La Navidad, 10-9

A continuacion.....Christmas in Buenos Aires started out with sleep......I finally got to bed at about 5am after a long night of chatting with two Swedish guys, a Brit, and a Dutch guy about comparisons between soccer and religion. I don't want to get into this topic because I don't think it's worth a blog entry, but I will say that when someone truly loves something and is invested in it, it's hard to get them to see any other viewpoint. So convinced was one of the Swedes that soccer is equivalent to religion that he almost came to shouting when I told him that his argument was seriously flawed. It was much like trying to persuade an evangelical Christian that other viewpoints of Christianity exist or that certainty is impossible or that one has to accept some very hard to swallow ideas and contradictions in order to be Christian in the way that evangelicals practice.

Anyhow, the discussion ended amicably and while the Swedes and the Brits left to find a club in which to dance, the Dutch guy and I went home to our respective apartments and slept. On Christmas Day, I slept in until about 12:30, skyped with my parents for a while, and then returned to bed to read the New Yorker in the semi-dark with the fan on me the entire time (these days it's always 90 or so degrees here. I ain't complainin). At 2:30pm, I received a call from Guillermo, my former host dad, inviting me over for Christmas Day lunch at 3pm. I should have realized that 3 meant at least 4. Most Argentine's will tell you to come an hour or two before they actually mean it. After 9 months total in the country I still haven't figured this out. I got there at 3 and no one else had arrived yet. I was more or less the first.

So, for about an hour or so, I hung out, doing what I could to help with setting the table and chatting with the foreign houseguests as well as Argelia and Guillermo. The food on the table was leftovers from the previous evening. Nothing new except for some empanadas that had been pulled from the freezer. I was concerned about the safety of some of the mayo filled salads that had been sitting in the heat for so long before being refrigerated the previous evening, but they still smelled ok. However, being the obsessed foodie that I am, I was a little let down that there would be no new food on Christmas Day. Christmas day was more or less sloppy seconds, leftovers and people tired and groggy from Christmas Eve, the big celebration in Argentina. We unenthusiastically scooped down some sustenance and the real treat was when the British woman staying at the house brought out two English Luxury Puddings, Mincemeat in a Jar, and some type of vegemite type nasty yeast spread supposedly high in B-Vitamins. My day old cookies were also brought out.

After lunch, the Swedes came up with the idea of playing soccer in the adjacent school park that actually has a somewhat nice, albeit concrete, football arena. Having nothing better to do and intrigued by the idea of playing soccer on Christmas in Argentina, I joined.

What began with a friendly game of kicking a ball around turned into a full field high energy game against 5 Argentine guys. Being the most tenderfoot and more or less completely in the dark about the rules and techniques of soccer, I played goalie. I did know how to sacrifice my body and follow the ball and throw it or pass it to an open teammate. The rest of the team consisted of the two Swedes (who had played on an amateur team together and won a national championship), the Dutch guy, and the British guy. It must be very important in Europe to know what you're doing with a soccer ball. All of these European guys seemed to have a strong basic grasp of the game. And it was a good thing, because the middle aged Argentine guys were also very good, looked as if they'd been playing their entire lives.

The game got off to a bad start, for us. I was being scored on left and right and we couldn't get close to the goal. At that point, my European friends found their strides and scored a series of goals to bring us within a few points of winning (10 goals). At around the same time, I realized that it was better to watch the ball the entire time than to avert and shield my eyes like a wimp when the ball was kicked on me. What I'm trying to say is that I got better as the game went on.

In the end, I was able to save 3 attempts on our goal and then one of the Swedes scored and we triumphed over the Middle-Aged Argentines, 10-9. We shook hands and then took pictures of each other in our moment of triumph. Argentina may have won soccer in the olympics, but by God, we beat a few middle-aged guys on Medrano Street on Christmas Day-Barely.

After the game, I returned home to try to skype my family once more before the day was done. This was about 8 or 9 pm, but 3 hours earlier back home. I should have predicted that in the moment when I most wanted to talk with my family, my internet would be down. Of course it was. Internet and services in Buenos Aires are....how to put it...unreliable. In any case, I enjoyed a leisurely end to Navidad here by reading up a bit on the internet and cooking up some desert.

All in all, Christmas here was easily anticlimatic and maybe even a bit boring, save the soccer game. As I said before, it's not so much a big deal here. Christmas Eve steals the show and Christmas Day, like the food served on it, is leftovers.

La Noche Buena

A number of friends and family seem curious about what happens here over Christmas. Later in the week I'll post some pictures of the festivities, but for now, I'll bore you with my ramblings.

I'll start off by saying that there are less Christmas decorations, preparations, and music here than in the states...Possibly by a factor of 3-5. Don't get me wrong, Christmas/Holiday decorations are common, but simply nowhere near as deafening as they are in the states. They also rarely played Christmas music on the radio and on the TV there weren't many Christmas or Holiday movies. Almost no one here has a live tree and decorations for trees consist almost entirely of silver or gold orbs, not the kitchen sink type ornaments that we throw on ours in the states. Gift giving is also limited in Argentina. Kids here tend to get one or two gifts. Argentines also don't do much shopping until the last few days before Christmas. There isn't nearly as much hype leading up to the actual day. No black Friday. No door buster specials. Granted, there were some gimmicks and attractive sales at some stores in the mall, but nothing like the constant barrage of propaganda in the states.

I'm guessing that the reason Argentina doesn't celebrate or get into the holidays like we in the states do is that they are a smaller consumer market place. Let's face it, we have a ton of decorations and music in the states largely because retailers want to sell us stuff and we want to buy it. Strip the holiday of this element somewhat and you are left with.....Argentina.

And so it all started on La Noche Buena or Christmas Eve. In Argentina, Christmas eve is much bigger than the actual day itself. I'll give you a play by play of my experience here on Christmas Eve....The night before Christmas Eve I had a holiday dinner at my favorite parilla. I wound up munching on kidneys, chinchulinas (grilled intestines), and tira de asado (ribs) until about midnight and didn't get to bed until about 3am. The next morning I woke up at about 7:30 with the best intentions of going for a swim. I groggily stuffed my equipment in my backpack and began the walk to my gym. About a 3rd of the way, I realized I was far too tired and exhausted and meat hung over to either make it to the pool or swim once I was there. I decided instead to do my shopping for the day which consisted of picking up baking supplies for the cookies I had planned on making for the evening. Slightly after 8am I entered my local Coto supermarket and was amazed at the full parking lot. The interior was no less busy with people hurriedly filling their shopping carts full of Pannetone and Hard Apple Cider (here called Cidra). My new found city instincts quickly cut through my meat induced coma and told me that I had better make this shopping experience a quick one so as to avoid the long lines at the registers.

I was able to move through Coto efficiently and was off to my next task of finding molasses for ginger bread cookies. Argentines don't know what ginger bread cookies are so I decided to introduce our tradition. A friend told me that I could easily find molasses in the health food stores here and while that might be the case, none were open on Christmas Eve. Slightly defeated, I returned home, dropped my groceries at the door, and went back to bed. At 12:30, I woke up to prepare to teach English at 1pm to my now friend, Esteban. Yes, I kind of worked on Christmas Eve, but since it didn't really feel like Christmas eve anyway, it was no big deal. The class went well enough and afterwards, I grabbed a quick bite to eat and then began a long hot day of baking cookies (I'm kind of embarrased to have put that into words). I planned to make four different types of cookies to take to both my friends at one gathering and my host family later at another. Over the course of the next 5 hours, I made a batch of chocolate chip cookies, raisin pudding filled cookies, peach oatmeal fruit bars, and molasses cookies. By about 8pm, sweating profusely in the 90 degree heat combined with that of my oven, I finished.

The first stop was the center of town to a friend's swanky apartment to more or less say hi, drop off my gift of christmas cookies, chug down a glass of malbec, and then run back home to get ready for Christmas eve dinner.

Upon hitting the streets, I noticed a sense of calm and almost goodwill had passed over the city. It was quiet, there weren't many cars, people were smiling as they walked carrying food to the homes of friends and family throughout the city. In the subway, I had the pleasant surprise of a free trip, maybe to celebrate the holiday. Exiting the subway, I realized that I didn't know as well as I thought I did where I was. I asked the nearest guy I saw where Riobamba street was and he kindly directed me there and then patted me paternally on the back. Weird.

The stop at my friends apartment was short and back out on the street, I hopped on bus 152 on Marcelo T. Alvear street and started back towards my apartment. For some reason, again, complete strangers were striking up pleasant conversations with me. Somehow, there actually was a type of Christmas spirit (as cheesy as that is).

A quick stop at my apartment and a 4 block walk later I was at Argelia's carrying a mountain of cookies and a few gifts for the family. Past the ante-room in a semi-open air courtyard Argelia, my former host mom, had setup a giant table filled with a garden of various salads, plates of pork, and matambre (meat stuffed with eggs, spices, and other assorted vegetables.)

Dinner started at about 11:15 with a toast of Malbec wine (brought by the various European travelers who were staying at my former host family's place). There were a total of 25 or so people at the giant table including Argelia's brothers and their families as well as Argelia's parents.

The real festivities started at about 5 minutes to midnight. At this time, Argelia's youngest child, Maria, ran to the rooftop to look for Papa Noel (Santa Claus). At about the same time, fireworks exploded all throughout the neighborhood to celebrate the approaching holiday. Uncles were then dispatched to point out where in the sky Papa Noel could be seen. The uncles, however, seemed to always be able to see Papa Noel while the kids always seemed to miss him. A few minutes after 12, the kids returned to ground level to find that Papa Noel had somehow magically entered the house and scattered presents throughout.

At this point, gifts were torn into and in 5-10 minutes it was all over and we were back at the big table with flutes of sparkling hard apple cider toasting the arrival of Christmas Day. After the toasts and the dessert, we headed up to the rooftop to get some fresh air and had a rousing discussion about the role and importance of soccer and sports in the world. At about 4 am, some decided to try to go out dancing (Christmas Eve is a very big dancing night here) and the others (myself included) decided to go home to sleep.

For details of Christmas day in Argentina, read on in tomorrow's entry:)

Moral Atheism

I'll begin by saying that Portenos (People from Buenos Aires) relate to Buenos Aires as an abusive father. It's ok for them to speak badly about it, but it angers them to no end to hear other people criticize the city. One of the first questions that you get from Argentines is, 'Do you like Buenos Aires?' or 'Do you like Argentina?' If you answer yes emphatically and then provide sincere reasons why, you have made a friend. Say no, and you have the opposite.

People from Buenos Aires want to hear, love to hear that you love the city. Why? I have a number of ideas or hypotheses, but can't be sure.

Nationalism and patriotism here do not extend much further than world cup, olympic, or barrio soccer. The vast majority of people have no faith in the government, don't trust elected leaders, and don't really believe that democracy works. How then or why would they have any pride in their country if they are unwilling to believe in their democracy? I'm guessing that most Argentines don't have any other choice than to live here (for financial, familial, and language barriers). And it must frustrate the heck out of them sometimes. But, if someone from another country tells them it's not bad, but instead great! Then it makes them feel better.

When Argentines hear that I am leaving come the summer of 2009, they get a hushed look on their faces, almost seem hurt or left behind or....they realize that I've realized what they figured out a long time ago: Buenos Aires can be a fun place, but in many ways it is a mess and not the healthiest way to live.

Telling a Porteno that you are going to leave is almost like telling a loved one that you are separating with them, leaving them alone to deal with 5 crazy kids, clean up a mess while you go back to an easier, more stable place. I believe that I have lost at least one conversation partner after trying to have a frank discussion with her about why I could never settle down in Buenos Aires. Even though my conversation partner had once lived in San Diego and readily admitted how much more stable it is in the states, she was still hurt by the idea that I was leaving and she tried hard to convince me to stay. I almost sensed a jealousy, as if she had wished that she too were still in the states or could return to live there or in Europe, some place where things were a bit more stable, predictable, comfortable. A place where she and her family could have more opportunity and at least feel a sense of control over their destiny.

I long to have frank discussions with Argentines about comparisons between here and the United States and other countries. With many folks, it is nearly impossible. I can make maybe one critical comment about Argentina in a conversation and must cut it off at that. Any more and I am met with sulleness or hurt feelings.

When the shoe is on the other foot, I have to admit not loving when people criticize the United States. However, I think I'm far better at being objective about my country. I'm not running for office. I feel no need to say I love my country. It's a pretty good place, but we've got a lot of work to do. We're the richest country on Earth and yet we haven't figured out how to care for our citizenry nor provide them with affordable higher education (Among a gazillion other issues these days). Sure, it's a stable place where the people tend to be good hearted and to care for one another but we've got a long way to go.

I do my best to accept criticism about the states, but also to help people from AR and other countries form an accurate picture of them. I'm more interested in searching out the truth than defending my country out of some type of functionless national pride. I think patriotism is better when it is critical. If you truly care about your country, you are critical of its weaknesses so you can get better. Nationalism without a critical edge favors a superficial sports team sort of pride as opposed to the confrontation of reality.

Returning to the idea of Portenos having no faith in their government, elected leaders, or democracy. I believe that this lack of faith in the country's leaders and the government in general translates into a general distrust of society and community as a whole. That is, Portenos as a culture, on the whole, don't believe in the idea of working together for the common good. As a result, it is every man for himself. Every family for theirselves. Want to help someone? Want to look out for people other than yourself or your family. That's nice....But you're weak, stupid, naieve. You won't last. Good luck. The predominant mentality here is that if you want to survive BA, you'd better wise up, Ojo, watch out for yourself because nobody else is going to watch out for you.

And that is why I say that there is a moral atheism in this city. An illness. It's as if people in the city don't see each other, like they are blind. They almost refuse to acknowledge that others exist. They have learned that they need to barrel through life and look out for number one, in spite of the other blobs of flesh and bone whom they pass everyday. The illness is a lack of feeling. A lack of responsibility for anyone else or their community. The lack of responsibility makes people think that not only is it acceptable for them to do what they have to do to survive, it is necessary and weak and stupid not to.

This Porteno big city attitude infects almost every area of life here. You see it in the dog poop littering the sidewalks and streets, the grafitti all over beautiful buildings, the taxi, bus, and regular drivers that would sooner kill you than slow down to allow you to walk across the street even when you have a walk signal. You see it when old ladies who could be your grandmother cut in front of you in line at the grocery store or when you try to swim laps at the pool and the guy behind you tries to swim past you and in the process crashes into someone else who is going the opposite direction and then proceeds to drive you into the lane marker and then doesn't even apologize. Breathless run on sentence, I know.

The thread in this story that you can follow again and again here is lack of concern for ones neighbor, lack of responsibility to others or the community. I have no responsibility to anyone. I can throw my cigarette wrapper on the ground without thinking twice. Not my problem. It doesn't matter if I flick my cigarette and it hits someone else-they don't exist to me.

Of course I am generalizing. Of course there are exceptions. Of course there are good people here. I feel bad writing this because I have so many good friends in this city. But the truth is...And I cannot sugarcoat it anymore. A moral illness exists in this city. I'm not sure if it's a top down governmental thing or whether it's a grassroots illness that has affected the government. In any case, it exists.

My greatest fear is that I will adapt to this lifestyle. Bucking this system, trying to care about people in spite of the prevailing culture makes you feel alone, stupid, taken advantage of. It's stressful. Not fun. But I refuse to change. I don't want to return to the states with an every man for himself mentality. To me, it's not worth living if you have to live that way to survive. It's soulless. I look forward to returning to a place where I don't feel foolish for caring about other people, for supporting a sense of community, a concern for my neighbor. I hope there is a place in the states where I will feel this. But while I'm here, I'll continue to battle against the prevailing culture.

Spring and Swimming

Ahhh, spring. As the United States falls into a deep and dark winter (both weather-wise and economically), Argentina has moved into a tropical spring/summer (Although Argentina is in a perptual state of recession). For me, this means my first period of sustained sun and warmth in over two years. My body had more or less shut down in the last year, a permanent state of hibernation, surviving but not thriving. Now my leaves are beginning to grow again, my mind is turning positive, and finally I have energy. I recommend never skipping summer.

Ahh, spring. When a young mans thoughts turn to.....Well, if your me, they turn to asado

Yes, I'm still obsessed. I've foresaken my catholic roots. I now pray to the cow.

As I write this, it's Friday night at about 10 pm and if I could take a picture that somehow included smells, you would all sell your first borns to come down here. The smell of grilled meat is heavenly, intoxicating. I never thought I'd be writing these words, having for many years been as good as vegetarian....But the meat is simply that good down here.

Luckily, I've met some Swedish guys, newly arrived at my former host family's casa, who share my passion for the carne. Our quest together is to tour the city's parillas trying all sorts of new nasty bits. Tomorrow, we will share a 4 person parillada (A small grill brought to the table with a gazillion cuts of meat) while we plan our own asado as well as a trip to Tandil, a town in the Pampas known for its meat. In Tandil, the plan is to hike around and then spend the rest of the time searching out the best butcher shops in the town and then making our own asado on the grill of our cabin. I can't wait.

Ok, enough about meat. The spring here has been invigorating in general. The city has come to life. People fill the streets at all hours and there is a sense of something having lifted, a cloud or veil, allowing people to breath easier and be healthy again.

For me, the city is still like nails on a chalkboard. My trip home to the states helped me alleviate a ton of stress and I returned invigorated and ready to face the city. Now after over 3 weeks back, my stress level is still low, but I still feel a bit uncomfortable, on edge, as if I'm battling the city and not flowing. The tension is great for learning, reflecting, and growing. But sometimes you just want to be able to sit back, in a cocoon of sorts, and be able to relax completely. In the city, I'm not sure if it's possible. If you are too relaxed, then you ought to put up your guard a bit.

My former host mother is always imploring me to watch out for myself and be on the lookout for crooks. I always thought she was being hysterical until her mother told me about the 4 or 5 times that she'd been robbed in her life, the most recent having been this past weekend. Argelia's mom has had her house broken into and liquidated, almost everything of value taken. She has been pick-pocketed 3 or more times. And one time about 4 years back she was encountered by drunken or drugged out thieves who stole her purse and then tried to slit her throat (the only thing saving her being her polar fleece 'bufanda' or scarf). The veracity of these stories I can't confirm, but she's not the sort of woman to make these things up. Before my family freaks out after reading this, I want to point out that I, knock on wood, have not had any such encounters. I had things stolen from my travel bags once, but nothing else. I think that crooks here prey on the sick and the old, as well as the kind, naieve, and innocent. And this is why I say that you can never and should never relax in Buenos Aires, or any big city I suppose. It's a shame, but it has also forced me to open my eyes. My mind has become much quicker here, much sharper, much more ready to make an important snap judgement or observation. I considered this today as I walked home from work, how my mind jumped from person to person, assessing their situation, their motives, their intentions, their economic status etc. At the start of my trip, these thoughts were forced and draining- now they are effortless and second nature.

One thing is certain, however. Humans were not meant to spend 5 months in this city without a substantial break. This was the amount of time I spent here before my trip home to the states. By that time, I was frazzled, frustrated, stressed, my teeth grinding through the night. To combat this, I have decided to get out of the city on a more regular basis. As I said, next weekend, I plan on accompanying the Swedes to the Pampas for hiking and grilling. Then in the middle of January I take off for a full 2 weeks to San Martin De Los Andes, a mountain town on the border of Chile in Southern Argentina. I'm going there with 6 friends, 5 women and one guy (a newly minted doctor). We're going to act like hippies except I'm going to be grilling out a ton. In San Martin, I plan to hike, mountain bike, canoe, kayak, horseback ride, swim, sunbathe, and of course, make asado.

Speaking of relaxing and getting out of the city, I have come to realize that my choice to buy a 6 month pass to Megatlon was one of the best decisions I've made since I've been down here. Megatlon is not only a refuge from the busy city, it has also lowered my stress level significantly, given me a place to cool off in the sometimes unbearable heat, and helped me to get healthy. Swimming has become a new passion or at least a curiosity for me. In fact, yesterday I had the best swim of my life. I swam 80 lengths of the pool and felt like I could have swam for another hour non-stop. The truth is that I'm a terrible swimmer. I've never been good at it. I can remember as a kid almost always being the slowest one in swimming lessons and I simply never felt comfortable in the water. For many years, I avoided swimming altogether. It seemed like a lot of work, especially for something I didn't enjoy doing in the first place. However, after giving it another try, I've really come to enjoy it and I think I'm improving. I'm still inefficient, I can't flip turn or anything fancy like that, and I still don't always feel comfortable in the pool, but every now and then, I find my rhythm and it's like hitting the sweetspot on a seven iron or riding flawlessly through the pipe of a wave-connecting with harmony.

But it wasn't always this way. When I was just getting started, I had to fight my way through the lanes every day. First of all, in Buenos Aires, there is limited space and a limited number of pools. I pay a ton for my gym membership, but it doesn't matter. I still share a lane with at least 2 people every time I swim. The most people I have shared a lane with is 10 and the average is 4-5 people per lane. In the states, I never would have swum under these circumstances. The things is, though, that once you live in the big city for a while, you learn that you have to fight for your space and make things work. That is, if you make the trip all the way to the gym and there are 10 people in one lane, you jump in that lane and you put up with the kicks and shoves, you doggy paddle if you have to in order to get your laps in. In the end, you may not have alleviated your stress, but you got a workout and more importantly, you didn't let anyone keep you from doing what you set out to do.

Having sharpened my observation skills, I have identified a number of types of swimmers at my Megatlon. I'd like initially to point out that purely from an objective point of view, Argentine men are considerably hairier than the average man. On top of that, I believe that the heavy meat diet makes them bulky and massive, not in a body builder sort of way, but in more of a well fed animal sort of way. I have come to name a few of the swimmers with whom I share the 'Nado Medio' lane (translation: I swim at a medium speed).

The first and most consistent person with whom I share a lane is the 'Oso' (bear) or as I call him when he is making me feel slow, 'The lumbering mass'. The lumbering mass is a large hairy man who can swim for an hour non-stop. He never spends any time fooling around or catching his breath at the wall, he always swims freestyle, and I can hear his bearish grunting noises underwater. He is a solid swimmer, always keeps to the right side of the lane, and very much resembles a bear in his movements. I am a fan of the lumbering mass because he is very predictable and courteous.

The next swimmer I have nicknamed mockingly the 'rey de la pileta' or The king of the pool. The rey de la pileta is a much better swimmer than me. He's a normal looking middle aged guy who will do whatever it takes to swim for an hour non-stop. If someone is in front of him slowing him down, he will always try to overtake them, regardless of whether someone is coming down the other side of the lane, regardless of any situation. He has taken city Buenos Aires living to the nth degree. He stops for nothing, cares about no one, never apologizes or pardons himself, and essentially does whatever it takes to have the exact swimming experience that he desires. I detest the rey de la pileta. In fact, after he more or less deliberately ran into an older woman, I engaged in a game of swimming chicken with him, just to disrupt his progress. Very mature.

The last regular for whom I have a name I call La quejadora or The complainer. La quejadora is an older woman who swims very slowly who is always complaining to the lifeguards about someone around her or about the conditions of the pool. Everything else is to blame for her not enjoying or having the perfect swimming experience. She very much has an external locus of control in this sense. She also is very inconsiderate. For instance, she doesn't notice when people are swimming very close behind her and doesn't think to let those people swim in front of her at the turn. Further, she swims down the middle of the lane, doesn't move to the side of the wall when another swimmer is approaching (So the swimmer can't kick off the wall), and she talks to you as if you're the one who is being inconsiderate. In general, however, La quejadora doesn't bother me much. She swims slowly and her style, while frustrating, is predictable. I know that I have to be in front of her and that I have to watch closely every time that I pass her in the other direction because she's often in the center of the lane.

The remainder of the regular swimmers I put in the category of squatters. These folks are not as interested in swimming as they are in hanging out against the wall of the pool, chatting, bobbing their heads underwater, and stretching. They typically do not make room for approaching swimmers to kick off the wall nor rest. Squatters occupy their space against the wall as if simply hanging out in a lane were what lanes were for. This bothers me.

I suppose if I've illustrated anything through my observations of my pool time it's that I don't have much of a life. While that may be true, it is my life, however pathetic...And these people with whom I occupy the pool everyday have become my silent companions. Maybe they have a nickname for me too. Like the surly Yankee or the skinny dork.