Best Animal's Day ever

So I had another one of those experiences that every traveler has to try at one point or another: someone tried to rip me off. I've probably been ripped off a few times and not realized it, but this time I knew what I was looking for, and caught it. It was my first run-in with a dishonest cab driver, which is surprising, because as in other parts of the world, they have a reputation here for being less than trustworthy. There are three main scams that one has to watch for when taking a cab: the roundabout route, the juiced meter, and the dinero trucho (fake money). Fake bills are a problem for everyone, actually, and most waiters or cashiers will give anything higher than a ten a quick once over, but since a cab driver's customers are often inebriated, tired, or distracted, some cabbies can't resist availing themselves of the opportunity to slip a few through. The bills are quite obviously trucho, but if one isn't paying close attention, they're realistic enough to give the cabbie just enough time to get out of there. I always try to pay for cabs with exact change. The roundabout route is the obvious tactic of getting from origin to destination as indirectly as possible, or wading into evitable traffic when a more obvious and less congested street is available. Not much you can do about that one other than know your way around.

I've never been passed any dinero trucho, and as far as I can tell I haven't been taken to my destination via the scenic route, but last night I was the victim of a juiced meter. Our first stop was to drop off a friend, and when I got back in the cab, I noticed that the meter seemed a little high. Cabs are quite cheap here; one can travel for probably about fifteen minutes before cracking the $10 peso ($3.60 CAD) mark, and yet we were already at $9 pesos after just a quick jaunt to Villa Crespo. I watched the meter quite intently for the next ten minutes or so, and didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, though obviously it's difficult to gauge the rhythm of it accurately. Once it hit $17 pesos, though, the thing took off, and climbed three pesos in 15 seconds. I rather indignantly told the driver what I had seen, but he replied only with a "Qué?" I explained it again, this time far more directly and succinctly, but again, "Qué?" My Spanish certainly isn't eloquent, but I knew that I was being clear both times, so this guy was obviously determined to go down taking the fifth. I asked to be dropped off at the next corner and walked the remaining twenty minutes to my apartment.

Outside of cabs, the gringo doesn't have to worry too much about getting taken advantage of, though a little skepticism is of course warranted. The most common problem one encounters is dual pricing: one price for foreigners and one for locals (guess which is higher). Some places are quite brazen about it: a friend of mine was shopping at a feria (a little like a craft fair) the other day, and picked out a pair of sandals identical to that which an Argentine woman had just bought. The vendor had sold the sandals to the Argentine for $30 pesos, but quoted $40 to my friend. She put up a fight, of course, but the vendor was quite convinced of the logic of charging a foreigner a higher price than a local for the same product. My friend was able to work him down to $35, which was apparently quite a concession on his part. Inflated prices will also hit now and then when anyone thinks that you might not know the true price. I was buying mate the other day, and noted that the price was $4.10. I then had the following conversation with the cashier:

"$5 pesos please."
"I looked on the aisle and the price says $4.10; are you sure?"
"Yes, I am, it's $4.10."
"Oh, all right, I thought you said $5 pesos."
"No, $4.10."

The difference we're talking about here is between the words "cuatro y diez" and "cinco". So I doubt I misheard.

I suspect that I've been ripped off at least a few times since I've been here, but at least I'm getting wise, and my Spanish is good enough to call someone on it, as last night's incident demonstrated. I was coming home late last night because I had been at another excellent party hosted by SAE, this one a birthday/good-bye party for our intern Rosie, who is turning 25/leaving us on Tuesday. As if the Rosie-related festivities weren't enough of a reason to celebrate on their own, Saturday was also an Argentine holiday, the Día del Animal (Animal's Day).

OMG so cute!!!!

The Día del Animal is a day to recognize the animals in our lives, and the contribution that they make to our well-being. The holiday also commemorates the work of Dr. Ignacio Lucas Albarracin, who died on April 29, 1929 after a lifetime of work protecting the rights of animals. What I'm not so clear on is how Argentines choose to celebrate Día del Animal, though it was suggested that work animals would get a day off, and perhaps the lucky ones would get presents, like the little pooch in the photo above. I doubt, however, that many Argentines have thought to recognize the day as we at SAE chose to: by throwing a party in which everyone dressed up as animals.

Our Día del Animal party turned out pretty well; though quite a number made the rather uninspired decision to come dressed as a human, we were visited by a flamingo, a werewolf, a few mice, the odd leopard or puma, and a large population of cats. Many of the cats had arrived as humans, but were transformed in short order with a little liquid eyeliner. I'm not usually one for dressing up as anything other than a human, but I'm trying a lot of new things these days, so I decided the perfect choice for me was a Blue Jay: Blue Jays are dominant and territorial, which is a fun little alter-ego for a night, and obviously I get to show a little home-town pride. Naturally none of the Argentines knew what a Blue Jay was, or what they looked like, and they were similarly bereft of baseball knowledge, but at least one or two North Americans in attendance were able to put it together. Another great party, another good weekend, another good week coming up in BsAs. Now if only I can get the rest of this eyeliner washed off . . .

Me and Rosie the birthday girl and flamingo. There wasn't much else to my costume than what you see here; I had jeans on to represent my plumage, but that's about it. All in all, I think that I was a pretty fantastic Blue Jay, and if you disagree, I'll respect that, but still peck you relentlessly until you abandon my bird feeder.

I owe Jared a drink for this. We were harassing him because he hadn't worn a costume, and I casually mentioned that I might just have to sic my newly-developed aptitude with an eyeliner brush on him if he didn't make more of an effort. Five minutes later, this photo. To be fair, though, that's what you get for showing up at a Día del Animal party without a costume.

Rosie again on the left, Marcie the clubhouse manager on the right, and a lovely woman in the middle whose name or reason for being there is a complete mystery to me.

The selling culture

I often measure a city or country on how easy it is to move around without someone trying to sell you something. Toronto is fine, though degenerating, whereas Morocco makes for tough slogging. I've found porteños to be pretty good about respecting public space, on the whole, though of course one can expect to at least encounter someone handing out commercial pamphlets on busy corners. I find though, refreshingly, that sales efforts aren't too invasive around here, and there are only a few places in which one can expect to see a pitch.

On the Subte

The Subte is what they call the subway system here, and with such a great number of people of trapped for at least the minute to the next station, it's little surprise that a few people try to take advantage of some impulse shoppers. The dominant technique, by far, is to enter the subway car armed with one's collection of goods, walk down the car dropping the goods in each passenger's lap, and then make a return trip, collecting the dinero if the subject is convinced, and the goods otherwise. The funny thing is the reactions of the passengers: were I to sit on the subway - and I never sit - I would cross my legs and wave off whatever was coming. But most people react by ignoring the vendor's efforts; "I don't know what you have in mind, but there is nothing in my lap right now but my personal space, okay?" They simply look the other way, both when the product alights on them and when it is reluctantly removed. A few will take a casual look, flip it over, appear to consider it, but ultimately leave it for collection if it doesn't suit their expectations of what they were going to buy on the subway car today. A few will buy it.

What sorts of products can one expect to see falling from the hands of previously unnoticed passersby? Oh, packets of coloured pencils, mesh laundry containers, notepads, an odd leather envelope that might have been meant to protect a passport, small plastic geometry sets. Most cost just a peso or two, though I've seen some go for five. The uniting theme, usually, is products that commuting parents might think to buy for their children. Not an unreasonable target market. Today a gentleman in his early thirties sitting in front of me purchased a small colouring book featuring Dora la Exploradora. He was wearing a Boca jersey and looked a little scruffy and tired. He very carefully slid the frail book into the front pouch of his backpack; it looked as if it wouldn't fit, but the pouch was just long enough, and he closed the zipper very carefully so as not to catch the book's cover in it. A gift for his daughter, no doubt.

During the summer the salespeople were kids, but now that they've returned to school, I hope, adults have taken over. While the drop-and-go technique is the most popular, some come in with a bit more of a hard sell: "a tape measure, a very fine tape measure, suitable for use in the home or office, five metres for five pesos, five pesos, nothing more, thank you very much señor, five pesos for this fine tape measure." Still some jump past the product entirely and straight into the sales pitch; once the tape measure fellow had moved on (one can transfer freely between subway cars, even while the train is moving), as if he had been tagged in, the man with the white cane and sunglasses stepped forward: "Ladies and gentleman, I'm sorry to disturb your passage. A workplace accident that struck just eight months ago has left me completely blind . . ."

The last group that has entered the Subte to make a little moneda - and by far my most preferred - is the buskers. While I'd happily dish over at least five pesos to any tango musicians who made the trip into the tube, that's just not their scene, they preferring to stalk the floors of smokey, crowded bars, and the asados of fortunate gringos. Most buskers play what I assume is a charango, and accompany it with a bamboo panpipe, looking like a Peruvian translation of Dylan with his guitar and harmonica. Traditional songs are standard, of course, but without exception these gentlemen will play one song and one song only that I recognize: El Condor Pasa, which I had always just thought of as "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail." Apparently the song is based off of a traditional melody from the highlands of Peru. You know, you learn something new every day. You really do.

In clothing stores

The clothing salesmen here definitely look to make the most of your presence in their store. I did a lot of shopping when I got back from Patagonia, as I had only packed city clothes suitable for the sweltering BsAs summer, most of which I spent in the particularly un-sweltering south. I had few opportunities to wear all that linen, and when the temperature dipped below 20C, I found myself pathetically unprepared. I take jeans shopping pretty seriously, and since getting jeans that fit demanded spending more than any sane Argentine would rightly consider (Ben Simon's biggest jeans came down barely to my ankle), I asked for three similar pairs, with slightly different cuts. When I had tried them on, and picked out the pair I wanted, I brought them all to the desk, pointed to mine, and said "these." He then packed them up with the other two, and said "these two as well, yes?" Right, I want three pairs of very expensive, nearly identical jeans. Of course. No, just the one pair, thanks. He then asked which shirts I'd like to throw in, in the same tone that the waitresses ask whether you'd like fries or salad with your carne. Perhaps I've been spoiled by the exemplary clothing salesmen with whom I've mostly done business, but still.

In restaurants

The drop-and-go has made its way into restaurants as well. You'll be sitting there, eating your pizza that tastes suspiciously like an empanada (I'm eating cheap these days), and before you even notice that someone is walking by, there's a pen on your table. One of those pens with five different colours of ink loaded in it, which takes me back to that time in my academic career when it seemed practical to have such supplies, like a complete highlighter set, or a compass. Grade 6 or 7, perhaps. So you go back to eating your pizza, and the next time you look up, it's gone. More aggressive salespeople might give you an inquisitive look before moving on, but I've never seen anyone try to push the sale. No reason to, I suppose, as they make sales frequently enough as it is.


I used to get a little riled up at this kind of stuff. I got quite irritated in Vegas with the ubiquitous advertising cards that young gentlemen would practically flick at me as I walked down the strip, or the struggling actresses in New York who approached me to discuss some adventure travel scheme. Even more galling were the invasive tactics that I witnessed with increasing frequency in my last days of employment in downtown Toronto: the choir clad in Rickard's Red robes at King and Bay belting out a beery ode set to a melody from the Carmina Burana; the imitation revolutionaries in Union Station skipping right past social justice in order to vehemently campaign against halitosis. I didn't stop to check, but I'm pretty sure that Listerine was behind that one. I don't hold anything against the instruments of these pathetic shenanigans (every city needs a use for its struggling actresss); I save my vitriol for the profiteers in the background - the suited "entrepreneurs", the geeks and poseurs - who imitate legitimate businessmen, but offer nothing but a willingness to sink lower than their predecessors in poisoning whatever remains of public space.

Here, at least, one sees the face of need behind the sale; those who benefit and not their agents. The work isn't demeaning either; I'd spend a year hocking something in the Subte before I'd spend a week wandering through Toronto's underground with a rediculous artificial tan rolled in a stripe across my face, as another struggling actress that I saw a year ago was asked to do. She had spent too much time watching her Delissio pizza rise in the oven, you see. For the most part, I've observed here that the customers respect the vendors and the vendors respect their customers. There's a demand, for one, and for another, it's difficult to dismiss the needy when they make up a little more than a third of the population. I still haven't bought a tape measure on the Subte, but to these guys I'll at least give a little respect.

Patagonia: El Bolsón (Feb. 26-Mar. 9)

At the very fringe of the Lake District - Patagonia's barren steppe gaping to the south - two hours from Bariloche (the favoured sojourn of porteño socialites), El Bolsón rests between two ranges of mountains that run parallel like railroad tracks down the continent. The town became famous in the 70's as a hippy hangout, and while its founding spirit has since been mostly paved over with the inevitable commercial imperatives, El Bolsón still offers some opportunity for an alternative lifestyle. Every other day a craft fair springs up in the Plaza San Martin, with plenty of homemade trinkets, toys, and clothes on sale, as well as waffles and veggie empanadas. This is probably the only town in Argentina in which it's difficult to get a bottle of Quilmes; most restaurants stock only their cerveza casera, which is home-brewed beer. What's more, numerous organic farms and occasional communes have settled in the outskirts of town, so the souvenir shops and overpriced bistros haven't completely denied El Bolsón its hippy cred.

In my first few days in El Bolsón I was finally able to get up in the mountains, and took on a 3-day hike. The trails in the area were well-suited to a hiker with my profile (capable but lacking equipment), as the mountains are dotted with refugios, which are cabins where hikers can eat, sleep, and have a little mate. The first day was tough: a 5.5-hour ascent from the mountain's valley to nearly its peak, covering about 1.2 vertical kilometres, done in just enough rain to make the trail slippery. I made it by the late afternoon though, and was greeted by the first of two spectacular refugios: this one nestled in a lush valley overlooked by the Cerro (peak) Hielo Azul, neighbour of both the valley's forest and its river, a river that flows from the glacier at the mountain's peak right down the pitch I had climbed to the river I had crossed at the mountain's base. The refugio was simply a two-floor cabin, the downstairs housing the eating and sitting areas, the upstairs one big room where up to 40 guests could pick out their spot on the floor, throw down a mattress, and sleep. It was hardly private, but naturally no one had any difficulty nodding off.

The next day was comprised of two legs: a return trip to the Cerro Hielo Azul, and then onto the next refugio, the Refugio Cajon de Azul. The cerro topped out at 2270m, which isn't especially high in absolute terms, but it was a long way up from where I had started and from the refugio. The glacier and glacial lake were a little disappointing, but the views along the way more than repaid the considerable effort required for the climb. After a brief break, I set off for the next refugio, and arrived about five hours later, though at least this time there wasn't much climbing left to do.

The Refugio Cajon de Azul, in contrast with the Hielo Azul's awesome setting, was more of a ranch where gaucho types took in hikers to support their horse rearing and daily steak asados. While this refugio was a little bigger and more elaborate, the use of space was similarly devoted either to food preparation, food consumption, or sleeping. We had a sociable evening - thanks, no doubt, to the ample supply of cerveza casera and vino casero - followed by a shorter walk out the next day. Since the weather was so nice, we decided to spend much of the day milling around, planning to catch the 5:30pm bus back to town from the trail's base instead of the more popular 1:30pm. After a relaxing morning and a beautiful hike out, we arrived at the bus stop promptly at 5:40pm, and hailed a cab. Good finish.

The bridge over the Rio Azul where the trail commences. It was a little on the rickety side; somewhere in between complete confidence and Temple of Doom.

A little ways up on Day 1.

The view from the Cerro Hielo Azul, overlooking the valley in which the refugio is set.

Me at the cerro, with the glacier and glacial lake in the background.

View of the valley on Day 3. El Bolsón is a little ways off to the side, out of the picture.

Another look from Day 3. So very nice.

Upon my return I decided to settle down in El Bolsón for a little while, as I had made some friends on the hike who were around for a few days. I had found an interesting place to stay: the Chacra el Cielo, which my friend from Junin de los Andes had recommended. El Cielo is run by Rosa and Nano, the former an ex-pat from Pennsylvania, the latter pure Argentine. Rosa had wanted a farm, but didn't think highly of her prospects in the U.S., and Nano had a farm, but needed some help. At some point they met, saw the compatibility of their situations, and promptly got married, despite barely knowing one another. Their son Dante turned three when I was there, and Rosa and Nano seemed quite happy. Theirs was neither the first nor the last marriage-for-citizenship arrangement that I would encounter in Argentina.

Chaca el Cielo is an organic farm about an hour's walk outside of El Bolsón, the last twenty minutes of which is right uphill, so if I hadn't found my hiking legs after my first trip, I certainly had by the time I left. Guests staying at El Cielo had a choice of how to pay for their accommodation: $10 pesos ($4 CAD) a night, or four hours of work around the farm. At first I took a capitalist approach to the decision, and confident that my labour was worth more than a dollar an hour, I just paid. Later I came around to a socialist perspective, and thought it would be fair if we all pitched in to help, and all shared in the benefits. Before I got around to actually getting in some work, though, my laziness overcame both ideologies, and I decided that I'd rather just hang out. I spent about a week at El Cielo, occupied mostly by making trips into town and studying Spanish.

I went on one additional hike; a day-trip to the top of the Cerro Piltiquitron, a little less than 15km each way from El Cielo, covering about 1400m in elevation. No pictures from that one, as my view was often blocked by clouds, especially as I reached the cumbre (summit). What made it worthwhile was my first run-in with the famously volatile Patagonian weather: as I neared the top, the weather shifted from a typical grey day, to a light drizzle, to very high winds, to hail and heavy clouds, all in about twenty minutes. This all caught me a little off-guard, and I was still in my shorts, though at least I had my MEC raincoat on at this point, which held up admirably. Just as quickly as it had started, the weather dissipated as I crossed over a ridge, and I could see more than 10m in front of me, and walk without having to fear getting knocked over by gale-force winds. The Patagonian winds really are legendary; one reads stories of car doors being blown off, and more than one veteran of the Torres del Paine hike in southern Chile has reported seeing people literally blown off their feet. So I got off all right.

A week to the day after arriving at El Cielo, I said my goodbyes to Rosa, Nano, and Dante, and hopped the 5:00pm bus to the south. El Bolsón isn't even in Patagonia proper, really, and I was eager to get on the road; that travel itch again that sent me down there in the first place. I would arrive at my next destination - more than 48 hours later - desperate to settle down somewhere for even just a few days. Such is the effect of crossing the vast and empty steppe that runs from the 39th parallel to "the end of the world"; remembered by travel writer Bruce Chatwin as the safest place to be in the event of nuclear attack; largely uninhabitable and nearly uninhabited; barren and flat and unknowable. Patagonia.

A cute little farm near where I first stayed in El Bolsón.

"Yo soy la vida" means "I am the life". Apparently there was some confusion about just who the subject is in that clause. Nice spot for some religion regardless. Evangelicals are very rare in Argentina, a country that is 92% Roman Catholic.

The SAE Opening Party

A great Saturday night at the SAE. The Buenos Aires clubhouse is the newest of the SAE branches - they were already in Lima and Cusco, both in Peru, and Quito, Ecuador - and has been up and running for only a month. So a little housewarming party was in order. The BsAs clubhouse is pretty nice, but without a doubt its finest feature is the rooftop patio, which is quite big, and perfect for a party. The party had two features that are essential to parties everywhere - nice decor and a sweet freestanding bar - but we also added two that were distinctly Argentine: an asado and tango musicians.

An asado is the Argentine's answer for a barbecue, though it's more of a tradition than just the act of cooking meat over an open flame. And since it's Argentina, it's a little more involved than cooking up burgers and hot dogs; our asado focussed on chorizo (sausage), a few different cuts of steak, and chicken, though a full asado would go well beyond those basics. The tango musicians (check my "Two Months" post if you're unsure of the difference between tango music and dance) were the same that we go see at the local bar, and they played a pretty sweet set. In keeping with local traditions, no one got too smashed, and things didn't fully wind down until the sun was coming up.

Anyway, all this is by way to introduce some photos from the evening, which would be of interest to those who are curious about where I work and who I'm working with these days. Also, parties are cool.

Getting our sweet patio set up while Rosie poses.

More of our sweet patio.

Prepping el asado.

Serving el asado.

Me and Paul. Paul from Colorado.

Los músicos.

Buenos Fucking Aires. These were raffle prizes we were giving away, and winning one would not have made me at all unhappy.

Thoughts upon seeing the trailer for "The Simpsons Movie"

It begins. I've known that it was coming for awhile, but there it is. They've picked the weekend of July 27, 2007, over 15 months away, but the hype machine starts working now. Hype is going to be a big word for this film.

The first thing that struck me about the trailer is that it's not at all funny: quite predictable, actually, to the point at which one knew almost exactly where they were going within about a second. One who has internalized the Simpsons style of humour through hundreds of half-hour doses would know, at least. It's an interesting exercise in anti-hype hype, actually; they're parodying the hype that will inevitably be generated over the Superman movie - oh the absurdity of generating so much fuss over Homer Simpson - but of course the creators of this trailer are well aware that "The Simpsons Movie" will be anticipated with more hype than the "Superman" marketers could ever hope to whip up. One doesn't produce trailers 15 months before a release date unless one expects to make a big splash. So they mock the very hype that they're strategically massaging. Clever.

One of the greatest parodies of the Hollywood hype machine that has finally swallowed "The Simpsons" comes, ironically, from "The Simpsons" itself - before the shark jump, of course. Season 4, actually - right when the show really hit its stride - the "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie" episode. As history has so often proved, movies based on television shows are usually desperate, pathetic affairs, though occasionally they can make for a successful series. What they all share is a firm belief in their own self-importance; they're also the films that the studio-bought shills who masquerade as journalists will inevitably deem "the movie event of the summer", thus fulfilling whatever ambition these small people had to attend a press junket with an open bar and see their name appear on television, however illegibly. "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie" is so similarly elevated that its release assumes historical significance.

The episode's authors made two particularly clever decisions as the plot develops: never showing any of the film's content until the episode's very end - 40 years later - and choosing Lisa to embody the frenzied reaction to the film when she describes it to Bart. The quality and content of the film itself is tangential to the point that the authors are making, just as the hype surrounding blockbuster films is tangential to the actual work on the screen. The authors instead parody the hype; the hype that Lisa most memorably falls for. Lisa; cautious, insightful, immune to equivocation and duplicity ("Mr. Hutz, are you a shyster?"); Lisa returns from the premiere under a mound of merchandise - another face of a film's commercial ambitions - and raves about the use of celebrity voices. The latter is a favourite trick of the producers of animated films*, lest their customers focus too much on an otherwise uninspiring enterprise.

Both Bart and the audience catch their first glimpse of "The Itchy & Scratchy Movie" well after its historic eight-month run, when Homer's parenting has paid off and Bart is Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. In a rather grim-looking future, they wander past the now decrepit theatre, which is showing "Classics of Animation", with "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie" taking first billing. Bart suggests they see the movie, and Homer agrees. Stripped of the mass hysteria, the marketing hype, the media fascination, we see the movie for what it always was: nothing but a rehash of any Itchy & Scratchy episode, typically sadistic and insipid, with only the slightest acknowledgement that what is featured differs at all from the program's daily appearance on television. Homer asks which is the mouse.

"Itchy."
"Itchy's a jerk."
"Yeah."



*"So when the snooty cat and the courageous dog with the celebrity voices meet for the first time in real three, that's when you'll catch a flash of Tyler's contribution to the film . . ."

Two months

So I bothered to find out what the date is today, and it turns out that it's exactly two months since I touched down in Buenos Aires. At that point the extent of my planning was the addresses for three hostels that I had written down on a piece of paper, and the hope that seeing the city would bring back memories of my first trip in 2004. That actually did turn out to be the case, somewhat, and I remembered which bus company ran from the airport to the middle of the city, and even had a vague memory of where I was when we arrived at the station. I took my first walk that day around Recoleta, my then and current barrio, realized the obvious limitations of my Spanish, took a few photos, and posted to the blog. It was all looking good, but I certainly had no idea how all this would work out.

So it's two months later, and I'm living in an apartment, an amazing trip to Patagonia in the books; I volunteer during the day and go out most nights; I've made a few friends that are Argentines and many that are gringos; I cheer for River Plate, drink máte, and eat late; it's an ex-pat's life but it's pretty nice. Reflecting over the past two months has got me thinking about one of those lists that one sees on every traveler's blog, it seems, the one comparing the adopted country and home. It's interesting what one learns about one's own priorities when the things that one is accustomed to are removed or transmuted. So here are two such lists:

Things I miss from home

• Friends and family. The obvious one. I was out having dinner last night and there was a group of ten Argentines there my age, drinking and chatting and enjoying themselves, and I gathered that they had all known each other for a long time. I have groups of friends here, and it's fun to meet a lot of new people, but you can't replace the love of family or long-time friends.
• Coffee shops. The second morning that I was here I decided that I just wanted to grab a coffee and a muffin, and then walk around the city for awhile. It took me about an hour of impatient wandering before I figured out that coffee shops, as we understand them, don't exist here. They have cafés, of course, so one can sit down and order a coffee, but the idea of distributing coffee in a paper cup, to go, just has no commercial support here. So far as I can tell, there is not a single Starbucks store in Buenos Aires or the rest of Argentina. They're in the United Arab Emirates, they're in the Forbidden City, but they're not here. The lesson is that I like to spend my mornings around the house, but porteños like to get out and socialize. So one adjusts.
  
• Breakfast. Breakfast gets no respect in this country. Walk into a café on a given morning and you're pretty well restricted to medialunas, which are mini-croissants. They have a few other confectionaries, I suppose, but anyone who is used to bacon, or eggs, or perhaps even home fries (papas fritas de casa? Si? No? No.) is in entirely the wrong place. I can't even find bacon in the grocery stores, which pretty well defeats the purpose of buying eggs. No muffins either. I eat cereal most mornings, just as I would at home, so it's not a huge loss, but 11:00 am on a Sunday morning after a late night demands more than what mini-croissants can provide.
• Trust in the authorities. I guess I never have trusted authority that much, which is good, of course, but I could at least rely on the provision of basic services. Some things work just as they should, and some things definitely don't. The police are the most obvious example of the latter. I've heard two schools of thought on how to deal with the police when you're stopped for a minor infraction: bribe them, or convince them that you'll be more trouble than it's worth. A bribe will set you back around $30-$50 pesos, and is pretty standard (here's a story from another ex-pat blog), but our Argentine friend Francisco described a more subtle way to get the fuzz off your back: "you just need convince them that it's not worth their time. 'I want a doctor,' you say. 'Why? Because I can see one. Also, I'm not going to have just one lawyer, I think I'll get ten. My mother is a lawyer, and knows many others. This is going to be a very busy month for you.' As soon as they realize the amount of work involved, and that you'll be out tomorrow while they'll be doing paperwork for two weeks, they'll let you go, and pick on someone easier. All they want is a bribe, but you can avoid paying it." If a wealthy resident decides that he would like a police officer guarding his apartment's door, then he only need pay off a sergeant, and the cop will be out front the next day. Nice.
  
• Feeling at home. Another obvious one, I suppose, but being home is more than just knowing good bars and talking the same way as everyone else. I mostly miss that feeling of having context: I went to the 30 años march, but am very far removed from the political struggle that it represented; I support River, but know little about the team's players or history, and I'm certainly no fan, by their standards; I can't give directions or make a recommendation or speak knowledgably about anything local. And then there's the language. I definitely have developed a respectable "get around" Spanish, and I'm getting better every day, but if I'm comprehensible I'm very inarticulate. It's frustrating to have to be so heavy handed: repeating the same words, constructing sentences the same way, lacking rhythm. It's always a relief to come back to English.

Five things I miss, and I couldn't have made the list much longer. It's a silly list though, in a way, because I knew that I would miss people and things in coming here, and it's hardly news that I can't get the breakfast I'm accompanied to. The better list follows:

Things that I love about living here

• The night. Those who know me are aware that I'm not naturally an early riser; those who knew me in university know that I can sometimes take extreme measures to avoid early mornings. Nighthawks have never had it so good: dinner is at 10:00 pm, later on weekends; the clubs are barely open by 1:00 am and you won't see a crowd until 3:00 am at the earliest; the "after-hours" clubs get going when the sun is well up and right in your eyes. One heads out to those around the same time that North Americans are usually waking up and cursing hangovers. As a result, the attitude towards going out and drinking here is different than at home. With last call at 2:00 am, we would usually pre-drink, hit the bar around 11:00 pm, drink until intoxication, get kicked out of the bar, and find a pizza joint or something before falling into a cab, making it to bed by 3:00 am. There are late-night alternatives, of course, but that's the standard. When you're looking forward to 12 hours of nightlife, pacing is paramount. The locals just don't drink that much. Public intoxication is uncommon, and any of the jackassy behaviour that I've come to associate with Saturday nights is very much frowned upon here. It's quite a relief, actually: no drunken jerks in striped shirts picking fights, no one ordering that round of shots that no one else wants to stomach, no roving packs of guys sizing everyone up, just a night out with friends and new friends.
  
• Tango culture. Upon hearing the word "tango", most of us think of some kind of dancing, perhaps we don't know exactly what kind, except that it's steamy and distinctly Argentine. That's fair, but the word tango also refers to a broader artistic movement, of which I've become particularly interested in the music. One will go to a tango bar, and that doesn't mean that there will be two exotic-looking people sliding across the floor, rather it usually means that one can expect to hear at least a singer and guitarist performing a style of acoustic music that could be described as pretty and passionate. The lyrics often integrate BsAs's homegrown slang, lunfardo, and focus on the usual subjects: love, love lost, and home. The singer cradles and waves his guitar quite gently, and will often close his eyes when releasing a particularly poignant line. It might all be a little cheesy were it not so earnestly delivered and received. We were fortunate enough to have a tango performer named Amancio visit us at the clubhouse last night to play a brief set. There were only ten of us who came, most of whom were there all the time anyway, so we chatted and drank wine for awhile before the guitar came out for about six songs. When he finished, Frank (the club manager) apologized for the smallish turn-out, as he felt that Amancio deserved a bigger audience, but Amancio replied that "I prefer this." That is, not performing so much as sharing music amongst friends. Carlos Gardel, probably the greatest of the tango musicians, once said (in my inelegant translation) that "To sing a tango, it is not enough just to have a melodious voice. No. It is necessary to feel the tango. It is necessary to live its spirit." These musicians do.
  
• Political involvement. Argentines have been dealt a pretty poor hand in their political leaders. Perhaps no country gets the leadership it deserves, but as I wrap up the brief book on Argentina's history which was given to me before I left, I'm struck by the string of corrupt, megalomanic, or profligate leaders that this country has had to endure, as well as the occasional gem that is all three in one. Little wonder political action is such an ingrained part of the culture here. The 30 años march certainly demonstrated one side of it - pretty tough to imagine getting more than 30,000 people gathered in downtown Toronto for a non-hockey-related demonstration - but I've only seen hints of the numerous local groups that are trying to enact change in this country (seems like every Argie I know is connected to one). I can't speak knowledgably about that, but at least the statistics are telling: in 1999 almost 80% of the voting-age population made it out to determine the country's next President. In the United States, that same metric hasn't cracked 50% since 1992. Canada isn't much better: around 55% of the VAP decided to just give Chrétien another go in 2000. And if we in Canada have ever complained that we don't have much in the way of alternatives (I know I did before volunteering for the Greens), then take an Argentine's word for it that choosing between Kirchner and Menem is considerably more distasteful. In the end, Argentines never even got the chance: Menem was loathed by such a significant portion of the population that he stood no chance in a runoff against Kirchner, and chose to withdraw rather than suffer an embarrassingly overwhelming electoral defeat. It takes a lot of work to keep these guys out of positions of power.
  
• Currency. I'm not exactly happy about this one, because the economic collapse that accompanied the currency devaluation has been devastating for many of the people here, but the value for money is fantastic. I read that out of the 147 major cities that a study ranked for cost of living, Buenos Aires came in at 144. I can believe it: a haircut for $5 CAD, a decent bottle of wine for $3 CAD, a ride on the subway for a quarter, fútbol in the cheap seats for $12 CAD. The Argentine peso bought this trip for me; I wouldn't be here if it was still pegged with the US dollar at 1:1. I wish that it weren't a zero-sum game, and that my gain hadn't come from another's loss, but I'm not Paul O'Neill, and I don't feel guilty. It's a fantastic opportunity and I'm glad that I'm able to take advantage of it.
  
• People. I won't dwell too much on this one, because it's impossible to do the people here justice. As a summary, though, they're nearly universally friendly, even those working for the government or other bureaucratic organizations, which is new to me. I don't recall ever being taken advantage of, even though I'm an obvious target. People want to know where I'm from and ask why I'm in Argentina. I've been invited to numerous asados (like a nice Sunday-night barbecue), even by people I've only just met. My coffee that I had after lunch at the restaurant today was on the house, and I'm still not sure why. They appreciate the effort that I make to speak their language, and rarely show any impatience as I struggle to comprehend, despite being given good reason. When you're introduced to a new friend, it's customary not to shake hands but kiss on the cheek. How friendly is that? I mean, it's not utopia, and I'm sure that there are some unpleasant people around, but I haven't met them yet, and I've met a lot of people. That's a pretty good record.
  

So there it is: I'm a third of the way done, and really, I've still just scratched the surface. To think that six months once seemed like a long time.

Just a little about what I'm up to here

I suppose I haven't done much "what I'm doing" blogging of late, as I've been mostly concerned with past and current events. But I've settled into Buenos Aires fairly nicely. For one, I have an apartment: a large, quiet place in Recoleta that I share with the owner and possibly two other tenants, if she can ever rent the rooms. But for now it feels like I have the whole place to myself. Photographing rooms and apartments, I've realized, is rather difficult, but here's my best attempt:

My bed and my charming little balcony which has quite a nice view onto Ayacucho.

A slightly different view, with my shelving unit and TV.

There's a nice big closet in there as well, and a desk, and more space than it may appear. But again, photographing rooms is a little difficult to do accurately, so I'll just leave it at that.

The neighbourhood (barrio), Recoleta, is expensive, a little touristy, and perhaps disproportionately populated with elderly retirees. That's not ideal, I admit, but it's also very nice, and close to many cooler neighbourhoods. I can party anywhere, but this is the only place that I'm living right now, so I'm happy for it to be well maintained and quiet. The apartment market here is difficult to break into: one requires a local co-signer for any purchase or long-term rental, as the law disproportianately favours tenants, and short-term rentals are extremely expensive. The shared room option was best for me, as it keeps the cost down and allows me to live with Spanish-speakers, and I pay a rent that would be a steal in Toronto. Not the way that most things are a steal down here, but still, very good value.

I'm occupying my days at the South America Explorers Club, an organization for the gringos down here who are looking for travel advice, companionship, and maybe a place to crash. I'm volunteering, of course, as they have absolutely no money with which to pay any employees, and I know this for certain, as my job is to get their finances in order. I'm happy to do it though, as I get a free lunch and often dinner, and a lot of cool people to hang out with. It's probably not fair value for my labour in the capitalist sense, as I'm accustomed to barely adequate compensation from a major Canadian corporation, but as a bartering deal, it's just fine. I'm considering another volunteer position, perhaps one connected to my potential future line of study (Economics), though these guys are keeping me busy enough. So we shall see.

Socially, the SAE are turning out to be great contacts, and through them I've met a reasonable number of locals, as well as the usual stable imports from northern California, Portland, Germany, and Australia. We had an excellent gathering on Wednesday night: after poker we went to a crowded bar down the street, which was excellent, and there was live music to boot. But at this place they didn't simply offer some stage where someone warmed up and then did you usual 40-minute set. Rather, there was just two gentlemen with guitars who found a spot in the middle of the bar, and played. They interacted a lot with the crowd, played some obvious classics given that the Argies were singing along . . . very nice. One of those moments in which one is glad to be traveling.

Add in the small group of porteños and Argentines from other provinces that I met while down south, and I'm certianly not without contacts, though I still have yet to expericence the famous BsAs nightlife. That may be taken carae of tonight, however. I have decided to spend three months in the city, and have rented my apartment until June 30. Autumn in Buenos Aires is proving to be pretty well perfect: beautiful sunny days, not too hot, busy but not overly crowded, a sense that I might be able to tap the city for even just a small amount of its energy. I can't speak highly enough of this city, or its habitants and their near-universal hospitality. As they say: ciao, besos.