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.
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