Thursday, December 20, 2007

Santa Down South

Santa on a Motorino
Christmas decorations here look just like those back home even though it's summer. But even more surprising is the fact that poor Santa has to wear his North Pole getup when everyone else is in a tank top and shorts. Here's a picture of Santa taken last year. Looks like he was delivering presents on his motorcycle. The sleigh doesn't work so well in summer I guess.

So how do Argentines celebrate the holidays? Pretty much the same way we do, eating and hanging out with the family. The only difference I noticed last year was that on the 24th at lunch time (which is around 2:00, not noon and never 11:00 am) restaurants were full. Then it seems people head back home to prepare for dinner and wait for midnight when the presents are opened.

They wear red on the 24th and could stay awake playing games, drinking wine, listening to music and enjoying each other's company until sunrise. As is usual here in Buenos Aires, dinner is served around 10:00 pm and lasts a few hours. The 25th is naturally more relaxed seeing as the night before was the real celebration.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Spirit Lifting Jacarandas


It really is the best time of year to be in Buenos Aires. I got here about a year ago and have been bragging about the jacarandas in spring ever since. How nice to be in a city where the seasons are so concrete. This first picture was taken in my neighborhood, Las Cañitas.

I was reading a fellow blogger's posts the other day and found out that LA has a pretty mean jacaranda season too. Check her photo out on Tango Cherie.


This picture was taken outside of the international post office where I went to pick up a box of books I sent myself. The mail service works. This was a big move for me. Sending my stuff from back home might mean I´m staying put for a while.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Buses with Wings


On my last flight back home I was having a hard time sleeping. Then the kid in the row next to mine shot out projectile vomit covering the seats in front of him and the aisle. That poor kid. That poor mother. The mother spent the next half hour on the floor with paper towels trying to mop up the regurgitated airplane cuisine. Not one flight attendant offered a hand or even a trash can or more paper towels. The woman's husband didn't offer to help either, but that's another topic.

Watching that mother on her hands and knees as the flight attendants stepped over her made me consider getting up to help. But then, the stench of vomit was already so strong (and it lasted the remainder of the flight) that I knew if I got any closer I'd be no help. I guess only a mother can clean up vomit without puking her own guts up.

Once the chunks were cleaned up, she placed paper towels over the spot. Passengers would get a running start to clear the mess. Half the time, the had to hold on to the backs of our seats to keep themselves airborne.

Then came the flight attendant with a can of smelly stuff to hide the stench. So we spent the rest of the flight smelling chemical vomit and getting rocked back and forth by those whose long jump wasn't quite long enough. Wouldn't you think they'd have a system for cleaning up puke? After all, they have puke bags. Ah, but not this poor kid. Just as he was getting sick his mother searched the pocket for the bag. With no bag in sight, out it came and shrieks from those sitting in the row in front followed.

There's an article in today's New York Times about the class conflict on airlines. You know the drill. All the special people board first and are being served cocktails as you walk through the first- and business-class cabins. They look relaxed as if they may even be given a massage during the flight. You pass them, feeling a bit insignificant and make your way to your seat only to find it's been assigned to someone else. You're gripped by fear because you know the airline won't think twice about bumping you to the next flight. You're in coach.

It's not that those who pay big bucks don't deserve edible food and wine that won't cause a headache. But must they flaunt their privilege as we are herded back to our minuscule seats? Flights today are more like bus rides. Crappy movies with malfunctioning audio, overpriced stale snacks, and bathrooms that make you dream of an outdoor music festival's port-o-potty.

When I first started traveling overseas, I remember being given a beautiful menu with three courses listed and a selection of beverages presented as if I were dining along the Seine. I used to look forward to a transatlantic flight. I got to sit back, watch a good movie, spend hours reading my book, head to the back to hang out with the other passengers and talk about our travels, meet the flight attendants and fantasize about their adventures.

I bet back then the flight attendants knew how to handle a puddle of vomit without a can of spray. And I bet the kid would have had a puke bag.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Treat your Tastebuds in Mendoza

Here are some amazing dining options in Mendoza.



Bistro La Tupiña in the Altus Bodega – This is my favorite for lunch. It's in Tupungato so you can see that beautiful valley and the stunning Andes. The entire dining experience is unique. You´re greeted near the open oven by the chef who mingles with the guests and explains that every ingredient is from the valley. The lunch begins with tapas and white wine, then moves on to the dinning room where we had a stew (locro), then a meat course (chivito-baby goat) with vegetables, and an amazing dessert. Each course is served with a different Altus wine. There are tables inside and outside. The whole lunch took about four hours.


I can't find the page for it, but you can see pictures of it on my Flickr site under Mendocino Bodegas
There are others available here.

La Sal - Unbelievable steak, live music (but not loud), beautiful decor, yummy desserts, great wine list. There are pictures of this restaurant on my Flickr site in the Mendoza set.

1884 - I had the best chivito of my life here. The place is gorgeous and the menu is filled with local flavors done imaginatively. We also had an pears, prosciutto, and parmesan shavings dressed with olive oil and herbs that was scrumptious.

Azafran is just around the corner from La Sal. We couldn't get a seat without a reservation. The place was packed. It looked delicious. Maybe next time.

Club Tapiz - Lots of people have recommended Club Tapiz. I haven't eaten there, but it's on my list.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Trip to Mendoza at Easter? Can you find a room?

My aunt and uncle are planning to come to Argentina in March. It will be Easter and also harvest season and a few days after the festival--La Vendimia-- in Mendoza. In other words, we have to book now. I never plan that far in advance for anything.

Yet seeing as I am the "expert" with loads and loads of knowledge, I've started putting together a few lists for them. And since I haven't had time to write here, I might as well share that research with you guys.

The hotels listed below are mostly outside of the city of Mendoza. There are two main areas with wineries (bodegas) and boutique-type hotels: Chacras de Coria and Tupungato.


Chacras de Coria is a beautiful little town in the Maipu valley (sort of the Napa Valley of Mendoza). It's picturesque and there are some fantastic restaurants in town. Also, it's much closer to the city of Mendoza so driving in at night to try some of the restaurants in the city would be easier from here than from Tupungato. And there are more wineries in this area.


Tupungato is more rustic in terms of accommodations and restaurants, but more majestic in terms of beauty. It's further away (in the Valle de Uco) and less crowded. The mountains are gorgeous. It's much higher up than Chacras and the places here feel more gaucho-like. It's a different sort of experience. It's the difference between Aspen, Telluride and Crested Butte: Mendoza being Aspen, Chacras being Telluride, and Tupungato being Crested Butte.

Hotels near the City of Mendoza:


Club Tapiz - Popular place to stay and for dinner. It's highly recommended.

Finca Adalgisa - Gorgeous.

Rancho E'Cuero -Rustic sort of cowboy feeel.

Estancia Cheateau d'Ancon - Very French feeling.

Posada Salentein - This one is considered one of the most modern bodegas in Mendoza. Stunning, but not as quaint per se as the others.

Lares de Chacras - Looks very quaint and charming.

Posada Borravino - Nice rooms and warm atmosphere.

Bodega Inti Huaco - It feels very Argentine.

Postales del Plata - Looks good. Can't tell much from the page.

La Posada - Impressively elegant.

Park Suites, Executive Hotel - This is the only one in the city of Mendoza. It's not my style, but since the Hyatt is booked (and way expensive) it would be a good option in the city. The Sheraton is opening soon, but I'm not sure when.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

38-Year-Old Memory


Whether it was denial or just plain fear, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to my 20th reunion two weeks ago. I mean, I remember my parents going to their 20th reunion and that’s scary. Could I really be old enough for such an event? What will I say to all of those middle-aged people? When I see them, will it make me realize that I am actually 38? Will I feel like a failure because I am still single and not a mother? I nearly skipped it thinking I’d prefer living in denial just a bit longer.

One thing is certain my memory is 38 years old. There were people I can’t remember ever seeing before, names I don’t think I’ve ever heard, faces that ring no bells. Very embarrassing. And their memories were all topnotch. Everyone knew who I was. Even more embarrassing.

After calling a few very nice people by the wrong name, I decided I’d just stop using names and act like I knew and remembered everyone. It’s not that hard. Most conversations begin with, “so where are you these days?” Then, “what are you doing now?” And if you don’t remember who they are you can ask, “and how’s your family doing?” That one often brings up some names and stories that trigger at least a bit of a recollection. If you still don’t have a clue who they are, find someone standing nearby that you do remember and try to bring them into the conversation: “you remember so-and-so?”

In my defense, I didn’t remember people because just about everyone looked better than they did in high school. “What a relief,” I thought, until I realized they all remembered me. Did that mean I still looked like that 16-year-old girl with braces, horrendous hairstyles, pudgy cheeks, and fashion-disaster clothes that scream out “I’m trying to define myself, give me a break”?

Then I overheard a conversation in the bathroom. I couldn’t make out the voices, but three classmates of mine revealed their secret weapon: the yearbook. Duh. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Study the yearbook before your reunion, at least that way you’ll have some names and faces regardless of whether those names and faces still match.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Accidental Peep Shows


My workday begins when I log on to Skype. It's sort of like walking down the corridor of an office with windows. Everyone who is already in their office sees you walk by (or log on) and knows you're in. I also like that my friends and family pop up now and again. Even if we don't chat or call, it's just nice to see them online.

The other day, however, I saw a bit more than I was supposed to. I had just finished a call with a colleague when Skype said she was calling once again. I assumed she'd forgotten some bit of information. We'd been using our webcams and hers is set to launch the webcam automatically when the call begins.

The webcam started but there was no one there. I called out but clearly the headset was still connected, so she couldn't hear me. Then I heard the television turn on. She changed channels a few times and walked in front of the camera to her bathroom. She took off her shirt, walked back out of the view of the camera, changed channels again, and moved in front of the camera again where she took off the rest of her clothes. I watched for a while hoping she'd come back to the computer so I could send her some crazy emoticon. I wondered if I've ever done this to someone who didn't know me well enough to laugh with me.

What a way to greet your contacts. I used to walk down the hall waving and mouthing "good morning" to each person I passed. They'd wave back and we'd catch up later in the coffee room. It makes for a much more cheerful day at the office.

Monday, October 8, 2007

No Cash



Does anyone remember the days when traveling overseas meant you needed to take traveler's checks and a wad of cash that you would hide in various places throughout your luggage? Back then, when you wanted to exchange money, you'd have to go to several banks to find out who had the best exchange rate and the lowest commission.

Well, if you're coming to Argentina, you might want to pack those traveler's checks and that wad of cash. ATMs here work (according to my rigorous data collection) about 7 out of 10 times. And when one isn't working, you can't simply head down the street to the next bank. Oh no. It seems the banks here all run out of money at the same time.

Now how is a tourist supposed to spend any money if the banks don't have any money to give? Once Cristina (the current president's wife) is elected president, she should make this her first task. Talk about a boost to the economy!

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Friends from the Interior

Why does my toilet always shut down when I'm about to receive company? Which leads me to one of my favorite expressions in Castellano: "voy despedir mis amigos del interior." Or in literal English, "I'm going to say goodbye to my friends from the Interior" and in real English, "I'm going to take a dump."

Considering all of my friends here in Argentina are from the Interior, I'm not too sure what that says about them or me for the matter. And why have my last two blog entries been about excretion?

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Dating in Buenos Aires


It was my first date in Buenos Aires. Actually, I wasn't sure it was a date at first. I'd met the guy because he was renting a room and I was looking for a place to stay. So when he invited me back to his apartment, I thought it might be to see where I would live when his current tenant moved out.

Our idea of personal space was different, or was he coming on to me? I wasn't sure, but one thing I was sure of was that something smelled downright awful. As we stood in the kitchen eating strawberries and sipping vodka, I thought "geez, this kitchen reeks." At least I hoped it was his kitchen since he was moving closer and closer, although I didn't think I would want to rent a room from him anymore.

Then we moved to the living room. But the smell followed and now I was sure he was going to kiss me. He'd shown me the entire apartment and there really wasn't much left to do but kiss or leave. So I left.

When I got home, wouldn't you know the smell followed me. I'd stepped in dog poop, traipsed it all over his house and blamed him. Moral of the story, when in Buenos Aires, watch where you step.

In my neighborhood there's a campaign to keep the streets clean. The streets are still filled with every type of dog poop you can imagine, and on the wall that says "This is our neighborhood, let's all work together to keep it clean," graffiti will soon overwrite the message. Oh well.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Language Lessons on the Road


Taxi drivers are often the best language teachers around. They love to talk and don't seem to mind if you don't understand what they're saying, they have plenty of time on their hands, and they're willing to share their opinions on everything. Eventually you do begin to understand, whether it's because you have practically the same conversation with each taxi driver or because they're sort of like bartenders--mobile shrinks who don't offer booze or meds, instead, their services come with a healthy load of exhaust and fear.

I'm used to crazy driving. After all, I lived in Cairo for three years. When friends visit me in Buenos Aires from the States, I watch them search for the seatbelt, pull it across their chests, and spend the next five minutes or so trying to insert it. All the while the driver is yacking away, speeding in and out of lanes, on the rear of the guy in front of him, smoking, and laughing.

Some friends were visiting a while back. I'd taken a cab out to the airport to pick them up. A nice 40-minute Spanish lesson out there. On our way back into town I was having a hard time carrying on two conversations: one with my friends whom I hadn't seen in about a year and the other with the taxi driver. I didn't want to be rude, but my friends and I had a lot of catching up to do.

"Fucking cops!" yelled the driver as we raced down the highway. We looked around; in front all seemed normal; there was nothing happening behind us. "Donde?" I asked. He was giggling so hard his shoulders were shaking.

"No, it's just that's the only thing I know how to say in English. You know, I learned it from the movies and TV," he laughed. And we joined him. "Fucking cops!"

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Bikya…..robabikya



It’s been nearly a year since I’ve heard “bikya….robabikya.” I jumped out of bed this morning, threw open the curtains and realized I’m still in Buenos Aires. But for just a short moment I was back in Cairo.

“Bikya….robabikya.” What is the little guy who walks the streets telling people he’ll take the stuff that’s broken or that they don’t need anymore—robabikya, it’s called in Arabic—doing in Buenos Aires?

Or better, how come the flower guy sounds just like the robabikya guy? I know that’s not what he’s saying, but I’m going to sit here by the window and listen to his voice trail off, transported momentarily to my apartment in Zamalek and Saturday mornings on my balcony with a big ole cup of coffee and a thousand police officers below me sipping tea as they try not to fall asleep.

Nostalgic.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Italiano or Castellano?

My Spanish (or Castellano as it’s called here) is mostly Italian, but people are nice enough to let me think I'm speaking to them in Castellano. Today over lunch, Italian was not helping me much.

Lesson 1: It started when I had yet another conversation about therapists—supposedly Buenos Aires has the highest number of psychoanalysts per capita in the world, something like one therapist for every thirty-five porteños. Pretty much everyone thinks I need to get one of my own.

I explained to my friend that I would want a therapist that speaks English and preferably comes from my culture because it would be easier for me to express myself. In Italian, express is esprimere, so I said esprimir. My friend seemed to understand me, but I wasn’t sure.

“Is that how you say it in Castellano?” I asked. She assured me that it was correct but added that it was more something from the Interior and not Buenos Aires and a little different than what I said: “sacar el jugo,” she explained was the appropriate expression.

“Take the juice out? That’s odd,” I thought. Turns out esprimir in Spanish means to juice, as in to juice an orange. But it doesn’t have a thing to do with expressing oneself, or does it?

So what did she think I meant? I need a therapist who speaks English so I can take the juice out. Of what? So I can get to the good stuff? I’m still not sure, but I’ll keep using it to see what reactions I get.

Lesson 2
: The second Italian/Castellano mistake was one I’ve made before. Orto in Italian means garden. In Castellano it means butt. I was talking about salad and how salad here is always fresh right from the garden or right from the butt if you make the mistake of saying orto instead of huerto.

Lesson 3: Maybe the best one yet though was about a week ago at dinner with some people I know well and others I barely know at all. They were trying to fix me up with a friend and wanted to know what kind of guy I’m interested in. I said age wasn’t much of an issue but if the guy is older than me he should still be in good shape. I had a date with an older guy that had trouble standing up.

To stand up in Italian is alzarse. Alzarse in Castellano is "to get it up." You can imagine the confusion and the laughs. In the end, it would be good if the guy could do both.

Monday, August 6, 2007

Fools and Fanatics

"The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts."
- Bertrand Russell


When I first read this I thought, "absolutely, Russell is so right." Guess I'm a fool, or a fanatic.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Through the Eyes of Another



I just got back from a trip back home--a mix of business, family, and the beach. I took a friend with me. It's always interesting to see your country through the eyes of a foreigner. The first time I did this, I was way too defensive and proud to accept any criticism. I still am.

Don't get me wrong, I'm the first to criticize my country, my city, my people, my family, my friends, myself, you name it. But just because I do doesn't mean you can. Or better, you're welcome to do so, but don't leave out the positive. Luckily my travel buddy was enamored with Louisiana even if she didn't love the rest of the country. That's enough for me.

But it's like when you go to a girlfriend to bitch about your husband. She's not supposed to agree with you. She's supposed to listen and understand, but in the end, until you decide to dump the idiot, she is supposed to just mimic whatever you say. So that the conversation isn't a bunch of "uh-huhs" and "I-know-what-you-means" and "really-I-can't-believes", she might add that her husband is also an idiot and tell you a story to show that you are not alone. That's a good friend. One that tells you, "yep, your guy is a total loser and you need to dump him" might also be a good friend, but she hasn't understood yet the fine art of listening to a friend bitch about her guy.

Well, the same rules for criticizing husbands and boyfriends apply to criticizing countries and families. Say for instance your significant other has a family of nuts. He'll complain about them to you and you'll want to agree. Don't! If they are all nuts, he is probably nuts too.

Since I am typically the first to criticize my country, I thought I'd point out the positive things just like a good friend should do. Here's what I miss about home:

1. Hot dogs-I happened to be traveling with a hot dog freak. Good thing too, because while many people go to New Orleans for creamy sauces and oysters, for me if I have to go to Bourbon Street I want a Lucky Dog. I'm not objective enough to tell you if Lucky Dogs are better than regular hot dogs, but here's the difference between the Argentinean version (choripan) and a Lucky Dog. Lucky Dogs are smaller and less greasy, so you won't bite into it and ruin your evening wear. And, they don't fill you up so you can still eat some gumbo later.

2. LIVE MUSIC-I had to yell this one because it's not that there isn't live music in Argentina, there is. But it's not the kind of music that makes you want to sign a petition to impeach Bush. I miss get-up-and-yell music that has nothing to do with seduction. No polite applause at the end. The music might be good, it might be crap. That's not the point.

3. Extremes-Sometimes when I go home I try to imagine I'm a visitor from another land. Being with a friend from another land helps. So, if I were "visiting" the US, wouldn't I think it's sort of charming that people get dressed up on Sunday and speak in tongues in the local freakoid church? In one family you might have tattoos and debauchery mixed with conservatism and piety. Ain't that cool? I mean, I'd much rather spend my life with people who feel passionately about the wrong thing than people who feel nothing at all.

Or for example, the latest craze filling up the bookshelves and supermarket aisles. And everyone buying into it. How naive and sort of charming if you imagine it's not your people and your country.

4. Diversity-Diversity in everything. Yes, I am ashamed to admit it. I love the fact that you can get anything you want at anytime. But more specifically, I love the cultural diversity. It's true that you have to look hard for it. But, by god it exists. I moved to Argentina from Egypt because I wanted to fit in. I was tired of people staring and taking pictures of me (mind you I was taking pictures of them too). I fit in, just like the rest of the 14 million people in this city.

5. Shared humor and cultural references-I miss being able to say Denny's without having to explain that it's a place you go late-night for some breakfast food before going to bed because you either aren't ready to go home or you need some food to absorb the alcohol. Or how about being able to tell a joke and having people get it, really get it. I don't much miss going to Denny's though.

6. Your basic understanding of what's supposed to happen-When things don't go right, you know it and do something about it. There's no trying to figure out if this is a cultural difference or if you just didn't explain yourself well. Sometimes life in the States is too organized for my taste. It's stifling. But then when you live in places with hardly any rules, you sort of come to appreciate that dull, organized sanity that is home.

7. The BEACH-I miss being outside and swimming.

8. Change, change, change- And the belief that you can pretty much have whatever you want. Who knows if it's true, it's just nice to think it might be.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Vegans in Argentina


It's not easy being a vegetarian in Argentina so imagine how difficult it is if you're a vegan. When my vegan friends planned to visit me here, I warned them in advance.

After two weeks in Buenos Aires with a couple of vegans from North Florida, here's what I learned.

1. Vegetarian here means no beef. It does not mean no meat. And vegan is a totally foreign concept.


For the first couple of days I'd ask if there were any vegetarian dishes. "Sure, we have chicken dishes or ham and cheese empanadas, for example." Then I'd explain I meant dishes with no meat. But the word for meat is carne, which means beef. "They don't eat any land or water animals," I would explain, "or any products of animals like eggs, cheese, milk, etc." This explanation usually worked.

2. Salad, french fries, pizza and pasta (although most are made with eggs) are your best bet.


Salads here are fresh and cheap and virtually every restaurant has them. Argentines, though carnivores at heart, are very creative with their salads and you can pretty much guarantee there will be no land or water animals of any kind.

I've had the best fries I've ever eaten here in Argentina. When I asked what they did to make them so scrumptious, the waitress said they were fried in lard. It's probably worth asking if you're going to order fries.

The Italian influence here is everywhere. The way they drive, the way the men flirt, the way they speak Spanish. And yes, the way they cook or at least what they cook. For good pizzas try Piola or Romario. But your best bet for creative vegetarian-style pizza (and some pasta dishes) is Flor de Lino in San Telmo.

I'm a bit picky when it comes to pasta. There's a place everyone says is wonderful on the corner of Cordoba and Esmeralda. It's called Broccolino and it has the feel of an authentic Italian restaurant. My pasta was drowning in sauce though and the cheese they piled on top of it became a melted layer of rubber. Ask them to bring the cheese to the table and put it on yourself. If you're used to eating pasta in the States, you'll probably like the pasta here. If you're Italian, order something else.

3. Thai and Indian restaurants are plentiful.

There's a great Thai restaurant in Las Cañitas called Lotus Neo Thai. It's beautifully decorated and the food was wonderful.

For Indian food, try La Reina Kunti in Almagro or Krishna in Palermo.

4. Read the menu before you enter. Even some of the best parillas (steak places) offer fantastic vegetable dishes.

One of my favorite restaurants in Las Cañitas is a typical parilla called Las Cholas. They serve some traditional dishes from the North of Argentina along with the standard parilla fare. Try the vegetables from the oven (al horno): squash, potatoes, corn, and pumpkin cooked with honey. They also have some delicious rice and vegetable dishes but these usually come with a creamy cheese.

5. Four restaurants that offer creative all-vegetarian dishes.


Argentines are proud of their city and love to offer advice. Friends came running to my aid with a few amazing suggestions. The picture above is of Bio, a fantastic place that serves macrobiotic cuisine and delicious fresh juices.

A bit more upscale is Verdellama which claims to specialize in "life food." The chef is well-known Diego Castro who used to run a one-night-a-week all vegan restaurant from his home.

And finally there's Artemisia. Another upscale vegetarian restaurant in trendy Palermo that offers homemade natural cuisine and a nice wine list. Artemisia's menu also includes some fish dishes in case you're going with friends who aren't veggie lovers.

To find restuarants by type of food, location, or rating go to the Oleo Guide of restaurant in Buenos Aires.

Also interesting is this article in Spanish Recorrido vegetariano: verde en todos los tonos on vegetarian options in the capital.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Tango at Ideal

Yes, I have become a tango junkie. Here's a video of the latest outing with Chuck and Kathe. I danced this time. The first partner was 94 years old. They got younger as the night got older.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Tango at Tortoni


Tango is one of the reasons I moved to Buenos Aires. It's passionate, dramatic, melancholic, and stunningly beautiful. I went to the show at one of Buenos Aires' most famous cafes, Tortoni. I like milongas better (this is where true tango lovers show up with their shoes in a bag and dance til sunrise), but I'm always afraid someone will ask me to dance. Watching this couple put on the show for tourists from all over the world at Cafe Tortoni was not necessarily authentic, but it was moving.


A friend of mine moved here from the States a few years ago after a month-long visit to study tango. She was working on her dissertation where she uses tango as a metaphor for the soul. Her blog The Tango Jungle has all sorts of insider information for tango wannabes. She hasn't written in a while, but browse through her earlier posts. You'll learn all the do's and dont's of milonga etiquette.

Friday, May 18, 2007

When Shit! isn't Mierda!

I read a friend’s story today about language and life. The story was a hoot. And it brought up a really intriguing point. Is Mierda! ever really Shit!? Can one ever reach the point of feeling another language?

If you speak another language, you’ll know what I mean. You might get the lingo down: tell the offender off nicely (which is the wuss way and typically the one of most beginners to a language), tell him off creatively to earn you a smile (which is not so much telling him off), tell him off elegantly (which means, I’m better than you even when I tell you off I do it with style), tell him off vulgarly (which is the real test: if you can make the offender blush and walk away sheepishly you’ve mastered the language).

But if someone really pisses you off, it just has to be done in your first language. Or does it?

I love to shout out profanities in Italian, especially when I’m driving. “Stronzo” is shorter and more aggressive sounding than “asshole.” When I’m driving, I’m not really emotionally involved with the other dirtbag drivers on the road and they can’t hear me. “Figlio di puttana” is one of those Italian slurs that just doesn’t do it for me. I mean, compare the sound of it to “son of a bitch” and you’ll see why. Are there profanities in some languages that help you let off steam better than their equivalents in other languages?

Audience is another question. When fighting with my Italian boyfriend, he was a “stronzo.” But my Argentinean boyfriend was an “hijo de puta.” To me they mean the same thing. My choice was based on my audience. But I called one an asshole and the other a son of a bitch. And in English, these are quite different and neither mean what I really wanted to say: “mother fucker.” Did these boyfriends ever understand how mad I was? Did they think I was madder than I really was?

But when I’m so angry that I need to curse, I need to do it to feel better, it has to be done in English. Cursing in Italian is light for me. It’s a diversion, a little fun, a play with words. Cursing in Spanish means nothing to me. I feel no release of negativity. The therapeutic effects are lost entirely. In the end, Shit! will never be Mierda!

If I break my toe while I’m walking with a group of Argentines, you’d better believe my head will be saying Shit! while my mouth says Mierda! If you live in another country and everything around you is happening in another language, yet you continue to think, process, and, in essence, experience all of this in your native language, all of your emotions, that is, come to you in your native language, isn’t the rest of it just acting? Can people ever really know who you are if you call them an asshole when you mean to call them a mother fucker?

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Borat and Mamma Mia


While home visiting the family in November, I took my mom to the movies. We got there too late for whatever film it was we had planned on seeing. So we just randomly picked another one. I picked it actually. I liked the poster.

Borat. That’s what I picked. From the poster, I thought it was going to be an interesting sort of international picture that my mom and I would talk about for days and days. I wasn’t completely wrong. We are still talking about Borat, but our conversations don’t look much like I’d thought they would.

I suppose the majority of the audience knew what they were in for. They were mostly in their twenties and prepared to laugh at offensive jokes.

Borat is offensive from the first scene. You know that kind of humor that makes you laugh, but you feel a little guilty about laughing so you hold it in. I did hold it in for a while. But soon I was laughing with all the tweny-year-olds, laughing so hard my legs flew up to my chest and my stomach got a workout. My mom was stone cold.

Watching a movie you find endlessly funny with someone who is looking around to see if she knows anyone there because she would “just die” if her friends saw her is pretty surreal. Sometimes it makes you laugh even harder. The absurdity of it all. Sharing Borat with my mother, who would have ever guessed?

A few minutes into it I was worried we might have to leave. To be honest, my mom was a good sport. She stayed for at least the first thirty minutes. We had to leave when the fat guy was running around naked and Borat fell face first into his balls. That was really just too much.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

The Lives of Others


If you haven't seen this movie, you must. "The Lives of Others" is a film about moral integrity and justice. Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, who wrote and directed the film, achieves what films rarely do; he develops a plot that appears simple and allows the story itself to reveal the complexity of human emotions and morality.

Set in East Berlin in 1984, the story is of an agent of the Stasi named Gerd Wiesler, played by Ulrich Muhe, who has a knack for identifying the enemies of the State. Fulfilling his Orwellian function, Wiesler is sent to spy on (or enter) the life of a couple, a writer and an actress. His mission is to find evidence of a conspiracy even though there is no reason to suspect that there will be any evidence. Indeed it is because the suspects have neither said nor done anything suspicious that the Stasi suspects them.

As Wiesler, a broken man whose life is the Stasi and who truly believes that the work he does is for the good of the country, listens in on their conversations about art,music, books and humanity, he becomes engaged in their lives. It may even be their innocence and goodness that most intrigues him. He learns from them. He begins to care for them and to care about what happens to them. The news of a friend's suicide is the turning point for all three main characters. The writer, Georg Dreyman (played by Sebastian Kock) plays Beethoven's "Appassionata" and tells his girlfriend, Christa-Marie Sieland (played by Martina Gedeck), that Lenin once said if he were to continue listening to this music he would not finish the revolution. As Wiesler listens in, observing how they comfort one another in their grief over their lost friend, a tear rolls down his cheek. Can anyone who has heard this music really be a bad person? asks Georg.

This is what makes the film so wonderful. Good and bad are not black and white. And the topic--that of the government invading the lives of its citizens even without reason and for the purpose of finding or fabricating evidence of a conspiracy--is one that should send a warning to US audiences. The torture of prisoners, the brutal interrogation tactics, the wiretaps and cameras watching every step, the fact that the government decides who is an enemy with or without proof, the censorship of art and artists. For those who value freedom and believe that by relinquishing some freedoms we will remain free, this film shows just how dangerous it is to give too much power to the powerful and just what it means to lose one's freedom.

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Alquilar un Marido

They have this thing here called Alquilar un Marido (rent a husband). The first time I saw the sign I thought they'd pretty much hit the nail on the head. I mean, husbands are expensive and mostly useful in short spurts. Renting one seemed like a good idea.

Then I learned that these are really handymen. If you ask me, they got the name wrong. I'll bet the majority of women who call needing a handyman already have a husband who isn't very handy.

I rented my first two husbands today. David and his son David came to fix my heater. They're friendly and funny and very handy. They cost a lot less than most husbands I know and the heater actually works. I won't be filing for divorce any time soon.

Monday, April 23, 2007

I love a good book



I've bought this book, The God of Small Things, so many times and given it away just as I start reading it because I end up talking to someone about how good it is, they get excited about it, so I give them my copy. Then I buy a new one and start all over again. I'm only on chapter 8, halfway through the book. I usually give my copy away right about now.

This time, it's the writing style that fascinates me most. The first time I started it, the political side was the intrigue. I had just moved to Egypt, and although I'd lived in developing countries before, in Egypt it was much clearer that the impact of the developed world was devastating. I could relate with that part of the story as I was living it for the first time in my life.

But this time it's really Arundhati Roy's writing style that I love. Her details are meticulous and humorous. They don't read like pages of adjectives before nouns placed to fulfill the requirements of a composition class. Every detail has a meaning--often a hidden and derisive meaning. The plot is developed through the descriptions that often come from the voices of children (who haven't yet been jaded). And, it's spot on. She's a master of "Show me, don't tell me."

When fiction explains reality better than non-fiction ever could, that to me is excellence. And when it still grabs your attention at 3 in the morning after you've been teaching Russian students to speak English all online and don't want to read another word in any language, that is just plain awesome.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Mendoza



As if having all that great wine wasn't enough, look at those mountains!

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Music--Live Music


I went to see Diego el Cigala at the Gran Rex a few weeks ago. Bebo y Cigala's Lagrimas Negras is one of my favorite CDs. The combination of gypsy flamenco with Cuban rhythms seems so well suited.

Listening to music that moves me in my home (where I can dance around and drink a glass of wine) is one of my favorite pastimes. A live concert of that same music can sometimes be a real letdown. Not this one.

Diego el Cigala's passion was totally contagious and even though I couldn't get up and dance, we were in a theater after all, the vibrations of the music hit deep. I could feel the rhythms, not just hear them. When he began singing, the energy was intense.

He came back for at least 4 encores, ending the show with an improvisation that took me back to Sevilla. I once saw a group of teenagers along the Guadalquivir dancing, singing and playing the cajon as they passed around a bottle of booze. How I longed to be a Spanish teenager growing up in Andalusia.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

New Neigborhood



Las Canitas is my new neighborhood. These are my friends Gonzalo and Naty on my first night in the new pad. When I first came here I thought it was too trendy for me. It's almost like the South Beach of Buenos Aires. It has layers though. While it's not a barrio barrio, it's definitely a curious place. Dog walkers, joggers, those who weed through the trash looking for cardboard or bottles or whatever else they might be able to sell, polo players, beautiful people sitting in corner cafes, and three sushi restaurants on my street alone. This is a far cry from my last two homes--downtown Buenos Aires and Zamalek in Cairo.

Sure, there are things I miss about the other two places. I miss the chaos sometimes. And although it feels like I've sold out by not waiting until I found an apartment in the more bohemian quarter, San Telmo , the green trees and fresh air here more than make up for the plastic breasts and sculpted bodies I share the streets with.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

New Apartment



For five months I lived in downtown Buenos Aires surrounded by pollution and noise. I knew I needed to move but was too afraid to commit to a contract. I have a two-year contract and a beautiful little apartment with a view of the polo field.

It was about a month ago when I went to the countryside with some friends that I realized how poisonous my surroundings were. I've wasted so many hours sitting in that noisy apartment trying to concentrate and getting nothing accomplished. I even created this blog three months ago. It just sat here.

I don't know what this blog will be about other than things that inspire me or things I'm curious about. For now, that's enough. A start. A new beginning in a new city and a new apartment.

Things that inspire me......

sunrises
sunsets
light
green
beaches
mountains
friendship
flamenco
fresh food
languages
honesty
traveling
independence
freedom
love
palm trees
talent
good movies
cooking
wine
street food
coffee
cultures
black and white photographs
portraits
change
laughter...