more baked goods! No more baked goods!” I decided to listen to my inner-enzyme-voice and treat my stomach with only fresh vegetables and proteins. Unfortunately for myself and my inherent lack of willpower, the bicentenario celebrations fell out of the sky and into my sight, particularly in the form of “the most patriotic and typical food you can eat on the long bicentenario weekend “ (said, another student of mine, who I will thank later for upsetting my enzymes), also known as churros. Oh yes, and don’t forget the bucket of chocolate caliente (or, hot chocolate) that is served along side these fried-dough twists, which (only in Argentina) are filled with heavenly Dulce de Leche.
I promptly purchased my monthly Susana magazine in an attempt to distract my sweet tooth from such devilish fried pastry endeavors. Susana, is the young and popular media creation of Argentina’s it-woman, Susana Gimenez. I happen to love her, if not for her fabulous figure, explicit botox work and fashion sense, but for her pursuit and publication of feminist-related feature stories that can be found immediately after the magazine’s monthly fashion pages, filled with clothes, shoes and accessories, all modeled only by...herself. To my utter dismay, as I turned to the Susana Cocina (or, kitchen) section, in hope of finding new light and fresh dishes that only the Susanas of the world could provide me with, I came face-to-face with a photograph of my Hispanic doughnut nemesis, and a “quick and easy recipe” alongside it . To add insult to injury, Susana mockingly wrote:
Para un verdadero festejo del 25 de Mayo, no puede faltar un tradicional ritual argentino: una taza de espumante de chocolate caliente acompañada por unos tentadores churros y dulce de leche. Feliz Bicentenario!
It took me precisely 35 seconds to ask my friend Tatiana to join me in celebrating the nation’s history, during which I would make peace with my fried and sugary nemesis. After all, who am I to sweep under the carpet what Susana would have wanted?
When last Thursday came around, I did not permit the tears to fall down my face as mis padres waved goodbye from their radio taxi window. I stood waving in my pink wellington boots and all of a sudden felt eighteen again. I was rapidly reminded of my first day at the University of Warwick. The fear of the unfamiliar took over as we were showed around Arthur Vick hall, my new home for the year of 2005. In fact, I recalled even begging my mother not to “leave me” there. For this, I mentally apologized to my mother and did not let the same immature sentiments leave my mind and exit my body via my mouth.
For an amazingly lengthy two weeks, I had turned into a tourist again and joined my mother and father on jolly jaunts around not only El Capital Federal, but also around the vast and diverse country of Argentina. A swift yet overdue escape to La Pampa had soothed my soul and re-kindled my amicable relationship with caballos, (or, horses). We trekked through acres upon acres of desolate and tranquil countryside on horseback which resembled nothing of my last riding experience - I was twelve and was paired with a rather sleepy, poncho-dressed North American horse named Lance. Lance and I were getting along perfectly well until he made the rash decision to gallop up a hill. I never forgave him, and recall walking the rest of the trail through that novel ranch in Massachusetts, turning my head to the side occasionally, only to glower at my chosen horse for his terrible choice. This year, at the ripe old age of 22, I was ready to put my differences with Lance aside and make friends with a new horse. Pelu, a beautiful cream-colored horse, was assigned to be mine for the weekend and we trotted along together, stopping occasionally (dare I say rather abruptly at times) to snatch a small bush from the soil to chew as we walked.
We soon bid farewell to our friends at Las Viboras, (also the ex-estancia of a rather important Argentine governor) and boarded a plane to the Cataratas, (or, waterfalls) of Iguazu where we met the same falls which, upon seeing in the early twentieth century, former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt exclaimed “Poor Niagara!” That plane trip, I was told a week later by one of my students, is “one of the most dangerous plane journeys you can take.” “Oh really?” I mumbled, in a tone which would make most people stop and move on to other less fatal conversation topics. “Yes. Really.” (N.B. most people except him that is…) He continued “Two years ago… In fact, it was probably last year. Maybe even this year… A plane on its way to Iguazu city crashed and fell into the falls.” I sat with my mouth open. The silence must have lasted about a minute (which, I will have you know is a long time sans-noise in MY English classes).
Shortly after my parents departed Buenos Aires, I decided to be kind to my body and digestive system by saying goodbye to my factura (or, pastry) friends and all the fresh pastas and pizzas of the city. It was as if, after two full weeks of lavish and at times rather counter-productive feasting, all the enzymes in my stomach were chanting “No more baked goods! No more baked goods!” I decided to listen to my inner-enzyme-voice and treat my stomach with only fresh vegetables and proteins. Unfortunately for myself and my inherent lack of willpower, the bicentenario celebrations fell out of the sky and into my sight, particularly in the form of “the most patriotic and typical food you can eat on the long bicentenario weekend “ (said, another student of mine, who I will thank later for upsetting my enzymes), also known as churros. Oh yes, and don’t forget the bucket of chocolate caliente (or, hot chocolate) that is served along side these fried-dough twists, which (only in Argentina) are filled with heavenly Dulce de Leche.
I promptly purchased my monthly Susana magazine in an attempt to distract my sweet tooth from such devilish fried pastry endeavors. Susana, is the young and popular media creation of Argentina’s it-woman, Susana Gimenez. I happen to love her, if not for her fabulous figure, explicit botox work and fashion sense, but for her pursuit and publication of feminist-related feature stories that can be found immediately after the magazine’s monthly fashion pages, filled with clothes, shoes and accessories, all modeled only by...herself. To my utter dismay, as I turned to the Susana Cocina (or, kitchen) section, in hope of finding new light and fresh dishes that only the Susanas of the world could provide me with, I came face-to-face with a photograph of my Hispanic doughnut nemesis, and a “quick and easy recipe” alongside it . To add insult to injury, Susana mockingly wrote:
Para un verdadero festejo del 25 de Mayo, no puede faltar un tradicional ritual argentino: una taza de espumante de chocolate caliente acompañada por unos tentadores churros y dulce de leche. Feliz Bicentenario!
It took me precisely 35 seconds to ask my friend Tatiana to join me in celebrating the nation’s history, during which I would make peace with my fried and sugary nemesis. After all, who am I to sweep under the carpet what Susana would have wanted?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Ghosts of Monserrat – Emotion and Over-Due Justice for Thousands of Argentineans
Business and social life go on as usual in autumnal Buenos Aires. The dog walkers pace, the telephones ring, the cafes fill with coffee-fiends and mothers drag children to school in their starched uniforms. However, a very unfamiliar chill swept through the city this week and not only signified the changing of the seasons, but the changing too of the lives of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, as the gavel of justice hit its stand with a loud bang on Tuesday, the 20th of April, 2010. The piercing sound exceeded the walls of the old gymnasium in Buenos Aires where a “makeshift” courtroom had been set up to try the criminals of the “The Dirty War”; a label, used only by foreigners, affirmed ex-militante popular Rolando Lapidus, over a late Argentinean dinner on Monday. “If I go and attack that person on the street”, he commented as he pointed out of the window towards a pedestrian, “it is not war. It is terrorism.” He continued, “What began in Argentina in 1976 was not a war. It was state enforced terrorism.”
On Monday morning at precisely 9am, I trekked back down the long road “Chile” on my way to the subte (or, underground). Recovering from the astonishingly early English lesson I had just delivered in the Montserrat home of one of my students, I walked slowly, looking at the pavement as I walked, trying desperately to wake-up and pull myself together after the anything-but-restful weekend I had just experienced – that weekend which had, unfortunately for myself and all those other Monday-haters out there, abruptly terminated to the obnoxious tone of an alarm clock. As I walked I gazed at the recently washed pavement stones, wondering to myself why people seem to be fond of washing the pavement outside their house or building every morning with washing-up liquid. Suddenly, I woke up as I came to a dramatic halt outside of Chile 850. Three pavement stones had been covered over with heavy scarlet colored plaques. The plaques frowned up at me as I bent over them to read their inscriptions:
Aqui vivió Susana Elena Pedrini
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Jose Daniel Bronzel
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Cecilia Podolsky
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Upon reading, I paused, horrified as I realized the plaques honored three of approximately 30 000 men, women and children abducted, tortured and more often than not killed during the military dictatorship of 1976-1983. Here I stood, outside Chile 850, where 34 years ago, three innocents were snatched and “disappeared” and now live only as memories of Argentina’s macabre past. A past still so fresh, that a certain hesitance in many is still prevalent when asked to discuss and evaluate what happened behind closed doors over three decades ago. After five minutes of staring I was pushed out of the way by a mad dash of brief cases: “Permiso,” “Cuidate eh!” and “Ay, por favor!” were some of the exclamations I heard from busy civilians on their way to work. For many of these busy business men and women, I could only assume that this was a regular route. A route which involves plowing down Chile and stepping over a morose part of their nation’s contemporary history.
I eventually went on my way, however felt somewhat heavier and more down-trodden than I had been upon leaving my student’s hogar, or home. I threw myself into research as soon as I reached my house on Hipolito Yrigogen and my spirits were obviously not lifted as I ploughed through page upon page of “desaparecidos.” Backgrounds and professions separated them, but their abduction, torture and assassination meant that they all shared a common denominator. The desaparecidos were sent to a number of hidden locations and work camps where they all faced their fate as those brave enough to oppose state evoked censorship, violence and terrorism.
I quickly came across the names of those “desaparecidos” who I envision every time I make my way down La Avenida Chile. Jose Daniel Bronzel and his wife Susana Elena Pedrini, both aged twenty-eight, were forced from their home on the thirteenth of July, 1976. Cecilia Podolsky de Bronzel, Jose Daniel’s mother, aged 51, was also abducted on that morbid Tuesday in el Gran Capital. Jose Daniel and Susana were both architects and professors at La Universidad de Buenos Ares. When the three were taken, Susana was one and a half months pregnant. The amount of information on the trio was limited, however the desaparecidos database affirmed that their lives were taken on the twentieth of August, 1976 in “La Masacre de Fatima.” Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia were three of thirty illegally-detained prisoners who were drugged and shot by two Argentine police officers in the Buenos Aires province of Fatima. Those culpable for this massacre were sentenced to life imprisonment on the eleventh of July, 2008.
This week, the last military president of Argentina’s darkest period was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Reynaldo Benito Bignone, aged 82 sat solemnly in court as he and six other former military officials and police officers were tried for the torture and murder of a vast number of innocents. As the trial went on, the audience sat watching, the vast majority of whom held up pictures of their friends and family members who had been disappeared during Bignone’s reign. An eerie silence and strong-willed persistence oozed from the spectator section of the courtroom. Bignone was not present during the sentencing, but those who held pictures of their loved ones cried out as justice rang through the old gymnasium, almost three decades after those closest to them had been taken. I could not help but think of Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia as I watched the dramatic scenes of the trial on the television. For Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia who died under the rule of Videla, and for the thousands of families still grieving, I quietly thanked the judge whose gavel, that day brought relief to thousands.
On Monday morning at precisely 9am, I trekked back down the long road “Chile” on my way to the subte (or, underground). Recovering from the astonishingly early English lesson I had just delivered in the Montserrat home of one of my students, I walked slowly, looking at the pavement as I walked, trying desperately to wake-up and pull myself together after the anything-but-restful weekend I had just experienced – that weekend which had, unfortunately for myself and all those other Monday-haters out there, abruptly terminated to the obnoxious tone of an alarm clock. As I walked I gazed at the recently washed pavement stones, wondering to myself why people seem to be fond of washing the pavement outside their house or building every morning with washing-up liquid. Suddenly, I woke up as I came to a dramatic halt outside of Chile 850. Three pavement stones had been covered over with heavy scarlet colored plaques. The plaques frowned up at me as I bent over them to read their inscriptions:
Aqui vivió Susana Elena Pedrini
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Jose Daniel Bronzel
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Cecilia Podolsky
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Upon reading, I paused, horrified as I realized the plaques honored three of approximately 30 000 men, women and children abducted, tortured and more often than not killed during the military dictatorship of 1976-1983. Here I stood, outside Chile 850, where 34 years ago, three innocents were snatched and “disappeared” and now live only as memories of Argentina’s macabre past. A past still so fresh, that a certain hesitance in many is still prevalent when asked to discuss and evaluate what happened behind closed doors over three decades ago. After five minutes of staring I was pushed out of the way by a mad dash of brief cases: “Permiso,” “Cuidate eh!” and “Ay, por favor!” were some of the exclamations I heard from busy civilians on their way to work. For many of these busy business men and women, I could only assume that this was a regular route. A route which involves plowing down Chile and stepping over a morose part of their nation’s contemporary history.
I eventually went on my way, however felt somewhat heavier and more down-trodden than I had been upon leaving my student’s hogar, or home. I threw myself into research as soon as I reached my house on Hipolito Yrigogen and my spirits were obviously not lifted as I ploughed through page upon page of “desaparecidos.” Backgrounds and professions separated them, but their abduction, torture and assassination meant that they all shared a common denominator. The desaparecidos were sent to a number of hidden locations and work camps where they all faced their fate as those brave enough to oppose state evoked censorship, violence and terrorism.
I quickly came across the names of those “desaparecidos” who I envision every time I make my way down La Avenida Chile. Jose Daniel Bronzel and his wife Susana Elena Pedrini, both aged twenty-eight, were forced from their home on the thirteenth of July, 1976. Cecilia Podolsky de Bronzel, Jose Daniel’s mother, aged 51, was also abducted on that morbid Tuesday in el Gran Capital. Jose Daniel and Susana were both architects and professors at La Universidad de Buenos Ares. When the three were taken, Susana was one and a half months pregnant. The amount of information on the trio was limited, however the desaparecidos database affirmed that their lives were taken on the twentieth of August, 1976 in “La Masacre de Fatima.” Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia were three of thirty illegally-detained prisoners who were drugged and shot by two Argentine police officers in the Buenos Aires province of Fatima. Those culpable for this massacre were sentenced to life imprisonment on the eleventh of July, 2008.
This week, the last military president of Argentina’s darkest period was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Reynaldo Benito Bignone, aged 82 sat solemnly in court as he and six other former military officials and police officers were tried for the torture and murder of a vast number of innocents. As the trial went on, the audience sat watching, the vast majority of whom held up pictures of their friends and family members who had been disappeared during Bignone’s reign. An eerie silence and strong-willed persistence oozed from the spectator section of the courtroom. Bignone was not present during the sentencing, but those who held pictures of their loved ones cried out as justice rang through the old gymnasium, almost three decades after those closest to them had been taken. I could not help but think of Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia as I watched the dramatic scenes of the trial on the television. For Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia who died under the rule of Videla, and for the thousands of families still grieving, I quietly thanked the judge whose gavel, that day brought relief to thousands.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Passion and the Parilla: Replacing Sleep with Meat, Pronunciation and Charlas
My lack of publishing in the last several weeks can be blamed upon long bus rides, an ever-increasing teaching schedule and our continuing quest for the best parilla (or, barbeque restaurant) in Buenos Aires. These factors, amongst other things have kept us as busy as bees ever since we said farewell to CELTA and entered the real world of trabajo (or, work) in the Paris of the South. A slow week of job hunting post-course gave us time to disfrutar (or, enjoy) what we had been missing in that month of teaching preparation. I greeted Castellano with open arms and began throwing myself back into conversations with locals and newly-made porteño friends. A night well-spent preparing empanadas with a wonderful Argentinean friend and her family would set high standards for the rest of our stay here in Buenos Aires. After all, what could possibly be better than an evening overflowing with empanadas de Jamon y Queso, wonderful wine and delightful company in a beautiful family house tucked neatly behind the hustle and bustle of Avenida Rivadavia?
As I write, families rush to and from the fishmongers, the bakery and the fruit and vegetable stand to complete the final touches for a well-deserved Easter weekend. When they first arrived on the shelves in the supermarkets, the mountains of huevos de chocolate (or, chocolate eggs) made me somewhat nostalgic for home and Easter egg hunts held in the garden when I was ten. The build up to this weekend, has been, in very colloquial terms, “a long time coming.” In the past three weeks, I have been exposed to the "real" city of Buenos Aires and have come to know “un monton” (or, a lot) of wonderful individuals. As everyone is unique, each student of mine has different reasons for wanting to learn or study English. Some are starting from scratch or topping up their prior knowledge of the language, whilst others are re-visiting an idiom that was left behind at the school gates almost twenty years ago. An objective which, perhaps was my favorite of the pile, was explained to me over a mate (or, Argentine herbal tea) sitting around the kitchen table in a family home in Parque Chacabuco.
On a regular Tuesday morning, I received a call from my employer informing me that I had a new student, an eleven year old nena (or, girl). “This will be a challenge,” I thought to myself as I duly noted the contact details down with a poor excuse for a ball-point pen. Since packing my bags and heading toward the path of teaching, I had been meeting new students who were only above the age of 20. Therefore, I was excited to see the difference in the approach to learning in this little one. I arrived at the front door and was greeted by a smiling mother and daughter who ushered me in to the dimly-lit kitchen where a man who I could only assume was the father of the family was seated, sipping on a mate, waiting to give me the facts in regards to what he wanted for his daughter out of such lessons. Naturally, the conversation was conducted solely in Castellano and so I grasped in the air for words to present myself as a confident, knowledgeable English teacher. As my new student sat, beaming away, watching my every move, her father delved into his (what I could only assume was a pre-pared) speech about what he needed to see as a result of paying me a monthly fee. We chatted, and I learnt about his biggest pet-peeve “in life,” as he labeled it. “In life, there is nothing worse than an Argentine speaking English,” he stated. I laughed nervously, and asked him to elaborate as I was not sure if I had heard him correctly. “Speaking English is one thing. Speaking English in an Argentinean accent is another.” He proceeded to explain to me that he wanted his daughter to have an accent like mine and so if this goal was not achieved, we would have to come together and discuss matters again. I nodded solemnly and in the corner of my eye saw my little student mirroring my nodding action. An hour later, I took my leave of the family home in Chacabuco and began to rack my brains for ways around the inevitable presence of a thick Argentinean accent in my little student.
7am starts would not deter us from immersing ourselves in Argentine dinner culture (which, I must add never really “takes off” before 11pm). The boyfriend of that same afore mentioned Argentinean friend offered to take us out to what he referred to as “the best Parilla in the city.” As we arranged our feast over the phone he promised us that we would eat early, as after all, our teaching hours did not correspond well with the Buenos Aires nightlife. As 11pm rolled around, we were still sat enjoying charlas with his family in their apartment on Callao. I shamefully let the British in me shine through and requested that we make for the restaurant as time for sleep was gradually ticking away. We waited outside “La Cholita” for a table for three, which was heaving with patrons hungry for a quintessentially Argentinean dining experience. After fifteen minutes we were rushed to our table and before I knew it, we were sipping on Malbec and commencing our meal with a delectable provoletta (or, grilled provolone cheese topped with grilled onions, tomatoes and fresh olives). We doubtfully ordered the “Parilla for 2” from the vast menu and discussed for ten or fifteen minutes the fact that we had probably under-ordered. I therefore prepared myself for a mere sniff of steak as I sat looking at the two hungry boys in their early twenties on the opposite side of the dinner table. I then proceeded to eat my hat when a smorgasbord of meat nearly as long as the table was plopped in the centre by the frantic portena waiting on us and silently scolded myself for thinking that there would not be enough food for us all. An array of asado, bife de chorizo, chorizo, ojo de bife and sweet breads amongst other unidentifiable parts of the cow steamed in front of us as we tucked in to sample what we had been waiting for since our arrival on January 1st. Obviously a platter of meat and papas fritas of such a size takes time to consume, and so at 1am I gave up on the idea of sleep and called for another bottle of Malbec. After all, rushing home on a full stomach without taking the time to reflect upon what we had just devoured would have been very un-Argentinean.
As I write, families rush to and from the fishmongers, the bakery and the fruit and vegetable stand to complete the final touches for a well-deserved Easter weekend. When they first arrived on the shelves in the supermarkets, the mountains of huevos de chocolate (or, chocolate eggs) made me somewhat nostalgic for home and Easter egg hunts held in the garden when I was ten. The build up to this weekend, has been, in very colloquial terms, “a long time coming.” In the past three weeks, I have been exposed to the "real" city of Buenos Aires and have come to know “un monton” (or, a lot) of wonderful individuals. As everyone is unique, each student of mine has different reasons for wanting to learn or study English. Some are starting from scratch or topping up their prior knowledge of the language, whilst others are re-visiting an idiom that was left behind at the school gates almost twenty years ago. An objective which, perhaps was my favorite of the pile, was explained to me over a mate (or, Argentine herbal tea) sitting around the kitchen table in a family home in Parque Chacabuco.
On a regular Tuesday morning, I received a call from my employer informing me that I had a new student, an eleven year old nena (or, girl). “This will be a challenge,” I thought to myself as I duly noted the contact details down with a poor excuse for a ball-point pen. Since packing my bags and heading toward the path of teaching, I had been meeting new students who were only above the age of 20. Therefore, I was excited to see the difference in the approach to learning in this little one. I arrived at the front door and was greeted by a smiling mother and daughter who ushered me in to the dimly-lit kitchen where a man who I could only assume was the father of the family was seated, sipping on a mate, waiting to give me the facts in regards to what he wanted for his daughter out of such lessons. Naturally, the conversation was conducted solely in Castellano and so I grasped in the air for words to present myself as a confident, knowledgeable English teacher. As my new student sat, beaming away, watching my every move, her father delved into his (what I could only assume was a pre-pared) speech about what he needed to see as a result of paying me a monthly fee. We chatted, and I learnt about his biggest pet-peeve “in life,” as he labeled it. “In life, there is nothing worse than an Argentine speaking English,” he stated. I laughed nervously, and asked him to elaborate as I was not sure if I had heard him correctly. “Speaking English is one thing. Speaking English in an Argentinean accent is another.” He proceeded to explain to me that he wanted his daughter to have an accent like mine and so if this goal was not achieved, we would have to come together and discuss matters again. I nodded solemnly and in the corner of my eye saw my little student mirroring my nodding action. An hour later, I took my leave of the family home in Chacabuco and began to rack my brains for ways around the inevitable presence of a thick Argentinean accent in my little student.
7am starts would not deter us from immersing ourselves in Argentine dinner culture (which, I must add never really “takes off” before 11pm). The boyfriend of that same afore mentioned Argentinean friend offered to take us out to what he referred to as “the best Parilla in the city.” As we arranged our feast over the phone he promised us that we would eat early, as after all, our teaching hours did not correspond well with the Buenos Aires nightlife. As 11pm rolled around, we were still sat enjoying charlas with his family in their apartment on Callao. I shamefully let the British in me shine through and requested that we make for the restaurant as time for sleep was gradually ticking away. We waited outside “La Cholita” for a table for three, which was heaving with patrons hungry for a quintessentially Argentinean dining experience. After fifteen minutes we were rushed to our table and before I knew it, we were sipping on Malbec and commencing our meal with a delectable provoletta (or, grilled provolone cheese topped with grilled onions, tomatoes and fresh olives). We doubtfully ordered the “Parilla for 2” from the vast menu and discussed for ten or fifteen minutes the fact that we had probably under-ordered. I therefore prepared myself for a mere sniff of steak as I sat looking at the two hungry boys in their early twenties on the opposite side of the dinner table. I then proceeded to eat my hat when a smorgasbord of meat nearly as long as the table was plopped in the centre by the frantic portena waiting on us and silently scolded myself for thinking that there would not be enough food for us all. An array of asado, bife de chorizo, chorizo, ojo de bife and sweet breads amongst other unidentifiable parts of the cow steamed in front of us as we tucked in to sample what we had been waiting for since our arrival on January 1st. Obviously a platter of meat and papas fritas of such a size takes time to consume, and so at 1am I gave up on the idea of sleep and called for another bottle of Malbec. After all, rushing home on a full stomach without taking the time to reflect upon what we had just devoured would have been very un-Argentinean.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
“Farewell CELTA, hello Buenos Aires.” Reclaiming the Right to Explore the City.
As the month of February drew to a close, there appeared a light at the end of the tunnel – the CELTA tunnel, that is. For as we drew nearer to the end of our studies as celtees, we started to, once again, dream about adventures in el Gran Capital. We said goodbye to our ever enthusiastic Argentine students and embarked on our first proper evening in Buenos Aires as CELTA graduates. It didn’t take more than two or three cervezas in our Diaz Velez abode to realize that celtees enjoy a fiesta too and we traipsed on at 3 am to enjoy unlimited champagne (the finest that the bottom shelf has to offer, might I add) at “Amerika,” an outrageous night spot in the heart of Abasto.
Suddenly, the weekend seemed endless, and completely free of lesson-plans and grammar analysis. For this, I immediately turned to my trusty guidebook and took on the role as inquisitive tourist once more. First on the list (an essential activity to start off a Sunday in proper Buenos Aires fashion) was a charming brunch at Parisian style café “Oui Oui” in the heart of leafy Palermo. We simply could not resist its reviews and devotedly waited in line for a petite and somewhat rickety wooden table. Twenty minutes later, we had a mesa and gushed over the brunch menu, quickly deciding on Croque Madames and eggs with smoked salmon. We chomped through our food somewhat hurriedly after what we received what we believed to be a few stern glances from the manager. Perhaps we had taken brunch to a new leisurely extreme – the line to sit at one of these exclusive tables, after all, had grown several metres as we sipped on our cortados and told stories of CELTA horrors past.
Full from a lavish brunch, we sauntered onwards to San Telmo, the oldest barrio of Buenos Aires. Famous for its antique fairs and tango parlors, San Telmo was no disappointment on that last Sunday of February. As we turned onto Defensa, the adoquines (or, cobblestones) were lined with stall upon stall of quintessentially Argentine handicrafts. Somewhere in the midst of the Sunday feria, we found Mafalda sitting on a bench, watching the passers-by. Mafalda, created in 1964 by Joaquín Salvador Lavado (or, Quino, as he is more fondly known) is Argentina’s most famous comic strip. The character of Mafalda who appeared for the first time in 1964 in a local newspaper, is five years of age and in her stories is consistently preoccupied with world peace and humanity. A little rebel, she charmed the entire country and has remained one of the most printed characters in Argentina for over fifty years. I, of course, rushed to buy Mafalda books upon arriving in Argentina as a means of improving my Castellano and was shocked to find that the level of the language was anything but basic. Lesson learnt? Never underestimate a five year old, particularly not this one whose words and sentiments are often packed full of underlying meanings and morals. I thanked Mafalda (or, a sculpture of her, at least) for her complexity and wit in person as we posed for a photograph on that very bench in San Telmo.
The cultural endeavors were not left behind in San Telmo that Sunday. As a means of celebrating our move to a new departamento, we decided to dedicate the rest of the day to Eva Peron and the finest art of Buenos Aires. Again, we found ourselves on a little street in Palermo, in search of the building which once upon a time had housed unprivileged women and children, thanks to the efforts of La Fundacion Eva Peron. The building that had in 1948 been bought and restored for the use of the above mentioned women and children now houses all of what remains of Eva Peron’s belongings. Before even arriving in Argentina, my admiration for Eva Peron was immense. The second wife of President Juan Peron, she fought consistently for the rights of the working class (or, los descamisados) and those of the women of Argentina. She founded and ran the nation’s first ever publicly recognized female political party – “The Female Peronist Party.” As we passed through the beautiful historic home, my heart warmed a little as I glanced into the life and achievements of this amazing woman. As we read about Eva’s influence in female suffrage (implemented in Argentina in 1947), I couldn’t help but gawk at the suit which hung, framed, on the wall. That very suit was the one worn by Evita when she voted for the very first time. Beside the suit, the quotation read: “The nation's government has just handed me the bill that grants us our civil rights. I am receiving it before you, certain that I am accepting this on behalf of all Argentinean women, and I can feel my hands tremble with joy as they grasp the laurel proclaiming victory.”
Additionally, the museum gives great insight into the personal life of Eva Peron and highlights the romance between her and the Colonel. As we walked towards the exit I glanced upward and saw the following words floating in beautiful writing on the ceiling: “Mi dia maravilloso fue el dia en que mi vida coincidió con la vida de Peron.” She re-iterated that the Colonel “[fue] la razon de mi vida.”
Almost teary-eyed, we proceeded onwards to the museum of Bellas Artes on the never ending Avenida del Libertador, saluting ten or twelve different embassies along the way. El Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes is home to one of the most important collections in Latin America, and boasts not only an exceedingly impressive permanent collection of mostly external pieces, but also an entire floor of a mescla (or, mixture) of Argentinean paintings and sculptures. Again I said hello to my friend Alejandro Xul Solar, whose exceedingly abstract and at times cubist work took up a lot of wall space on the second floor. I apologized to his paintings for having not yet visited his house-turned-museum in Palermo and promised I would venture there soon. I tried to spend as long as could on the Argentine floor, however as a long-term student of the gothic genre, I couldn’t help but gush over the dibujos of Spaniard Francisco Goya which were neatly tucked away in the “foreign” section of the museum. His series of “Los Caprichos” oozed with dark uncertainty and I was once again reminded of his signature piece which inspired my continuing research into the nature of the gothic: “El sueño de la razón engendra monstrous.” The next morning, however, I hastily put my gothic cap away in the cupboard having suffered a terrible night’s sleep filled with monsters and masks.
Suddenly, the weekend seemed endless, and completely free of lesson-plans and grammar analysis. For this, I immediately turned to my trusty guidebook and took on the role as inquisitive tourist once more. First on the list (an essential activity to start off a Sunday in proper Buenos Aires fashion) was a charming brunch at Parisian style café “Oui Oui” in the heart of leafy Palermo. We simply could not resist its reviews and devotedly waited in line for a petite and somewhat rickety wooden table. Twenty minutes later, we had a mesa and gushed over the brunch menu, quickly deciding on Croque Madames and eggs with smoked salmon. We chomped through our food somewhat hurriedly after what we received what we believed to be a few stern glances from the manager. Perhaps we had taken brunch to a new leisurely extreme – the line to sit at one of these exclusive tables, after all, had grown several metres as we sipped on our cortados and told stories of CELTA horrors past.
Full from a lavish brunch, we sauntered onwards to San Telmo, the oldest barrio of Buenos Aires. Famous for its antique fairs and tango parlors, San Telmo was no disappointment on that last Sunday of February. As we turned onto Defensa, the adoquines (or, cobblestones) were lined with stall upon stall of quintessentially Argentine handicrafts. Somewhere in the midst of the Sunday feria, we found Mafalda sitting on a bench, watching the passers-by. Mafalda, created in 1964 by Joaquín Salvador Lavado (or, Quino, as he is more fondly known) is Argentina’s most famous comic strip. The character of Mafalda who appeared for the first time in 1964 in a local newspaper, is five years of age and in her stories is consistently preoccupied with world peace and humanity. A little rebel, she charmed the entire country and has remained one of the most printed characters in Argentina for over fifty years. I, of course, rushed to buy Mafalda books upon arriving in Argentina as a means of improving my Castellano and was shocked to find that the level of the language was anything but basic. Lesson learnt? Never underestimate a five year old, particularly not this one whose words and sentiments are often packed full of underlying meanings and morals. I thanked Mafalda (or, a sculpture of her, at least) for her complexity and wit in person as we posed for a photograph on that very bench in San Telmo.
The cultural endeavors were not left behind in San Telmo that Sunday. As a means of celebrating our move to a new departamento, we decided to dedicate the rest of the day to Eva Peron and the finest art of Buenos Aires. Again, we found ourselves on a little street in Palermo, in search of the building which once upon a time had housed unprivileged women and children, thanks to the efforts of La Fundacion Eva Peron. The building that had in 1948 been bought and restored for the use of the above mentioned women and children now houses all of what remains of Eva Peron’s belongings. Before even arriving in Argentina, my admiration for Eva Peron was immense. The second wife of President Juan Peron, she fought consistently for the rights of the working class (or, los descamisados) and those of the women of Argentina. She founded and ran the nation’s first ever publicly recognized female political party – “The Female Peronist Party.” As we passed through the beautiful historic home, my heart warmed a little as I glanced into the life and achievements of this amazing woman. As we read about Eva’s influence in female suffrage (implemented in Argentina in 1947), I couldn’t help but gawk at the suit which hung, framed, on the wall. That very suit was the one worn by Evita when she voted for the very first time. Beside the suit, the quotation read: “The nation's government has just handed me the bill that grants us our civil rights. I am receiving it before you, certain that I am accepting this on behalf of all Argentinean women, and I can feel my hands tremble with joy as they grasp the laurel proclaiming victory.”
Additionally, the museum gives great insight into the personal life of Eva Peron and highlights the romance between her and the Colonel. As we walked towards the exit I glanced upward and saw the following words floating in beautiful writing on the ceiling: “Mi dia maravilloso fue el dia en que mi vida coincidió con la vida de Peron.” She re-iterated that the Colonel “[fue] la razon de mi vida.”
Almost teary-eyed, we proceeded onwards to the museum of Bellas Artes on the never ending Avenida del Libertador, saluting ten or twelve different embassies along the way. El Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes is home to one of the most important collections in Latin America, and boasts not only an exceedingly impressive permanent collection of mostly external pieces, but also an entire floor of a mescla (or, mixture) of Argentinean paintings and sculptures. Again I said hello to my friend Alejandro Xul Solar, whose exceedingly abstract and at times cubist work took up a lot of wall space on the second floor. I apologized to his paintings for having not yet visited his house-turned-museum in Palermo and promised I would venture there soon. I tried to spend as long as could on the Argentine floor, however as a long-term student of the gothic genre, I couldn’t help but gush over the dibujos of Spaniard Francisco Goya which were neatly tucked away in the “foreign” section of the museum. His series of “Los Caprichos” oozed with dark uncertainty and I was once again reminded of his signature piece which inspired my continuing research into the nature of the gothic: “El sueño de la razón engendra monstrous.” The next morning, however, I hastily put my gothic cap away in the cupboard having suffered a terrible night’s sleep filled with monsters and masks.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
“And how would you say that in English?” – Banning Spanish Amongst Argentinians and Other Ironies
Two weeks into our CELTA course (Certificate in English Language Teaching to Adults), days we had once spent in a quintessentially Latin way (in art galleries, cafes and chatting en español), were now undeniably things of the distant past. We quickly re-adjusted our body-clocks as we started rising at ungodly hours of the morning each day. The colectivo, believe it or not, is not a traveler’s friend, especially not during rush hours. For at least a week I was not quite sure which I feared more: standing up to teach a group of non-English speakers, or the inevitable act of fighting my way on to the colectivo (or, bus) every morning. Unlike the reserved, somewhat orderly nature of the characteristically British double-decker, the colectivos of Buenos Aires demand ruthlessness in all of their passengers; a sort of ruthlessness one would need in times of a food-shortage, to ensure he or she gets a fair share of the nation’s rations during this critical time. For this, two weeks into our CELTA course we are now physically stronger (or perhaps just more apt to brutish behavior).
Back in Park-Avenue-esque Belgrano, it did not take more than two days to slip back into the ways of the western world, conversing and learning in English once more, whilst desperately trying to keep hold of my Castellano. However, once accustomed to the new teaching environment I found myself in on that first day of February, I worried less about my Spanish and allocated a particular box in my brain to store my rioplatense. Another [over-sized] box in my brain would be saved for my British English – a language I realized I actually knew very little about (note: just because one has spoken a particular language all of his or her life, this does not mean he or she knows how to use it correctly). Upon my arrival at the petite Cambridge University haven in an office building in this part of the city, I discovered my fate for the next two weeks: I would be teaching a group of Elementary English learners. My instinct reaction was one of fear: "How were elementary learners to understand me, if I couldn’t even understand myself most of the time?" The question was quickly answered with the skill of “language grading,” or, the art of simplifying your own language. Language grading (once grasped) was something so effective for myself and my fellow Celtees, that we soon found ourselves grading our language with each other, and talking in over-simplified phrases – a phase we were told would “pass soon.”
We met our prospective students on the second day of the course and I was delighted to come face-to-face with a charming mescla (or, mixture) of ages, (from early 20s to mid 70s), professions (from pianists to architects), and yet all sharing the common denominator of Latin loveliness. Moments where there exists a breakdown in communication are inevitable and at times unavoidable in any teaching environment, however this is something which takes place on a daily basis in the CELTA classroom, as the “No Spanish” rule is, after all, heavily enforced at all times. Despite this, the students were consistently encouraging as each Celtee took his or her place at the front of the classroom (red, black and blue pens tightly in hand). We were however, quickly brought back down to earth and reminded that applause after each lesson is not something that we should expect in “the real world.”
Aside from forming new relationships with students in a purely English setting, we took the time this week to drag out our daily trips to the local shops and cafes, just to keep hold of our friendship with the Spanish language. Daily strolls past the kiosk three or four doors down from our sitio turned into lengthy conversations with the owner about the economy and his three-legged husky “Milagros” (or, miracle) who spends her days hopping from cool tile to tile, just to keep from over-heating in the powerful Argentine sun. Trips to the bakery for one loaf of bread turned into ten or fifteen minute tutorials about the entire shop’s stock of different Argentine breads and cakes, just so we could have a charla (or, chat) in Spanish.
El dia de los enamorados provided us with a perfect opportunity to do something traditional of Buenos Aires and permitted us to enjoy fine dining at Las Violetas, the second oldest café in the country. Located in the heart of Almagro, Las Violetas was initially built as a coffee house and then quickly expanded to become a full restaurant, with golden chandeliers and marble staircases. Opened in 1884, the café boasted Carlos Pellegrini as one of its first patrons, who at the time was the future president of Argentina. On that day in September, Pellegrini was accompanied by many of his distinguished friends: a mixture of artists, politicians and intellectuals, all arriving in state of the art streetcars to sample the delectable coffee and cakes on offer. Over the years, Las Violetas has maintained a similar clientele to that of Café Tortoni, which is located on the grandiose street of 25 de Mayo. The building’s Tiffany-esque stained glass windows (a more recent addition to the building) add to the restaurant’s elegance. On this note, be sure to sip the complimentary before and after dinner-drinks in a leisurely fashion: the stairs to the aesthetically pleasing ladies room are, after all, exceptionally narrow.
Back in Park-Avenue-esque Belgrano, it did not take more than two days to slip back into the ways of the western world, conversing and learning in English once more, whilst desperately trying to keep hold of my Castellano. However, once accustomed to the new teaching environment I found myself in on that first day of February, I worried less about my Spanish and allocated a particular box in my brain to store my rioplatense. Another [over-sized] box in my brain would be saved for my British English – a language I realized I actually knew very little about (note: just because one has spoken a particular language all of his or her life, this does not mean he or she knows how to use it correctly). Upon my arrival at the petite Cambridge University haven in an office building in this part of the city, I discovered my fate for the next two weeks: I would be teaching a group of Elementary English learners. My instinct reaction was one of fear: "How were elementary learners to understand me, if I couldn’t even understand myself most of the time?" The question was quickly answered with the skill of “language grading,” or, the art of simplifying your own language. Language grading (once grasped) was something so effective for myself and my fellow Celtees, that we soon found ourselves grading our language with each other, and talking in over-simplified phrases – a phase we were told would “pass soon.”
We met our prospective students on the second day of the course and I was delighted to come face-to-face with a charming mescla (or, mixture) of ages, (from early 20s to mid 70s), professions (from pianists to architects), and yet all sharing the common denominator of Latin loveliness. Moments where there exists a breakdown in communication are inevitable and at times unavoidable in any teaching environment, however this is something which takes place on a daily basis in the CELTA classroom, as the “No Spanish” rule is, after all, heavily enforced at all times. Despite this, the students were consistently encouraging as each Celtee took his or her place at the front of the classroom (red, black and blue pens tightly in hand). We were however, quickly brought back down to earth and reminded that applause after each lesson is not something that we should expect in “the real world.”
Aside from forming new relationships with students in a purely English setting, we took the time this week to drag out our daily trips to the local shops and cafes, just to keep hold of our friendship with the Spanish language. Daily strolls past the kiosk three or four doors down from our sitio turned into lengthy conversations with the owner about the economy and his three-legged husky “Milagros” (or, miracle) who spends her days hopping from cool tile to tile, just to keep from over-heating in the powerful Argentine sun. Trips to the bakery for one loaf of bread turned into ten or fifteen minute tutorials about the entire shop’s stock of different Argentine breads and cakes, just so we could have a charla (or, chat) in Spanish.
El dia de los enamorados provided us with a perfect opportunity to do something traditional of Buenos Aires and permitted us to enjoy fine dining at Las Violetas, the second oldest café in the country. Located in the heart of Almagro, Las Violetas was initially built as a coffee house and then quickly expanded to become a full restaurant, with golden chandeliers and marble staircases. Opened in 1884, the café boasted Carlos Pellegrini as one of its first patrons, who at the time was the future president of Argentina. On that day in September, Pellegrini was accompanied by many of his distinguished friends: a mixture of artists, politicians and intellectuals, all arriving in state of the art streetcars to sample the delectable coffee and cakes on offer. Over the years, Las Violetas has maintained a similar clientele to that of Café Tortoni, which is located on the grandiose street of 25 de Mayo. The building’s Tiffany-esque stained glass windows (a more recent addition to the building) add to the restaurant’s elegance. On this note, be sure to sip the complimentary before and after dinner-drinks in a leisurely fashion: the stairs to the aesthetically pleasing ladies room are, after all, exceptionally narrow.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday's and a Milonga – Reaching a Bi-Cultural Equilibrium
The end of the week left a bittersweet taste in my mouth. Not only did it mean we were we to say goodbye to our compañeros at La Universidad de Buenos Aires, but it also meant we were destined to be thrown back into the torrential sea of the English language, or, in other words, begin our CELTA course (Certificate in English Language Teaching to Adults). A month well spent in intensive Castellano was soon to be jeopardized by the new bubble of native English speakers and teachers that we were to enter on Monday morning, at precisely nine o’clock. However, we decided to put off this thought for another few hours and enjoy our authentically Argentine surroundings for a “ratito” (or, a little while) more.
Now a keen user of not only the past tense, but the “pluscuamperfecto” and “imperativo” too, I went into our final exam beaming, ever so slightly due to the genuine Spanish practice I had done with the Porteño of our building and his wife the night before. As we meandered back home around eleven o’clock at night on Monday (which, N.B. is far too early an hour to be on your way home in Buenos Aires), we encountered the kind Julio and his esposa conversing outside our apartment building on Diaz Velez, enjoying the night-time breeze with their dog, Oliver. I was to thank one glass of wine too many for my fluid conversation and carefree attitude as we spoke of tango, the Spanish language and Patagonia – the distant home of Julio’s wife. However, it was at this moment that something clicked. Perhaps it was my conscience reminding me to drink water to avoid a headache the next morning, but I prefer to think it was the sound of a language-barrier snapping in half and falling to the curb.
Over the past few weeks, I had somewhat relished in the enthusiasm of my classmates at UBA. A charming group made up of nine Brazilians, one American, one Russian, one Italian and myself, we had all come together to solve the puzzle of Castellano, and had slapped it in the face by making after-class excursions to different drinking holes, historical sites and asado venues – the whole time bashing it around in conversation. It was on one of these after-class adventures that two Brazilian members of Nivel 3 had decided upon TGIF’s (or, Thank God It’s Friday’s). Until this moment, I was unaware of the vast North American chain’s presence in [quintessentially Latin] Buenos Aires. And in this moment, perhaps I wished I was still unaware of its existence here in South America. However, I plodded along with the rest of the troops, as we marched our way down the picturesque Puerto Madero Waterfront, which takes up a considerable segment of the Rio de La Plata riverbank with its modern bars, restaurants and never-ending footpath. As we piled into the restaurant the air-conditioning hit me like a wet-fish to the face and I spotted those large hat-wearing waitresses, famous all over the United States for their flair and permanently happy grins. I honestly did not know quite what to do with myself, and felt as if I were, somehow, cheating on Buenos Aires and its inherently Latin culture. “Why are you eating loaded potato skins and sipping on raspberry mojitos when you could be feasting upon empanadas and a cold chopp of Quilmes? How dare you…” My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress who wanted to know what drink I wanted next to qualify me for the “Two-for-One” happy hour special.
As we bid farewell to my classmates at the long red-and-white-checkered-table-cloth-covered-table, I knew I had to do something deeply Argentinean, to balance out the gargantuan Westernised cocktails I had just indulged in. My mind worked fast, and I was reminded of a Milonga (or, tango dancing event) taking place that very same night, in our barrio of Almagro. The subte ride was a whirlwind as I tried to contain myself: “Just a few more stops and we’ll be back in the depths of porteño culture,” I told myself, trying to push the image of deliciously disgusting fully-loaded nachos out of my head. Our stop arrived and I charged down Medrano, with Jesse, I hasten to say, six or seven paces behind me. With a puff of smoke we had found our way to Plaza de Almagro, where a large stage had been erected, and a hefty crowd stood around it, in a great circle. Listening to instructions, the crowd, I discovered, was taking part in a leisurely tango lesson, and each member was struggling to exercise his or her newly learnt moves in a huddle that got tighter and tighter by the minute, as each pareja desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the gallant tango teacher and his assistant. We quickly gave in to the fact that we were to be spectators and not partakers as claiming a stone of Plaza de Almagro now would be virtually impossible. However, the instructor soon thanked his voluntary students for their effort, and before we knew it, an area of the square had been cleared for a striking couple who demonstrated their dance moves of passion and torment to the sounds of Carlos Gardel booming on the speakers that had been temporarily dotted around for this free, cultural summertime event in the city.
As the Argentine couple, perfectly in time, twirled and pushed around the square, I was reminded of paintings I had seen on a day trip to La Boca, the old port of Buenos Aires. In the 1880s, the port had been an area of settlement particularly for immigrants from the Italian city of Genoa and much of its Italian flavor and fervor is still intact in its cobbled streets and Caminitos. As we walked down the rows of brightly painted houses, the pavements were lined with artists’ interpretations of La Boca and the tango that had given it so much of its passion and rawness as a barrio of the city. In La Plaza de Almagro, I had finally witnessed the nation’s dance which exceeded my expectations as the couple floated through the crowd – their leg flicks and kicks so quick that I attempted to not blink to be sure I would not miss a moment.
As we walked back to our departamento after the festivities, I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I had, in one night, reached an equilibrium between two cultures – that of the United States and that of Argentina. The fact that one culture had been explored through brightly colored cocktails and over-loaded plates of appetizers is neither here, nor there.
Now a keen user of not only the past tense, but the “pluscuamperfecto” and “imperativo” too, I went into our final exam beaming, ever so slightly due to the genuine Spanish practice I had done with the Porteño of our building and his wife the night before. As we meandered back home around eleven o’clock at night on Monday (which, N.B. is far too early an hour to be on your way home in Buenos Aires), we encountered the kind Julio and his esposa conversing outside our apartment building on Diaz Velez, enjoying the night-time breeze with their dog, Oliver. I was to thank one glass of wine too many for my fluid conversation and carefree attitude as we spoke of tango, the Spanish language and Patagonia – the distant home of Julio’s wife. However, it was at this moment that something clicked. Perhaps it was my conscience reminding me to drink water to avoid a headache the next morning, but I prefer to think it was the sound of a language-barrier snapping in half and falling to the curb.
Over the past few weeks, I had somewhat relished in the enthusiasm of my classmates at UBA. A charming group made up of nine Brazilians, one American, one Russian, one Italian and myself, we had all come together to solve the puzzle of Castellano, and had slapped it in the face by making after-class excursions to different drinking holes, historical sites and asado venues – the whole time bashing it around in conversation. It was on one of these after-class adventures that two Brazilian members of Nivel 3 had decided upon TGIF’s (or, Thank God It’s Friday’s). Until this moment, I was unaware of the vast North American chain’s presence in [quintessentially Latin] Buenos Aires. And in this moment, perhaps I wished I was still unaware of its existence here in South America. However, I plodded along with the rest of the troops, as we marched our way down the picturesque Puerto Madero Waterfront, which takes up a considerable segment of the Rio de La Plata riverbank with its modern bars, restaurants and never-ending footpath. As we piled into the restaurant the air-conditioning hit me like a wet-fish to the face and I spotted those large hat-wearing waitresses, famous all over the United States for their flair and permanently happy grins. I honestly did not know quite what to do with myself, and felt as if I were, somehow, cheating on Buenos Aires and its inherently Latin culture. “Why are you eating loaded potato skins and sipping on raspberry mojitos when you could be feasting upon empanadas and a cold chopp of Quilmes? How dare you…” My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress who wanted to know what drink I wanted next to qualify me for the “Two-for-One” happy hour special.
As we bid farewell to my classmates at the long red-and-white-checkered-table-cloth-covered-table, I knew I had to do something deeply Argentinean, to balance out the gargantuan Westernised cocktails I had just indulged in. My mind worked fast, and I was reminded of a Milonga (or, tango dancing event) taking place that very same night, in our barrio of Almagro. The subte ride was a whirlwind as I tried to contain myself: “Just a few more stops and we’ll be back in the depths of porteño culture,” I told myself, trying to push the image of deliciously disgusting fully-loaded nachos out of my head. Our stop arrived and I charged down Medrano, with Jesse, I hasten to say, six or seven paces behind me. With a puff of smoke we had found our way to Plaza de Almagro, where a large stage had been erected, and a hefty crowd stood around it, in a great circle. Listening to instructions, the crowd, I discovered, was taking part in a leisurely tango lesson, and each member was struggling to exercise his or her newly learnt moves in a huddle that got tighter and tighter by the minute, as each pareja desperately tried to catch a glimpse of the gallant tango teacher and his assistant. We quickly gave in to the fact that we were to be spectators and not partakers as claiming a stone of Plaza de Almagro now would be virtually impossible. However, the instructor soon thanked his voluntary students for their effort, and before we knew it, an area of the square had been cleared for a striking couple who demonstrated their dance moves of passion and torment to the sounds of Carlos Gardel booming on the speakers that had been temporarily dotted around for this free, cultural summertime event in the city.
As the Argentine couple, perfectly in time, twirled and pushed around the square, I was reminded of paintings I had seen on a day trip to La Boca, the old port of Buenos Aires. In the 1880s, the port had been an area of settlement particularly for immigrants from the Italian city of Genoa and much of its Italian flavor and fervor is still intact in its cobbled streets and Caminitos. As we walked down the rows of brightly painted houses, the pavements were lined with artists’ interpretations of La Boca and the tango that had given it so much of its passion and rawness as a barrio of the city. In La Plaza de Almagro, I had finally witnessed the nation’s dance which exceeded my expectations as the couple floated through the crowd – their leg flicks and kicks so quick that I attempted to not blink to be sure I would not miss a moment.
As we walked back to our departamento after the festivities, I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I had, in one night, reached an equilibrium between two cultures – that of the United States and that of Argentina. The fact that one culture had been explored through brightly colored cocktails and over-loaded plates of appetizers is neither here, nor there.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
“Vivir para Comer” – The Argentine Asado, Café Tortoni and Other Ways to Eat your Way Through Buenos Aires
It was mid-week when I finally realized why the vast number of food critics in the world today choose this profession. To venture to a new place, meander amongst the crowds and take in a few sights before working your way from restaurant to restaurant, market to market, bakery to bakery, almacen to almacen (the Spanish for small shop, often specializing in cold meats for sandwiches or “fiambres”) is quite a spectacular existence. Aside from, of course, working exceedingly hard at improving our Castellano skills, we have been taking the time to not only make new friends and take in our beautiful surroundings, but also to try the things most typical of a porteño diet.
It was just this week that we were invited to a typical Argentine Asado, or barbeque, at the house of a classmate of mine. The fact that he happens to be Brazilian himself changes nothing about the quintessentially Argentine feast that he hosted this past Tuesday evening. Together after class, the fifteen or fourteen of us avid Spanish students trooped back to charming Almagro, after pausing for a moment in front of La Casa Rosada to take a touristy, yet obligatory photo. Perhaps it was more of a “Before and After” exercise, because by the end of the evening I was certainly feeling the pinch of my waistband ever so slightly more than in that moment in front of the grandiose [pink] government building. Nevertheless, a grand time was had. Thanks to the husband of a classmate who happens to be a porteño, and thus knows how to work the Parilla (or, grill) particularly well, we feasted upon mounds of fresh chorizos, two or three different cuts of prime Argentine beef and a delectably grilled helping of Provolone cheese with herbs, which was by far some of the most amazing cheese I have ever tasted. In a delightfully informal manner, the group crowded around the large outdoor table, conversing in Castellano (wine in hand) and picked at the delicious dishes placed in the centre of la mesa, one after the other with plastic forks – the serious lack of plastic plates seemed to bother no one. After the event, I was informed however that it had been a fairly ‘tame’ version of an Argentine Asado, due to the fact that it ended close to the apparantly early hour of 11pm (the “Quilombo” we at this point had no idea we would host in our living room a few days later was quite the opposite).
As a sort of intermission between different types of Argentine cuisine, we decided to make an expedition to the MALBA – El Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires. Having heard so many good things about the grand white building on Avenida Figueroa Alcorta, we ventured there after class with two friends. The museum currently boasts a large and splendid exhibit of the vast majority of Andy Warhol’s most famous and acclaimed pieces. The exhibition which runs until February, entitled “Andy Warhol, Mr. America” wonderfully lays out the different stages that the Pennsylvanian went through in terms of his art, and how his views on the United States gradually developed. We meandered through his fascination with commercial items – the infamous Campbell’s Soup collection, on to his near obsession with the matter of death that he unveils in his Electric Chair series, then onto politics and his interest in the assassination of President Kennedy in 1963 and its somewhat excessive manifestation by the media. After this dark phase, Warhol once again picked up his enthusiasm for American products and advertisements using vivid colors and famous faces once more, illustrating his sentiments voiced to Glenn O’Brian in June of ’77:
Glenn O’Brian: Do you believe in the American Dream?
Andy Warhol: I don’t, but I think we can make some money out of it.
Viewing Warhol’s most important pieces [again] in Buenos Aires was a peculiar sensation, as on other floors of the Malba one is surrounded by the great works of classically Latin artists, such as two of Mexico’s greatest treasures Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, as well as Argentines Alejandro Xul Solar and Antonio Berni, to name but a few. However, after two or three hours, we left Mr. Warhol in drag at the door of the museum and moved on to explore more of the Paris of the South.
Being consistent with the week’s motif of cultural education, we joined the waiting line to enter El Gran Café Tortoni – the oldest and most talked-about (and inevitably, most written about) cafeteria in the whole of Argentina. Opened in 1858 by Frenchman Touan, the café has ever since been a hot-spot for renowned artists, intellectuals and politicians. I delighted in viewing the walls upon walls of framed photographs of Argentina’s most celebrated writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges along with the iconic face of Argentine Tango, Carlos Gardel, both sitting in Café Tortoni on many different occasions, sipping on cafecitos and snacking on freshly-made facturas. Located on the Parisian style boulevard of Avenida de Mayo, Tortoni is not only historically popular amongst Argentines. The café boasts Spanish playwright and poet Federico Garcia Lorca and the King of Spain as some of its other celebrity customers from years ago. Hilary Clinton was also spotted having a pleasant coffee break in the colonial style Café in 1997. This Thursday afternoon however, we paused there only briefly for a cafecito and a tostado (Argentine toasted sandwich) but it was long enough to take in the beautiful surroundings and ambience of one of Buenos Aires’ most charming and historical locations. The fact that Tortoni also hosts exceedingly popular Tango shows by night is perhaps an excuse to return in the not-too-distant future.
It was just this week that we were invited to a typical Argentine Asado, or barbeque, at the house of a classmate of mine. The fact that he happens to be Brazilian himself changes nothing about the quintessentially Argentine feast that he hosted this past Tuesday evening. Together after class, the fifteen or fourteen of us avid Spanish students trooped back to charming Almagro, after pausing for a moment in front of La Casa Rosada to take a touristy, yet obligatory photo. Perhaps it was more of a “Before and After” exercise, because by the end of the evening I was certainly feeling the pinch of my waistband ever so slightly more than in that moment in front of the grandiose [pink] government building. Nevertheless, a grand time was had. Thanks to the husband of a classmate who happens to be a porteño, and thus knows how to work the Parilla (or, grill) particularly well, we feasted upon mounds of fresh chorizos, two or three different cuts of prime Argentine beef and a delectably grilled helping of Provolone cheese with herbs, which was by far some of the most amazing cheese I have ever tasted. In a delightfully informal manner, the group crowded around the large outdoor table, conversing in Castellano (wine in hand) and picked at the delicious dishes placed in the centre of la mesa, one after the other with plastic forks – the serious lack of plastic plates seemed to bother no one. After the event, I was informed however that it had been a fairly ‘tame’ version of an Argentine Asado, due to the fact that it ended close to the apparantly early hour of 11pm (the “Quilombo” we at this point had no idea we would host in our living room a few days later was quite the opposite).
As a sort of intermission between different types of Argentine cuisine, we decided to make an expedition to the MALBA – El Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires. Having heard so many good things about the grand white building on Avenida Figueroa Alcorta, we ventured there after class with two friends. The museum currently boasts a large and splendid exhibit of the vast majority of Andy Warhol’s most famous and acclaimed pieces. The exhibition which runs until February, entitled “Andy Warhol, Mr. America” wonderfully lays out the different stages that the Pennsylvanian went through in terms of his art, and how his views on the United States gradually developed. We meandered through his fascination with commercial items – the infamous Campbell’s Soup collection, on to his near obsession with the matter of death that he unveils in his Electric Chair series, then onto politics and his interest in the assassination of President Kennedy in 1963 and its somewhat excessive manifestation by the media. After this dark phase, Warhol once again picked up his enthusiasm for American products and advertisements using vivid colors and famous faces once more, illustrating his sentiments voiced to Glenn O’Brian in June of ’77:
Glenn O’Brian: Do you believe in the American Dream?
Andy Warhol: I don’t, but I think we can make some money out of it.
Viewing Warhol’s most important pieces [again] in Buenos Aires was a peculiar sensation, as on other floors of the Malba one is surrounded by the great works of classically Latin artists, such as two of Mexico’s greatest treasures Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, as well as Argentines Alejandro Xul Solar and Antonio Berni, to name but a few. However, after two or three hours, we left Mr. Warhol in drag at the door of the museum and moved on to explore more of the Paris of the South.
Being consistent with the week’s motif of cultural education, we joined the waiting line to enter El Gran Café Tortoni – the oldest and most talked-about (and inevitably, most written about) cafeteria in the whole of Argentina. Opened in 1858 by Frenchman Touan, the café has ever since been a hot-spot for renowned artists, intellectuals and politicians. I delighted in viewing the walls upon walls of framed photographs of Argentina’s most celebrated writer and poet Jorge Luis Borges along with the iconic face of Argentine Tango, Carlos Gardel, both sitting in Café Tortoni on many different occasions, sipping on cafecitos and snacking on freshly-made facturas. Located on the Parisian style boulevard of Avenida de Mayo, Tortoni is not only historically popular amongst Argentines. The café boasts Spanish playwright and poet Federico Garcia Lorca and the King of Spain as some of its other celebrity customers from years ago. Hilary Clinton was also spotted having a pleasant coffee break in the colonial style Café in 1997. This Thursday afternoon however, we paused there only briefly for a cafecito and a tostado (Argentine toasted sandwich) but it was long enough to take in the beautiful surroundings and ambience of one of Buenos Aires’ most charming and historical locations. The fact that Tortoni also hosts exceedingly popular Tango shows by night is perhaps an excuse to return in the not-too-distant future.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Los Paseadores de Perros en Argentina: Kings of the Calles
For the past few weeks in Buenos Aires, I have been keeping a close eye on a particular segment of the Argentine population. This group choose a fast-paced and rigorous lifestyle. A typical day in the life of this crowd would include rising early, going from house to house in a particular barrio and then proceeding to walk a good portion of the city for the best part of the day. If you haven't already guessed, I refer to Los Paseadores de Perros of Buenos Aires: the dog-walkers of the city. Like nothing in any other city in the world, dog-walkers crowd the streets during the daytime and are a common sight for portenos. Perhaps to readers this may sound ridiculous, and almost unworthy of a whole post, let alone a paragraph. However, I can't quite seem to get my head around it. Being a dog fanatic is hard in any city - it's terribly hard to concentrate, or converse with others when there are so many dogs around. I have been chastised on several occasions for what to others seems like a case of attention deficiency disorder but what is actually a slight obsession with four-legged canines.
Here in Buenos Aires, my obsession is fed on a daily basis. According to studies there are over a million dogs in the city and that is supposedly just counting the amount of dogs kept as domestic companions - strays freely roam the streets, mingling with crowds of portenos and extranjeros. Another important fact I have learnt: just because a typical day in Argentina is longer, and later than days in many parts of Europe and the United States, does not mean that residents of the country have less work to do. Portenos retire to bed late and rise early. Thus, families here with dogs have more of a predicament and must decide how to prevent their dogs from being cooped up for hours on end. Like a saviour, along comes the local dog-walker who will pick up one's dog as he or she leaves for work, and then return the furry friend in the late afternoon or early evening when the house is occupied again.
The legal limit for Argentine dog-walkers is between 7 and 8 dogs. However, this rule is more often than not overlooked and rarely enforced. Just yesterday we bore witness to a young man walking between 12 and 15 large dogs: a delightful mixture of labradors, hounds, alsations and Heinz 57's. He, like many other paseadores, was sporting a thick banded belt tightly tied around his middle to which were attached endless metal loops for each dog lead. This hefty accessory is the Argentine dog-walkers' secret which serves a double purpose: not only will the trusty paseador be able to securely keep hold of 12 or 15 dogs at a time, he will also control much of the pack's movement, and not be led astray by boisterous labradors or mutts with wandering noses.
Whilst dog-walkers here in Buenos Aires earn three times more than the average Argentine person, like any freelance profession, income can be unstable and not always something to rely on. However, it is a delight to see so many busy peseadores now at the height of summertime in the city. Perhaps one of these days I will stop to interview the paseador that we see on our route to language school every afternoon. Well, that is if you can call asking for each dog's name an interview. Putting names to noses, is perhaps more appropriate.
Here in Buenos Aires, my obsession is fed on a daily basis. According to studies there are over a million dogs in the city and that is supposedly just counting the amount of dogs kept as domestic companions - strays freely roam the streets, mingling with crowds of portenos and extranjeros. Another important fact I have learnt: just because a typical day in Argentina is longer, and later than days in many parts of Europe and the United States, does not mean that residents of the country have less work to do. Portenos retire to bed late and rise early. Thus, families here with dogs have more of a predicament and must decide how to prevent their dogs from being cooped up for hours on end. Like a saviour, along comes the local dog-walker who will pick up one's dog as he or she leaves for work, and then return the furry friend in the late afternoon or early evening when the house is occupied again.
The legal limit for Argentine dog-walkers is between 7 and 8 dogs. However, this rule is more often than not overlooked and rarely enforced. Just yesterday we bore witness to a young man walking between 12 and 15 large dogs: a delightful mixture of labradors, hounds, alsations and Heinz 57's. He, like many other paseadores, was sporting a thick banded belt tightly tied around his middle to which were attached endless metal loops for each dog lead. This hefty accessory is the Argentine dog-walkers' secret which serves a double purpose: not only will the trusty paseador be able to securely keep hold of 12 or 15 dogs at a time, he will also control much of the pack's movement, and not be led astray by boisterous labradors or mutts with wandering noses.
Whilst dog-walkers here in Buenos Aires earn three times more than the average Argentine person, like any freelance profession, income can be unstable and not always something to rely on. However, it is a delight to see so many busy peseadores now at the height of summertime in the city. Perhaps one of these days I will stop to interview the paseador that we see on our route to language school every afternoon. Well, that is if you can call asking for each dog's name an interview. Putting names to noses, is perhaps more appropriate.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
"Do not talk to me like that, I am not your husband" - Important Phrases, Suitcases and a Lettuce.
The day had finally arrived to move to our new apartment (or, "departamento", in rioplatense spanish). We were sad to leave the wonderful Bea and Robo, but eager to see our new living space. Bea, our hostess (a long-time friend of my father with whom she studied at the University of Sussex and avid feminist) kindly offered to call a taxi, as, of course, we suffered from a severe case of "over-packing" and are destined to lug four gigantic suitcases around Buenos Aires for the rest of our time here. So, we waited and listened whilst Bea placed a call to a local taxi firm. The conversation began formally, and somewhat amicably until she exclaimed (in spanish, por supuesto) "Please do not talk to me like that. I am not your husband." After the phone call had ended, she explained that the lady on the other end of the phone had responded: "I do not have a husband" to which Bea retorted "Well, maybe you should find one." Forgive my reference to Spanish literature, but I was instantly reminded of Garcia Lorca's "Casa de Bernada Alba" in which I am sure Lorca wrote a similar line for one of his many female protagonists. The taxi did, an hour later arrive and all was fine. I noted down this wonderful comment of Bea's in my small book of travelling tidbits, and would save it for later - for an emergency, for when I really needed to put someone in their place, just as she had done.
The car ride was a short one from Belgrano to our new barrio, Almagro. When we finally pulled up to our departamento on Diaz Velez I suddenly remembered what I had been dreading. Three floors of stairs stood between us, our suitcases and our beautiful colonial style hogar. We stood and looked (glared, perhaps) at the first set of stairs inside the building after falling out of the taxi cab. After maybe five minutes of staring, we heard the voice of the portero of our building, Julio. In an instant, he picked up my largest case, a gigantic ugly red thing, lifted it onto his shoulders and purposefully climbed the dreaded staircase. Before we knew it, he had carried all of our cases and placed them outside our apartment. He remembered we were the extranjeros that would be staying in the departamento belonging to the american and australian artists on the third floor. Thus, our moving experience was made that one bit more pleasurable, all thanks to Julio. A bottle of wine, perhaps, should be on its way to his oficina on the ground floor.
Almagro, a neighborhood that was originally settled by mostly Basques and Italians at the turn of the twentieth century, is one of the lucky barrios in Buenos Aires that had a song written and sung about it by the iconic Carlos Gardel, who in 1930 recorded a tango entitled "Almagro." I was instantly delighted by the numerous tiendas of fresh fiambres (meats), quesos y verdaduras - the latter which we have instant access to as one is situated just next door to our building. A family-run store, it boasts many fresh vegetables un-available in the larger supermarkets (yes, Disco has flaws) and also, a delightful staff made up of a father, a lady who I expect is his wife and their two children who run around the store enthusiastically retrieving the best cucumbers, onions, watermelons and avocadoes to name but a few for their customers. I enjoyed my most recent venture there (only this afternoon) to buy a lettuce. As soon as I stepped foot inside the shop door, I was met by the two bright-eyed, attentive young girls who competed to pick me the best. Unfortunately, I had to choose only one and so ultimately, would have to let one of the young girls down. Once a decision had been made, the child whose lettuce had won smiled smugly and disappeared to wrap it up, whilst the other lowered her head and dragged her feet back to the basket where she had found a lettuce she once thought was worthy of purchasing. I felt a terrible pang of guilt as I left the store, for the unlucky lettuce, but, even more for the little girl who as I walked away, was most probably being taunted by her sister. Tomorrow, I vowed to myself, I would return and purposefully buy a lettuce from the other. The fact that I already have three lettuces in the fridge is not important.
The car ride was a short one from Belgrano to our new barrio, Almagro. When we finally pulled up to our departamento on Diaz Velez I suddenly remembered what I had been dreading. Three floors of stairs stood between us, our suitcases and our beautiful colonial style hogar. We stood and looked (glared, perhaps) at the first set of stairs inside the building after falling out of the taxi cab. After maybe five minutes of staring, we heard the voice of the portero of our building, Julio. In an instant, he picked up my largest case, a gigantic ugly red thing, lifted it onto his shoulders and purposefully climbed the dreaded staircase. Before we knew it, he had carried all of our cases and placed them outside our apartment. He remembered we were the extranjeros that would be staying in the departamento belonging to the american and australian artists on the third floor. Thus, our moving experience was made that one bit more pleasurable, all thanks to Julio. A bottle of wine, perhaps, should be on its way to his oficina on the ground floor.
Almagro, a neighborhood that was originally settled by mostly Basques and Italians at the turn of the twentieth century, is one of the lucky barrios in Buenos Aires that had a song written and sung about it by the iconic Carlos Gardel, who in 1930 recorded a tango entitled "Almagro." I was instantly delighted by the numerous tiendas of fresh fiambres (meats), quesos y verdaduras - the latter which we have instant access to as one is situated just next door to our building. A family-run store, it boasts many fresh vegetables un-available in the larger supermarkets (yes, Disco has flaws) and also, a delightful staff made up of a father, a lady who I expect is his wife and their two children who run around the store enthusiastically retrieving the best cucumbers, onions, watermelons and avocadoes to name but a few for their customers. I enjoyed my most recent venture there (only this afternoon) to buy a lettuce. As soon as I stepped foot inside the shop door, I was met by the two bright-eyed, attentive young girls who competed to pick me the best. Unfortunately, I had to choose only one and so ultimately, would have to let one of the young girls down. Once a decision had been made, the child whose lettuce had won smiled smugly and disappeared to wrap it up, whilst the other lowered her head and dragged her feet back to the basket where she had found a lettuce she once thought was worthy of purchasing. I felt a terrible pang of guilt as I left the store, for the unlucky lettuce, but, even more for the little girl who as I walked away, was most probably being taunted by her sister. Tomorrow, I vowed to myself, I would return and purposefully buy a lettuce from the other. The fact that I already have three lettuces in the fridge is not important.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
"Ah, vives en Belgrano? Que suerte" - Mingling with the Belgranistas and Other Tales
Being a student of the spanish language is a time-consuming and important role to have. Therefore, I have been slightly relaxed about keeping this blog going. However, now that the house-moving and class-going is at a temporary halt until tomorrow, I can divulge our tales of recent adventures.
Level three, I discovered this week, is a good place to be. In level three spanish at La Universidad de Buenos Aires, we not only talk about what we like to do in our spare time but also about history, politics and current affairs. I was delighted to be handed a photograph by my profesora of Eva Peron - "Que esta haciendo en este foto?" And so I launched into a speech similar to a section of my last blog, sobre Evita y sus descamisados. "Ay, Alejandra! Que vocabulario!" I felt terribly clever. However, we soon moved on to a review of the imperfect tense and I was soon brought back down to earth and the reality of ghastly verb forms that I had yet to grasp. I felt terribly hard done by my first lesson upon discovering that two thirds of my class were Brazilian. They had such an advantage over me, I thought to myself, and yet with time I began to realise we were all in the same boat. The same sturdy boat of level three, each of us just waiting for the moment for spanish to click, register and splurge perfect verb tenses from our mouths.
Believe it or not, we haven't solely been working hard in the classroom. Taking time to stroll through calles away from the hustle and bustle of the main avenidas is something that cannot be over-looked when travelling, or staying in Buenos Aires. The amount of fantastic cafes here is also overwhelming, and (if you are anything like me) far too tempting. "Oh but the coffees are so cheap! And so delicious! Not like Starbucks which rips you off in more ways than one every time you order an extra-skinny-sugar-free-extra-hot-fat-free-latte-no-whip. AND those little complimentary home-made cakes they serve with the coffee are just to die for." These sentiments remain with you until you are seated in the fourth or fifth coffee bar you have visited that day and you begin to realise that these delightful little coffees do actually contain caffeine. Lots of caffeine in fact, and it has all of a sudden turned your hands into [salt] shakers and your eyes into saucers.
On Wednesday we had the pleasure of moving (temporarily I add, and somewhat sadly) to Belgrano, the poshest of the posh barrios in Buenos Aires, to stay with the delightful Bea y Roberto - wonderful friends of my father. Living on the tenth floor of a delectably snazzy high rise apartment building, the view from our bedroom and private terrace was just superb. Arriving from class to a wonderful dinner and great company was a great treat for the both of us, and an added bonus? Well, we were able to practice our spanish of course. And there really is no situation more comfortable to practice a second language than that over delicious food and a good glass of vino. Today, we had the delight of being taken to La Boca - the old port of Buenos Aires, famous for its tango and brightly painted, antiquated apartments, complete with wooden shutters and elaborately manipulated iron balconies, from where you somewhat stereotypically imagine a young Argentine woman, looking down at a Gaucho passing-by, before she decides to partake in a pronto tango with him on the cobbled street down below.
Tomorrow, the third chapter of our accomodation whirlwind continues and we move to a delightful apartment (complete with tango studio - a necessity here in Buenos Aires) in leafy Almagro. Though sad to be leaving Belgrano, upcoming trips to the Argentinian supermarkets (N.B. A chain which is particularly appealing and exciting - "Disco") now that we will have a kitchen of our own, distract somewhat from feelings of melancholy and sadness.
Level three, I discovered this week, is a good place to be. In level three spanish at La Universidad de Buenos Aires, we not only talk about what we like to do in our spare time but also about history, politics and current affairs. I was delighted to be handed a photograph by my profesora of Eva Peron - "Que esta haciendo en este foto?" And so I launched into a speech similar to a section of my last blog, sobre Evita y sus descamisados. "Ay, Alejandra! Que vocabulario!" I felt terribly clever. However, we soon moved on to a review of the imperfect tense and I was soon brought back down to earth and the reality of ghastly verb forms that I had yet to grasp. I felt terribly hard done by my first lesson upon discovering that two thirds of my class were Brazilian. They had such an advantage over me, I thought to myself, and yet with time I began to realise we were all in the same boat. The same sturdy boat of level three, each of us just waiting for the moment for spanish to click, register and splurge perfect verb tenses from our mouths.
Believe it or not, we haven't solely been working hard in the classroom. Taking time to stroll through calles away from the hustle and bustle of the main avenidas is something that cannot be over-looked when travelling, or staying in Buenos Aires. The amount of fantastic cafes here is also overwhelming, and (if you are anything like me) far too tempting. "Oh but the coffees are so cheap! And so delicious! Not like Starbucks which rips you off in more ways than one every time you order an extra-skinny-sugar-free-extra-hot-fat-free-latte-no-whip. AND those little complimentary home-made cakes they serve with the coffee are just to die for." These sentiments remain with you until you are seated in the fourth or fifth coffee bar you have visited that day and you begin to realise that these delightful little coffees do actually contain caffeine. Lots of caffeine in fact, and it has all of a sudden turned your hands into [salt] shakers and your eyes into saucers.
On Wednesday we had the pleasure of moving (temporarily I add, and somewhat sadly) to Belgrano, the poshest of the posh barrios in Buenos Aires, to stay with the delightful Bea y Roberto - wonderful friends of my father. Living on the tenth floor of a delectably snazzy high rise apartment building, the view from our bedroom and private terrace was just superb. Arriving from class to a wonderful dinner and great company was a great treat for the both of us, and an added bonus? Well, we were able to practice our spanish of course. And there really is no situation more comfortable to practice a second language than that over delicious food and a good glass of vino. Today, we had the delight of being taken to La Boca - the old port of Buenos Aires, famous for its tango and brightly painted, antiquated apartments, complete with wooden shutters and elaborately manipulated iron balconies, from where you somewhat stereotypically imagine a young Argentine woman, looking down at a Gaucho passing-by, before she decides to partake in a pronto tango with him on the cobbled street down below.
Tomorrow, the third chapter of our accomodation whirlwind continues and we move to a delightful apartment (complete with tango studio - a necessity here in Buenos Aires) in leafy Almagro. Though sad to be leaving Belgrano, upcoming trips to the Argentinian supermarkets (N.B. A chain which is particularly appealing and exciting - "Disco") now that we will have a kitchen of our own, distract somewhat from feelings of melancholy and sadness.
Monday, January 4, 2010
"You understand a lot. However, your grammar is [appalling]." - Mastering the art of Rioplatense Spanish.
Having had a wonderful time at dinner with the FT correspondent in her beautiful family home in Malabia, AND having disembarked bus number 24 for the very first time [in one piece], we simply couldn't help but rise from bed with confidence this morning of what, essentially, was our second day in this city of "Fine Winds." To our dismay, the rain was heavy and the sky was grey. In a typically english way, I had come prepared with wellington boots (as one does), which I was not shy about sporting as we made our way to La Universidad de Buenos Aires to enroll in a very much needed intensive spanish course.
As we passed through La Plaza del Mayo, I was reminded of Eva Peron by a string of graffiti on surrounding benches reading "Los Descamisados" or "The Shirtless Ones." Her Descamisados, as she famously called them during her husband's dictatorship, had once filled this particular plaza to hear their heroine and saviour, Evita, speak words of wisdom and kindness. Her connection to the poor of Buenos Aires is still very much alive over fifty years after her death and her image everywhere, in multiple forms from small picture cards in windows, to chalk drawings or grafitti around the city.
The final turn down road 25 de Mayo (home to La Universidad de Buenos Aires' department of "Filosofia y Letras") was a mere continuation of this reminiscence I felt for the city's past. The antiquated buildings glowered down at us as we walked in single-file through endless clouds of second-hand smoke. Finally reaching our port-of-call, the colonial style UBA building, I was overwhelmed by the Baroque-like interior: an enormous winding stone staircase with Parisian-style lanterns surrounding the bottom step. I was soon brought down to earth and into modern-day Buenos Aires by the matter-of-fact lady directing spanish-speaking hopefuls to the examination "area" where to my horror I was about to discover just how much my Spanish had deteriorated. A quick process, we turned in our completed tests to a table of lively female language assistants and waited in terror to hear our fate: would it be level three? Two? One? Please, not level zero... My name was called and a lovely portena asked me general conversation tidbits: "What did you do this weekend?" "Why Buenos Aires?" "What would you like to do with your Spanish?" I responded, shakily. "Ah," she concluded, "You understand a lot, but your grammar is... not good. I think level three would be best for you. It will be a challenge." And so my language learning fate was determined: level three it is. Perhaps as a graduate of Level Three, I will be able to decipher any phrase or word thrown at me in the Rioplatense dialect, (the most commonly spoken dialect here in Buenos Aires).
Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking.
As we passed through La Plaza del Mayo, I was reminded of Eva Peron by a string of graffiti on surrounding benches reading "Los Descamisados" or "The Shirtless Ones." Her Descamisados, as she famously called them during her husband's dictatorship, had once filled this particular plaza to hear their heroine and saviour, Evita, speak words of wisdom and kindness. Her connection to the poor of Buenos Aires is still very much alive over fifty years after her death and her image everywhere, in multiple forms from small picture cards in windows, to chalk drawings or grafitti around the city.
The final turn down road 25 de Mayo (home to La Universidad de Buenos Aires' department of "Filosofia y Letras") was a mere continuation of this reminiscence I felt for the city's past. The antiquated buildings glowered down at us as we walked in single-file through endless clouds of second-hand smoke. Finally reaching our port-of-call, the colonial style UBA building, I was overwhelmed by the Baroque-like interior: an enormous winding stone staircase with Parisian-style lanterns surrounding the bottom step. I was soon brought down to earth and into modern-day Buenos Aires by the matter-of-fact lady directing spanish-speaking hopefuls to the examination "area" where to my horror I was about to discover just how much my Spanish had deteriorated. A quick process, we turned in our completed tests to a table of lively female language assistants and waited in terror to hear our fate: would it be level three? Two? One? Please, not level zero... My name was called and a lovely portena asked me general conversation tidbits: "What did you do this weekend?" "Why Buenos Aires?" "What would you like to do with your Spanish?" I responded, shakily. "Ah," she concluded, "You understand a lot, but your grammar is... not good. I think level three would be best for you. It will be a challenge." And so my language learning fate was determined: level three it is. Perhaps as a graduate of Level Three, I will be able to decipher any phrase or word thrown at me in the Rioplatense dialect, (the most commonly spoken dialect here in Buenos Aires).
Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Introduction to Buenos Aires: Animales que hablan Espanol.
Now that the weariness of the fixteen or sixteen hour journey has worn off, I can begin taking in and appreciating the charm of Buenos Aires' hustle and bustle. My boyfriend Jesse and I had talked for one year about our shared hope to venture to the "Paris of the South" but things such as finishing up degrees, money and the time it takes both of us to make decisions, of course, deterred us until just recently. January 1st, 2010 was finally agreed upon as a departure date. Leaving the cold and wet in London was no hardship, however leaving behind family and great friends for an indefinite period of time was inevitably upsetting.
The first day here was a slight blur so we will wipe that. Day (pretend) one, January 3, 2010. Stepping out of our safety bubble, El Gran Hotel Argentino on Carlos Pellegrini street, we headed toward El Subte - the Argentine tube or underground. After crossing and re-crossing the same road several times, we finally deciphered which side we needed to be on to board the Subte to Palermo. Domingo was a good day to board the metro for the first time and yet a somewhat hectic day to choose El Zoologico de Buenos Aires as our first touristic port of call. Filled to the brim with families loaded with picnics and bombillas de mate, the zoo was clearly the place to be on this hot and sunny traditional day of rest. A picturesque park covering 44 acres in the Palermo disctrict is home to a total of over 2, 500 different animal species. Patagonian maras and nutrias however, seem to be the most popular inhabitants in this part of Buenos Aires. They mingle amongst the crowd, making friends with those who are lulled into buying buckets of animal feed at somepoint during their zoo adventure. We, sadly, purchased no feed and so befriending a particular nutria we encountered on the way to the gift shop was a rapidly shattered dream. The creature soon realised I had nothing of use to him and scampered off to his family in one of the little lagos.
Signs displaying the words "Prohibido alimentar a los animales" mean nothing here at the charming Argentine zoologico. I personally witnessed elephants, deer, tigers, monkeys and lamas all enjoying that same feed we should have bought a share of. So, day (pretend) one in Buenos Aires: total friends made: ALMOST 1 Nutria. Better luck this evening when we go dine with the Buenos Aires correspondent for the Financial Times and her family.
The first day here was a slight blur so we will wipe that. Day (pretend) one, January 3, 2010. Stepping out of our safety bubble, El Gran Hotel Argentino on Carlos Pellegrini street, we headed toward El Subte - the Argentine tube or underground. After crossing and re-crossing the same road several times, we finally deciphered which side we needed to be on to board the Subte to Palermo. Domingo was a good day to board the metro for the first time and yet a somewhat hectic day to choose El Zoologico de Buenos Aires as our first touristic port of call. Filled to the brim with families loaded with picnics and bombillas de mate, the zoo was clearly the place to be on this hot and sunny traditional day of rest. A picturesque park covering 44 acres in the Palermo disctrict is home to a total of over 2, 500 different animal species. Patagonian maras and nutrias however, seem to be the most popular inhabitants in this part of Buenos Aires. They mingle amongst the crowd, making friends with those who are lulled into buying buckets of animal feed at somepoint during their zoo adventure. We, sadly, purchased no feed and so befriending a particular nutria we encountered on the way to the gift shop was a rapidly shattered dream. The creature soon realised I had nothing of use to him and scampered off to his family in one of the little lagos.
Signs displaying the words "Prohibido alimentar a los animales" mean nothing here at the charming Argentine zoologico. I personally witnessed elephants, deer, tigers, monkeys and lamas all enjoying that same feed we should have bought a share of. So, day (pretend) one in Buenos Aires: total friends made: ALMOST 1 Nutria. Better luck this evening when we go dine with the Buenos Aires correspondent for the Financial Times and her family.
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