I Am Gaucho; Hear Me Roar

Gaucho landscape. Damn it's bright out here!

You always have to understand the cowboys.

One of the greatest problems for visitors to the U.S.—hell, for someone living in the U.S.—is understanding it. What, exactly, are the touch points, the sweeping gesture strokes that define the country like Johnny Carson’s smirk or F.D.R.’s cigarette holder—held just so—defined them? There are fleeing puritans, independent cowboys, ambitious immigrants, unhappy Indians, grasping industrialists, scamming inheritors, inarticulate artists… I’ve lived in Pennsylvania, Louisiana, Massachusetts, California and New York and, while I think I intuitively grasp the U.S., I can’t say it in a sentence.

On the other hand Argentina seems to live a simple bifurcated mythology: Buenos Aires and Cowboys. Sure, there are other cities, towns, even suburbs, but chats with Argentines and history books (Felix Luna’s Breve Historia de Los Argentinos is a good place to start) show local history running in twin strands, that of the scam artists and smugglers of Buenos Aires, and that of the gauchos of the plains who wrangled the leather and beef that made said smugglers rich (and kept—and keeps—the country solvent).

The Ombu Tree: Many trees, one trunk.

So last weekend we traveled to the Estancia El Ombú just outside San Antonio de Areco, not far from the capital in literal terms—we drove an hour and 45 minutes, and it only takes a half hour to leap the suburbs here—but galaxies away in terrain and life speed. Built in an Italianate style in 1880 (because here even the cowboys are Italian) for famed Indian-killer General Pablo Ricchieri, the place is so ruggedly luxurious it’s almost silly. It combines the prerequisite herd of blue-clad maids, there to get you a drink (or, one suspects, a steak) whenever the urge hits, with a working ranch, wood-smoke redolent rooms, two pools, and ivy crawling over every non-moving surface. It is one fine-looking place.

I suspect the actual gauchos didn’t have it so good. Hell, I don’t have it so good.

The Ombu Porch: Life is tough here. Very, very tough.

Our co-guests included a vaguely drunk and creepy, paunchy, orange-tennis-shirt-clad single 45-year-old guy (but aren’t all vaguely drunk, paunchy, orange-tennis-shirt-clad single 45-year-old guys a little creepy?) who judging from his accent, spoke English as a first language; an American pair of son (studying economics in B.A., which is sort of like studying terrorism in Iraq: We know what it is, but we don’t know how to fix it) and father; an Argentine couple who spent every available moment in the sun with shirts hiked up and paint-waists down, begging the sun on; and a family of Anglo-Argentines, third generation descendents of the English who came to build the railroads 90 years ago and who now speak to each other in tortured English, saying thing like “mummy” and butchering clichés into “…and then rumors started to circle” and “so you can kill two birds with one…shot?” Fabulous and fabulously funny. We rode horses (and I forgot how they piss when they doo--like they've been up all night drinking) and then ate piles of meat. The creepy American knocked off a bottle of red wine while surreptitiously, and weavily, eyeing the other tables, then wobbled off; the American son wore shiny black Wellingtons; the Argentine couple napped in the sun; the Angle-Argentines slipped into Spanish when they couldn’t remember their numbers in English. We went on another round of horse riding, awkwardly trotting bruises onto our inner thighs; we ate more; all was good.

From estancia life I don’t think I got to understand the cowboys any better than before, but I certainly got to understand the people who oppressed the cowboys much, much more.

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Whither the Famed Argentine Ego?

The Argentine ego is almost as famed as the country's beef and women, a kind of national treasure (or embarrassment) that supposedly defines the national character. Jokes, of course, are rampant: "How does an Argentine commit suicide? He climbs to the top of his ego, then jumps." "What is the best deal on earth? To buy an Argentine for his true value and then sell him for what he thinks he's worth." And when former President Carlos Menem was late for the official photo session at the 1998 Summit of the Americas--making 33 heads of state wait--one minister joked, "What is ego? Ego is the little Argentine inside each of us." But since the crash, the Argentine had has taken quite a hit, at least if you believe the press. Still, as members of the press we know how foreign trend stories work: they're often conjured by an editor in New York, dutifully filled with three examples (one is an event, two is a coincidence, but three? A trend!) and edited into facile thumbnail descriptions that confirm the editor's preconceptions. But firsthand evidence? That's hard to fake. And so, yesterday's poll in Clarín proved it: the Argentine ego has wilted. In an answer to the question, "What is the major attraction in Argentina?" 65.5% answered the scenery, 24.5% said the low prices, and only 3.5% said "the people."

Today's poll question promises even more insight: "Do you consider sex an important part of your life?"

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Meat: Right or Privilege?

This headline from last Saturday's La Nacion says all that need be uttered on the "Are Argentines really crazy about their beef?" issue.

Now that we've been here a while, it actually seems a debatable question. Or maybe I've gone around the bend. It's a right, of course. No?

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Did I Say That?

As I learn my second idiom (and for those sarcastic readers out there, yes I am fluent in English, thank you very much), I am repeatedly reminded that language is not only a tool for communication, but also a projection of personality. Not in the previously mentioned sense of "Eskimos have 20 words for snow; that must mean snow is really important to them" but in the sense of identifying oneself with the words that comes out of one's mouth. These words I speak are a raw projection of my personality into the world. These words I speak are me.

Or at least they are in English. In Spanish, language still serves as a kind of filter--as insulation--between myself and those to whom I speak. My vocabulary, grammar and diction are imperfect but good. I communicate clearly. And yet, it's not me speaking. It's some weird doll that turns my thoughts into another form and spits them out, like a dubbed movie or simultaneous translation at the U.N. This being so (combined with the lack of subtlety in my Spanish vocab), has led to a weird molding of my "Spanish personality." I find that I'm much more extreme in my expression--both in positive in negative senses--because, well, it's not me who's speaking, not really. We've been looking for a condo to buy which, as anyone who's tried that here, can be an incredibly irritating experience full of its share of scam artists. And as I express myself through "Ian the Spanish Ventriloquist Doll", I've found that I've been much blunter than I would be in my native tongue. "This is frighteningly ugly and a waste of our time," I'll say. Or, "I think you are lying to me; you are a bad man and I hope your life ends in a torrent of great pain" (or something like that). With my 70% language and my child's vocabulary, it's almost like being on the playground again (remember: kids there are nothing if not painfully clear).

The distance I feel from the language makes speaking akin to watching myself in a film: I hear the words come out of my mouth, and they make sense, and they express part of what I feel. But that's not really me.

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Awww, What a Cute Little Virgin

On Sunday, four days ago, I drove with Nestor and his son Mati to Luján, a dusty, almost Mexican-esque town 70 km west of Buenos Aires that is home to a famed cathedral that is the desination of an annual October pilgrimmage. The pilgrims walk from B.A. to Luján alongside the provincial highway that joins the two, a habit which, considering Argentina's previously noted bipolar driving habits, shows an abiding faith in god's tenderness. The cathedral (above) is an attractive, if anonymous, pink affair, with tons of trinket shops lining the arcade that runs to its front doors. My favorite tchotkee? Little Virgin Mary statuettes that, like mood rings, vary color according to the heat and humidity.

But why Luján? Because of a certain team of intransigent horses, Nestor tells me. Apparently, the Virgin Mary housed inside the cathedral was sent from Europe to Argentina to be the centerpiece of a cathedral in the west of Argentina. However, after being sent by horsedrawn carriage from B.A., the horses refused to go further when they arrived in Luján. Someone apparently got the bright idea of removing the all of 17" tall statue of the Virgin Mary from the carriage and, shockingly, the horses volunteered to go on their way. But with the Mary back on the carriage, the ponies again resorted to a Bartleby, the Scrivener vibe: "I'd rather not." Off and on they tried, always with the same result. And so the Virgin stayed in Luján. I have no idea if this story is the least bit true, but I like it very much.

My second favorite site in Luján: the transportation museum, which houses a plane, the Plus Ultra (right), that flew a multipart journey from Spain to Argentina, via Africa. The crew chief? None other than brother of the former Spanish fascist dictator Franco.

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¡Eso es!

After my Spanish course at UBA ended a couple of weeks ago, I decided to let the lessons of the subjunctive sink in while just living en español. And with all the time I saved by not taking the #60 bus downtown 3x a week, I had no reason not to join the Well Club, the closest gym to my door. I committed to 6 months at $20 per month & got a free backpack (Perfect bonus: I’d been looking for a new backpack that didn’t promote the Federal Reserve.) Just looking at the extensive schedule of classes got my heart rate up. Spinning, Fight Do, Localizada... ('Localizada is a local gym,' I was told in English. 'And Fight Do is a fight class, like Tae Kwon Do.') Basically, I’m game for any of it. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve tried Localizada (= Body Sculpting at my old Crunch gym), Pilates Fit, Pilates Mat (the difference is subtle), Yoga and the Fight-Do-like Body Combat. My Spanish lessons: ¡Eso es! sounds like 'SOS!' but it’s 'That’s it!' Dale is basically 'come on.' Flojo is loose or slack while Flujo is flow. I completely spaced out when my Yoga instructor starting murmuring about the spirit re-energizing, bla bla (local spelling), as I always did in back in NYC. And she was probably using the subjunctive to express her opinions and doubts.

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West Chelsea in Buenos Aires

Crobar’s first South American foray opens tonight, says this breathless press release. Let me quote:

The South American expansion advances crobar towards 'taking over the Americas,' and eventually, the global nightlife community, providing venues around the world with forward-thinking philosophies; outrageous aesthetics; mind blowing audio-visual capabilities; and the best DJs the world of electronic music has to offer.

I understand the lowercase c'd crobar has long been in capital c'd Chicago, but I've only known it as a relatively new, oversized boîte amid West Chelsea’s art galleries back in Manhattan. In a nod to the better weather down here, the 22,000-square-foot Buenos Aires version promises to go topless with a retractable roof. One last quote on BsAs:

Great architecture, a western mentality and a sense of style are a few ways that describe this great metropolis.

...But not very good ones. (Ok. I feel better; I've let enough snark out for now.)

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Need We Say More?

Who's to say that Argentina isn't aware of its own stereotypes? From Quilmes, yesterday.

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Radio Silence, Broken

What better way to announce a return from an exile to, well, from nowhere except TooMuchWorkBurg, than an inspiring photo of that place we all love but do not know: The Palace of the French Fry. On a visit to Avenida Corrientes, we came, we saw, and we did not conquer. But we’re curious.

Since I last wrote so much has happened, so much water under the bridge (so much interesting water, yes; but not Big Exciting water), that to try to review it all would be to risk resorting to a Dull Daily Diary (and being compared to a blogger; oh, right). So instead I’ll cough up two very brief thematic hairballs and promise—promise—to return to writing with regularity.

The wonder and danger of most expatdom is that it usually combines mastering a new language and a new culture simultaneously, which makes it very easy to make pat generalizations by confusing linguistic peculiarities with cultural differences : “A-ha, in Spanish they often use the same word—mal—to mean ‘bad’ and ‘evil’; Obviously they cannot discern the differences between the two,” or something of that sort. There might be some gem lodged in observations like these, but more than not it’s more of a “gollee, they talk different” thing. The two that follow hopefully rise above this.

The Day of the Friend

To the many greeting-card-company holidays in the world—Father’s Day, Secretary’s Day, Lawn Care Professional’s Day—Argentina adds its own, supposedly not Hallmark-endorsed, title: The Day of the Friend. At first glance, who could really argue with setting a day aside to celebrate friendship because, really, what else smoothes out life’s sharp elbows like friendship? Blanche DuBois’s extemporizing aside, it’s not the kindness of strangers that makes the world go ‘round.

But perhaps they should have done some market testing on this bush league holiday. Why? Well, we’re told the downside of friendship day here in Buenos Aires is that it has the counterintuitive effect of rupturing friendships. How, you may ask (we certainly did). It seems the problem is simple: while the objects of many such holidays are obvious—on Father’s Day, you give Dad something, duh—Friendship Day creates hurtful ambiguity. To celebrate it, one goes out to dinner with one’s best friends. But table space is limited—it’s notoriously impossible to get a good 9:30 dinner rez on the Day of the Friend—which means that triage in the order of the day. Some friends get invited on the Day of the Friend, some don’t. And Day of the Friend becomes Day of the Lost Friend. Or, rather, Day of Choosing and Losing Your Friends.

Noooo, a vos!

In Buenos Aires, there exists a congenital inability to accept thanks. I’m not talking about people being usued to being thanked for everything, to the general feeling that Americans beat“thank you” like a dead horse and thereby render it into the equivalent of a conversational tic like“like” (which is sorta true). No, I’m talking about the endearing fact that Argentina is the so far the only country I’ve visited where without exception the answer to “Thank you” is “No.” At a restaurant, gas station, post office, flower shop, clothing store, wherever, a “Thank you” or compliment will invariably be greeted with a variation on one of the following responses: Nooooo, for what?; Nooooo, for nothing; Nooooo, to you; Nooooo, to the contrary; or the classically simple, Nooooooo. As if one wants to avoid Compliment Debt at all costs (which, considering the country’s constant credit crunch, is not surprising). Last night we went to a 339th anniversary celebration in Quilmes, a Bs.As. suburb, to hear local band Catupecu Machu (a kind of Argentine Pearl Jam whose latest disk ain’t bad). I swear, when the lead singer said “Thank you Quilmes! Thank you all for coming out!” the response from the crowd was rousing applause and a one word chorus that seemingly arose from a pre-rational corner of the Argentine mind: Noooooooooo, for nothing!

Lastly, I just wanted to give another nod to my one-time home of New Orleans. When we traveled to swamptastic Tigre two days before the hurricane hit NOLA, I snapped the following photo because. Looking at it now, it place reminds me of southern Louisiana so much it makes my heart sick. See ya soon New Orleans, ‘cause I know you’ll be back.

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NOLA on our minds

It’s been hard to concentrate on my day job, writing about financial services in the U.S., with all the heartbreaking news from New Orleans pouring out. Ian, who called NOLA home for 3 years in the mid '90s, has been on our Vonage phone with friends who fled the flooded city. One moved to NOLA for a job just three weeks before Katrina hit and hadn’t yet received his first paycheck. He called from Mississippi on his way back to his childhood home of New York. Another, who runs the New Orleans Film Festival held each October, has already found a temporary job at a museum in Tampa, Florida. No word on her long-time home in Mid-City or the prospects for the festival. Another friend is in North Carolina. We think another, whose apartment was in the lower Ninth Ward (Bywater), is in Los Angeles. We heard of one who stayed after most evacuated: A friend’s sister who is a nurse at Charity was manually ventilating patients who couldn’t breathe on their own.

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