A Girl in the World

Argentina

Child on the roof

Big city living in Buenos Aires is a strange brew of high-energy excitement, chaos and commerce. Nearly a quarter of Argentina’s 40 million residents live and dwell here. The city is sprawling, dirty and beautiful. Immaculate apartment lofts coexist alongside open garbage piles. It’s a metro of dichotomies. One day I am dining with friends of ex-presidents and the next am brought to tears by the humble love of the cleaning lady. I am enraged and heartbroken all at once, often at the extremes of human emotion amidst the poverty, excess and hardship that this city’s streets throw at me each day. I love and hate it here. It is a mirror that forces me to face the demons of my imperfection. Can I be compassionate, patient, open and strong? Will this city, with its anger and apathy, engulf me or will I rise above?

And then like a flash, a moment of pure innocence catches my breath. I am reminded of what is good and true.

Of God.

A little girl squeals with joy playing with her doll on a rooftop cement playground just after a rainstorm.

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A summer downpour.

It’s amazing how you can hop on a plane for twelve hours and skip the winter. It’s summer here in the Southern Hemisphere and every other day in Buenos Aires, we’re treated to a rainstorm. Warm, jungle-heavy, suddenly-starting-out-of-nowhere rainstorms. Beautiful.

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Sunday coffee in Palermo, Buenos Aires.

Often, the promise of a true tender moment is enough to compel us to travel half way around the world. How a quiet coffee at a street side café can be the most perfect thing in the world, I can’t explain. But on this Sunday morning, it was everything.

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After four years of renovations, Buenos Aires’ famous Teatro Colon opened on May 25th 2010, just in time of Argentina’s bi-centennial celebrations.  It has been named one of the top three opera houses in the world and is definitely something to behold.

We found tickets for the standing section at the very top, a section named Paradise. Seen as the nosebleeds section of the venue, it supposedly gets the best acoustics in the house. One thing they failed to mention and what we quickly remembered: heat rises. It gets hot up here. However, for 25 pesos each (about $6 USD), the experience was a total bargain!

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A year ago today, I was living in Buenos Aires learning Castellano (Argentine Spanish). It was Fall in South America. The nights were breezy and warm, perfect for (very) late dinners out.

It’s nice to remember that life. Time slowed in Argentina. Days were long and languid. Meals stretched for hours. Time with friends and family dictated working hours, not the other way around.

We all need a little bit of the exotic to feel alive. Moving to the other side of the world for love and language was definitely exotic for me. We took things slow, we relished the simple joys and kept top of mind what was most important: family, friendship and gratitude.

Something to ponder today.

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Lèche-vitrines

May 18, 2010

Translated to English, lèche-vitrines literally means lick the windows. This is the French phrase for window shopping (sometimes the French can be so brilliant I could almost forgive them for their snobbiness!). If window shopping is licking windows, then here, I’m slobbering all over the glass. And if I could fit the door into my mouth, I’d do it.

The shopping here is beautiful. BOOTIFUL. I’ve never seen shop windows so painstakingly dressed and pampered. Beautiful lighting, great colours and mannequins styled so trendily that you can’t help but stop and stare. It’s like unabashedly ogling a beautiful woman who’s made of plastic. Barring Bourdain-inspired food porn, I’ve never been so lustful. I actually lust after these mannequins. I desire the brown leather boots under the spotlight. I want to cuddle that soft, curvy, oversized shoulder bag. I am a bundle of greedy shopping angst.

It is ridiculous.

Figuring out where I’d like to be and what I’d like to be doing next is kind of like window shopping.  Actually, I’ve been lèche-vitrine-ing for the past year.  I packed up my oversized shopping bag, hit the road and ‘tried on’ a bunch of new things.  I wanted to see what else is out there.  And you know what? There is just so much world out there.

There is camping through Africa for a month and not killing your boyfriend in the process.  There is Italy in August, with grotesque amounts of gelato at breakfast, lunch and dinner.  There is Vancouver in the rain.  There is language school.  There is bumping into familiar faces and feeling all warm and fussy inside.  There is a chance meeting that turns into a business partnership.  There is web design, there is tango, there is photography.  There is the Vancouver Olympics and one of the most memorable moments of a nation’s history.  There is crying and laughter and hopefulness.  There is contract work, work for fun, work for play, no work at all and work every day.  There is fear.  There is excitement.  There is a vast and open sea.

If licking the window is a show of lust for clothing, bags and shoes, then this nomad life that both tests and inspires me must be the equivalent form of sample sale-ing life.  Try first, buy later.  It’s like life on consignment: swap out the old, in with the new, always with some option to change your mind.  A gap year on steroids.  An experiment in mobile living.  An answer to the itch that just won’t go away.

Licking the windows of life’s many shops has been trying at times.  Lusting after the next adventure, the change of scenery, the new challenge, it has all been an incredible way to discover all the possibilities out there.  But with the wanting, comes angst.  And angst, like during the teen years, comes with its combination of goods and bads.  Stimulation and exhaustion.  Fullness and emptiness.  Desire and fear.  The ying and the yang.

Trying to both build something for the long term and seek experiences in the now can leave one in a state of seeming limbo.  In between.  Sometimes the window shopping has been amazing, other times I just want to give my credit card to someone and just buy something already.

And I ask myself, Why haven’t I found that perfect next thing?  What am I waiting for?

Nothing.  I haven’t found the next permanent thing because it hasn’t come just yet.  And sometimes, in my search to find the next permanent thing, I lose sight of the ever changing now.  Presence.  It is so important to be present.  And the present isn’t such a bad place.

There is time, there is space, there is freedom.  There is here or there, for as long or as short as I want.  There is writing and photography, or none at all.  There are new projects and old projects.  And there is always an opportunity to learn, if I am open to seeing it.  Presence.  Present.  Both are blessings if we take the time to see.

So, while I’ve got the time, the freedom, the energy and the lust for peeking inside different windows and trying things on for a while, there’s no rush to make a big purchasing decision right now.  Window shopping is just fine.

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Juicy, bloody, fresh, soft, tender. The steak here in Argentina is to die for (so I’ve heard). I’m not a meat eater. I know, crazy right? I currently reside in the meat eating capital of the universe.  It seems a sin that my mouth refuses to water at the mere mention of lomo or entraña or bife de chorizo.  An average Argentinian eats approximately 155 pounds of beef each year (that’s like my boyfriend eating the equivalent of 1.3 me’s!).  Vegetarianism is definitely not cool here.  Actually, most people think it’s just plain silly.

So it’s no surprise that this city would be home to some amazing parillas (steakhouses), the kind that put any high-end steak house in San Francisco to shame.  Our favourites include Las Cabras, Don Julio and La Dorita.  They offer varied menus, great quality food and lively ambiance, all at reasonable prices.

At these places, I always manage to get a good chicken dish while stealing bites of steak here and there.  We have fantastic wine, a fresh salad and if there’s room, some form of postre with dulce de leche dripping from the spoon.

But sometimes, especially after gorging myself with food porn courtesy of Anthony Bourdain, the Asian in me just needs some rice damnit!  I want good ol’ glutenous rice!  So, by end of week when it’s time to decide where to go for a Friday evening date, we always manage to find our way into a trendy Asian/Arabic/Indian food joint.

If steak is Argentina’s greatest food asset, let’s just say that rice and anything to do with it is not.  Each time we go “foreign”, we get burned.  Bad.  Bereber’s Morroccan food got on the wrong plane between there and here, while picking up a few fancy lamps from Egypt and a colourful throw pillow along the way.  The restaurant is well decorated, but the food leaves much to be desired.

And don’t get me started on the sushi in this city!  Tuna rolls include canned tuna, cream cheese and something green that should taste like wasabi but does not.

So, when we entered a beautiful, candlelit place called Quibombo near Plaza Armenia in Palermo for a snack, I shouldn’t have expected much.  The menu touts all-natural Indian and Asian foods like mango lassi’s, falafel and chicken teriyaki.  The place is beautifully decorated, with plush cushions, low chairs, draping fabrics and well-placed candles.  In fact, because it was so aesthetically pleasing we couldn’t help but get excited about the food.

We ordered mango banana lassi’s, a falafel appetizer and maldioca chips and fries.  The servings were small but tasty.  The lassi didn’t taste like lassi at all, but at least it contained more milk than water.  I was impressed.  Considering our disappointing experiences with international cuisine, this place wasn’t so bad.  The boy thought otherwise.

He took one sip of the supposed lassi and made a face.  It’s like a bad milkshake!! he said.  When the little plates came, he couldn’t help but chuckle.  Tiny! his face said.  T.I.N.Y.  Ok fine, they were tiny but they were good.  Really good.

When the waiter came and asked how we liked everything, I replied with a smile.  The boy, on the other hand, had no problems telling him that the lassi tasted like a bad milkshake, that he couldn’t taste the mango, that the servings were small.  Ha.  The waiter apologized, cleared our table and came back with a discount on our drinks.  He apologized for our dissatisfaction.  How nice!

Needless to say, we enjoyed our afternoon snack.  A few hours of coffee talk in a beautiful room overlooking the cobblestone streets of Palermo was well worth the adventure.

The moral(s) of the story:

  1. When in Argentina, do like the Argentinians and stick to steak if you’re craving an excellent meal.
  2. Regardless of how the food tastes, restaurants here are just GORGEOUS.  Appreciate with your eyes as well as with your tongue.
  3. If you don’t like the food and the waiter asks what you thought at the end of the meal, speak your mind.  Help them improve.  Otherwise, it’s just useless bitching. =)

PS:  Through recommendations from a friend, we did find a beautiful English pub called Bangalore that has a small Indian restaurant upstairs.  The food is rich and creamy (although not very spicy), the space is small and intimate, and the atmosphere is great for a mellow Friday night.  I’d definitely recommend it.

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Never did we make friendships

This is the welcome banner that would greet you as the opposing team when you enter La Bombonera (Boca Junior’s home stadium). Charming, arrogant, shameless. So sweetly Argentinian.

Last night we attended the last Boca Juniors home game until August. We didn’t stay in the sheltered tourist area, nor did we get numbered seats.  We came in through the piss dripping back stairwells of the standing-only section to sing and dance with a mass of people so passionate about their football, I couldn’t help but feel jealous.

 

 

We sat in these stands just a few feet up from where this video was taken. Total chaos.
Where does all of this feeling come from? How can grown men shout so hard, sing so beautifully, dance and jump and scream like I’ve never seen in North America or Europe?

 

Football is a mysterious thing.  Its lure and grandeur escaped us in Canada where all matter of sport and debauchery is centered around hockey.  I’d always wanted to attend a football match in South America but had heard how difficult it is to find good, local tickets.  We don’t do clean, tourist packages where you sit in a protected little box to watch the match as if it were on TV.  We wanted to be thick in the chaos, in the noise, with the musk of emotion around us.  So, when a friend mentioned a cheap, dodgy hostel offering available, we jumped on it.  It’s the kind of package probably monitored by la doce but organized by local folk (It’s a known fact that all ‘foreigner’ tickets are handled and sold by the Boca hooligans, referred to as la doce).  The ‘company’ who organized everything for us doesn’t have a website for ‘safety reasons’.  Ha.

We gathered at a pick-up point until a rickety old school bus blasting reggaeton music came barreling around the corner to take us to a parilla and beer jaunt in a conventillo near La Bombonera.  It’s like tailgating, Argentinian style.  Then we were walked into the stadium in large groups, were searched more thoroughly than at an airport security line and passed through side streets and back allies that looked like war zones.   Smoke, barricades and black-helmeted riot policemen at every corner.  Fun!

As game time approached, the beat of drums echoed in the nearby streets.  They have a band?!  I asked.  Yes, a marching band!, he answered sarcastically.

It was a band. Sort of. Actually, it was more like a mob 30,000 strong, jumping, chanting and screaming in tandem.  It was the most musically talented mob I’d ever seen and for a few short minutes at a time, when I could copy the words, I jumped, chanted and screamed with them.  I was a gringo local.  A gringo, but still local for a short time.

To feel the heartbeat of a rabid stadium, to hear it, to smell it – there is nothing more powerful.  Looking across the field at the ant-like figures of colour and sound, I felt moved.  It was no longer about the players down on that grass.  It was about the people.  A show for the people, by the people.  Families in their best blues and yellows gathering on a warm Sunday evening to cheer on a losing team.  Babies on their daddy’s shoulders.  Grandchildren, dads and granddads, three generations of men chanting, swearing and jumping all around us.  It was madness and beauty.

I wish I understood more what it all meant.  I was there, a part of the action, but still an outsider.  Football as foreign as the language. Somehow I understood early on that it isn’t just about scoring goals.  Even as we lost, the chanting and drums continued.  60,000 fans chanted and stood for 90 minutes. NINTEY MINUTES (I was completely knackered by half time)!  If that’s not loyalty, I don’t know what is.

And wow, I learned a whole slew of new Castellano!

Hijo de puta! Hijo de puta!

Dale, gordo! Puta! Puta madre!

and a little more sweetly, translated …

Boca my best friend
this tournament we are going to be with you
we support you with our heart
This tournament we are going to be champions
I don’t care that they say
what the others say
I follow you everywhere
I love you more and more

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Argentina is known for its beautiful people and delicious steaks.  Thailand is known for it’s pristine beaches and top-notch customer service.  Thailand and steaks don’t fit.  And neither do Argentina and top-notch customer service.  That’s because there is none.

Ok, I’m joking.  Of course there’s customer service in Argentina.  Restauranteurs, shop owners, security guards, teachers and cabbies – we’ve met some of the sweetest.  But in general, it’s hard to find quality, feel-good, they’ve-gone-above-and-beyond customer service here.

Whether it’s the help centre for a mobile, internet or telephone company, people just don’t seem to care.  You call, someone answers and if the question is standard, you get a standard, canned-response reply.  But if the question you have requires an answer that isn’t in the books, don’t expect to problem-solve through it together.  Most of the time, the person on the other side of the line will just hang up.

Yes.  Hang up.  It is crazy.

We’ve met various entrepreneurs from the expat community here and time and time again, they say that the biggest opportunities locally lie in improving the customer experience.  It’s just bad.

You call a manufacturer about possibly sourcing goods from his shop and you don’t hear back for weeks (if at all).  It boggles my mind that companies don’t value the fact that I’m an interested, willing customer, ready to give my money for a good or service they provide.  Why are they not tripping over themselves to serve me and serve me well?  The spoilt North American consumer in me just can’t understand it.  It’s backward economics.

But a closer look reveals something different.  It’s economics, yes, but not necessarily backwards.

Because salaries here are so low (minimum wage is 1800 pesos a month, which translates to about $450 USD) and opportunities for advancement are virtually non-existent, it’s hard to command above-and-beyond performance in low to mid-wage jobs.  We’ve heard of cases where telecentre workers are told that they should average 90 seconds per call.  There are no customer satisfaction metrics, no recorded calls, no CRM systems tracking past queries.  Just you and the stopwatch.

But of course, what else would you expect from a place where inflation runs rampant, where economic stability changes with the seasons, where cost cutting and cash are king.

Manufacturers don’t hold inventory, which means they aren’t tripping over themselves to sell it.  They’ll make it on demand, but only if fully paid.  This means it’s more profitable to maintain current relationships than go after leads that may yield zero or low volume business.

There is no concept of credit here. Inflation fluctuates so frequently that some restaurants don’t print prices on their menus – you have to ask.

Here, the economic stability that we take for granted in places like North America and Europe does not exist.  This is why come pay day, people line up at Cambio shops to change pesos to dollars.  Better to keep savings in cold, hard Benjamins than to risk investing pesos in banks.

And so, in a place where financial stability for the average person is dependent more on the political and economic policies in place at any given time than on personal effort, priorities shift.  Instead of focusing on career advancement, promotions and innovation in the workplace, people focus on more tangible, controllable benefits: family, friends and leisure time.  People don’t live to work.  They live to live.

They live to live.  And it is obvious.  On Sundays, businesses are closed, families crowd the parks, coffee shops are packed, subways and buses are empty.  Meals are 3-hour long marathons of storytelling, laughter and shared time.  Friends see each other weekly, not monthly.  People get to know their neighbours.

I won’t take back my opinion that customer service here is bad.  It can definitely be improved.  But there is so much more to it than just that.  There are larger forces at work here – political, economic, historical – that help explain the workings of a place.

For me, it’s all been a long lesson on perspective.  Give your best, in everything, regardless of what reward systems are in place.  Don’t take for granted functioning, (mostly) efficient governments. Treasure the softer, lovelier, immeasurable goodness of family, friends and leisure time in your life.

Live to live.

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A "Crisis of Coins"

April 29, 2010

This place is the Wild Wild West.  Someone blatantly jumps in front of you in the grocery store queue.  A fist fight on the sidewalk.  Traffic jams at every major and non-major intersection between here and Texas.  Dishonest cabbies, apathetic customer service reps, irresponsible dog owners who refuse to pick up after their pets.  This is Buenos Aires.  It is beauty, love and madness.

Whenever we get together with Porteños, conversations inevitably wander towards politics, the state of the economy and the backwards workings of a once mighty place.  Similar to other young democracies in Asia and other parts of the developing world, Argentina finds itself in the throes of well-meaning leaders who just can’t help being a little more selfish than the next guy.  And being with an Argentinian means that I’m witness to the average Argie’s gripes and frustrations every single day.  Mostly, people find a way to laugh it off.  No sense in worrying about something that you can’t change (ha, the irony of democracy).

Inefficient government and government policies, combined with a resourceful pool of determined citizens yield a system and way of life just a little different from the western world.  Cash-only rental, real estate sales and restaurant transactions.   Bribery in business.  Dishonest and corrupt law enforcement officials.  A virtually zero credit economic system (homes, cars, and rents are all paid in cold hard USD cash).  And, fake money.

Now, friends who’ve visited Argentina in the past have groaned about being duped with fake money by taxi drivers.  Three months of living on and off in the country last year and not once did I come across fake bills.  But last week, as we hurried out of a cab to get to dinner, the cabbie slipped us a 50 peso fake and it was only after a few days that we’d realized we were scammed.  And though 50 pesos only translates to about 12 USD, I don’t like the feeling of being taken advantage of.  I was royally annoyed.

But you know what’s amazing?  Whereas I was annoyed about the situation, the Boy, as always, was cool, calm and collected.  He laughed it off and said that we’d just put the fake back into the system.  Simple.

Right. Of course.  Just put it right back into the system.  Why didn’t I think of that?

And the more time I spend here, the more amazed I am to see how nonchalantly the locals have found a way to cope with such backwardness.  The legal and illegal things have all found a way to weave themselves into the normal course of daily life here.

Last night during dinner, we talked about the “crisis of coins”.  The subway and bus systems here are relatively efficient ways of getting around, albeit not very efficiently managed.  Subway passes only work for subways and most buses only take cash (1 peso, to be exact).  This means that in a city of 9 million people, the majority of the population is ducking underground or hopping on a colectivo every single day, at least twice a day.  Imagine the demand for coins.  One peso coins, to be exact.  And imagine the opportunities if you’re the owner of a corner-street kiosk, selling small change items like candy, cigarettes and chewing gum.  There are crowds of people with two peso, five peso and 10 peso bills aching for change.  Perhaps that little pack of gum over there, instead of pricing it at 1 peso flat, you can price it at 1.25 or 1.50.  Wouldn’t you much rather change a 5 peso bill and earn a few cents more on the transaction?

Supposedly, the demand for coins once created a black market system where people would ask to change a 10 peso bill and be forced to accept 9 pesos in return, the kiosk owner pocketing 1 peso in ‘commission’ for the service.  Clever, no? =)

Coming from clean, boring Canada, the Wild Wild West ways of doing things here fascinate me.  The economic systems that evolve in places where governments are still struggling to rightfully fulfill their duties to the people are incredibly interesting.  It feels like every day yields a new surprise, a different perspective in ways of doing things.

This is what deep travel is all about: the process of peeking around the folds and understanding the quiet ways people cope with their laws and limitations, with all things good and bad about daily life in a big city.  This is a whole new education.

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