oh manu.

One final thought on what I have in common with the average Argentine: being a Spurs fan. I love driving through the tiniest towns and seeing little kids playing stickball in the streets with San Antonio jerseys on.

Our reasons are really different, however. Manu Ginobili is the national hero and no one seems to listen to me when I explain that he's a whiner and no one likes him because the Latino drama doesn't fly in the NBA.

Sometimes I just really miss The Admiral.

facts.

The rumors are true: Argentine babies are hatched out of eggs and the Divine Baby Jesus owns a bakery in Salta.

best of buenos aires

We are bussing out of this joint in 2 hours, and in honor of our home of three weeks, I bring to you: Best of Buenos Aires 2009 (results from popular vote of one, ME, because I run this blog and don’t you forget it)

Best Restaurant Owner: Gay New Jerseyan Kevin, owner of Empire Thai, because he sat with us for three hours and told us facts about history, called Maradona a “horse’s ass,” and let us sample his fancy schmancy vodka

Best Serious Statue That Looks Ridiculous Now That a Pigeon Landed on Its Head:













Best Waiter: tie between Julio at Café Victoria for his absolute sincerity and the fact that he doesn’t try to creep on girls like all the other waiters there/ the African kid at Pizza Libre, because he smiles like he means it and doesn’t give us attitude when we ask for the bill

Best Effort After a Long Day: the exhausted guy who could barely squeak out an “hermosssaaa” as we passed… man, you can only creep on so many chicks before you just get tired, you know?

Best Billboard: Looking closely is worth your time.













Best Ignoring of Personal Space: the entire populace of this city. This is one cultural adjustment I may never make.

Best Dream World: Alvear Palace Hotel. Additional thanks for letting us walk through all the prom gowns and pretend like we belonged there. And for the fact that we stole some minor items from the bathroom.

Best Musician: Our esteemed neighbor Jose Cullen!

Best Jewish Family Taking an Awkward Family Photo:













Best Douchey Line in a Bar: “Typical Americans,” from Gabriel “Like the Angel” Argentine, when we wouldn’t go dancing with him. Querido Gabriel; time for me to let you in on a little nationalistic newsflash of my own. In America, guys have to think of something more interesting to say than “do you like this band?” before girls will dance with them. Sorry brah.

Best Baked Pumpkin Filled with Pancetta, Corn and Cheese: Bodega Campo, when can I move in?

Best Waste of a Work Day: tie between our apartment doorman and the Argentine postal service
Best Gift from a Stranger: the piece of candy Marlo picked up for an old lady who dropped it on the sidewalk, who was then so touched that Marlo bothered that she gave it to her. Marlo is now keeping it as a good-luck charm

Best Accidental English Mangling: referring to the Catholic church as a cult. Friendly reminder, not all cognates translate directly!

Best Grave at Recoleta: three way tie between Evita/ the one with a real human leg bone just sitting in its busted up coffin/ the sassy statue of a leaning man

Best Reminder That Hipsters are the Same Everywhere: the angsty band we saw at La Cigale; 3 out of 4 had plaid flannel shirts and all had skinny jeans. We were so loudly enamored with their Capitol Hill look that they tracked us down after the show to give us a free CD.

Best Lack of Decision Making on a Hairstyle: this guy. Can’t choose between a mullet, rattail, Mohawk or just a normal buzz? Yeah, just do all four.













Best Deal on Artichokes: 10 for 12 pesos

Best Vitamin C Bomb: the guys who squeeze you 8 oranges on the spot.



















Best Unidentified Dance Move While Drinking Wine Out of a Mug: Marlo A. Hartung.

public love affair

Dear Marlo’s Birthday Dinner,

I did not know what true love was until I met you. Thank you for opening mine eyes.

Provoleta, remember when we didn’t know each other? When you were just being an appetizer of fried cheese and I was doing my thing and our paths never crossed? I now consider those days the Dark Ages. I want to get my PhD in the art of frying cheese and my final thesis will be a book of sonnets dedicated to you.

Oh papas fritas, I’ve known you for a long time, but your face is more beautiful when you crowd out all the table space that would otherwise be dedicated to green vegetables (I used to be really into green veggies, papas fritas, but I’m leaving them for you. I am). You are large, in charge, and ready to party. I respect that.

San Telmo wineries, the consistency with which you have delivered vino tinto to me time and again has not only earned my trust but also my love. You’re cheap, but not in a trashy way, don’t get me wrong. I can’t imagine a dinner without you and don’t even want to think about what it would be like.

Marlo’s Birthday Dinner, these are all side qualities that don’t mean as much to me as the main event: carne a punto. Oh, super rare steak, where do I even begin? You are the size of my head, you are so rare I want to ride you home instead of in a taxi, and remember when you put on that chimichurri sauce and my taste buds wept openly? That was a little embarrassing but worth it because I think I’m in love with you, bife de lomo. I really do.

And just when I thought our chance had passed, you went and saved the best for last! FLAN WITH DULCE DE LECHE that was like unicorns and sunshine leaping directly into our mouths. Fairly certain I saw angels blow kisses onto every delightful spoonful.

Marlo’s Birthday Dinner, at the end of the day, I’m just a girl, standing in front of a massive feast, asking it to love her as much as she loves it. Run, no, roll away with me! We were meant to be!

Un beso,
Laura

applause please

In Spain, the "hola guapas" annoyed me muchisimo, partly because their gutteral attempts at hitting on passerby struck me as lacking a certain necessary panache.

But leaving all Western feminism aside, who could argue with a place where a trio of men sitting on a step burst into applause at your presence as you walk by them? You just can't argue with that.

deudas y prestados.

Rick Steves says the only thing that means anything when travelling is the people-- you can buy a ticket to Dubai, Dublin, or Fez and if you never meet a new person or hear a new story, you aren't really travelling because your mindset hasn't been altered at all. Conversely, you can cross the street and hear a new story from your neighbor and consider that travelling.

So interesting people and their stories are most of the appeal in clicking "purchase" on a shiny new plane ticket. Our first was the gorgeous blonde sitting next to us on the plane from DC, an Argentinian who used to work for the World Bank (I suppose I knew that people from all over the world work for the World Bank-- it makes sense, right? But it also surprises me when people from Latin America admit to it!). So I had to ask her how socially acceptable it was for her to admit to such employment. She laughed a little.

"Right, well I think the thing is that most people don't know that the World Bank and IMF are sister organizations. Argentina's default on their IMF loan in 2001 caused massive discontent and in the public mentality, the IMF was just the devil. Just terrible. But since most people didn't know how closely connected the two organizations are, it wasn't an issue for me. And also I was running with the international finance crowd in DC for most of that, anyway."

Unfortunately our plane landed before I could ask her more. I wondered if she really thought that the IMF truly knew better than Argentinians on the issue of national economy. And if she didn't, how did she feel to be gainfully employed by what is essentially the same organization that was causing such economic chaos for her country? I laughed to myself when I thought of Argentina telling the IMF to take a hike.

Last night, after wandering down the Avenida 9 de Julio (supposedly the largest street in the world-- and learning how to walk on it is a lesson in putting your life on the line), we found a cafe in the shadow of the Obelisk. As usual when Marlo and I start laughing really hard, we found new friends, and in this case it was the owner of the bar. Howard spent a long time in California and likes speaking English because he's "so hard-headed." He wanted to help us find an apartment and insisted we come back in the morning, "but not before ten! Americans work too hard; it's part of the reason I came back here. Let's enjoy life more and work less, ok?"

Don't have to tell us twice!

So having early afternoon cafe con leche at the cafe today found us in the middle of businessman lunch hour. A bearded accountant started chatting with us from an outside table and I couldn't resist asking a little more about the economic woes of his country. After throwing up his hands in frustration at the "six presidents in five days" and "inflation that just wouldn't get under control" and the way the president just can't seem to get a grasp on things, the conversation turned to America, and this man and I had a little disagreement (Conversation paraphrased. My business Spanish could use some brushing up).

"America is so GREAT! You can have anything you want!" he gushed, looking a little weary after recounting the last decade of Argentine economic insecurity.
I snorted. "De veras? Is that really such a blessing? It's fake money we're using, and I don't see how having massive credit crises on an individual level is any better than having it happen with the government, because people have nothing to fall back on."
"No no, it's not the same. How old are you? At 25, Americans can have a house, a car, a spouse and kids, no problem. It's not like that here. The peso used to be pegged to the dollar at a one-to-one rate. Now, no one your age could even think about getting a house, because one day the peso is worth a dollar, the next it's worth four. How can we rely on a system like that?"

So what do we think about this? I have to admit that despite the skewed and selfish way most Americans view money (and our right to have material items), the mentality of freedom with money, based on the reliability of knowing your dollar will still buy the same thing tomorrow morning, is unparalleled in most places. But is it worth it, in light of what this past year has shown?

PS. Marlo's blog is a lot funnier than mine. She can be found at http://www.putacandleinthewindow-marlo.blogspot.com/ telling jokes about the people in our hostel who are a total grab-bag of randos.

affluent travelers.

Someone actually buys this magazine. Doesn’t that just make you want to throw up onto their cashmere pashminas as you walk by them in first class?! And then pity them for the watered down experience they are about to have in their resort villas?

Ok, the fact that Day One happened at all was a Christmas miracle. I haven’t been so nervous for an event since... well, since getting my shots for the trip, and I almost made my dad turn the car around and get back on I5 when we got to the airport. I know, I know, we “wanted” to come on this “trip of a lifetime” that’s going to be “so awesome” but truth be told I think we both were pretty much ready to call it quits before we even left. But sometimes you just gotta put aside your personal issues with nervousness, be a big girl and get out your passport.

As we waited at our gate at SeaTac, the faraway yapping of a tiny lap dog filtered through the murmur of voices and insistently reminded every traveler in the N gate section of his little whiny existence. Once we boarded, I was delighted to discover that the lap dog was now directly behind my seat and would. Not. Shut it. You know how cute and witty that Taco Bell Chihuahua was? Farce. False advertising. As this little guy’s relentless yapping now filled the plane, I also became acquainted with the other members of his party: two kids under age 3; one of whom was so frustrated with the flight that his only recourse was to repeatedly kick the back of my seat throughout an entire airing of “Night at the Museum” (excellent work, United!), and another who was too young to do anything but wail. Next time I book a flight I’m going to watch out for the little “you will hate your life in this seat” icon so I’ll at least have fair warning.

Exhausted and only halfway into our trip, Marlo and I boarded our Dulles flight buoyed by just the basics of airline travel: sleeping pills for me, Xanax and red wine for her*, and my mom’s caramel corn for both of us. Peace out, America North! BUENOS DIAS, AMERICA SOUTH!

*RIP, DJ AM.