Entre Rios - Part I

In December, Greg and I visited the riverside towns of Gualeguachu and Colon in the Entre Rios province. Please forgive the untimely report of our trip.

I will start at the beginning….

Prior to our first inter-city bus trip here in Argentina, we found the bus system confusing. Why can’t we book on-line? Why isn’t there a comprehensive schedule of all departures and arrivals available on-line? Why do we have to go to the bus station (E GADS! THE BUS STATION!) to buy the tickets in advance? Coming from a one-click culture, we found all this to be so….old-fashioned.

With images of horrendously scary U.S. bus stations in mind, I sent Greg off to go find the answers. I may be a liberated wife, but I’m not stupid.

Greg came back with a wealth of information, lingering confusion, more questions and thankfully no communicable diseases. But, most importantly, he also came back with tickets. Allegedly we were set to sail (so to speak) in two days. I considered Greg’s excursion my first success.

We returned to the bus station two days later (Wednesday, Dec. 21, 2006) to start our trip.

The path to the train station isn’t the most pleasant of experiences. We took the regular city bus from our house to the train station. From there we had to walk through a scene of veritable chaos. Generally speaking, Buenos Aires does not resemble the stereotypical city we elitist Americans often associate with South America. For example, there are no chicken buses, no colorfully clad indigenous people, no military dictators clad in tri-color sashes (well, not anymore).

But here, en route to the bus station, we finally felt like we were in South America. With people hawking wares on the street, meat cooking on open grilles, dogs running amuck, standing water with really yucky looking stuff in it, you get the picture.

When we finally arrived at the Bus Station I was pleasantly surprised. Although it was confusing for us neophytes, I have to admit it was rather civilized. It was clean (relatively speaking), orderly and, most importantly, air conditioned.

The confusing part of the bus system is that there is no central ticket agency or bus company. Instead there are individual companies serving individual routes with their own individual booths. I repeat: there is no central information desk or schedule. In theory, one would have to hop from booth to booth to get information on all departures.

To put this into scale for you, there were over 200 different booths to choose from. Imagine Greg’s confusion two days earlier when he had to ascertain which of the 200 different lines served our route (about 10) and then had to make an informed (?) decision as to which to choose. After playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with himself, he chose Flechabus.

However, I digress. Once we arrived at the bus station, we didn’t need to visit the sales booths again. We needed only to find the port (or gate or door, whatever you want to call it) from which our bus was leaving.

This part was interesting. There were at least 75 ports, but Flechabus told Greg at the time of purchase that our port would be between Number 38 and Number 54. That doesn’t sound so confusing, but we were making two important assumptions. Number 1: the Flechabus employee relayed the correct information to Greg (and wasn’t having fun at our expense). Number 2: Greg understood her correctly, in Spanish.

We relied on our faith in a) the system and b) Greg’s language skills and headed over to the general area of Ports 38 to 54. There we waited for our bus number to appear on the marquis (it was like a marquis in a train station that lists trains by destination and departure time). Being confused foreigners, we arrived WAY too early—approximately one hour before departure—and sat nervously staring at the board waiting for our bus number to appear.

We waited for quite a long time.

As it turns out, the port numbers aren’t assigned until the bus physically arrives in the station, so we had at least an hour to sit and twiddle our thumbs. Plus, our bus was late. There was nothing to indicate the bus would be/was late. Apparently it was just assumed when the port assignment information failed to appear on the marquis 5 minutes before the scheduled departure. No one but us seemed concerned about this. Of course I was convinced that we had somehow missed the announcement for our bus and sent Greg (again, I’m liberated but not stupid) to go ask people where our bus was. Again, no one but us seemed to find anything noteworthy about a bus being late.

At last our bus arrived and we boarded.

Once got underway, I started to relax. Things were looking up. Our bus had assigned seats that comfortably reclined kind of like a Barca lounger. Our second-story seats gave us a great view of the city on our way out of town. We even had in-flight snack service.

Things were rolling along smoothly until the bus pulled over to the side of the road about an hour outside of Buenos Aires. We were told that the bus was broken and that we would have to board another bus that had just pulled up behind us.

Unsure whether we were simply the victims of poor bus maintenance or whether something more nefarious was in store for us, we boarded the back-up bus and hoped for the best.

To be continued….

In Memoriam

We depart from the usual frivolity to bring some very sad news. The Cat Bastet, or Kitty as she was known to most of you, passed away today. She was a very special cat and we will miss her very much.

THE CAT BASTET

1992 - 2007

housecat, cult of personality, tuna connoisseur

Dracula, El Musical

Last night Greg and I saw "Dracula, El Muscial."



Needless to say, I loved it. As most of you know, I'm a sucker for a musical. It didn't really matter that I only understood bits and pieces of what was going on.

The show itself was amazing, and a little reminiscent of Phantom of the Opera. But it was more than just the show, the whole experience was fun. But....theater in Argentina is a little different than at home.

First, the concessions in the lobby area were selling snacks, like potato chips, M&Ms, candy and, of course, bottles of champagne. Hey, I like champagne and sugar snacks just as much as the next girl, it's just that I'm not used to them being served together at a concession stand.

The next surprize was that we were permitted, no encouraged, to take our snack purchases with us into the theater. Upon learning this, we shrugged, said "OK" and took our Dom Perignon and Nerds into the theatre (just kidding, we had water and M&Ms).

The theatre house itself was interesting. I would describe it as moderately-worn art deco with a splash of the 80's. The theater had a lovely style, clearly art deco with some really beautiful touches. However, it looked as if the last facelift was in the 80's, with copious mirrors and paint in colors that we fondly remembered as being very Miami Vice.

But don't get me wrong, it was fantastic, even if it did need some TLC. We found it charming and we loved it.

Once we made our way out of the lobby and into the theater itself, the next thing we noticed was that we were way over dressed. Greg was wearing jeans, a nice button down shirt and a navy jacket. I was wearing a basic black dress and sensible heels. We were by far the most elegantly dressed couple in the house. The majority of the audience was dressed as if they were going to a futbol match. Jeans, t-shirts, shorts, etc.

In fact, speaking of futbol matches, there were a lot of similarities with futbol matches. Back home we are used to being quiet, polite audiences that clap when appropriate and give the occasional whistle at the end of the performance.

This crowd, however, was a tad more exuberant. After each stirring song (of which there were many), the spectators jumped to their feet, cheering and shouting. It was really fun! It was great that the whole crowd was so into the performance. I kept expecting to hear someone shout "Gooooooaaaaaaaal!!!!"

There is one more interesting bit that I must convey. This involves ushers and tipping etiquette. There was an usher to show us to our seats, which was good because there were no numbers on the seats. After showing us to our seats, he asked if we wanted programs. We said yes, and took some. Then he just stood there and stared at us.

Hmmm. Clearly there was something we didn't understand. He said something in spanish that didn't help to clarify things. Then he said, in English "the tips!!!" Oh! OK! Greg fished around in his pocket for some change and we handed a him a couple of pesos.

It was a little strange, but I recall a similar system in Brussels whereby an usher showed us our seats for tips. It caused much confusion among the Americans in Brussels who didn't understand that these ushers worked for tips. But all worked out OK. At least this time around, we didn't have an usher screaming at us for failing to tip at the proper moment (another story for another time).

The show itself was really amazing. It was like Phantom of the Opera goes to Transylvania. The interesting part was that the set was rather minimalist and reminded us a little bit of community theater or a high-school production. There were a few well done pieces on the set, but for the most part, we were left to our imaginations.

However, it didn't matter. The costumes and the lighting were so amazing, that we forgot that we could see the stage markings on the floor in bright white tape. That, and the fact that the music and the singing were so unbelievably moving that we were compelled to jump up and join the fray shouting our approval. Bravo!!! Bravo!!! Bravo!!! And that was just in the first scene. In fact, the show was so compelling, so aesthetically pleasing, so....well done that the audience was re-seated and waiting for the second act well before the intermission was over.

Sometime in the first act I leaned over and wispered to Greg, "we are SO buying this soundtrack." And we did. The double CD with the whole show cost us $AR 40 (about U$ 13). Boy is Greg going to get sick of listening to that!

CD or no CD, Greg and I are already talking about going back for another performance. Apparently, we're not the only ones. The guy sitting next to us, who was singing along throughout, told us he had seen it 12 times.

Construction

A little story about construction here.

There's a ton of construction going on here. Typical construction is concrete frame, brick infil, plaster on brick. Nothing special, easy to overdesign, hard to screw up too bad. So there's this 7-story apartment building going upabout 3 blocks from our place. They poured concreted and they were cleaning out the mixer on the street (of course, no reason to have a prep area), concrete slurry can be seen trailing 3 blocks away. There's two guys at the mixer cleaning it out, and they're dumping the excess concrete out into the street - maybe 3 to 4 yards of concrete lying there in the street. There's another guy shoveling this waste concrete into a wheelbarrow. There's a fourth guy at the wheelbarrow waiting for the shoveler to finish (there's only onewheelbarrow). The guy with the wheelbarrow then wheels the concrete around the corner about 50 feet to where the construction dumpster is located (also on the street). He dumps the concrete on to the street, in a pile. There's another guy waiting there with a shovel where he will shovel that concrete into the dumpster.

That's fives guys, two shovels, dumping the concrete into the street twice. It really took me back to the good old days in Aruba where we figured out how to improve efficiency by 70% by giving the drywall guys nail aprons instead ofhaving one guy hand each drywall screw to the otherguy actually installing the board.

food incidents - updated

We've had a few food incidents here recently.

1. The International Cookie Incident: my Dad and his wife sent us some cookies. Not just cookies. Malomars. Could have broken open the entire South American cookie market here they're so damn good. We love malomars and it would have been great. Unfortunatley, the folks at customs had other ideas. Apparently, these cookies were picked up at customs. Contraband? maybe. The shipping company claims that packaged food goods are nto to be imported without paying a duty. It's 4 boxes of cookies. My family is not in the import-export business. I could go down to the airport (US$30 cab ride each way) and fill out a form and pay the duty and get cookies, or have the shipping company "abandon" the package. If I do nothing the shipping company charges my Dad for "storage" of the contents. As if these cookies would last more than 10 mintues. I think they're scared here for what Malomars could do their cookie business.

2. We decided to make tex-mex food. Actually, I decided. Found a recipe on the net for re-fried beans that was supposed to be easy and involved beer. Looking good. However, the recipe called for canned black beans, which are not available here. I had to work with dry beans. So I bought a few bags and soaked them overnight. They outgrew the first pot I put them in - that should have been the first signal that I bought too much. I needed four 14-ounce cans, which is about 1.4 kilos. I ended up with more than three times that. Adn it seemed to grow with each passing minute. The other problem is that dry beans are not cooked, like canned beans. So the recipe that was supposed to take 2 hours ended up taking 6, as the beans needed to cook. On the plus side, they turned out fantastic and we have enough for a week. And we have beans ready for round two next week. And I threw out a third of the beans. So if you want some home made tex-mex, come on down!

3. Cheedar. We found a mexican restaurant nearby (great guacamole, but everything else was mediocre) and found out more about cheese. Apparently when you ask for a small side of cheddar cheese (which is actually spelled cheedar in two different places on the menu), you don't get a small cup of grated cheese. You get a large pot of melted cheedar like a fondu pot. Large, like you could swim in this bowl of cheedar.

4. More cheese. There's an expression here "Soy un queso" which literally means "I am cheese" but which we gather implies more that you're a spaz.

5. There's another expression from Spain involving milk that our friend Elizabeth taught us but we can't repeat it here because it's not for public consumption.

driving

Our friend Carlos here told us a funny story. (Carlos speaks near-fluent English since he grew up in Houston for a few critical adolscent years.) He was on his honeymoon in Miami with his wife, Gabi, and he was stopped by a cop for driving through a stop sign. The cop, after noting that Carlos was from Argentina, proceeded to lecture Carlos. The cop asked him, "what if I was in your country and just drove right through stop signs?" Carlos is an intelligent guy so he just accepted the lecture and the ticket, but inside he was thinking: "well, in Buenos Aires, nobody stops like that and if you did, you'd be rear ended."

We've decided that we'd like to see a new sport: Formula One Bus racing. Get each of the 5 or 6 drivers from their routes and see which one finishes first on their "course." Then we thought about it and realized that this is what happens pretty much everyday on your average bus route here.

jamon

A few words about the jamon (ham). It is beloved here, like it's own food group. It's on pizza, on burgers, it makes up more than 50% of the items on any given menu. They are devoted to ham here in all it's forms. Sliced ham. Smoked ham. Jamon crudo. Cubed ham on mashed potatoes. Jamon y queso sandwich. Getting a milanesa - I bet you'll find a little surprise under that cheese topping! I'm going to try to explain some of what makes this an interesting subject for us.
I think I would have to say that jamon here is not considered a meat but more of a ...let's say garnish. Chicken sandwich? How about a slice of jamon on that. Genevieve ordered a vegetarian sandwich - no the sandwich did not have ham on it. It was strictly bread, cheese, a little pesto. BUT, there was a lovely little piece of jamon crudo on the side of the plate - like a little sprig of parsely. In the US, you might see a slice of orange. Here, we see a nice slice of smoked ham.

Or maybe not a garnish, maybe a flavoring, like pepper or salt. Prime example: serrano ham flavored potato chips. I'm not kidding. Evidentiary photo attached.



And people don't believe us when we ask for items without ham or understand us when we act befuddled about all the ham-centric eating. We told our spanish teachers about the "vegetarian sandwich garnish" and they just looked at us, blankly, as if to say, "yes, and...is there something strange about that you hamless American?"

We also notice that generally speaking, there can be queso without jamon, but almost never is there jamon without queso. Scan a menu, you'll see the left side of most menus are variants on the jamon-queso family.

Maybe the closest thing I can describe in the US is in LA. In Los Angeles restaurants don't believe you when you say you don't want mayonaisse and they like to put a little bit on there so you won't have to go without.

So ham, it's not just for breakfast.

Cross-Cultural Miscommunication

Anytime one is a foreigner dwelling in a foreign land, one is bound to encounter miscommunications (see Blog, supra). Whether based on diverse languages or customs, they can either be disastrous or hilarious. I've attempted to compile some of my favorites here.

1. In a winery, my father, after having guzzled instead of tasted about 5 or 6 glasses of wine, attempted to ask the bilingual winery employee the following question in Spanish: "Where is your family from?" However my father, who is unable to speak a complete sentence in Spanish without also throwing in French, Italian, Russian and/or German actually asked:

"From where are your genitals.?"

2. Greg and I spent several days aghast after hearing from our English friends that kids in England like to eat "jelly and ice cream" together. Blech!!!!! Several days later we learned that "jelly" in England means "Jello." They assured us that English children do not eat "jam and ice cream" together.

3. A waitress, in response to my father's attempts to put Spanish, Italian, Russian and French all in one sentence: "El habla castellano, pero no entiendo." (He speaks Spanish, but I do not understand him).

Check back at this entry for continued updates!

Curious George

As some of you may already know, my father, George, arrived in Buenos Aires December 2 for an 11-day stay. Armed with six weeks' worth of Spanish and a healthy curiosity for all things Argentine, he hit the streets.

We identified a few of his favorite things:





THE FOOD


















THE WINE









THE LADIES











But that's not all. He also loved the coffee. However, in that regard, we had a few logistical problems.













Before we go on, I think I need to dish some more background on coffee in Argentina.

As discussed below, you will quickly run into problems if you order your cafe before or during the meal. Coffee is for after meals, no exceptions (see Discussion re Coffee, supra). Unfortunately, George's first coffee of the day usually coincided with a meal time (lunch). As a result, our first obstacle was to find a way to order coffee BEFORE/DURING lunch without provoking an international incident.

After several strategy sessions, we decided that deception was our best option. The plan was to go in pretending that we were only interested having coffee and/or pastries (it is perfectly acceptable to wander into a restaurant or cafe to have coffee and pastries at any time of the day). Once we were seated and the coffee was on its way, we would "suddenly" decide that we were very hungry and order food.

Success! Although they would raise an eyebrow or two when George would order his second or third cup during the meal, we averted an all-out crisis.

However, as one coffee conundrum concluded, another commenced.












"How do I get a LARGE cup of coffee?"

This was more or less a trick question because, as we learned, there is no such thing as a large cup of coffee in Argentina. Unfortunately, the espresso-sized "cafe" that the Argentinos drink was not at all sufficient for George. He likes more volume, in all things, especially coffee.

However, no task was too great for the intrepid team. After some discrete investigating, we discovered that you can order a "doble" (see photo) and get coffee in a medium-sized cup.















FANTASTICO!

The only problem was that after two or three of this highly-concetrated, diesel-fuel dobles, George felt a little weak in the knees.















On several occasions he complained of light-headedness and dizziness after throwing back multiple dobles. Shortly thereafter we limited his intake to only one doble per day.

However, all in all, the trip was a success. George LOVED Argentina and can't wait to come back!

The Bad Humor Man

We've observed an interesting phenomenon. The Bad Humor Man.

Like all other kids raised on the Flag, Mom & Apple Pie, we associate the ice cream man with happiness and joy. Not so here.

On just about every block, you can find an Heladeria, or ice cream store. They normally stock artesan or gourmet ice cream in a variety of flavors. Unfortunately, without exception, the employees, whether young or old, are permanently crankypants.

Yes, crankypants. Hostile, angry, rude, somehow put out that we are bothering them by asking that they serve their product.

At first I thought it was because we were breaching ice cream protocol. (We breach a lot of protocol, see "Eureka," discussion re coffee before lunch, supra).

I can explain how it works. Generally speaking, one gets two scoops of ice cream when one orders a cone. Protocol says that each scoop must be a different flavor. However, those who know me know that I like my flavors unadulterated. I like what I like, and by gum, I don't want my cherry ice cream polluted with (horror of all horrors) chocolate or something else.

For example, one time in an Heladeria I ordered cherry ice cream and the adolescent staff became belligerent when I said I wanted both scoops cherry. One might reasonably conclude that the hostility is a product of disaffected youth, angry simply by fact of being adolescents. Not so.

Last night Greg walked into an Heladeria in search of good humor. Here is what transpired:

Greg walks into Heladeria. There does not appear to be anyone there. As it is quite a small store front, it is unlikely that the heladero (ice cream man) is there. Just then, a man sitting casually at a cafe table on the sidewalk in front of the Heladeria says, "you do want ice cream?" (in spanish of course).

Although Greg thinks his presence inside an Heladeria should have made it quite obvious that ice cream was exactly what he wanted, he responds, "Si."

The man at the cafe table nods, gets up, goes into the store and walks behind the counter. Not to serve the ice cream of course, but to wake up the ice cream man who is sleeping on the floor behind the counter.

The bleary-eyed ice cream man, in his late 30s or early 40s, serves Greg his ice cream. Greg can't help but feel the resentment radiating off of this man interrupting his nap.

I now buy my ice cream from the friendly corner store where they sell sundries and internet time. It may be pre-packaged (and even imported from the U.S.) but it comes with a smile.

Contest!*

We've decided to make this blog a little more interactive by hosting a contest. The first person to identify correctly the meaning of this sign wins. First prize is a bottle of Argentine malbec.*
















Hint: We've already inquired and it DOESN'T mean "Lawyers Crossing, Speed Up Now."


* No limit to the number of entries per person. Prize to be claimed in Argentina. Airfare and transportation not included.

Eureka!

Or maybe the title to this post should be Eurekoso or Eurkedad or Eurekamente. Ah, Eurekamente. I like that.

This is Genevieve speaking, I thought it was time for me to chime in. That, and today is a very special day.

I was engaged in some rather routine shopping this afternoon: shampoo, toothpaste, toothbrushes that don't hurt, toilet paper that doesn't hurt (see discussion, supra, re Absorbency).

I took my basket to the Checkout Chica, smiled pretty, said "hola" in my best take-pity-on-me-and-speak-slow voice. I waited for her to tell me how much my purchases would cost in rapid-fire Spanish. At the same time I began preparing my response: "I am a studient trying to learn your beautiful language, can you repeat that slowly?". Imagine my suprise when I heard her tell me my purchases would cost 24.80 pes0s (veinticuatro con ochenta). In disbelief, I stammered back: "veinticuatro y ochenta?" "Si," she replied, "venticuatro con ochenta." I made a mental note that prices are spoken as 24 WITH 80, not 24 AND 80 and stumbled out onto the polluted street.

This is a major accomplishment. Three and a half weeks ago, I could not understand a single, solitary storeclerk when he/she announced the price. Even after asking he/she to repeat it 9 or 10 times, I just took a guess and handed over big bills, hoping I'd given enough.

Although this is a major accomplishment, this is only a fraction of what I've been learning. Watching CSI and Law and Order several times a day has worked out well. I'm developing quite a vocabulary. I've learned the words for: lie; murder; handcuffs (which, by the way, is the same word for "wife"); drug addict; hate; and my personal favorite, "tell your client that makes him a murderer." (Just kidding on that last one, the rest are true, though).

Sometimes, however, the communication breaks down.

Last Saturday, Greg and I were feeling great about our speaking levels. We went out to dinner at this fancy steak place (no big surprise there) and even asked the waitress questions about the dishes. We were so impressed with ourselves.

Sometime after we finished our main courses, the evening took a turn.

The busboy/waitress' assistant came by to check on us. We asked to take our leftovers home with us ("para llevar?" we asked). We told the guy that we loved our dinners ("fantastico" we said).

The guy took our plates to the kitchen and then returned about 5 minutes later. He said something, we're not sure what, but we took it to be "do you want dessert or anything else?"

Um, apparently, that wasn't it.

When we responded, "no, I don't think so," the guy gave us a look that said, "you [expletive deleted] crazy people, what is your problem." As he was walking away shaking his head, I leaned over to Greg and said, "I don't think we got that right."

Sure enough, the guy came back 90 seconds later and starting talking again. Again, we had no idea what he was saying, but while he was away, we came up with an alternative interpretation of the original conversation. This time, we decided that he was telling us that they didn't have any to-go boxes and that they would wrap it up in aluminum foil (we've encountered this scenario before) .

Immediately, Greg launched into an apology "I am sorry. Sometimes we don't understand everything. My wife is a deranged lunatic, back away slowly." (Just kidding on the last part, but the rest is true). We assured him everything was OK, by repeating the spanish equivalent of OK ("esta bien") about 30 times. He gave us another "[expletive deleted] crazy person" look, although less intense, and walked away.

Our waitress couldn't get us our check and change fast enough. And our to-go package never came out.

It's a shame, really, because it was a fantastic meal. We still have no idea what happened, but we figure we should probably wait a while before going back.

Sometimes, however, the problem isn't language, it's culture. (Um, pardon me while I digress momentarily. I'm watching a cooking show in which a french chef is telling us in accented spanish how to flay a fish. I'm horribly grossed out). Anyway, back to the story. This one is about coffee. Argentinos love their coffee about as much as they love their beef. Coffee is an event, a ritual, a piece of cultural identity.

On Sunday I unintentionally breached coffee protocol.

At lunch I ordered coffee as my beverage. One of the Argentinos with whom we were dining exclaimed "this is very strange." A commotion in rapid-fire spanish ensued between the waitress and our friend. He turned to me and said, "you know what you are asking for?" I nodded "yes" and the waitress went away shaking her head.

Our friends then explained that coffee is for after the meal, not before or during. Apparently there are no exceptions. Well, maybe breakfast, where the primary ingredient in breakfast here is coffee, but at no other times.

Well now we know.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! We promise to pretend that our steak is turkey!

mirrors on the subway

We've noticed that there are little mirrors (about 4" wide x 8" tall) on either side of the subway doors at about head height on the line that we frequent. Apparently to check one's appearance before exiting the subway. This according to my spanish teacher. I think it makes sense.

meat

Nothing out of the ordinary here.
Looks like a typical Stackel Sunday brunch.

pillow war

Yesterday, we rented some bicycles and had a nice ride through the park near here in Palermo. Trees, small lakes, grass, it was a lot of fun. Our next door neighbor, the yiddish-speaking Claudio was our guide.

On our way back we passed by the planetarium and there was a commotion - turns out it was an organized pillow fight. Massive. Hundreds of people, mostly teenagers, were running in with pillows and swinging wildly. A cloud of dust rose above them. The ambulance stood ready for casualties. It was organized as a sort of protest but also an act of farce.


Una guerra almohadazos ("pillow war")

bife

We've been experimenting with how we order our beef. We have a lot of practice, since we tend to eat steak 3-4 times per week (which is very low for Bs As). A quick read from Lonely Planet gave us the basics ("A punto" for medium, "jugoso" for rare, "bien hecho" for well done) but we've noticed that they cook it a little more than what you ask for (kind of like in LA when they don't believe you that you don't want mayonaisse - they always add a little more than you want). So we order it "jugoso" and hope for the best.

But our friend Darren mistakenly hit on our new strategy. During one of his first forays into the world of meat he accidentally said "jugando" instead of "jugoso". "Jugar" being the infinitive form of the verb meaning "to play" so he ordered his steak "playing" and I gather he received it blood-blue red.

"Jugando" for those who like their meat very rare.

absorbency

Napkins here, well, they leave something to be desired. They're just like the european brand of napkins that mostly smear things around.
Quote my lovely wife: "Absorbency does not seem to be a high priorty here."

colectivos - buses

We've been taking the bus to school and it's been great.

They are called "colectivos". A little confusing, but great. You really get a sense and a whiff of what it's like to live here. Of course there's some little twists: you get on the bus and you're supposed to tell the driver how far you're going so he can mentally compute your fare but most people just grunt and the driver calculates it as 80 cents. I guess if you were travelling a short distance you'd do something different. We grunt. You drop your coins in the machine and get change and a ticket that really resembles a fortune cookie (see above). I've yet to figure out what my fortune it so far.

The bus stops ("paradas") are also great. Sometimes they are ideal - covered benches, metal signs indicating which buses stop here, etc. Sometimes, it's literally a 3" x 8" sign with only a number and it's glued or nailed to whatever is close by - a tree, a stop sign, old people who don't move very fast.

You enter at the front and leave at the rear door, but typically these colectivos are packed, so you have to elbow your way to the rear door. And to get the bus to stop you push a button which is usually at the rear. Packed in a colectivo with our air conditioning in sweltering heat means sultry. So you really, well, you probably don't have any smell function in your computer but I'm sure you get the idea.

That being said the colectivos are fast, cheap, efficient, well utilized, and well run 24/7. Figuring out the routes, that's more confusing than yahtzee.

A bus stop.

Note the "Linea 130" signage.

little differences

Pasta and sauce for pasta are listed and charged separately here. Just in case you wanted to know. Also,

Tuna in sushi is not typically raw. We tried it. Not to our liking. Think about it. I believe we can get it raw by ordering it "atun rojo"

Apparently the average Argentine nasal cavity is either much deeper or much more resilient than the average American. To wit: we bought a little saline nasal inhaler (just saline water to moisten the nasal cavity) to help with all the pollution here. Because there were Gen and I testing out the inhaler and this thing was so powerful it was like a jet airplane.

We like the little translation differences. A wife is "esposa," but hancuffs are translated as "esposas". We saw a movie poster for "Snakes on the Plane." Here's an excerpt Gen found from an estancia's website:

1.30p.m: Lunch. Then we let our horses rest and drink water very near the watermill. Meanwhile the smell for the barbecue indicates that there is a delicious "asado" waiting for us with sausages, different types of meat, innards, chicken, "lomo", salads, red wine, soft drinks, fruit juices, fruit and coffee. For dessert, pudding and coffee is served but we also have guitar playing.

4 p.m: After lunch we mount again and take another direction outside the "Cabaña los dos hermanos" riding for about two hours, observing horse herds guarding the lagoon where cows, calfs, lapwings and colts are reflected in the water.

5.30 p.m: Arrival at the Cabaña
We say goodbye to each of our horses and are ready for a well deserved tea.


So until we mount again...

taxis

Let's spend a few minutes on the taxi's here. Now, I'm from New York, and I've been around the block in a few taxi's. I consider myself a seasoned veteran. But NYC taxi drivers ain't got nothing on these guys down here. I think of it as a blood sport for adrenaline junkies (and that's for the passengers). Two examples: We get into a cab heading for school, it's your typical BsAs taxi with a few dents and a spider web crack on the windshield, and the drivers crosses himself before starting to drive. Typically not a good first sign. Off we go - lanes be damned. Think of it as a real life video game, pedestrians scrambling, a moped or two bouncing off a side fender, cutting off a bus. We're a maximum heart rate when we get to school. Next taxi ride, better looking cab, more mature driver, he seems to be completely at ease in the car - got a good zen thing going. Then he disregards a few red lights and our side view mirror kisses the one from the next car (we could have done more than pass the grey poupon, we could have shared the sandwich). He's much more calm and fluid, but the ride is just as terrifiying. For his piece d'la resistance, rather than wait in line behind to the other cars at the red light to make a left turn, he simply drives into the oncoming traffic, zooming ahead of all the other "suckers" waiting for their green light, and turns left at a break in the (let me repeat myself here) cars coming at us. All's well that end's well.

Here's a short list of traffic rules Gen dug up that specifically disregarded by the drivers here:
- Headlights at all times on highways
- Seatbelts at all times
- No talking on cell phones while driving
- No left turn on avenues unless signal permits left turn
- No right turn on red (apparently they also need a No Left Turn on Red also)

Day 3

It's Day three. We're feeling a little more settled.

11:20pm and we just got back from dinner. A nice little Italian place with good pizza and some fantastic squash ravioli. On the walk to and from the restaurant it feels like we're in Europe. Lots of people about, tables on the sidewalk eating, drinking. We found out they have recently passed a smoking ban in restaurants here. Very civilized.

We've spent the past three days settling in. We alternate between "ohmygodwhathavewe done" and "are we crazy?" to "I think this is going to work." There are lot of instances where someone is speaking to me and I can't understand anything. Gen picks up quite a bit because, as she says, there are a lot similarities to French and the pronunciation is more clear. The words sound like what they are supposed to be.

We went to the big supermarket nearby - 10 minute walk - and we laughed at ourselves as we stumbled through the shopping experience. It felt like I'd dropped about 40 IQ points. Is this tea decafinated? Is this dishwashing detergent or laundry detergent? Okay, cheese looks like cheese (and smells pretty much the same), but some things are just different. It's different down here.


Our cell phone and keys to the apartment.
I love these keys.


















Sapir-security-system.








Gen's fail-safe security system for the apartment.
We lock the door from the inside with our skeleton keys and we leave the keys in the lock in case we need to get out. Of course, anyone who has seen a spy movie in the last 50 years knows the old push-the-keys-through-the-keyhole-onto-the-paper-and-pull-them-under-the-door- trick. We have foiled this nefarious possiblility with a well-placed shoe so that the keys drop into the shoe. It's sapir-genius.

Of course, the keys don't even fit under the door because they are so thick, but this is irrelevant. The shoe is a fail-safe.

Estamos aqui

We have arrived in Buenos Aires.

After a long, cold flight (the most frigid flight I've ever been on - they had to chip out the penguin to make room for us) we arrived this morning.

We found our apartment in Las Canitas and met with the person to get keys. Walked around a little, bought some food, made lunch, and napped. The neighborhood is nice, plenty of dogs, nice shady streets, we can see the polo grounds from our window. The apartment is clean, very sunny and bright, sparsely furnished but acceptable. The funny little things about life in a foreign country interest us: the tiny elevators, the keys (like something from the 14th century), the food packaging that is of course foreign to us. Maybe it's the jet lag, but in the market we were like dogs staring something they don't understand with heads slightly cocked. Is this tomato sauce or a juice container? Is this fat free or lactose-free or not-milk-at-all? Anyway, we figured it out (I mean, like, we're pretty well educated, so we should be able to figure out something as uncomplicated as yogurt). We settled out on vermicelli and salad. Can't go wrong.

We'll be snoozing most of the rest of the day and trying to set up Vonage.












View of the river delta approaching Buenos Aires











Gen pensively looking out the window.

NY-PR-NY-PA-OH

Oct 19, Cleveland, Ohio.
I'm studying for my LEED exam, Gen is working on her state department information. We leave for Chicago on Sunday.

We spent some time in NY to see family and friends. Ezra Zizmor is cute kid (and chatty). Of course we didn't see everyone we wanted but that's the way things go. Dad and Mary stuffed us like little veal. If you've never seen a Stackel order take out, you'll never understand. It's more than the sheer quantity of food. It's about strategy, it's about goals, it's thinking three or four moves ahead (how long will Mary permit the roast pork as leftovers? If I trade up to the large egg roll will Greg take the whole thing anyway so why not sacrifice the egg roll and get some noodles? Can the General Tso's chicken be made into a sandwich? Are we taking any planes or trains where a whole turkey leg might come in handy? the issues are many and complex).




Ellis Island and Statue of Liberty, NY
Both Gen's family and my family came through here in the early 1900s. The tour was fascinating - you really get a sense of what these people had to go through.














Our hotel in Pueto Rico. With all the stress of being homeless and unemployed we decided to take a break to hurricane-prone Puerto Rico. (Actually it was to celebrate the finalization of the sale of Gen's apartment). We spent 3 days in rainy PR and loved every minute of it. In particular the hour we spent in sea while it poured rain was surreal - little droplets like jewels sprouting up from the sea.

Graceland

Graceland. It's more than just Elvis' pad. It's the center point of the Elvis religion. The faithful come and pay respects. Now I liked Elvis, don't get me wrong. My mom and Elvis share the same birthday of Jan 8. I like his music. I even serenade my wife to the music. But the devoted at Graceland are something special. It's something to behold. The reverence. The awe. I highly recommend the place, and not just for the camp. The tour presents Elvis as a sort of "musician-philosopher-erudite-manofthepeople". He's all things to all people. Great pains were taken to emphasize the large volumes of books he took with him on the road (he was an avid reader of everything from the bible to Shakespeare to non-fiction) and his physical fitness (his black belt was bronzed - j/k).


At Graceland - just me and the kings. The guys were just regular tourists, like me. And yet, just a little different. I wanted the photo with Gen and me, but she wouldn't have it. Still, these guys were friendly, I think they were from Germany. And why not? They're here at the best place on Earth (for mutton chops).





Just a snippet of the graffiti on the surrounding brick walls.


At Graceland, Elvis is a superhero.




The grave. Hallowed ground.

xcountry

2,999.7 miles from Santa Monica Beach to the Outer Banks in North Carolina.

We started at the Casa del Mar in Santa Monica, California. We checked in there, relaxed, spent the night with friends, and headed off on our cross-country journey.




The view from my seat. We brought our african violet along for the ride to give to Gen's mom.










Sep 8-9: final move out of Gen's place, check into hotel for Sep 9. Typical problems you might expect.

Sept 10: leave LA (dip toes in pacific ocean)Sep 10-16: drive to North Carolina. Gen's grandfather(the one who married us) got married himself. He's83, his bride is 70.








The happy groom.





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Attacked by a roadside attraction.











Spencer, North Carolina



Sep 18: drive to outer banks of North Carolina, diptoes in Atlantic Ocean. Note: 2,999.70 miles fromocean to ocean. See Kitty Hawk, relax.Sep 20: drive to Cleveland, Ohio ahead of major rainstorm

Sep 20-Oct 6: Stay in Cleveland. Gen's dad is inOhio. We were supposed to relax during this visit butGen's mom is buying a house and needed my help, Gen'sOhio bar application needed work, and the final escrowto sell Gen's apartment in Beverly Hills was screwedup so we were actually very busy. Oh, and I'm takinganother accredidation exam for sustainable building("Green Building") so I'm studying for that.We also spent the jewish holidays so Gen and Iprepared the food for that. Also, for my birthday we went to a baseball game herein Cleveland and Gen had them put my name up inlights. It was fun, but scary (39!!!).




Smoky Mountains