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.