Notes from the Beautiful Buenos Aires

In Spanish they use the word “know” when asking about where you visit instead of “see”. This weekend I met the lovely Buenos Aires, city of good air (aptly named when compared to Santiago).

If Rome and Paris had a child, it would be Buenos Aires, and it’s English speaking brother would be New York City. It’s cosmopolitan, with districts named Soho and Hollywood, where I learned the fun of window shopping - each glassy front presenting a story with mannequins and different props. Peeking in while walking along the cobblestoned streets was entertaining in itself and fun to imagine what money could buy if I had it. Tailored leather bags, sweaters, satin and cotton shirts with paisley or flower patterns covered the models, along with scarves and artistic trimmings. Leather shoes for ladies and gentlemen shone brightly in the windows. Tailored mens’ evening coats and jackets, complemented with a patterned tie and straight jeans appeared in browns and deep purple. Striped, paisley, tartan, and flower printed clothing hug the hangers, parading with finely knitted and checkered scarves, leather bags, fluorescent trinkets and retro bags with Marilyn Monroe face printed on them. These stores weren’t within the skyscrapers of NYC, but rather the smaller Spanish storefronts, with wooden doors, long windows and colored outer walls. As I walked along the sidewalk, golden leaves slowly fell around me and the street glistened from the light rain in the early afternoon. I could’ve wandered around these streets for more hours, which says a lot considering shopping tends to give me more anxiety than pleasure. I had fun buying some items for friends back home… as well as a few things for myself.

I felt like I was in NYC most of the time I was walking around the city. The massive Avenida 9 de Julio stretches out through the center, expanding with four streets, each with 2 or 3 lanes of traffic, as well as a park running through the middle. Roman columned government buildings dot the sidelines and an obelisk, a shorter copy of our own Washington monument, claims space in the middle. Every street contains restaurants, stores, pubs and cinemas. I stumbled upon one street that was lit up like Times Square for about 3 blocks, littered with cheap restaurants, cinemas and people selling kitsch items, reminding me of the Wildwood boardwalk in NJ. Another wider street, Santa Fe, hosted larger designer stores, sophisticated theaters and dozens of specialty furniture shops mixed with convenient stores and pharmacies. About 5 taxies drove by me every 30 seconds as I could feel my feet threatening to cramp from having walked for hours. I began thinking of myself more as trekking than walking in order to absorb as much of the city as possible.

Everyone I’ve met in Chile claims that Argentina has better meat but worse wine. I agree with this. What’s funny is that Chileans love their wine so much that it’s all you’ll really find in the grocery stores and wine shops, though I can’t blame them because it is so delicious. Also, what I think is different about South Americans, is that they know all the parts of the cow and the different kinds of cuts of meat. On the menu it specifies exactly where it’s coming from. The meat is definitely awesome, in both Chile and Argentina. The food in general, I think, has more of a kick to it – I feel like you get more quality for less money and the portion is more appropriate for what you can eat. Instead of receiving 8 oz of meat per person, coming with mashed potatoes, vegetables and salad – we shared about 12 oz of meat with tiny dishes providing tasty flavors to mix the meat with: pumpkin, mashed potatoes, onion, artichoke, tomato, and olive pastes. Prior to that, we actually shared other parts of the cow – the names of them escape me though. One was intestine I believe and the other was like sausage; both were fantastic.

When I walked through the parks in the afternoon people were relaxing and drinking matte while others were kicking around a soccer ball and still others had set up ropes between trees and were walking along them like a tightrope – interesting. I loved watching the people play soccer, not just because I actually do enjoy watching soccer, but it just seemed so particularly Argentine. I also wanted to just join some of the people drinking matte, but didn’t act upon that. At my hostel I had matte with some of the staff a couple mornings in a row - lovely.

But one area that absolutely floored me was the cemetery in Ricoleta. It had been recommended to me, but what I hadn’t known was that it doesn’t consist of graves in the ground, but actual mausoleums - houses of graves along tiny stone streets. Walking through brought new meaning to the phrase “on death’s door” in that, these people had tombs with their own doors. It was like streets of the dead. It almost doesn’t surprise me though, that South Americans would find a way to construct beautiful grave sights as well – some complete with columns, domes and sculptures of angels and the men within the ground. The evening light added even more weight to the artistry, the shadows adding more severity to the statues. In the moonlight I imagine it must be incredibly eerie and perhaps ghosts even peek their heads out of their doors and windows to see the night sky.

After the cemetary, I walked back through the market, where some people were dancing Tango on the street, to find La Flor. In the middle of an intersection I heard the tune of an American accent walk by.

"Excuse me! Where's La Flor?"

"Ah, the flower! Yes, that's worth seeing. I think it's over there..." said the Texan, as he pointed me in the wrong direction, "Our daughter just bought a miniature of it!"

His daughter proceeded to open a box with miniature metallic model of La Flor, a huge sculpture created for the university by one of its students. The metallic flower opens during the day and then closes at night. We had to ask a couple other people for the proper directions, but I loved connecting with these Texans. Hearing an American accent is music to my ears when in a crowd, it echoes of familiarity and home, even if they're from Texas.

Arriving back in Santiago was actually quite refreshing, mostly due to the people. Argentines struck me quite similar to New Yorkers, in the sense that they seemed more suspicious of me and though were truly accommodating, it was underneath a thicker skin. They seemed rougher around the edges and direct, whereas Chileans are a bit more open and warmer upon first acquaintance. For example, my taxi driver in Buenos Aires was swearing at the cars on the road, whereas in Chile, he was making small talk with me and I heard him say, “un beso, chau!” (“a kiss!”) at the end of his phone conversation. Hearing this, along with the quick intonation with the rises and drops, made me smile and very happy to be back.

Just a note on the change of Spanish, the Argentines pronounce all "y"s with a "sh". Therefore, you get:

Nueva York = Nueva Shor (New York)

hoy = hoysh (today)

alli = ashi (there)

aye = asher (yesterday)

lluvia = shuvia (rain)

Though I had enjoyed watching hundreds of rocky snowy mountain peaks change into expansive patches of plains below me as I flew across to Argentina, seeing the orange sky contrast with the majestic blue and purple shadowed mountains was a peaceful landscape to watch on the taxi ride back into Santiago. This is also the memory I have imprinted on my mind when I first arrived from Lima, finally reaching near the end of the Andes spine. Moments like this pull on my heartstrings, making me think twice about leaving such a new land. However, knowing that you’re leaving somehow sweetens each moment that you have left to cling onto, which is what time feels like now.

All I can do now is just savor the sweetness as best as possible.

The Cemetary at Ricoleta

La Flor

Beautiful Parks

91 Years

Yesterday, I was reminded that my Grandfather turned 91 this week. My life isn’t even 30% of that. He has lived three times longer than myself and has spent 60 years married to the same person.

Meanwhile, I just ordered an espresso with dos leches (normal milk and condensed milk) along with a brownie and some tiramisu ice cream in a coffee shop on Calle Italia, near my apartment. Oh the extravagance of little pleasures, how I love that. I will miss the colorful money that I used to pay for it, along with the Spanish I used to order it and the conversations that I can’t quite understand around me. In my mind, I am dedicating this elaborate sugar feast to my Scottish Grandfather, probably situated in front of his TV across the Atlantic. Here’s to 91 years of life, Salud!

The scope of spending 60 years with someone is wild to me. 60 years of laughter, joys, disappointments, sadness, support and just living – probably feeling like they want to leave one another during the darkest days and feeling the opposite on the others. Sometimes I wonder what they talk about before they fall asleep at night, after all that time. They had children, who have now had children and time keeps moving us all along. Somehow thinking about the length of life calms my anxieties, realizing that it doesn’t end after failures - there is much to be learned from. Although, all the sugar I just took in might just kill me.

Last night some songs from the 80s (or early 90s) came on my friend’s radio, which I translated into Spanish (not perfectly). I swear the 80s is often more present here, in the clothes and the music. Black and stone-washed jeans are popular and sometimes I see people wearing sweaters and sweatshirts with colorful graphics or waxed on pictures that remind me of things I bought as a child. It seems whenever we have the radio on in the apartment there are all these classics coming on from U2 and Phil Colins, etc. Often, there are remakes of the songs as well. Rosario was telling me that she heard the US is usually about three years behind in fashion though, so maybe this is just the time for me to catch up. Anyway, the other night I found myself trying to translate some Tom Petty, something that used to play constantly in the back of my friend’s Dodge mini-van during my childhood.

“Pues, ‘Last Dance with Mary Jane’ es de Tom Petty.”

“Tom Peddy.”

“Tom Petty. Y, el dice ‘el ultima baile con Mary Jane. Una vez mas para morir… el duele? Doler? Y, morir el duele. Sabes ‘Mary Jane’?”

“Claro, marijuana.”

“Si, po… la Mary Jane hace el duele mas facil y mejor.”

Hearing songs from my culture in other countries makes me proud. When Katy Perry’s Firework came on in Ecuador while we were out dancing, I couldn’t have been happier, pounding my fists in the air and jumping like a Gringa.

Not only is English available, but other languages in general. My roommate and I were laughing the other night about our bootleg movies. We seem to have one in every language. The other night we watched the Japanese “Ponyo” with Spanish subtitles.

“Do you understand?”

“Of course….. it’s a kid’s movie. I could probably understand without the subtitles.”

We popped in “Balada Triste” (by Alex de la Iglesia) but it was all in Russian and we couldn’t read where the subtitles were located on the menu, so that was out. Awhile ago, we watch “Je t’aime Paris” in French with Spanish subtitles while commenting in English. When I first moved in, we tried speaking Spanish more, but I began to give up trying to explain more complicated thought processes. Between the intonation, pronunciation and all the words unique to Chilean Spanish, it would take a long time to fully understand or use it well.

Si, po. (“po” is kind of used like “like”)

No, po.

Ka chai? (Did you catch that? Used in the same way as, “you know?”)

Claro (sure)

Lata (lazy)

Filo (whatever)

Vacan (cool)

Piola (cool)

Liz Taylor (listo – ready)

Y, Boston? (And, you?)

“Y Boston?” is the most entertaining for me. “y Boston?” is in reference to, “Y, Vos?” which is like, “And you?” usually used to challenge someone. Why they seem to randomly put English references into phrases, I'm not sure. But, for example:

“You drank too much last night.”

“Y, Boston?” ("So did YOU.")

I love how they play with Spanish, but as an English speaker, it’s challenging to be apart of it. They say Liz Taylor in references to “Listo” which means “Ready”. Apparently, when Pinochet died, on the front page in large print was:

LIZ TAYLOR

Meaning, he was finished. The Clinic is a leftist publication that pokes fun at politics, while offering some intelligent commentary at the same time. When Paul McCartney came to visit, there was a picture of him with, “Can’t buy my love or my tickets!”. The Clinic also has a three-floor pub, with large posters of politicians and jokes printed over them. Their menu can be taken home with racy descriptions of the food, often naming the meat and chicken dishes with double meanings.

One of my students is what they call a farandula, meaning that he likes keeping up with famous people. While sitting at an unassuming restaurant nestled within houses of Providencia, he often points out different starlights to me.

“The man sitting next to you is the manager of a football team.”

“The woman behind you, in the red, is a on the series ‘Macho’.”

“That man behind me to the right, on his computer, is a famous journalist.”

I first learned about Osama’s capture through this student as well, having neglected to read the news that day or the night before.

“I have a question for you. What do you think about the killing of Osama?”

“What?”

“Osama.”

“Ah, they killed him?”

The major political news here has to do with the Hydro-electric power plant they are building in the South, in the neighborhood of Patagonia. I think it’s kind of a shame…. feeling like they should leave the landscape alone. The other night, Rosario and I got a nice breeze of tear gas, drifting off of the protesters entering the subway, having been sprayed out by the government. Used lemons were lying on the metro floor, used to calm the stinging effects. We were joking that there will be a lemon shortage and Rosario was reading later, that tear gas actually affects your fertility.

And with fertility, let’s go back to the first topic: 91 years. 91 years of life. 60 years of marriage. 10 years of the rocky 20-somethings. Years of childhood, children and parenting. Years of growing old and learning how to cope with life and enjoy it.

Cheers to my grandfather and grandmother!

Patagonia

No, I didn’t go there and nor will I. Sadly, the area is entering its winter and Rosario and I thought the desert would be more amiable. Therefore, we settled for San Pedro de Atacama instead.

But: Patagonia. A battle has landed on the streets of Santiago over the best way to energize the country. The land is long and thin, with every kind of climate from North to South. They have possibilities: wind, nuclear, solar or hydro-electric – and what the politicians have sided with is the hydro-electric, which will impact the beauty of the Patagonian territory.

Endesa is an energy company that creates these structures, while Transelec is a company that figures out how to get the energy from there to the distributor. Both of these companies are clients of my institute; Endesa actually being our major client. The situation made for investigative conversation today.

What struck me was how easy it is to demonize companies, when really, no one wants to destroy Patagonia. The other week, two managers of Endesa spent our time telling me all the places I needed to see in Chile, promoting Patagonia immensely. One manager was recommending taking a trip on a boat there, taking me to a glacier along the way, just like he did years ago. He was looking up the information for me and giving me the name of his friend who works for a travel agency.

The problem is, in order to develop, one needs energy. However, if people really want, they can protest that Patagonia be removed from the list of places they can obstruct. Or, can they? At the moment, 60% of Chileans disagree with this decision. Can they create enough commotion to actually redirect the rationale behind this decision?

Usually money wins these types of things. Highly-paid people sit down and reason out all the options, finally settling on a practical or lucrative direction for a country. But what if Chile didn’t even own the Patagonia area? What if people could protest enough to just eliminate this prized possession from the running – and force politicians and CEOs to find another way, because they have to?

Finding another way is the challenging part. Chileans saw the destruction of Japan, instantly reminded of their own possible fate if they were to build a Nuclear power plant. The technology and money doesn’t exist here to build solar panels in the desert, as it does in California. At the moment, coal is the most popular resource in use which also causes more local damage. Perhaps the hydro-electric option is the best, or seems most justified – being clean energy, but yet, it sits in such a beautiful sanctuary.

However, I am very demanding – sitting here between two laptops with the light on and an electric heater warming my feet while an electric blanket warms my bed. I arrived to this country via jets and use public transportation everyday. I like cooking my food on a stove, washing my clothes in a machine, and refrigerating my food. Often I forget a cloth bag when I go to the grocery store and I enjoy taking warm showers. Though most days the mountains are barely visible due to a thick layer of smog and I know that babies sometimes need the dirt from the air cleaned out of their lungs, I wouldn’t recommend living in the dark or going back to the days of just walking from place to place.

But…. Patagonia? We're going to mess with Patagonia?