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?
