Two Months Down...Looking Forward

It is hard to believe we have been here for two months. We are settled into a routine and are getting to know Belgrano and Palermo quite well (see the boxed area on the map). I am pleased to finally feel comfortable and not have to pull out a map every few minutes. Maps make me feel vulnerable, like there is a flashing sign over my head that reads "Tourist with money and camera. Rob me!"

We continue to meet fascinating people. Husband traveled this week to Cordoba and La Plata this week to teach and give lectures.

Visitors started arriving this week with Dana and Brent from Columbus (who were wonderful mules, carrying down The New Yorker, silly bands, and some particular items from Trader Joe's and Target), quickly followed by Husband's father and his wife on Saturday.

The past several days have been spent online and with various travel books trying to plan our final three weeks in Argentina. Since our free time to travel falls before and over Christmas, I was warned that we need to schedule flights and hotels now in order to not get shut out. TripAdvisor.com is a fabulous resource.

The opportunity to see more of this beautiful country is exhilarating. Even though Boy is usually a very good traveler, Girl is not. Hence, traveling with them is somewhat daunting, so we are choosing shorter flights/distances and destinations that appear to be family friendly. Husband and I will have to see Salta, Ushuaia, and the Tierra del Fuego another time.

Our tentative itinerary is to fly from Buenos Aires to Patagonia, first to the Peninsula Valdes to see whales, dolphins, penguins, elephant seals and sea lions then to Barlioche, which is an Andes- and lake-resort area. From there we will probably fly back to Buenos Aires before driving to the beach for Christmas and the final few days of our time in South America. Beach possibilities at this point are Carilo, Villa Geselle, and Mar de la Plata in Argentina or Punta del Este and Jose Ignacio in Uruguay.

December weather will be warm, which is great because we will come back to the shock of the Midwestern winter in January. I will post our plans as they come together. Please post a comment or email me directly if you have any thoughts or ideas to share.

Whale just offshore from the Peninsula Valdes.

• Llao Llao Resort in Nahuel Huapi National Park, Barlioche, Patagonia.

Moonrise over the Atlantic and Carilo, Argentina.

Besos

Argentines are very affectionate. Instead of shaking hands, everyone greets with a kiss at every encounter, even at first meetings, even men and very young children.

On a daily basis, I kiss my children's teachers and mothers of their classmates, the owners of cafes that I frequent, and our maid and nanny. All the kissing makes simple interactions take much longer than necessary.

I have also kissed/been kissed by real estate agents, the family whose apartment we are renting, tango teachers, and a variety of strangers upon introduction.

Husband attended high holy day services at a synagogue in Belgrano, where a ritual was practiced that he had never before experienced. A woman with a clipboard walked around looking for congregation members during the service. Upon finding them, she would tap them on the shoulder and tell them that they had been selected to go to the bima to read from the torah or read a prayer. (This story comes full circle to kissing -- stay with me!)

As though they were game show contestants chosen from the audience, the individual would jump up, followed by their entire family, and head for the bima. Once there, everyone kissed and greeted everyone. It felt like it took forever, especially when Husband had fasted on Yom Kippur and was ready for the service to end so he could eat.

As much as I find this Argentine custom somewhat awkward/annoying/time consuming, I will admit that I received an incredibly sweet kiss that melted my heart. A new friend from the U.S. who is married to a Porteno has two young girls. The parents encourage the girls to kiss -- they were tentative but clearly used to kissing strangers. I crouched down for the three year old then sat on the floor to greet the one year old. Her lips grazing my face was so simple and sweet, like a butterfly landing on my cheek.

It is not uncommon at all to see (heterosexual) couples of all ages kissing passionately in public (on the street, bus, subway, in restaurants, parks, etc.). It would be refreshing to see gay and lesbian couples expressing their love freely as well, but I must not be in the right neighborhoods.

Besos!

No kissing pictures, but here are a few from the last week.

Boy is so happy to have trains -- on loan from a friend.

Green parrots building a nest at a tree on our street.

Sensory Overload

Argentines love children and appear to indulge them constantly with sugary treats, Coca Cola, and toys. There is a holiday in late August called "Día de Los Niños" where children get lots of gifts and treats. Children (and adults) here seem to be constantly overstimulated by caffeine, sugar, loud music/sounds/people, and lack of sleep.

Small toy stores are abundant in Buenos Aires. Newsstands sell stickers and candy at child-eye level, which makes it difficult to walk down the street. Candy and Coca Cola are given to young children, even at preschool. Cookies are the rule, not the exception, for school snacks. Several shopping centers provide huge play areas with arcade games and rides.

Two weeks ago Boy had a "healthy choices" presentation at school from someone at Quaker (Oats, which I believe is owned by Pepsi Co.). He came home that day with a box of Honey Grahams cereal. Sugar is the primary ingredient. Boy wants it for breakfast daily, convinced that it is a healthy choice, even though it "tastes like candy" and the cereal milk "tastes like melted ice cream." We cringe but cannot dissuade him from his "healthy" cereal.

Except for some ex-pats, dinner is eaten after 9 p.m. Our maid Gabriella finds it very strange that we give our children dinner at 6 p.m. and that they are in bed two hours later. Younger Argentine kids take naps, but older kids seem completely exhausted most of the time since they do not go to bed before 9:30 or 10 p.m.

The "perfect-storm" example of the sensory overload here is birthday parties. We have been invited to five parties so far, and each was so intense and over-the-top that it was hard for someone from the U.S. to believe. (Because our kids attend a private preschool/kindergarten, our experience is not indicative of the wider public.)

Each birthday party has contained all or most of these elements:

• ear-splitingly loud music
• hired entertainers, usually a creepy older guy and a few young adults
• over-amplified entertainers shouting into microphones
• only Coke or other soda to drink
• buffet of fruit loops, cocoa puffs, potato chips, and cheese puffs
• mother-of-the-birthday child dressed for a cocktail party
• only women (casually dressed) in attendance -- mothers and some maids/nannies
• happy birthday song played (extremely loudly) at least three times in a row while everyone shouts the words at the tops of their lungs
• boys vs. girls games
• "Benny Hill" theme song as background music for games
• piñatas
• party favors: large goody bags filled with candy

Presents are given to the birthday child as soon as guests walk in the door. Even if the child is engaged in a game or with other children, the gift is forced into his/her hands, whereupon the child tears off the paper and casts it aside.

At a party last Friday, paid entertainers danced, sang, and performed skits while dressed in costume. One skit involved "Handy Manny" from a kids' television program. Not being familiar with the program and with my limited Spanish, I had trouble following the overly complicated story (I mean, come on--the kids are only three and four years old!). Instead I focused on the equally confused Girl -- who was snuggling in my lap -- and what appeared to be a large cigarette behind the puppet's ear. I think it was supposed to be a pencil, but it amused me to believe that it was a cigarette…that a costumed blue-collar worker was maybe telling the children about unions and the pleasures/dangers of smoking.

This skit was followed by a long "Toy Story" skit complete with dancing, singing, costumes, and a dark storyline, which had something to do with Jessie being kidnapped. To accentuate when evil was lurking, the light display would go black then swirl around manically while about 15 or so of the 50 kids in attendance would scream and run for their mothers/nannies. This skit went on for at least 20 minutes while the kids squirmed their caffeinated, sugared bodies around on the floor, eager to be free of the scary, long skit.

At another party, I reasoned with Girl that she could have more Coke only if she drank some water. The maids were shocked when I came into the kitchen and requested water. (I wasn't sure if they were surprised that I wanted water or that I came into the kitchen -- maybe both). A maid filled a pitcher and brought it out to the buffet table. Within minutes, the hostess mother snatched up the water pitcher and replaced it with two bottles of Coke. I hypothesized that I had embarrassed her because offering water indicated that you had run out of Coke.

All of the parties have ended with the children sitting on the floor while the birthday child releases candy and confetti from a piñata-type vessel that opens up over partygoers' heads. At the Coke-situation party, the piñata was a huge balloon that the birthday boy couldn't pop -- then someone gave him a knife. I was horrified with the thought of the four-year-old birthday boy cutting himself/dropping a knife on his classmates below. Everyone seemed to think it was outrageously funny. "Felipé! Felipé," they screamed.

Since our life in Columbus does not include constant gifts or much sugar and certainly not Coke, it is tiresome to say "no" all the time. We have compromised, of course, but try not to make a big deal out of it. At least shopping at Trader Joe's will give me the excuse than I cannot buy Coke or the sugary Quaker Honey Grahams cereal.

birthday party entertainment

"Handy Manny" skit with cigarette (or a pencil?) behind his ear.

piñata candy grab

piñata candy grab

"Problems" with the "Help"

Virtually all middle-class people in Buenos Aires have at least one maid. Often the maid(s) live in the house or apartment with their employer, in a small bedroom with a bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Many of the maids are from Paraguay and speak no English. They are all women.

We have a maid. Her name is Gabriella. She is a Porteño and she speaks a bit of English. For 25 hours a week she cleans, does laundry, irons, shops, cooks, bakes, and runs errands. (E.g., She found a nightlight for the children's bathroom.) She does not live with us.

Gabriella works very hard. She is honest and kind to the kids. She is a seriously good cook. Oh, and she bakes beautifully as well. We are thrilled and surprised, frankly, to have the opportunity to eat truly local cuisine prepared by a native. What is the problem, you ask? The problem is mine. I am uncomfortable:

1. admitting that I have a maid
2. admitting that I really love having a maid
3. paying her shockingly little by US standards (but significantly more than the going rate)
4. creating the impression that I am incapable of maintaining a household on my own

Is it my Catholic upbringing or my feminism causing the guilt? Both, probably, but Argentines say that people from the U.S. always feel awkward about having a maid at first.

I recall being told by a college friend of Husband's, who is an economics professor, that there is absolutely no shame in hiring domestic help. Maybe rationalization has altered my memory, but she told us it was economically responsible to spread the wealth. "It is an economic decision, not a social or moral one," she said.

Hiring someone who wants to do domestic work is a win-win situation, right? She is grateful for the job and we are happy to pay her. If it is truly a transactional relationship, then why do I feel compelled to thank Gabriella profusely for a job that she thanks me for creating? As a privileged feminist, I cannot help but question if I am exploiting her.

There are other contradictions, as well: Husband and I both enjoy cooking and shopping for food, generally; and I also think it is important to teach children by example how to care for a home, toys, books, clothes, etc. But I must admit that I am relieved to temporarily relinquish these responsibilities.

I had an epiphany yesterday while reading stories, coloring, doing puzzles, dancing, and laughing with the kids. By acknowledging the luxury of this unique time in our lives, I am able to enjoy the kids without being distracted by constant domestic drudgery. (I actually take pleasure in some domestic tasks, so I guess it is the day-in-day-out monotony of it all that I dislike.) With Gabriella on the job, I am free to be a one thing: a parent.

Fran Lebowitz wrote a very funny short story about hiring a housekeeper because her friends said she could then spend more time writing. It was difficult for her to hire someone because when considering candidates, she asked what books they read. Her friends told her to stop asking about their favorite authors because it didn't matter. There is a part of me that is relieved that my Spanish and Gabriella's English are equally poor, otherwise I might be asking her the same sorts of questions.

It is interesting to consider and compare quality-of-life issues with the U.S. where middle-class homes generally are larger. In the 15 or so apartments that we considered renting, the kitchens were galley-style and quite cramped, and dishwashers were as rare as clothes dryers. We did not know this when we were searching, but it is clear that most apartments here do not have larger kitchens because the owners/tenants spend little time in those areas. Is it a compromise to have a smaller home if you can pay someone else else to take care of it and cook for you?

What, I wonder, are middle-class Argentines doing with their extra time since the maid does most of the domestic work? (This temporary Argentine plans to write a blog, explore the city, and spend quality time with Boy, Girl, and Husband.)

Many expat moms say that they are almost afraid to go home because they know that they will never have this level of domestic support again. They all agree that has been an important part of making their time here pleasurable for the entire family. I already understand their concerns. For the next few months, I will actively work on accepting this luxury as an opportunity.

Some examples of Gabriella's talents:

Challah for Rosh Hashanah

Lemon budin and bombas rellenas (profiteroles)

Empanadas with spinach and cheese

Alfajores

Art All Around

Art is everywhere in Buenos Aires. There is a beautiful fountain at the end of our street, a large tile mosaic across the street from a neighborhood coffee house, and sculptures large and small in plazas, parks, and in front of residential and office buildings. (Oh, and dancing on the streets -- a forthcoming post.)

Husband and I were walking home the other night after seeing a film of Puccini's "La Boheme" opera, comparing different versions and formats that we had seen: Baz Lurhmann's Broadway production, "Rent," and opera productions in New York, Sydney, and Columbus.

A block from home we had to walk around a pile of trash and a stack of stuff outside an apartment building. Clearly an artist or designer (or an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend of one) had vacated an apartment and dumped their "trash" on the sidewalk.

We picked up four decent oil paintings on canvas and five storyboards for a fashion design project. Our furnished apartment lacks art, so we were delighted with the find.

Everything was aside for a couple of days so I could determine if they had been urinated on by a dog. They smell okay, so the new acquisitions will go on the walls as soon as I figure out where to buy nails and a hammer.

Heartbreak in a Big City

I have a new Porteño (Buenos Aires native) friend who I will call "Ana." We were connected by an acquaintance in Columbus whose family hosted her as an exchange student more than 20 years ago. They have stayed in contact, and Ana was eager to be helpful. We relied on her to straighten out our mobile phone situation and she drove Husband up to campus to check it out before classes started. She is a beautiful woman with a lovely, generous soul.

As we got to know each other, I learned that Ana was divorced but in love with "Tomas," a man she had been dating for ten months.

Last night I treated her to dinner to thank her for helping us when we arrived. While driving to the restaurant, Ana shared that Tomas had ended the relationship and that she was very sad. He gave her no explanation and called her selfish when she tried to get answers from him. I listened, said he must be a total jerk, and that he probably had issues that had nothing to do with her. I said that she was clearly too good for him and that the next relationship would be better. I also said that he was her "rebound" relationship, but I couldn't translate that in a way that she could understand. I said all the things that a friend would say (even to someone you barely know). Ana's pain was palpable.

Even though we arrived at a very hip restaurant after 9 pm, it was still too early to be seated for dinner. We sat at the bar drinking Pisco Sours as '70s soul music filled the mostly empty room. Among many topics, we discussed the local housing market, traffic laws (because we were nearly hit by a city bus and a garbage truck on the way to the restaurant), and her time in Columbus in 1987. But she kept coming back to Tomas and how she had foolishly thought she would spend the rest of her life with him. She had bought a copy of The Rules that day and had already read half of it. Ana repeated something she had said earlier, trying to sound strong each time: "I don't want him and I don't need him."

Then, of all the gin joints, in all of Buenos Aires, who should walk in but Tomas. My back was to the door, but I heard Ana say, "Tomas?" in total disbelief as a man leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. They then started speaking very quickly in Spanish. Only then did I notice a woman standing at his side. She greeted me with a kiss, then Ana (everyone kisses everyone here at each greeting). Even my low-level Spanish comprehension sensed the awkwardness in their words and body language. Tomas and his date left as abruptly as they had entered.

Ana's jaw was practically on the floor as she fought tears. She kept it together as we both expressed our shock. How was it possible? There are thousands and thousands of restaurants in Buenos Aires. Neither she nor Tomas live or work anywhere near where we were, nor did they ever make that neighborhood a destination. She said she was happy I was a witness because no one would believe what had just happened. I told her that I do not believe in coincidence -- that I think that things happen for a reason -- but that didn't translate well either.

So at least one question was answered as to why he left.

Ana apologized for all the drama, saying she wasn't an unhappy or depressed person, generally. I tried to make her feel better but saying that I knew what she was going through. Her pain reminded me of my own heatrbreak in my late 20s, but also made me especially grateful to be happily married and not in the sometimes brutal dating scene.

Something New, But With Pain and Regret

Husband and I are big believers in "doing as the locals do" when traveling. We trust that if the locals do it, it must be good. Even if it is not good, we want to respect and honor the local culture by at least trying. (Although as I type this I recall that I refused to taste haggis in Scotland and black pudding in Ireland.)

I had a kind of local-culture experience yesterday, but I regret it.

"Depilacion" salons are everywhere in Buenos Aires -- almost as ubiquitous as hair salons. Depilacion is waxing or hair removal, and hair salons also offer this service for women and men. I was shocked at how inexpensive it is -- 40 pesos (about $10 USD) to wax the lower half of my legs, bikini area, and underarms. This service at home would cost around $100. It seemed like a low-risk. low-cost opportunity to try something new.

If you are not a woman or gay, you might want to stop reading here.

I had heard that waxing could be painful if the hair was long, but I had shaved in the shower a couple of days before so I thought I was safe. Also, since giving birth to Girl without drugs, my pain tolerance is pretty high. I foolishly assumed that it couldn't be too bad since it is so popular here.

I chose a salon that was clean, well lit, and in a good neighborhood. A pleasant woman led me to a small room with a massage-type table with a headrest. The wax was gooey and dark brown, like carmel/dulce de leche, and had no smell. It was not too hot -- almost comforting -- as the woman spread it on my legs with a wooden paddle.

After about a minute, she pulled the semi-hardened wax up and off. I screamed (not completely unlike Steve Carrell in the 40-Year-Old Virgin) because it felt like skin had been removed along with the wax. The pain was over quickly, fortunately, but there was more fun to come.

She tried to use tweezers to pick at the hairs that escaped the wax -- that was a whole different kind of discomfort. At one point she tried to part my legs, pointing at her targeted area with the wax-laden wooden paddle. "No, gracias! No mas!" I shouted. I know "Brazilian" waxes are popular (they don't call it that here), but I honestly cannot imagine that kind of self-created torture.

Are my legs soft? Yes. Will it be a week or more until I have to shave under my arms? Time will tell. Trying to look at this as a learning experience (first and foremost to never do it again), I am not sure want to think about Argentine women and men who patronize depilacion salons. I think I pity them for subjecting themselves to the wax. A razor is good enough for me.

Sorry, no pictures for this post.