30

Thanks to everyone who wished me a happy 30th birthday last Monday! I had no problem with the idea that my birthday might fly under the radar this year, but no such luck:)

So I suppose I should ruminate on having turned 30. How my life has changed. If I feel different. Plans for the future. Insights. Etc...

In reality, birthdays and the years are arbitrary dates on which we have chosen to celebrate or reflect on the passing of another year. The only real cosmic significance of my birthday is that in the time that I have been alive, the Earth has spun in an eliptical orbit exactly 30 times around the sun.

At any rate, we've made meaning out of birthdays and years and 30 especially is supposed to mean something, right? 30 is supposed to mean that I've grown up, I'm an adult. I should be settling down now, married or on my way, starting a family, established in a job with upward mobility. Something like that.

I guess that I've chosen at least a slightly different path. I suppose I'm grown up but I haven't settled down, I'm nowhere near married (and even further from having a family), I gave up my good job in the States, and my future is at present very uncertain. Next year I will likely end up in Ohio, North Carolina, Colorado, Georgia, or (if the economy continues its nosedive) back in Buenos Aires. While none of these is a bad option, it certainly is a sign of someone whose life is in flux, who has not settled, who has options but no clear and definite path. Que se yo.

So the question is, do I feel pressure to conform? Is it weird to have brothers and sisters and parents who were all more or less married with children by this age? Do I feel the pressure of being the only member of my family without a spouse and kid(s) ? Do I feel the need to reenter the rat race, to stake out my piece of the American dream? Am I worried about becoming 'that uncle'? (That is, the unreliable youngest who never married nor settled) Or just what's going through my head now that I'm 30?

Of course I didn't feel different from one day to the next. One day I was 29 and the next I was 30. But what do I feel and what am I thinking in general now?

One thing that I'm learning is that a lot can change in a year or in a short period of time. You can have say 3 years of relative stability during which you change very little as a person and then one year in which your life turns in a very different direction. The two life events that affected me the most were going through basic training at the Air Force Academy and moving to Argentina for a year. Both events have played a formative role in my personality and the direction of my life. And both events packed the life changing value of any other 5-10 year span.

As a result of my time in the Air Force Academy, I gained a new motivation and ambition to test my limits and consciously shape and form my future. I went from being an unmotivated and occasionally delinquent adolescent to being (after an embarasing first semester) a curious and driven college student. Were it not for the Air Force Academy, I don't think I would be as educated or learned in general. The experience woke me up.

Argentina on the other hand has quieted me, taught me how to relax, made me sharper, smarter, more direct, and competent. I've also learned to be more patient here and have improved my communication skills. I've begun to see the world as an Argentine and come close to gaining a new identity as a Porteno (although that's nothing to brag about). I've learned the value of defining life without work. I've altered my goals from all concrete to include more overarching themes and guides. That is, I used to have goals such as 'Complete a novel', 'Learn Spanish', 'Achieve Doctorate', 'Spend a year in another country'. Now my goals include: 'Do what makes you content or happy', 'Learn more about yourself so that you can figure out what type of life and career will make you content and possibly happy', 'Take time to connect with people', 'Make your family a priority'.

But that's all good stuff. Buenos Aires has also made me less innocent, less trusting, less confident in the goodness of the world and the motivations of people. I often catch myself becoming ultra critical of almost anyone or thing that crosses my mind. My mind seeks out inconsistencies and weaknesses, any reason not to trust or to be wary. It's almost as if the big city has infected me with this world view as a means of survival. I hope to shake out of it when I return to the states, but my guess is that it will linger for a while.

Another 30 thought I've had is the recognition of a pattern in my life. I have a tendency to become very passionate about something for a year or two and then to move into a period of unrest and then relaxation followed by the emergence of a new passion. I can remember the pattern of passions in chronological order: TV, Basketball, Golf, Reading, Psychology, Writing, Politics, Stock Market, Spanish, Argentina. The passions come and go and leave me more knowledgeable, but I haven't been able to focus on any one thing for what most people would consider to be a substantial period. Do I want this to change? Is it ok? Does it make me happy to be this way? I haven't yet figured out the answers to those questions.

And as far as pressure to conform to the standards and norms set by society and my family. I guess I do feel some pressure to settle down. If I felt no pressure, I suppose I'd continue to wander and try out new living arrangements throughout the world. But in addition to the pressure to settle down, I also have a wholly personal desire to find home. I want to have some place where I can truly feel relaxed and gain a level of low stress that I haven't felt since I was a kid. I'm talking quiet, soft couches, stocked refrigerator, friendly and trustworthy neighbors, safe neighborhood, good weather, garden. I think my life has been in maybe too much flux for the past few years and my body and mind are ready for some much deserved relaxation and settling. Don't get me wrong, I think I will always yearn for learning experiences like Argentina, but I'd like them to be tempered by occasional stability and the option of comfort too. Having my cake and eating it.

But I don't feel any pressure to have a family. I work with kids in my jobs and have 9 sobrinos. If I find the right woman, I'd be happy to start up a family, but if not, I could be happy single.

I think a lot of 30 year olds who aren't engaged or married begin to come to terms with the idea that they may not have the spouse, 2 kids, dog, and picket fence version of life. You slowly become satisfied with the idea that it could be just you. And all of a sudden, it's ok if there is no one else. (That said, I would like a black cat named 13, a garden, and to walk pound dogs a few days a week. And I would also like to try out some type of loosely affiliated religion like Quakerism in which I would have a weekly time of reflection or meditation.)

I do, however, feel some pressure to return to my career. I would like to feel a sense of meaning greater than myself again. I've been quite wrapped up in 'me' in Buenos Aires and while I feel like it's necessary and very enjoyable, I don't want to make a habit of it. And I'd like to return to having a bit of ego again. Going without ego and having to reestablish ego has been a fun challenge and I'm not sure that I ever want my ego fully back again. I think I am a better person without it. However, not having much ego for long periods of time can be stressful and stunting. I think I may need a bit of ego again to have the confidence to move forward with future goals and to maybe live up to my potential, and er to have the guts to ask someone out on a date.

The thought that I'll conclude with is that I think that I'm moving in the direction of becoming a university professor in school psychology or educational leadership. That is, I will likely wind up going back to school for a doctorate of some sort. I loved teaching university students as a graduate assistant and according to the feedback I received, the students enjoyed it too. I dealt with no behavior issues and almost every class was an opportunity to have an intense and fulfiling class discussion. Sincere, honest, and intense communication is quite possibly my favorite activity in life. Teaching at the university level has been the only job I've had that's allowed for this on an almost every day basis.

I also think that I've learned enough about myself to know that I could be very happy with the lifestyle of a professor. I'd have plenty of independence, time for my daily swims, intelligent interactions with students and colleagues, time to myself, and most importantly... freedom to be myself. I think I could be very happy growing old into professorhood, writing articles about democracy and education, child development, and public schools.... eating well enough, and of course coming home to my black cat named 13, garden, and walking a pound dog a few times a week. Granted, I'll never get rich and I'll likely never achieve any sort of fame, but I think I could be very content and maybe continue to travel regularly too..... I think it sounds as if I've just turned 60 instead of 30.

Of course I've probably had more general thoughts about turning 30 but the aforementioned have been on my mind lately. And if you're wondering what I did on February 23rd? As it turns out, I was lucky enough to have my bro Kevin in town and we spent the day in the Argentine countryside (A town called Tandil). Kevin and I hiked 16 kilometers in the mountains, ate at an obscenely good all you can eat buffet, sampled local cheeses, and slept in a quiet cabin outside of town in the pampa. I couldn't have asked for much more.

Ego

The city has been a delight to live in for the past month and a half. A good chunk of the population took off for the beach, not to return until March. The effect was like replacing the screw down lid of a pressure cooker with a normal one. The city is still stressful, but the teeth grinding intensity of before more or less evaporated with the heat. There are less cars and taxis, less stress, less trash, less noise, less pollution, and thankfully less Porteno mentality.

With the summer, people have loosened up a little. They're talking to each other, smiling occasionally, treating each other maybe normal instead of with contempt. And so I've thoroughly enjoyed el verano en la ciudad. Swimming, eating out at my favorite parilla, going to museums and street fairs on the weekends, watching movies, sitting out late at night at cafes on the street. I'm still working a bit, teaching English and reading a few times a week, but the work is nothing stressful. Life is really good....Depending on how you look at it.

When you come to a new country, you often give things up: Your title, your career, your educational achievements, your established personality, your material posessions. I'm not a school psychologist here (I don't even work legally). My Spanish works but I don't come off sounding very learned or intelligent. I sold my car and most of my material possessions and have not replaced them. I have no established personality or reputation nor any recognizable signals to people that I have value.

I came to this realization during a conversation with my friend Cecilia. She asked me why I hadn't dated much or tried dating while I've been down here. I hadn't really considered it until she asked me. But I think my response was accurate. I said, 'Creo que no tengo mucha confianza aca. No tengo mi titulo. No tengo mi idioma. No tengo cosas. No tengo mi carera. No tengo familia. En EEUU la gente me da importancia porque soy un psicologo. Aca, no. Aca, Soy Pat.' Translation: I don't have as much confidence here. I don't have my title, my language, my stuff, my career, my family. In the United States, people gave me a degree of respect automatically because I'm a school psychologist. Here, I'm Pat.

So that's a bit dramatic, but it's true. A lot of what I worked for and built up to in my life was stripped away upon coming here. It's just me again and few of the protections, comforts, and ego of before.

Once again, I have to earn respect, confidence, trust, love. In the United States it was easy and I had grown lazy, allowing my achievements and reputation to replace my everyday actions. Here I haven't had that option.

The result is that I act much differently here than in the US. I am more consistently kind and generous. For instance, I cook for my friends almost every time we get together. I think I want to show them that I do in fact have some value, that there are reasons to respect me despite the fact that I don't sound very intelligent in Spanish, despite the fact that I don't have a respectable or stable career here. I also have to earn trust. For all the people of Buenos Aires know, I could be lying about who I was in the US. Everything I say could be made up. So, I have to actually BE the person that I claim I was in the United States instead of just giving people my card.

Absolute honesty has become very important. I make it a point to be as honest as possible with people in terms of money, details, information, or even stories I tell. I also take more time here to listen to people and to try to help out emotionally.

Being stripped of my ego was not something I consciously prepared for or realized that I would have to encounter upon moving down here. But I think I wanted it.

Things in the U.S. had become a bit too easy, too comfortable, boring. I wanted a bit of adventure and to be tested again, to be forced to learn quickly, to be renewed. But I also wanted to get rid of almost everything and see what would happen. I had been drifting in this direction throughout my stay in Columbus. Each year I moved to a cheaper and smaller apartment and got rid of more material possessions. In my last few months I was living in the tiny office of a friend before moving to Buenos Aires. I had also been learning survival skills, like how to start a fire with a bow or hand drill. And I'd been reading survival novels like Robinson Crusoe and Life of Pi. I had the primitive basic human yearning to connect again with basic caveman type stuff-survival.

What better way to do this than by moving to a developing country without first having a job, place to live, health insurance, family, or language. This experience I think is what I'd been building up to. I wanted to know what it was like to live very basically, stripped of both physical and symbolic ego.

So now that I've been here for almost 8 months straight, 11 months total, how do I feel? In a word, liberated. I feel more free than I have since I was an undergrad. I am more healthy, centered, and focused. I see the world much more clearly again. I feel as though I can give to people again, that I don't need to take and instead am stable enough (during communication) to not project my needs, problems, ambitions.

I think I know now too what it means to be content. I'm not sure I'm happy. I've always been a bit wary of happiness, never quite trusted it. It seems too fleating and ephemeral. But contentedness I can accept. I've realized that material posessions and the protections of money and status and education.....They alone don't result in contentedness. In fact, having given much of that up for the better part of a year, I am much more content. I've been forced to come alive again, to be all of my accumulated education, knowledge, wisdom, life experience. And with being forced back into an intense live-in-the-moment reality has come health, focus, clarity.

I've learned too that life doesn't have to be work. The first thing I did when I came down here was to throw myself into 4 jobs. Working a ton has always given me a sense of comfort. Ever since I started my first paper route when I was 10 I can remember the sense of comfort it gave me to have my little aluminum fort knox piggy bank stuffed with money. Since that point, my life has been defined mostly by my work. Or, at least, I only felt comfortable when I had consistent work.

Now, I have less work than ever and after the initial freak out of 'what do I do with myself and how do I make meaning without work?', I have settled into a routine of making meaning out of things like pleasure seeking, living in the moment, and personal development. I visit museums, eat out, spend time with friends, experiment with cooking, swim, write, read, concentrate on being a good friend and family member. The lesson: Life can be pretty darn good without work. I'm really starting to enjoy it.

Sure, lots of people don't have this option. They have families and responsibilities etc. Yes, it's easy for me to say, I have just myself to worry about. That's true, but I think there are a lot of people out there who could work less. I think we work so much and don't do what we really want to because we're afraid (I also think a lot of people have no idea what they really want to do or have never taken the time to sincerely consider it). We're afraid, as I was, of facing a life without work. What do I do? What will my life mean? We're also frightened by a society that tells us we need all kinds of stuff we don't need. How do we get this stuff? We must work work work and the worst thing we could do is to not have work or to lose our jobs. I also think we're afraid of not having comforts and protections like life insurance, cars, car insurance, prescription drugs, extravagant foods, big homes, nice well kempt yards, security systems. What would life be like without security, comfort, and stuff? My experience after having experienced both ways of life (stuff and ego versus less stuff and less ego) has lead me to the conclusion that I overwhelmingly prefer the latter to the former.

So why am I coming back you might ask? If I'm so zen here, if things are so good with my new bohemian lifestyle, what is it that's tugging me back to the U.S. Why don't I stay down here and continue to live out what has turned out to be a very satisfying life?

Sometimes I ask myself this when I'm enjoying a beautiful 5 dollar porterhouse steak at my favorite restaurant while reading The New Yorker. I do fear coming back to the United States. I don't want to get caught up in the race to accumulate stuff, work too much, get stressed out, sick, and addicted to prescription medication. I'd like to continue this healthy lifestyle. However, I also feel a need to be with my family, to give something substantial to the world, and to start a business of some sort. These things I find very difficult to do here and I think I will need them for long term contentedness.

I think I will also need, however, to get away from the United States occasionally. I will need every now and then to take a summer or maybe even another year to give up the things that I've accumulated so that I can recenter again.

So I need a plan for when I return to the United States, to live what I've learned about life here. I've got to foresee the pressures that I'm likely to encounter and figure out a way to live life there to some degree how I've lived it here. More than anything else, I need to understand that doing what I want to do is more important than making money. And maybe in the end if I'm happy doing what I'm doing, I'll wind up making more money anyway. I think sometimes the world works that way.

In the meantime, I'm already missing Argentina. For the first 6 months or so here, I was ready for the experience to be done, to go home. Now I'm not exactly looking forward to leaving. 3571 Paraguay 7B has become home.

Then again, the masses haven't returned to the city yet. When they do, I'm almost sure that I'll want out again. That said, I am predicting that my attitude and preparedness to leave Argentina will change by mid March, 2 or so weeks after school starts and everyone returns from vacation.

The Final Asado

One thing that has been on my mind lately, almost as much as the economic crisis in the states, is the drought in Argentina. Buenos Aires and La Pampa have endured an over year long drought that has resulted in water shortages, poor crop yields, and worst of all from my vantage...over a million head of cattle have died because the pastures on which they feed are drying up.



The Argentine way of raising cattle, grass fed and free range, is the right way. I won't argue that it's environmentally friendly, but it's better at least than the filthy feed lots in the states. And the resulting taste of Argentine cows is a thing of beauty, something that makes me feel thankful for every day I have here. As ridiculous as that sounds, it's true. When you're passionate about something, you're passionate.

Along with my passion for Pampas meat has come a passion for preparing it the Argentine way, the asado. I have been training under the tutelage of my former host father, Guillermo, for months now.

He taught me how to buy meat, which charcoal to use, the difference between using wood and charcoal, how to build a fire, how to light the fire, when the coals are ready, how to spread the coals around depending on which cuts of meat you're cooking, how to clean the grill, how to use excess runoff fat, where to put the meat on the grill, how to cut the meat before putting it on the grill, the different points at which to flip the meat, and finally, the order in which the meats come off the grill to serve and how they are cut and presented. Guillermo has been my Yoda of Asado.

One thing I never understood, however, was why Guillermo seemed to be possessive of his parilla or grill. Every time I tried to do something myself, he would insist on metaphorically holding my hand while doing it. I've had the desire many times to tell him that I know what I'm doing and that I can do it myself, but I try to be polite and so have held back and accepted his micromanaging approach to teaching me. It wasn't until in San Martin de Los Andes that I finally understood the origins of this parilla possessiveness.

As I mentioned before, the hostel at which I stayed in San Martin had its own parilla. Upon first look at the parilla, I was a bit disappointed. It only faintly resembled Guillermo's parilla and consisted very basically of a large warped concave metal grill, a concrete surface, and three walls enclosing it. The area around the parilla was littered with trash and was not at all ideal for the process of making asado. No matter I told myself. All I needed were the basics. When I returned to the states I would build a glorious parilla. But the Puma Hostel in San Martin was a good place to hone my skills on a very basic apparatus.

I made asado 3 times in San Martin. The first was a success, but was easy as I cooked more chicken and sausage than real meat cuts. The second asado was a personal asado in which I cooked up rack of lamb for myself. The last asado was a biggy: Chicken, tira de asado, vacio, morcilla, trout, provoleta, onions, and calabaza (butternut squash). We held this particular asado 2 nights before we were to leave San Martin and I prepared a day in advance by collecting wood from the forest 1 km away. I wanted the coals to be straight from wood as opposed to charcoal because I'd heard that it resulted in better tasting meat.

Because I was going to be arriving late from an adjacent town, Villa Traful, I had to relinquish the buying of the meat to a 30-year-old Argentine guy named Hernan. We'd met Hernan at our hostel a week before and one of our female group members took a liking to him so he'd been hanging around ever since. I talked over with Hernan the type of meat we wanted for the asado and judging from the conversation, I could tell that he'd do a good job of buying. The only problem was that he equated buying the meat with the honor of being the night's asador (grill master).....I quickly and quite immaturely shot this dream down. I let him know that making asado was quite possibly my favorite pass time and that I had already spent hours collecting dry barkless kindling from an apple tree in the forest. In other words, it was to be my asado. He'd better not start the fire. And if he did, I might just throw a 2 year old tantrum. And so I began to understand Guillermo....

I spent the day of the parilla exploring Villa Traful with a few friends, but I have to admit that during the hikes I was thinking and planning for the evening. What construction of fire would I make to prepare the coals: tee pee or log cabin? What order would I put the meat on and how would I distribute the coals? How would I cook the trout and would it be too delicate to flip? Nevertheless, I was able to enjoy Villa Traful and live in the moment... but the moment I was back in San Martin, I felt an urgency to return quickly to the hostel to ensure that I had both claimed the parilla for the evening and started the fire by myself.

We ran into Hernan and Erica(the budding couple) on the way back from the bus station. Hernan was carrying a bag of charcoal in one hand and the meat in the other. He was excited to show me the meat cuts he'd bought: Tira de asado, morcilla, and vacio. He pointed out the parallel lines of meat and fat on the tira de asado as well as the bright blood red of the meat. He also explained how he had bought it all at Pil Pil, the butcher shop (carnicerea) that I had recommended to him, which had been recommended to me. He had done well. And even better, he was not home before me to intercept my plan of starting the fire.

As Erica and Hernan left for a Fruit/Vegetable stand to buy veggies, I walked impatiently back to the hostel and back to the parilla. There waiting for me, undisturbed was my lena, or wood, with tape around it that I had labeled with my name (What kind of geek labels wood that he collects?). I quickly began building a log cabin fire with a solid log base and plenty of tinder underneath to ensure that it would only take one match to light.

Exito or success. One fosforo (or match) later and the log cabin was roaring a good six feet into the air. Hernan approached from the hostel and said astonished, 'Mucho Fuego!'

'Si', I responded with an ear to ear grin.

And then he started with what would shortly have the two of us in clear conflict.

'Hay carbon en el fuego?'

He was asking me if I'd put charcoal in the fire. No, I hadn't put charcoal in the fire. I was planning on putting a little in, but I was letting the fire grow strong before doing so. Before I could respond, Hernan was putting large chunks of charcoal on my beautiful flames. I was not pleased, but I said nothing. I thought to myself, 'You should share this experience. Maybe Hernan likes it just as much as you do. Let him be part of it.'

And so I held my tongue while Hernan added piece after piece of charcoal to my fire and then manipulated the charcoal continuously with one of the long iron parilla tools, similar to what you might use with a chimney. I hoped and truly thought that Hernan would leave the asado, would play a bit and then return to Erica, with whom he seemed so smitten and vice versa. Yes, go find Erica I thought. And leave me with my love, the parilla.

But he didn't. He kept fumbling with the fire and 15 minutes later, unable to control myself, I snapped.

'Hernan, el fuego esta bien. Para para.' (Hernan, the fire is ok. Stop!)

I immediately felt badly. What happened to letting Hernan share the experience? Something in me wouldn't allow it. Hernan looked hurt. He made one last poke with a long iron tool, put it down, and sulked away back inside the hostel.

In the meantime, my team of meat cleaners and veggie prep chefs was bringing out the raw ingredients, grill ready. The coals were bright red and so I began distributing them under the grill to warm it up.

At the same time that the meat came out, the hostel's dog followed and began whimpering for snippets. No amount of commands in English nor Spanish seemed to make any impact on this dog. In addition, she ignored my attempts to pull her away by the collar. She would not be deterred. (Later I learned that the owner had her on a diet because she was 8 kilos overweight. However, this only made her crazy for food and the hostel guests more or less gave her whatever she asked for-except me.)

With the grill red hot, I began placing the cuts. The tira de asado, rib bones down. The vacio, fat side down. Both the aforementioned in areas with plenty of coals underneath to ensure that the thickness of the cuts would be penetrated by enduring heat. The chicken I also put a great deal of coals under. Chicken requires a good deal of heat and you can cook the heck out of it because of all the skin and fat. The morcilla or blood sausage is more about warming it up and so I placed it on a cooler area. It's precooked and there's no real reason it even needs to be on the parilla, but better the grill than the oven or microwave. Then I put the trout on skin side down and hoped it would not tear or get stuck to the metal. I finished with the veggies, placing them wherever I could find space. They were not the focus and some would have to wait until the meat came off. And all the time, Adela the dog watched patiently from a not so distance.

A few minutes after placing the meat, Hernan returned. He seemed to have forgotten my previous berating and I was happy that it hadn't impacted him terribly. It would have upset me if I were him, but apparently he saw it differently. He wanted to take a picture of us at the parilla, but after doing so, I saw his hand return to the iron parilla tool. Hernan was back at it, pushing the coals around under the grill and placing more charcoal on the coals that I kept in reserve in the corner of the parilla for preparing more coals. After a few minutes of painfully watching him, someone called him back to the hostel and for this, I was thankful. For a few precious moments, the parilla was mine again.

Soon after, however, Hernan was back, and with doubts.

'Patrick. Debes poner mas carbon en las brasas, no? Hace un poco frio la parilla, no?' The truth was that he was right. The wood coals that I was relying on had died out and become cold and needed to be replaced by new ones, but I couldn't for whatever reason bring myself to agree with him.

'Esta bien,' Hernan, I insisted. And then I decided to just have it out with him, to be honest with him about my wishes for the evening. 'Mira Hernan, esta es mi parilla, mi fuego. Tenes que dejar mi parilla. Ya se que soy muy joven, muy imadura en este sentido pero es asi. Yo quiero hacer todo asi que anda! Por favor.' I told him in spitting Castellano that it was my parilla, that I knew I was being immature about it, but that that was the way it was and that I wanted him to go, to leave. He kind of smiled and laughed in response and I only half returned the smiles and laughing because really, I wasn't kidding. This was my piece of art, my project, and I didn't want assistance. Gone were my thoughts of diplomacy and maturity, replaced more by a desire to hog the pure pleasure of the creation myself.

Hernan left once again, this time kind of confused and bewildered.....But 5 minutes later he was back. Again, he made the recommendation to put more coals under the grill. I think for him, it had turned into a matter of....This Yankee thinks he knows how to grill but he's not doing it right and he had the nerve to tell me, born and raised in Argentina, making asados all my life, that I didn't know what I was doing and that I should leave....

My response was to repeat what I had said before. I was done with Hernan. He had distracted me enough and I felt that my focus was no longer on the process, but instead on my resentment of his trying to take the experience away from me. Hernan left again, this time for good.

The delivery of the asado started ok...I brought out the morcilla first, as you're supposed to in a traditional asado. You can't mess up morcilla. So far so good. Then I came back with some tira de asado. While the first piece to come out was more or less well done. The second, not so much.

Hernan pointed it out to me. 'Patrick, perdon pero es un poco crudo'. He was saying that it wasn't cooked. I walked over to him and squinted in the dark to see that he was right- blood red and raw on one side. Damn. He was right: I should have had hotter and more coals under the grill. I insisted that I take the meat back to continue cooking it. I ran back to the grill and stoked the fire in the corner with more charcoal and then put more coals under the grill, hoping to cook the tira de asado more quickly. In the meantime, the dog was now pacing and whimpering for a piece of the cooked meat.

I pulled the trout off the grill next. I was able to successfully flip it and tried a piece. Tender, juicy and delicious. Success. I delivered the trout to happy customers. Returning to the grill, I pulled off another strip of tira de asado and delivered it. This strip was rare, but edible and the hungry table put it down quickly. Next, I brought out veggies and provoleta cheese. And then some chicken thighs. Lastly, I cut off half of a portion of vacio that had been cooked through. The other half was too thick and would require more time on the grill. After I delivered the vacio, I took some time to sit down with my group and enjoy some of the meat for myself. After 10 or so minutes, the grill called to me. There was still chicken breast and a large hunk of vacio. I felt that the vacio ought to be ready, but when I returned to the parilla, it was nowhere to be found.

Puzzled, I looked around to see if Hernan had taken it off the grill, but he was back at the picnic table, had never left. Scanning all corners of the dark backyard of the hostel, I quickly found the culprit, Adela, in the corner where the two fences meet. She was clearly guarding something, licking and pulling off chunks. I walked closer and saw her with the beautiful remaining piece of vacio. 'Adela!' I screamed.

While I was enjoying the fruits of my labor, the dog had jumped up onto the red hot grill and stolen a pound of juicy vacio.

Horrified and literally in shock, I ran back to tell the group who erupted in laughter. I was glad they thought it funny because I felt a sense of guilt as the asador. How could I not only have delivered raw ribs, but also have allowed the dog to eat half of one of the best cuts of the night! Hernan was smiling.

After admonishing the dog more, I pulled the remaining chicken off the grill and returned to the table to finish my meat. Some members of the group had put a piece of vacio on my plate because I hadn't tried any and so I dug in, feeling defeated and suddenly not so hungry. At this point, my job as the asador was more or less done. All the food had been delivered and the remaining meat and chicken were balancing nearby in case anyone wanted anymore.

The only one who did want some more was the one who had had too much. Upon reaching for another piece of chicken, I again found Adela quietly and contentedly licking the remaining chicken breasts. She had eaten a pound of meat and was not done.

I freaked out again. Demon Dog! I thought, Possessed Wicked Creature! What was wrong with this dog? The group laughed, but I felt like a failure.

In the end, it was clear to me that I got what I deserved. My obsession and posessiveness with the parilla, my immaturity, my unwillingness to take advice all came back to haunt me. I'd served half raw ribs and let the dog eat and ruin a good portion of the meat and chicken. The night was not a complete failure, but for me, it felt like it.

I could see Hernan lying down to sleep with a grin on his face thinking of how sweetly justice had played itself out. My only consolation was that he would be going to bed hungry:)

(This blog entry is dedicated to Guillermo, my yoda like mentor and friend. I promise from now on Guillermo to understand your relationship with your parilla.)

Patagonia

So I finally got my vacation. I'll be honest. I don't work terribly hard here so I didn't really deserve a big vacation. It was a vacation, however, not just from work but from the city as well.

Before my trip to patagonia, the name 'Patagonia' to me meant a high quality, but far too expensive clothing brand. Frankly, I'd never known that a corresponding place existed. I thought Patagonia was kind of like Haagen Das, a name created for the way it sounds with no real meaning. But let me reassure you that the Patagonia region of Argentina does exist and it is every bit deserving of its name.

For months, my yoga instructor friend Erica and I have been rounding up people and making plans for a 2 week trip to San Martin de Los Andes, a smallish city in the Cordillero region of Argentina's Patagonia (And very close to the Chilean border on the West Side of the Country). At one point, I more or less dropped out of this planning process and Erica took over. All said and done, she had rounded up 6 other people, booked us a room in a hostel, and made sure we all bought roundtrip bus tickets.

When the time finally came for the trip, I have to admit that I felt a bit of anxiety. I was going to spend 2 weeks sharing one room and bathroom with 5 other adults, 4 of whom I didn't know very well. This would have not been a concern for me during boyscouts or during college, but I have since become a wimp in terms of my travel and comfort preferences. That is, I like my own space and a bit of luxury. Sharing a hostel room with 5 other people is neither comfortable nor luxurious. Cozy is a better description.

The bus trip down was not so bad. It took about 21 hours to get from Buenos Aires to San Martin de Los Andes, but it didn't feel nearly that long. The bus was comfortable, the seats ample, and we were provided with pillows, blankets, and plenty of food and drink to keep us happy. I slept pretty well overnight and a few hours after I woke up, we were at our destination.

The day we arrived in San Martin was a bit brisk and windy. The landscape was beautiful, but it was somehow both cold and hot at the same time. The sun was powerful and bright and capable of burning, but the wind made you wish you had a scarf. Not exactly what I had expected and not so comfortable.

Fortunately, as the week progressed, the weather improved. It turned hot and sunny during the day and just cool enough in the evening to allow for great sleep. On top of that, through meeting and talking with other people in the hostel, our group was introduced to a slew of fun and inexpensive ideas for day trips. The following is a picture summary of more or less how we wound up spending our time:

1. La Islita (the little island) This is a little island that took an hour of hiking through the mountains to reach. It's both within Lanin National Park and on Maipuche Indian land, which resulted in a 2 peso entry fee. But the beach was every bit worth it.

The beach itself was a bit rocky, but the water was crystal clear, pure, and cold, but not so much that you couldn't swim out to the adjacent island. It was one of the most beautiful beaches I'd ever seen with green mountains surrounding on all sides and snow covered Andes in the distance.

The walk to and from the beach was surreal. There were cattle, turkey, chickens, and lamb roaming more or less wild. I guessed that the Maipuche owned all of this livestock, but allowed them the freedom to roam the land and herded them in somehow as needed.

2. Yuco

My group told me one day that we were going to Yuco. I had no idea what that meant. I found that it meant that I was going to be woken early from a great sleep to board a dusty old diesel leaking bus that shuttled us out into the middle of nowhere. The group (or a few err very organized and err assertive women) had begun to play a dictatorial role on the trip. That is, every day, we were basically told what we were doing. I didn't mind this as most of their suggestions were great and better than I could have come up with. On top of that, they planned it all out, let me know how much it was going to cost, and coordinated everything.

After an hour on the rickety bus, we were dropped off on the side of the road near a trailhead. We wandered sleepily down a long slope and after about a kilometer found a beautiful and private half moon beach on a lake surrounded by snow covered Andes on all sides. It was again some of the most beautiful scenery I'd ever witnessed. What was best is that we had it all to ourselves. Gone were the hordes of stressed out Portenos, taxis, buses, diesel, smog. The water was glass and you could see clear to the colorful rocks and preserved logs underneath as seen in the above picture. It was a silence, a stillness that I'd been yearning for after months in Buenos Aires without a break. It instilled in me a sensitivity that I haven't felt for maybe years. I wanted to be quiet and walk very lightly so as not to disturb the peace. Some members of the group I think felt uncomfortable in the silence and tried to fill it by talking loudly and joking around. I walked away from the group along the beach and around a secluded bend and just sat on a rock in the sun with my feet in the water looking out across the breathtaking stillness. I sat that way for almost an hour and a half and then, after feeling as if I had slept for a full day, I returned to the group to eat a snack.

I spent the rest of the day reading the New Yorker with my legs dangling in the water from a secluded spot along the coast. At one point, I decided to try to swim in the water after watching my friend Axel do so. Before I entered, my muscles and bones felt stiff and I was a bit tired. I questioned whether I really wanted to do it. But once in, I felt alive. The water was cold, but refreshing in a way that I've never been energized before. I swam under to look at the colorful rocks, able to open my eyes and see as clearly as if it were the YMCA pool without having to worry about burning chlorine. I tried the front crawl, the breast stroke, I dove down and up like a seal. And the view in the background every time I raised my head was a dream of mountains and snow. Instantly, this activity had become my favorite of all time, better than golf or mountain biking or hiking. It was like falling in love when you thought you'd never fall in love again. An utter surprise.

When I emerged from the lake, I let the sun and wind dry me off. The best way to describe how I felt is Younger. My muscles and bones were no longer so tight. In fact, a giant condor landed on the other side of the beach and upon seeing it, my body responded by sprinting out after it, so quickly that I felt at least 10 years younger, with capricious energy to spare (not that I'm so old man, but I can tell a difference from age 19. I'm more conscience of the way my energy and body are used).

We stayed at Yuco until after 9pm. It was a long day and we'd all gotten too much sun, but at the same time we realized that our day at Yuco was magical, that we might never again have the opportunity to spend the day at such a beautiful place and have it all to ourselves. We collectively agreed that we would never forget this gift.

3. Villa L'Angostura

Villa L'Angostura is a town 3 hours South of San Martin. The bus trip was long, rocky, and dusty, as there are no paved roads between these cities. I had heard that the town was beautiful, but didn't know what to expect or how it could be that much more beautiful than what I'd already seen in the past few days. Once again, however, I was taken aback by the breathtaking beauty of the place. Villa L'Angostura is a smaller town than San Martin and there are 2 major beaches along the main road out of town, as well as an adjacent forest of ancient Arrayanes trees. I didn't have time for a hike out into the forest, but I was able to enjoy the two beaches. Somehow, the water in these lakes was even more pure than in the San Martin area. You could literally walk out to a pier with 10 feet of water below you and see down to the lake floor as if the water were a spotless blue green window. What's more is that the mountains in the background were even taller and with more snow pack than in San Martin. The scenery there was a serious 1 up on San Martin.

Unfortunately, after a half dip in the water at Villa L'Angostura , I had to head back to the bus station to catch a bus back to San Martin. I will, however, be back.

4. El Mirador

El Mirador is simply a look out point at the heart of a 10K round trip walk. The hike up is exhausting, but the view is-you fill in the blank. I don't care how many times you look at a view like this. It never gets old and I don't think it ever fails to quiet and nourish the soul.

The remainder of the trip was more of the same. One day we went to a town called Villa Traful, which is the smallest nearby town, very frontierish and rustic with it's own Mirador which is beautiful, but not quite as beautiful as the one pictured above. In Traful, I ate my first trout dinner. The trout was fished fresh from the adjacent lake and was cooked in butter and fresh herbs. So good that I happily ate skin and all.

On another day, we walked another 5 or 6 kilometers to a beach called Catrita. This particular beach was crowded with people, almost a resort of sorts, but the water was still clean and much warmer and so I swam more on this day than any other.

Another highlight from the trip was a mountain bike excursion up to the base of Cerro Chapelco, or the local mountain for skiing. It's almost 20 kilometers of riding straight up and then the same trip back down. My friend Axel mentioned that he wanted to do it and not one to back down from a challenge, I said that I'd join him. I secretly hoped he would forget about the whole thing, but one Sunday, he insisted we go for it....And so we searched around town and found the one shop that was still open to rent their beaten up mountain bikes to us. I was skeptical about my mountain bike's ability to make it more than a mile. The back rim was horribly bent, the tires wouldn't hold much air, and the bikes were cheap to begin with. But Axel was insistent that we try.

So, with plenty of water and snacks we started the ascent. The idea was that we would stop at various checkpoints to take a break and then decide if we wanted to continue. As it turned out, both of us refused to admit that we were too tired to continue and so we more or less vomited ourselves up the mountain on our shoddy 'Bronco' brand bikes. Arriving at the top of the mountain, triumphant, sweaty, smelly, and dust covered, we took pictures and then headed back down quickly because it was significantly colder up there and we weren't prepared for it.

The trip down would have been blissful if not for the fact that high speed made it that much more apparent that my bike was ready to disassemble. The back rims curvature was that much more noticeable with increased speed and so my descent was an exercise in doing what I could to make sure the bike and myself made it to the bottom in one piece. While the ascent took 2 or more hours, the descent couldn't have been longer than 35 minutes, and that with a stop for pictures. Axel and I ended the day by rewarding ourselves by going out to eat at an all you can eat meat and salad buffet that was actually very tasty.

And that brings me to the topic of food. My goal during the trip, food-wise, was to try trout, deer, and Patagonian lamb. Mission accomplished. I ate trout 4 times. Once in Villa Traful. Once I grilled it during an asado. And twice I got it for lunch from an upscale to-go place. My conclusion. Trout is tasty. I've pan fried a whole butterflied trout the last 2 nights in Buenos Aires in my apartment.

I meant to try deer in the form of a steak, but was never able to make it to the restaurant that specializes in it. As a result, I was only able to try smoked deer, which in any case, was very good, but for me not very distinguishable from beef.

Lamb I love. I first tried lamb at a restaurant called La Casona, which was a restaurant in the first floor of a house built during the original construction building boom of the city in the 1800s. The lamb was cooked with Rosemary and while there wasn't that much meat, I ate every last fiber. It was that flavorful and tender. Lamb I can easily distinguish from beef. I think it tends to be more tender and the flavor is a bit more subtle. The following day, having a new found hunger for lamb, I collected wood from the forest and later bought a 1 kilo rack of lamb with a lamb kidney attached. I was told by the friendly butcher that the kidney is a delicacy, but it looked in its crude state like a ball of cartilidge and fat. I grilled the lamb about 45 minutes on both sides and then tore into it ravenously at the picnic table under the hostel's cherry tree (which i will mention later). Again, for a kilo of meat and bones, there wasn't actually much to be had. However, the meat at the end of the ribs was delicious and the part covering the ribs was fatty but tasty (called a matambre cut). The surprise was the kidney. Just as I thought, it very much was a ball of fat with some meat inside, but the truth is that it was soft and full of flavor that flooded my mouth and warmed my insides. Mmmmm. Lamb kidney. Everyone should try it (Folks with high cholesterol excluded).

Another reason I came to love San Martin is that fresh fruits grow from trees and bushes throughout the city. Cherry and plum trees are on every street in the city and apple trees are not difficult to find either. Patagonia is in La Zona de Frutas or the part of the country where fruits are grown. So it's a great fruit growing climate and the cherries and plums that we ate every day were testament to that.

One cold and rainy day, my friend Axel and I decided to climb trees throughout the city to collect cherries and plums from which to make desserts. After 2 hours of work, we had filled two large grocery bags. From this fruit, I made 5 deserts: Cherry tort with a crushed cookie base and topped with a thickened cherry sauce and fresh whipped cream, cherry crisp, oatmeal plum bars, sweet plum sauce for ice cream, and a cherry-cream cheese cake.

I cooked a ton on the trip in general. I grilled out 3 times including lamb, provolone cheese, veggies, tira de asado, vacio, morcilla, chicken, and trout. I made 6 pizzas one day for a total of 13 people. I made homemade gnocci for 5 one night. I also made a giant chocolate chip cookie for a birthday. A full fat cheesecake. And finally a giant oatmeal cookie. I will mention too that meeting women in a hostel is very easy if you know how to cook.

In the following entries, I will tell the tale of one night of grilling out as well as the overall sensation with which Patagonia left me. It's too much for one entry and this one is getting long and rambling. But please do read on!!