Groovin'
Are you guys expecting words of wisdom for the new year? Because if you are, you're going to be sorely disappointed. I'm not going to talk about resolutions or starting fresh or even partying safely. Why bother? You guys have heard it all before.
What do I want to talk to you about? Not much. Writing the blog today is just an excuse to sit here and listen to music. If I could, I'd stream what I'm listening to so you could share the experience, but you're out of luck.
... pourtant j'étais très belle—oui—j'étais la plus belle des fleurs dans ton jardin... <— That's me singing along.
I suppose I could tell you what I'm listening to. I had the sudden urge to for a little Khaled, an Algerian singer. Khaled led to Les Negresses Vertes and Natacha Atlas. (I forgot how much I love Natacha Atlas; the lyrics above are from her song Mon Amie La Rose—awesome song.) Then I threw in a couple Ofra Haza songs to complete my playlist.
Consequently, my shoulder keeps twitching to the beat. It's only a matter of time before the rest of my body follows and I start to dance, Persian style.
No, I won't post a video of that.
Christmas in Argentina
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Bartolomé, Argentinian marketing representative of Claus International.
Well, my title doesn't do my actual job justice. I'm more of an elf-of-all-trades. I do marketing, PR, and update the company website. I also step in to help support when they get overwhelmed by the volume of correspondence to the Big Guy. And, in the off-season, I help in the stables. Rudolf requires a lot of, shall we say, attention. Champagne baths, massages with walnut oil (for a shiny coat), hot toddies twice a day for his voice... He is such a diva.
But you don't care about all that. You're wondering if Christmas is going to come to Argentina. Let me assure you, Papá Noel will make it all the way down south.
Maybe it'd be best if I referred you to some of our propaganda literature for further clarification.
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Does Mr. Claus actually make it all the way, like, to Buenos Aires even? It's pretty far from the North Pole.
A: Yes, it's a long trip—Buenos Aires is far south—but we at Claus International are committed to excellence.
Q: Isn't it hot in Buenos Aires? That's so un-Christmas-like.
A: We realize that 80F weather makes for a different Christmas, but the essence is still there.
Q: Only won't Santa be hot? He wears all those layers and, let's face it, he's got some insulation on him.
A: Please don't be concerned for Mr. Claus. His sleigh is fully equipped with ventilation.
Q: But what about heat stroke?
A: We assure you, Mr. Claus will be fine. Really.
Q: Does he speak Castellano? Because they don't speak normal Spanish in Argentina.
A: No, but Donner is quite the linguist.
So if you're in Argentina, don't worry. If you've been nice, you're good to go. If you've been naughty... Well, there are certain exemptions south of the equator. Email us—we'll see if we can work something out.
A Grab Bag of Goodies
It's one of those random, stream-of-consciousness blog days. But, Kate, aren't all your blogs like that? you ask.
To which I reply: Pfft.
Temptation and abstinence, a two part story.
Part one: I went for a walk on Sunday to Recoleta, specifically this bench in Recoleta next to the cemetery. I like to sit there and watch people go by.
So I'm sitting in the sun, lapping up the warmth, watching the happy people doing the same, when I realize almost everyone is eating ice cream. Just like that, I needed some.
But I'd had ice cream the day before—a lot, by my standards. I didn't need to do that all over again. The temptation was so great, that I...
Which brings us to part two: the abstinence part. Instead of succumbing to temptation, I pulled out my notebook and began to make notes on a new idea I'm working on. As I was jotting the outline for the first two chapters of the book, I noticed people were slowing down and staring with great interest at my journal.
Each one of my housemates has stopped and goggled over my notebook too, flipping pages and exclaiming over it. I mean, it's a nice notebook, but it's not that nice. I wonder if it's my small, serial killer script that fascinates people.
Stepping back a moment.
I've never seen a country that embraces ice cream the way Argentina does.
No—embraces is not the word. Argentina is obsessed with ice cream.
I mean, in France and Italy people ate ice cream often, but not in the quantities consumed here. There's an heladaria pretty much on every corner. And they deliver to your doorstep.
The ice cream is like gelato—a remnant of the Italian influence here. The flavors are exotic but not strange. Marscapone with boysenberries (the bottom scoop in the photo) is one of my faves. I also like dulce de leche with brownies (each heladeria has at least eight varieties of dulce de leche).
For the record, Humphry still holds my heart. Secret Breakfast and Balsamic Caramel rock.
Vote for Pedro.
I was thinking about my time here in Buenos Aires. The best thing I'm going to take away from my time here? The cooking tips from my housemate Pedro, a.k.a. Guo Hao from China.
Pedro has been to cooking school and was a chef for a couple years. It shows. And I'm reaping the benefits. I've learned how to make kick-ass fried rice and a stir fry that'll make you get down and beg.
Bastards.
The mosquitoes have declared open season on me. They aren't being coy about it either—they've launched a full scale attack. So far today, I've been bitten eleven times. Isn't that just excessive?
And lastly...
When I up and decided to live in Buenos Aires, I knew there would be things I'd miss, but I wasn't sure what they'd be. What you end up missing is never what you expect.
Now I know. So I'd like to end this ditty on a list. But you knew that was coming.
A Short List of Yearnings, by Kate
- My friends. Of course. I can't wait to see them again and talk with them face-to-face over wine.
- Peanut butter. I miss it. Bad. Same goes for cottage cheese and feta.
- A single 16oz latte. Café con leche is good and all, but it's no latte. And it doesn't even compare to Ali's latte, from Central Coffee & Tea in the Haight. Ali's coffee deserves a moment of silence before taking the first sip, it's so good.
- Books. I thought I could live on e-books. Ha! When I go back, I'm going to bury myself under a pile of paperbacks for at least a week.
- The smell of the ocean. Cleansing and much healthier than breathing in the fumes from the death buses here. I miss the sound of the waves too, and walking on the beach at night, even when it's bristly cold.
On Being a Freak Magnet
A friend of mine voiced concern about a couple recent incidents I've had on Buenos Aires streets. Like when that guy trailed after me like a puppy for eight blocks, trying to get me to go to a movie with him. Or like a few days ago, when a guy in a Renault drove alongside me really slowly, trying to talk to me.
For the record, none of this is new. You've read the stories. I'm what is called a freak magnet.
I looked up the definition, for those of you unfamiliar with the term. Quoted from an article on MSNBC...
"A freak magnet is basically someone who attracts bizarre, unwanted attention... You're minding your own business and then you suddenly have some encounter that you didn't invite in any way."
That's me.
Incidents seem to occur in a waxing-waning fashion. When it rains, it pours, but I can go for weeks without anything strange happening.
Warning: please note that you, too, could be affected by bizarreness if you hang out with me. And two freak magnets together throws off the earth's polarity (as seen whenever my friend Katie and I hang out together).
In the scheme of things, the recent events were pretty boring compared to times in the past. Like a couple years ago when I was walking in the park and that guy wanted to give me a foot massage. Maybe they seem different or bigger because now they're happening in a foreign language. That's my theory, anyway.
But, in case you're worried, my housemates have taught me a few choice phrases in Spanish to keep the deranged at bay. Like: stop—right now. And: don't follow me. And, my favorite: if you don't leave, I will feed your balls to that dog. Though that one only works well if there's a canine on hand.
The Super Pancho
Friday I decided I was going to go on an adventure. In the morning, I trekked to Retiro (a forty-five minute walk) to have breakfast with a friend. After breakfast, I'd planned on going to a nearby café I'd spied the previous night on the way to dinner. I was going to write and then go into uncharted Buenos Airean territories.
Nature, however, thwarted me. Picture torrential rain and thunder so violent you could feel the sound waves through your body.
So I tried again Saturday. Only this time, I had a specific destination in mind: the Super Pancho stand in Recoleta, outside the cemetery.
What is a Super Pancho? you ask. Frankly, I have no idea.
Okay, that's a lie. It's a hot dog. Only it's not just a hot dog—it's a super hot dog. I'm not entirely certain how it becomes a super dog, but I'm sure it's a fairly impressive metamorphosis. This is Buenos Aires, after all.
But, Kate, how can you not be sure when you went to investigate? you ask this time. Because, dear reader, the Super Pancho stand I trekked across town to try was deserted when I got there.
I wandered around, lost and confused and without purpose, for a while. But then I spied a bakery, which isn't hard to do since there's one on every block in this city. (I'm not exaggerating.) I walked in and bought two sandwiches de miga and an alfajor the size of my palm.
Sandwiches de miga: a crustless sandwich with three layers of bread and an assortment of fillings. I got one with ham and egg, the other with salami and cheese.
Alfajores: Argentinian Oreos. It's two cookies sandwiching a dulce de leche center. The traditional alfajor is dusted with powdered sugar and edged with coconut flakes.
I also bought two apricots from a fruit stand and then took my picnic to a park bench, where I sat and ate and flirted and listened to music. Not quite the adventure I'd planned, but I wouldn't change a second of it.
Well, maybe I'd change the part where the guy followed me for eight blocks, trying to get me to go to a movie with him on Sunday. But even that wasn't so bad. Especially since he kept saying, quite reverently, that I was so beautiful.
BTW, if anyone knows how to say Bugger off, dude in Spanish, please email me.