Intangibles to Miss

When you've spent your entire life in one country, among relatively consistent varieties of its culture, being in another region of the world entirely really makes you miss home. I've been thinking a lot about this lately: mostly, what exactly it is that I miss. It can't be my family or my friends, because I spent years living away from them, moving around, and making new ones. What have I left, an internal expat, to miss?

I guess this is the sort of riddle that sociologists and social psychologists spend their time trying to figure out. What exactly culture is, how it defines our experiences, and most importantly, what it does for us.

But I won't be so nearly academic. Now is not the time or place.

Probably, the most stand-out thing for me is an inexplicable craving for convenience. Well, I guess it's not inexplicable, since are we not the nation of convenience? Do we not judge our own standard of living and quality of experience based on how easy things are? Now, it's true - Argentina isn't terribly inconvenient; as a developing country it too has been blessed with modern innovations such as the supermarket, the internet, and caller ID. But it hasn't reached that utmost pinnacle of convenience that we have by providing electric scooters to Wal-Mart customers, which of course move slow enough that one may text relatively safely while driving. A big part of me wants to move back to the States and buy an Iphone.

There is also something more ephemeral, something that can only be described as "attitude." It is actually something closely related to the issue of convenience, namely, that we are the best. Why are we the best? And why do we seem to be the best? Best economy, best science, best army, etc. I do believe that, for the most part, these things are more or less "facts," at least by the standards we use to assess them. But why is this?

In Argentina, the people here are plagued by apathy. Primarily towards politics, but this inevitably spills into other issues as well. There seems to be a consistent belief that there is little one can do, so why bother? Better to live life, and pursue simpler things, like friends, family, sex, and money. The States, on the other hand, is a nation of "assholes on a deadline." We live to be bothered, and if we are not bothered, we are terribly confused and feel aimless and unimportant. Of course, the consequence of this is that we tend to get things done, even if it is with a lot of bickering, and even if it is with some of the highest depression rates in the developed world.

But, I miss it. I too am American, and I too am used to this feeling. It drives me as well. And here, this is out of place. No one will give it to me (since others are the source of this feeling, after all). I have had to learn to drive myself more to do things, which I think actually help when I return.

Cerro Champaqui

Last weekend was a long weekend, because Friday was teacher's day. So, I had the opportunity to take a small 'vacation,' and I joined my companions of my program in Villa General Belgrano.

This small town, smaller even than mine, is in the far west of the Cordoba Province (my province). There, there are a series of mountain chains that serve as sort of a preface to the Andes. The sierra VGB is located in called Sierra Grande, and is home to the tallest peak in cordoba Province and the second tallest peak in Argentina, Cerro Champaqui. It is 2.88 kilometers high (1.7 miles).

Villa General Belgrano, while small, is a well-known and rather wealthy town. This is because it is home to the annual Fiesta de Cerveza of Argentina, in which thousands and thousands of people gather in October to celebrate and consume the various artesanal beers that have their home in the Villa. Does this sound familiar? Yes, this is Octoberfest, and it is celebrated in a historically German settlement. Argentina has a long history of accepting German immigrants, even during World War II, and the town proudly displays the German aesthetic.

As excited as I was to be in the beer capital of Argentina, as I said, that was not why we were there. We spent Friday evening in the Villa, and early Saturday morning, we set out of Villa Alpina, a miniscule mountain village of a couple dozen people, mostly farmers and shepherds, to meet our guide and our horses.

So, for the first time in my life, I rode a horse. For four hours through mountainous terrain. Though it was difficult at first, since riding a horse is all about getting a living, somewhat nervous creature to do what you want to do, but after the first hour I was beginning to feel comfortable. We rode horses to preserve our energy for Cerro Champaqui, though I definitely had saddle sore by the time we reached the refuge.

The refuge is a small set of buildings near the base of the mountain, owned by locals, for climbers to stay in before and after they climb the peak. There, they cooked for us (grilled lamb and potato salad), and with us were a group of university students from Rosario, a city in the east of Argentina located on Rio de Plata.

But, we did not have time to rest. After riding to the refuge, we had the chance to nap for a half hour, and then it was time to set out for the mountain, which we had to climb up and down in about five hours if we wanted to be in daylight.

I was already tired from the ride, but I was eager enough, self-assured that my time in Boy Scouts would help me to handle the long climb.

I was not ready. This really is a mountain, and to climb it without the proper equipment is a lot, lot harder. Scaling boulders, hopping over crags, breathing thin mountain air, and navigating twisting, narrow paths are all part of this climb. I was exhausted halfway to the peak, but I knew we had to climb, and we didn't have much choice, so I did my best to keep pace (and did a good job, too). Our guide, who has lived in the mountains his whole life, told us he could travel from the refuge to the peak in forty-five minutes, and climb back down in twenty-five. He was barely winded by the time we reached the peak.

We, on the other hand, were totally, thoroughly exhausted, and the excitement of being on top of a mountain was a little dampened by our fatigue. But it was beautiful, just like being in an airplane. We could see cities and villages all around, and the transition from the cloud layer to above it. Cirrostratus clouds were high in the sky, like angel feathers. The peak is actually home to a small lake, which during the winter is dry (it was dry when we were there, the name 'Champaqui' is a native word meaning 'water over my head') and it is festooned with busts and crosses, I can't imagine being one of the people to carry them up there.

After half an hour, it was time to climb back down, lest the sunset catch us. By this time I was going on pure willpower, my legs were only working because I told them too, not because they wanted to. I learned a lot about the stamina of human legs, we truly are creatures designed to walk, and even though your legs might feel like they are on fire, they will keep working and working. But still, by the time we made it to the bottom, I was practically stumbling down the mountain. Thank god, by the time we reached the refuge, we had an amazing asado waiting for us. There are few times I've been hungrier.

The next day, we walked back, since using a horse cost 100 pesos. Again, I was impressed by my ability to keep going and going and going over this terrain, even though I was sure I could. Again, I was stumbling by the time we made it to Villa Alpina, and now my knees were complaining every time I used them. But again, there was an asado waiting for us, plenty of proteing to feed my screaming muscles. After lunch, we left again for VGB, and parted ways.

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All in all, it was a great experience, but an extremely physical one. The amount of time in which we had to to everything was much shorter than in should have been, so what could have been an appreciation of a sort of wilderness I've never seen before was also the biggest test of endurance I've ever had in my short life. I think I passed with good marks.

I will post pictures later tonight.

For this post, I'll just do a simple point-by-point list of marked differences in Argentinian culture.

As a preface, I would like to say that Argentinians, for all intents and purposes, are Italians who speak Spanish. This is a common generalization that even Argentinians attest to, and while it is a generalization, there is some truth behind it. Italians are one of the biggest immigrant groups into the country over the past century, and this is evident in several areas: complexion and appearance of Argentines (i.e., more Caucasian than you would expect in a Latin American country), common surnames (Giorgi, Piccatto, etc.), and Rioplatense Spanish (this geographical region is named for Rio de La Plata, the major river around which Buenos Aires was built), which research has shown to be heavily influenced by the Italian language.

Anyways, fun facts:

- Argentinians greet each other with a kiss on the cheek. This is most common with women and children.

- Argentinians have no problem with sharing glasses, utensils, etc. In fact, a popular tea called Mate (Mah-tay) is served among several individuals, who all sip from the same straw.

- Traffic lights go from Red to Red AND Yellow, then green.

- In small towns like the one I am in, people will drive around the same block dozens of times for fun on a Friday night.

- While there is technically a drinking age, it is not enforced at all, and you can buy liquor in convenience stores.

- It is considered polite and appropriate to have small chat with people, even if you are there for business, especially if you know them.

- In the country, they do take siestas. I do myself, actually. It's hard not to sleep when the whole town has shut down.

- They have no compunction about talking about how fat people are.

- Dogs are typically left outside and are rarely leashed. Dog poop is everywhere.

- There is no sales tax.

- There are no lawns, in the American sense, and houses are most often built touching one another.

- While they grill (a lot), they use only embers, and think it is funny that people in the States will grill over an open flame.

-Finally, a few important words for Argentinians: bueno ('okay'), listo ('ready,' 'okay'), boludo/boluda (literally 'big balls,' yes, those balls, but means more 'dude/dudette'), che (interjective particle, can mean 'hey')

There will be more to come, I promise.

On Being A Foreigner

Yes, I am in a small town, the sort of place where everybody knows everybody, and people tend to grow up here and spend their lives here. I don't think this happens as often in the States, and it makes me wonder, why are things still so geographically consistent here?

But anyways, this fact does something to explain people's reaction to me. In Buenos Aires, I'm just another gringo, just another extranjero, and am far from extraordinary. But here, in Monte Maiz, a little farming town in the heartland of the country, I am exotic, the first of my kind, a phenomenon (which, ironically and appropriately, means 'freak' in Spanish; the word applies to me in both languages).

The result is that people are constantly asking me to come to asados, or visit their homes, or come to the disco with them. Alternatively, they will not speak to me at all, almost as if they are afraid, but more likely they are at a loss of what to say to someone who may not even be able to understand them. Though, I would beg to differ, I cannot pick and choose when I must use Spanish.

But I don't think that explains it entirely, the small-town thing. I think a great deal of it is the culture here. In the States, while we would be just as interested, we would express it rather differently. The biggest difference, I think, is the amount of space which we accord to such outsiders. In the States, we are cautious, tenative; but accept our invitation to dinner, and we will interrogate you endlessly, no matter what language barrier.

Here, though, the invitation/rsvp interaction format is not necessary, but once I ask "mas despacio?" ("more slowly?"), suddenly the dialogue will shut down.

I went to Buenos Aires this past weekend and went to - guess what - THE Star Wars Exhibition. Original props and costumes? Yes. Concept art from the original films? Keep going. Full vehicles used in filming? Man, that was about the sweetest thing I've done in a while, all for about ten dollars.

That's another thing, I'm constantly thinking about the cost of things in terms of the exchange rate here, which definitely works in my favor. Food and drink here is phenomenally cheap: two slices of pizza and a coke is about three dollars, a liter of beer is about two dollars for nicer brands, etc., etc. It's like the whole country is a discount store. But it also makes me wonder about the nature of money and how its value is determined. Hm.

Coming Home

I exit the bus, so this is Monte Maiz? It is two-thirty in the morning, and I know that at any moment Leticia, my contact here, will appear. I go about my business, getting my bags from the porter, and by the time I turn around from that, bam, there they are standing around me in a circle.

Luke? Yes, I am Luke. (This was in English).

Leticia is younger, with a round, healthy face and black hair, bangs. She speaks excellent English, though with a distinctively Argentinian accent (which I can now identify with ease), and though she is speaking to me very slowly, as though I am an animal she's trying not to startle. The family that is standing with her are looking at me in the same way. A new creature! What will it do? What should we do?

Leticia introduces me to the Gorgettis, shaking hands with the father and kissing the cheeks of the mother and daughters, and I am driven four blocks to a small house in the center of the village, nestled between an appliance store and a bicycle repair shop about the size of a closet. The entrance, which is also the garage, is covered by a wrought-iron gate. I go in, it is cozy and softly lit, and told where my dormitorio (bedroom) is. Oh, nice, I get my own little end of the house, and my own bathroom! I am a little relieved to keep my American personal habits private and pure.

Back into the kitchen, and Olga, the mother, asks, are you hungry, are you thirsty? A little, yes. Pizza? Empanadas? Anything is fine. She is a big, stout woman with a kind and matronly face, in her fifties, and carries years of a hearty farm diet, meat straight from their own fields. She is clearly a homemaker by trade, because she is very good at it.

They are all extremely nice. Leticia asks, do you want me to stay, can you do this? She is still speaking to me in that way, and the family is still looking at me in that way. I think, do what, have a late dinner with a family that I can barely communicate with? I really, really mean 'barely.' But I have been in more challenging situations than being offered tons of food by an eager host family with which I shared no common language. I say, yes, no problem.

Carlos, the father, is the most willing to speak to me, as Olga is concerned for my comfort and satisfaction and the daughter and cousin (12 and 17, respectively) are pretty wowed by my presence, I imagine. He is as robust as his wife, has a smiling and sleepy face, with eyes constantly half-closed. He is wearing a vest and one of those woolen-knit caps that I thought belonged to the Scots, but then again, these people are straight-up caucasian, which is quite different from the soft Mediterranean blend that has been the ethnicity of most Argentinians up to this point, a fact that points to the immigrant history of the country.

He asks me a lot of questions, few of which I remember, because I understand almost none of it. My preferred response is 'Si.' Still, I have a feeling that he sympathizes with me more than anybody else in this moment, maybe because he is the least dazzled by my exotic nature (hah!). I appreciate it.

I eat as much food as I can to show my appreciation, and answer as many questions as I can, and, when I found an opening, I made my move for bedtime, because I knew I would be

Into the Interior; Unexpected Lunch

Leaving Buenos Aires, Maria and I take a cab to El Retondito (think that's what it's called), the central bus station of the city. I am surprised that it is essentially like a little airport: people mill about the linear station, which is lined with shops selling newspapers, books, souveniers, and hygeine items. There are even 'gates' for the various buses, and there are screens detailing arrivals and departures.

Maria and I exchange our frustration with the security (whichs seems arbitrary) and goodbyes, and I get on my bus, a double-decker deal that reminded me a lot of the charter buses we used in marching band. Except there was free coffee and soda, and a wonderful little movie about a girl who was either Spanish or French, I couldn't tell which. Nonwithstanding, it blows Greyhound out of the water, considering that it can makes all its stops on time, too.

After winding through the city one last time, the bus made it to the highway. Here, the city began to melt away as we pushed down the road away from the huge mess. The city slowly lost its tenacity and then could only manage suburban towns and eventually, nothing.

El campo. Spanish for 'field,' but the word refers to both the individual fields of individuals and the geographical feature at large. By now, the sun has finished setting, it is night, and the light of the city is behind us. The horizon is empty, the terrain invisible, and the moon sits in a new set of constellations, waxing at an angle that is unusual to me. Occasionally, the glimmer of a farming village will peek over the horizon, "Hello, here is where we people are, the ones who work these fields." I mull over it all with a sandwich and coffee, compliments of the Montica bus line.

Finally we are in the Cordoba province, and we make our first stops. A woman takes the time to talk to me, as she can tell I am foreign: Where are you from? The United States. Where are you going? What? Where are you going? Oh, uh, Monte Maiz ("MON-tay My-EES," but still said too heavily). Sorry, I can't speak very well yet.

We talk the typical talk of the native and alien, which involves me answering the following questions: Where are you from? What part of the country? What are you doing here? When did you get here? How long will you be here? Do you like it here? I fire back with a few of my own: Where do you live? How old is your son (who was with her)? How many stops until Monte Maiz?

That was my first real, unfiltered conversation with a native, no assistance. As such, information is given and received slowly, uncertainly, me never being sure what exactly was said, and they never being sure if I fully understand. But, you get used to it.

When we got back on the bus, it was only a couple of hours to Monte Maiz.

Jardín Botánico Carlos Thays de la Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires

Maria and I visited the Botanical garden in Buenos Aires. This was after I figured out that I had a timer on my camera.

The state gardening and botany school; what a design for a campus.

A lot of stray cats lived in the park, though I'd bet on some regular feeders.

The same cat. He followed us around and was generally amiable.

Maria, in tree that reminds me of Rafiki's house in The Lion King.

No garden is complete without grimly interpretable statues.

Less forboding, but still just as likely to awaken memories of failure.

El Campo

Out of some stubbornness and insistance on using my own computer, I have neglected to write since I arrived early early Sunday morning.

Another factor has been an equally stubborn sinus infection, which, much to my dismay on this first Friday night, still persists. If I wake up tomorrow disappointed, I will be seeing a doctor for some antibiotics.

A lot has happened, and even in this first week I have seen a lot, heard a lot, and gotten a good feel for this country and how it differs from my home. I am using Spanish all the time, and it still baffles me that this set of sounds can elicit responses in other people, even though they barely make sense to me.

But, I am about to go dine with a student of mine and his family, and I am weary. My head is too full of mucuous to have much else in it right now.

A particularly nice corner.

The little green room. I wonder what lives happen here?

An alley seen from a bedroom. Not really an alley, just a space between buildings.

A monolith.

More Grafitti

Photos of Buenos Aires #2

A corner.

A view of apartments.

International House, where I take Spanish classes.

"You don't think it twice."

Eraser + Eva

I have received my assignment: I will be teaching at the Instituto Babel, in Monte Maiz.

Here is a map:


View Larger Map

I don't know much about the place, information comes piecemeal here. Bridges are never crossed before they are come to.

When I was applying for the program, I was perturbed by the fact that there were no papers or contracts or signings, simply the word of mouth. One more cultural difference to go on the list.

Another is the universal greeting here: a kiss on the cheek, which, as an American, took some getting used to. I was very surprised by Maria's greeting when she picked me up at the airport. However, I'm starting to appreciate it. Being so close to someone when you first meet them breaks down barriers that a handshake cannot.

Today, I went to Maria's family home in the suburbs to celebrate her father's birthday (feliz cumpleanos), but ended up spending most of my time napping. Hostel life is not very hospitable, so I am looking forward a great deal to getting a real bed and a real room and quiet, sweet quiet, that rambunctious internationals devoted to a good time cannot.

Regardless, I ate some good lasagna, coffee, cake, and was able to listen in on plenty of conversation en castellano (the term for the Spanish language here). I am getting better all the time.

Volume

I can, however, always be as loud as I want to. With no repercussions or scoldings. So I let the noise rock play.

-Phones, Anglo- and Latino-

English is not totally absent from here, especially here in the hostel. In fact, English is the lingua franca amongst peoples not just from South America, but Europe too. Still, there is a subtle difference between the way I speak and the speech of an Australian. I am staying with a dozen Americans, but our conversation is devoted to this new world we are in and the huge differences that surround us.

The effect is mind-numbing. The range of my English is contracting, and the expansion of my Spanish (which is spoken at least fifty percent of the time) cannot keep up. I am starved for dialogue. But change never comes without discomfort; there must always be a period of transition, when one thing yields to another, and the gap that remains in the meantime stretches and adapts to the shape of the new thing.

The novelty of this place keeps me alert, though:

Asado is delicious. It is meat, pork ribs and cow belly and blood sausage, slowly grilled over coals, leaving it crispy on the outside and tender and moist on the inside. Argentines think the way Americans grill, with the flames licking the meat, is silly. I am tempted to agree, but I know I would be just as thankful for an American hamburger off a Weber grill.

Argentines despise breaking bills. They are almost unfailingly offended by the idea, so don't try to break a hundred-peso note (which is the smallest denomination ATMs give out) without buying something.

There are no free refills here. When you pay six pesos for a Coca Cola, that is all you will get, unless, of course, you pay for more. Even water costs money, so saying "Yo quiero agua" will not save you any money. Even at McDonald's. Yes, I ate there; it was pretty much the same, except for slight differences in the menu (there are a lot of ads for the "Big Tasty Bacon" around the city), and it was even more depressing, because McDonald's is actually more expensive than many other restaurants. Anyways, I gather that the free-refill phenomenon is actually unique to the U. S. and Canada.

Ah, such are the ways in which our lives differ. But they are toys, playthings, shiny objects that will, with time, inevitably lose their luster. They are filler, until a more substantial familiarity with the culture and the language comes to take their place.

Photos of Buenos Aires #1

Some graffiti found in an alley.

















Look closely at the top of the building, as Maria told me: "That is a house built by a crazy architect who wanted his home on the highest point in Buenos Aires." This view is from the plaza in July 9th Avenue (Argentina's Independence Day).

















Giant neon coke advertisement on July 9th Avenue.



More photos will come once I purchase a memory card for my camera and master its cheap-ness.

This country is showing me the variety of material things.

Buenos Aires is huge. Once I left the airport, with the help of Maria, so gracious, we took a bus deep into the city. The journey down the highway was a good introduction: elevated over the city, we passed, one after another, huge apartment buildings ("monoblocks"), festooned with signs and clothes and air conditioning units. They tower twenty-five stories over everything else, and everything else is infinite in its shapes (architecture we would never dare to use in America) and density.

This city is filled with so many nooks and crannies, all of which tease and pull at my imagination. Every building here looks old, aged, and used as efficiently as possible. A building is never too old, no matter how many decades and renovations have passed, never too ugly, no matter how much the plaster has crumbled and the graffiti has accumulated. All those corners and little spaces, who knows what dust and debris and histories they hold?

Street level is no different, apart from the view. Now every building you pass is home to the little spaces: a basement bar beneath the hostel, a five by eight bedroom on the roof, tiny shops packed beneath apartment buildings, ten feet wide, with a specificity of wares that America has forgotten.

Best of all, balconies are everywhere, to my pleasure. Here, everyone is entitled to look out over the whole mess that no one has ever had the time to clean up, even me, in my hostel.

I have come to the conclusion that airports are alien worlds. Things do not work here like they do elsewhere. Everything is linear, and the stores and furniture and signs repeat themselves, like a broken record. People interact differently here, they are hurried, concerned, taxed, all of them little fortresses too occupied with being bombarded to worry about much else.

Washington-Dulles is not a very attractive airport, it is rather cramped, and its age is beginning to show. Even so, it is still an airport, and so it is a monument to the art of moving people. People make such big things devoted to relatively simply tasks, like moving people, or making electricity, or paper, I am in awe of them. They are things not defined by aesthetics or comfort or spirituality, but more modern ideas, like efficiency. Still, this produces an aesthetic all its own, and a very interesting one that challenges us as humans.

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I keep alternating between waves of fear and excitement: fear, that I am going to another country, where not only do I know no one, but I also no nothing of the culture or language, so I have to learn what is right and wrong and acceptable all over again; excitement, that I will be seeing a place unlike any I have ever seen before, with people who see the world in a different way from me. It will be challenging and uncomfortable, and it is my biggest fear that I will find I prefer the comfort of home. But I do not think this will happen. Challenges are always rewarded, even if its rewards are intangible or even indescribable.

In three hours, I will board my plane, and be on my way to the other half of the world. I won't just see a different culture, and a different language, but a different sky! New stars in the night-time, constellations I have never learned in school, Polaris will be out of sight! New plants and animals, new geographies! I can't wait.

(Written July 9, 2007, 11:50 AM)

I am sitting in the T Concourse of the Atlanta airport. I made it through check-in and security without incident; I am now 'in the system,' and will be for the next seventeen hours. Twelve hours in the air, ten on the ground.

Of course, the hard thing about being in any closed system is that, after you have signed the papers and given them your money, you are at their mercy, and will have to pay whatever extortionary price for whatever service they see fit. Ten dollars for a sandwich and a coke, eight for wireless access. That is why this will not be posted until later.

Airports are a lot like theme parks: expensive food, and fun rides. Except these rides last for hours and are a lot more fun, I think. How often are you five miles in the air, and how often do you get that sort of view? I love it. I love the lands and the seas and the skies, and I love being able to see their big picture. The Moon Shot is comparable, though I don't know of one near the coast. Probably Atlantic City.

The moment my feet touch Argentine soil is getting closer every minute now, where before it only came closer in days. Still, it seems impossible. I doubt I will be aware of the possibility before it is actually realized.

I am sitting on a bench with an Asian man, and he will not stop pounding on it. Please stop pounding on this bench, Asian man. I love percussion, but not necessarily percussions.

Speaking of music, did you know that the airport in Brussels plays Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" 24/7? Already I love airports, but that is one I must visit.

Enough ruminations, soon I will board my first flight, and be on my way to strange lands.