It’s a crisp, breezy evening in this here BA. A perfectly clear night for spying on our neighbours.
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Argentina
Life is good. Seriously. To wake up in the morning and worry about nothing more than buying ingredients for the day’s lunch is just … heaven. And no, I didn’t win the lottery, nor did I strike it rich with stock, and no I don’t come from old money. A few months of simple, care free living is so much more affordable than you would think. And I hope that everyone finds the courage, the time and the support (from loved ones, family members and friends) to do something like this. It’s so good for the soul.
Today’s big adventure was lunch. We perused every aisle at the supermarket, we lusted after hand made pastas, we bought a gorgeous block of fresh mozarella cheese. I picked basil fresh from my little plant in the kitchen, we fried small steaks with oil and garlic, we slurped pumpkin pasta slathered in olive oil and sundried tomatoes. We cooked while the local radio station blasted latin pop in our bright, breezy apartment.
Life is so good.
I am so blessed.
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I’m a night owl. He’s an early bird. I can sleep in till noon if left to my own devices. He’s up prowling the apartment like a cat at 7.30 AM. Sometimes he takes pictures of sunrises. Like this morning. I think I’ve only ever seen one, maybe two, sunrises in my life. Once in Greece while dancing till dawn and second on an airplane crossing the international date line. =)
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A few nights ago, I decided to honour my place as a woman and my mother’s origins from the food capital of the Philippines (Pampanga) by cooking dinner. Specifically, I decided to cook a staple Philippine chicken dish called adobo. Yes, I said it. I volunteered to cook something different from scrambled eggs and toast. I’ve attempted this dish several times before (it’s my default exotic dish whenever I want to show off my culinary culturedness) so it wasn’t a new feat for me. This time, however, it turned out better than normal. Delicious, in fact! Just the right balance of salt and sweet, with caramelized onions and garlic. I marinated, I boiled, I pre-fried and sautéed. I consulted mama’s recipe over and over again to make certain I did everything right. And it turned out excellent! Yummy! Sumptuous!
Mama, you would have been so proud of me (bar the fact that I burnt the coffee, AGAIN!)!
But, besides the delight of cooking something and having it taste the way it’s supposed to, something more serendipitous added to my joy that night. I was so overcome with glee when I found out that the kitchen utensils we’ve been using are perfectly matched to our pots and pans! Please see the picture below for a clearer idea of what I mean. The hole in the giant spoon! It fits just there, on the handle of that pot! There’s a whole set of them – utensils, pots and matching holes and notches. How great is that? So great! So great, in fact, that I might just be inspired to cook again.
*gasp*
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On Sunday afternoon, we decided to walk over to the Hippodromo Palermo to watch some horse racing. Gambling on an Easter Sunday wasn’t exactly part of the plan but it was a great excuse to walk through the parks and get some sunshine.
During the hour-long trek over, I thought a lot about why it is that I’ve decided to spend another 9 weeks in this city, in the middle of Autumn, in a place that feels a million miles away from home. Buenos Aires is as far south as Capetown.
Besides obvious things like matters of the heart, an affordable cost of living and some interesting business opportunities, there’s definitely something more about this place that keeps me close. Right now, I’m sitting at a corner coffee shop on a Monday morning watching dog walkers run their daily routes. There is a butcher around the corner that sells fresh meats and chickens, a pizzeria down the street and a fresh produce stand with the most gorgeous garlic bulbs I’ve ever seen.
There’s a feeling of community here that’s hard to find in other big cities around the world. The grocery shop will deliver any purchase over $150 pesos (30 USD) to your door. Similar to big cities like NY and London, grocery chains here understand that urban living in large apartment blocks requires a level of service unheard of in the suburbs. Grocery delivery isn’t a new idea to me. But here, as we walked home with our few bags of food a few nights ago, I was stunned to see delivery boys walking wheeled carts across the street ready to deliver groceries around the neighbourhood. I don’t know why I found it so humbling. I expected a large Carrefour truck to come barreling around the corner ready to tackle the day’s orders in record time. Instead, a small army of ‘walkers’ hand deliver each bin to apartments big and small. I laughed. It is so charming.
That same evening, we stumbled across a local video rental store. Amazingly, they too deliver. With delight, I tweeted about it:
dcg another reason i love buenos aires: video rental delivery. choose a movie, phone the store and they come with the dvd to your door. =)
My friend replied:
@dcg you need netflix instant play
To which I replied:
dcg @christosap but i like the door-to-door delivery precisely because it is so old-school. simpler times, simpler times. =)
And maybe that’s exactly why this place pulls at me so. It’s a modern, crazy, bustling mess but somehow, in the heart of these tree-lined neighbourhoods, there’s still a way to connect to simpler times, where lives are lived not only in the confines and securities of home but also at produce stands and butcher shops and coffee terraces along sidewalks and parks. Here, I feel a part of the community. And that’s important. Being a part of something bigger than yourself is important. It feels nice.
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Easter weekend in this here Catholic capital was a quiet one. Those of us who didn’t run down to the beaches to catch the last rays of Indian Summer sunshine were treated to a ghost-town oasis in one of the most bustling cities in Latin America. An empty Baires is strange. It’s like running down Times Square with Tome Cruise in Vanilla Sky. There is no pollution, no traffic, no noise. Just wide empty streets and an eerie breeze catching the trees.
We decided to hop on over to San Telmo, one of the oldest, most bohemian neighbourhoods in the city. Every weekend it is host to an antiques market, very similar to Saturday market day in London’s Notting Hill. We perused gaucho stands, leather boutiques and coffee shops decades old. Time travel in a city suspended in the in-betweens.
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Being in Argentina for so long gave me the opportunity to get to know some pretty great people. Culturally, it was such an enriching experience to spend proper time doing normal things, like grocery shopping, going on walks, hanging out at the park, working. I met people from all walks of life: businessmen, young parents, single yuppies, expats and locals. And one theme that really stood out when it comes to Argentinians is their value/love/interest in education.
About half of all the native Argentinians that I met were doing some sort of course: a friend working at the Canadian embassy doing French Translation, The Boy’s mom doing Social Psychology, a web design project manager doing Graphic Design, a full-time mother of two babies learning Italian. Whether once a week, online or half-time, people really put time and effort into an interest that they want to learn more about. It’s really inspiring.
It had never really occurred to me, while I was working, to go and enroll in a photography or creative writing course. I’ve got various “extra-curricular” interests and it’s only now that I’m giving them the space to blossom. And I wonder why I waited so long! A night course once or twice a week would’ve been do-able! Continuing education doesn’t necessarily have to entail an MBA or a Master’s program. Why not take that tango class? Or painting class? Or calculus course? Maybe these little bouts of “newness” should be prioritized in our daily lives, just as importantly as things like coffee with friends, grocery shopping, the gym. An hour a week to stretch your brain in a new way sounds like a pretty great gift for yourself, no?
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Dear Argentina,
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love you for your beauty: the ragged, raw, realness of your bittersweet glamour, your happy-tragic history, your painted walls and crackling curb sides. I love your Figuero Alcorta grandeur, ancient purple-blossom trees, French architecture, green parks of happy spoiled dogs.
I love you for your barrios: your rooftop cafes, your bodégans, your fresh quiet Belgrano streets. I love your crazy beautiful thunderstorms observed from sheltered coffee shops in quiet Palermo squares. I love your corner bakery shops, your fruit stands, your peluquerias bursting with banter and gossip.
I love the sing-song of your tongue: the rrrrolling of your r’s, the rrrounded echoes of your vowels, your ‘sha’ sounds and ‘yah’ sounds. I am tongue-tied and twisted in your Castellano, its Italian rhythms, its novelty, its foreign and familiar shapes and sounds.
I love the richness of your cuisine: your coco medialunas, your maté cocido with honey sweetness, your buttery steaks and crisp milanesa de pollos. I love your simple meals in small family kitchens with fresh tomatoes and olive oils and warm teas.
I love your helados delivery: the dulce de leche gustos in all incarnations con almendras y nuez y granizadas, los mentas, los frutillas, los bananas y ananas, and yes, maybe even the sambayon. I love the Freddos, and the Voltas, the Persiccos and the Ghianellis. I love the magic of everyday ice cream, of everyday celebrations, of everyday delights just because.
I love your leisure: your after-office-till-4am Wednesday parties, your long drawn out dinners, your sweet aired wines, your street-side eateries. I love your siestas and long lunches, your at-home dinners with friends till midnight, your coffee times and meriendas. I love that days are lived full and long, late into the night.
I love your tango: its slow, sweet, hard curves and sounds, its turn-abouts and swing-abouts, its push and pull, give and tease. I love that it ignites a fire inside me so raw and real and physical, not of mind or heart: just body and dance and movement.
I love your people: their deep friendships and close ties, their Sunday meals with family, their love for children, their anchors with home. I love that grown men caress their grandmothers, that sisters kiss their brothers, that fathers embrace their sons, that touch and love and affection are infinite and insatiable. I love their stories and gripes, their strong opinions and lofty dreams. I love that they love to love.
I love you: for the gifts that you have given in the last 50+ days, for the space and time and freedom that you’ve granted, for the creativity that you’ve inspired, for the love that you’ve nurtured, for the perspective that you’ve shown. I love that you were once a dream, a lofty faraway dream, that then turned to reality: you literally have been what dreams are made of.
Dear Argentina, this sweet slow dance that we’ve shared has only just begun.
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We went to a traditional asado (barbeque) today, at a gorgeous estancia (ranch) in the Argentine countryside. Wine, picadas, and bottomless steak. The meat today was so tender it was like slicing through butter. The knife bled with juicy, warm, moist goodness. And the crackle! The crackle! Salty with the tang of meat smoked over a fire all day long. Skin never tasted so good. Are you salivating yet? Today was a most convenient day to turn carnivorous! Can a recovering vegetarian die from meat overdose? Meh. Who cares? Estoy muy satisfecha.
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