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.