THE LEAGUE OF SKETCHY WELDING AND OTHER ARGENTINIAN DELIGHTS
Hello all,
Before I commence with this last post from Buenos Aires, I want to make clear how very, very much I love and revere not just this city and the portenos, but the whole country. Even the grinding ache of missing my kids (who were having a great time with their dad and his wife), could not make a dent in complete and utter adoration I have for this place.
Being here has led me many times to reflect upon how we do things in the U.S., and how bizarre and hilarious they must appear to people from other countries. It's also led me to engage in a protracted and vigorous effort to not bring shame upon myself and my friends through dissolving into hysterical laughter at some of the things that are uniquely Argentine. Case in point: The League of Sketchy Welding.
Argentinians love their country. They are proud of it. They go out of their way to assist foreigners in finding their way to the things that are most beautiful, tasty, interesting, historic and delightful here.
At the same time, they are also really happy to trash up wherever they are like a heavy metal band in a Motel 6 honeymoon suite. Garbage? Throw it on the ground. Dog detritus? For heaven's sake, don't pick it up. Broken glass? Oh well, everything comes to an end. And so on. This is particularly evident in Buenos Aires, but it's kind of the norm in the other cities we visited too. Eventually, somebody comes along and picks up some of the trash, but there will still be car-sized, random piles of what looks like the innards of an entire apartment, or the closeout sale from a box factory.
This “Why Not” sort of approach to civic cleanliness reaches its acme in what appears –at least to somebody from the U.S.- to be Argentinians' extremely cavalier attitude towards personal safety. As I write this, I gaze upwards from the hotel's trashed and lovely courtyard into a thicket of randomly strung electrical wires (see picture above). Are some of these tangled filaments live? Who knows? Will we be electrocuted? Why not?
My very favorite manifestation of this attitude involves people welding things on city streets. Every day, literally, I encountered teams of two or three guys (never women) welding something to something. Usually one or more of them were teetering on a ladder or crouched in the middle of a pedestrian walkway.
Always, the welding device was attached to a power source via an intricate network of aging extension cords, all of which would be made whole by generous swaths of frayed duct tape. Sparks shower down on passersby and up into the face of the welder (who, of course, would bring shame upon himself if he wore a welder's mask or protective garments). Generally, he's also smoking a cigarette and carrying on a conversation while he's bent to his task.
Hello all,
Before I commence with this last post from Buenos Aires, I want to make clear how very, very much I love and revere not just this city and the portenos, but the whole country. Even the grinding ache of missing my kids (who were having a great time with their dad and his wife), could not make a dent in complete and utter adoration I have for this place.
Being here has led me many times to reflect upon how we do things in the U.S., and how bizarre and hilarious they must appear to people from other countries. It's also led me to engage in a protracted and vigorous effort to not bring shame upon myself and my friends through dissolving into hysterical laughter at some of the things that are uniquely Argentine. Case in point: The League of Sketchy Welding.
Argentinians love their country. They are proud of it. They go out of their way to assist foreigners in finding their way to the things that are most beautiful, tasty, interesting, historic and delightful here.
At the same time, they are also really happy to trash up wherever they are like a heavy metal band in a Motel 6 honeymoon suite. Garbage? Throw it on the ground. Dog detritus? For heaven's sake, don't pick it up. Broken glass? Oh well, everything comes to an end. And so on. This is particularly evident in Buenos Aires, but it's kind of the norm in the other cities we visited too. Eventually, somebody comes along and picks up some of the trash, but there will still be car-sized, random piles of what looks like the innards of an entire apartment, or the closeout sale from a box factory.
This “Why Not” sort of approach to civic cleanliness reaches its acme in what appears –at least to somebody from the U.S.- to be Argentinians' extremely cavalier attitude towards personal safety. As I write this, I gaze upwards from the hotel's trashed and lovely courtyard into a thicket of randomly strung electrical wires (see picture above). Are some of these tangled filaments live? Who knows? Will we be electrocuted? Why not?
My very favorite manifestation of this attitude involves people welding things on city streets. Every day, literally, I encountered teams of two or three guys (never women) welding something to something. Usually one or more of them were teetering on a ladder or crouched in the middle of a pedestrian walkway.
Always, the welding device was attached to a power source via an intricate network of aging extension cords, all of which would be made whole by generous swaths of frayed duct tape. Sparks shower down on passersby and up into the face of the welder (who, of course, would bring shame upon himself if he wore a welder's mask or protective garments). Generally, he's also smoking a cigarette and carrying on a conversation while he's bent to his task.
In honor of this group of hardy souls I created The League of Sketchy Welding, and started awarding myself points every time I spotted a member of this august group. I got extra credit if one of a given welding team was blind or asleep, or if the rickety ladder was leaned against an electrical wire. My husband notes that I needed to also award credit for the guy chopping up a small tree, not with a chainsaw, but with a metal grinder. Why not?
Other highlights:
Fun With Explosives
The Argentinians' commendable gusto involving civic participation takes a bit of getting used to. Strikes and demonstrations are frequent and par for the course. Natives and seasoned travelers greet these outbursts of communal expression with a roll of the eyes and a shrug, or by joining whatever throng is making a ruckus. A visitor like myself, on the other hand is constantly studying other people's faces to make sure that the shouting crowd dujour is not about to turn into a murderous mob hell-bent on mayhem. If everybody else looks bored or is applauding or taking pictures (something Argentinians love to do), you figure it's o.k. It was never not o.k.My favorite manifestacion was the one we were drawn into during our stay in Cordoba. It all began when I was partaking in the free breakfast at the King David Hotel. There was a huge, percussive BANG outside the hotel, that startled me so much I half rose from my chair and said, in English, “What the hell was that?” The nice lady at the next table, who has relatives in New Jersey, reassured me. “It's just a demonstration,” she said in Spanish. “They're shooting off fireworks.” It was day light, so I hardly saw the point of that, but imagined they had just shot the one off from the top of a safe building to get the party started.In fact, when my husband and I went out about 20 minutes later, it emerged that they were simply shooting the damn things off IN THE STREET while the parade of disgruntled union workers banged drums, shouted and used a gigantic Argentinian flag as a kind of parachute to fling thousands of leaflets into the air to flutter like blossoms onto the streets. Every time a volley of fireworks would go off, the stray dogs in attendance would yap their displeasure. A man declaimed sonorously and unintelligibly from a PA system mounted on top of a mini-bus. More fireworks. The PA played stirring music. Everybody sang a lovely song.To this day, I have only the vague impression that they were demonstrating for better wages and working conditions. At the time, I was so moved I had tears in my eyes. I wanted to grab a banner and march, to learn the words to the song. In a way, I guess, I kind of did.
Ordering Food
For the first week, no matter what I tried to order for breakfast, I ended up with a ham and cheese sandwich on toasted white bread with the crusts cut off. Finally, I found “omelettes” on the menu and ordered one. It arrived, looking every inch the U.S. omelet. Then I cut into it, and uncooked egg whites and yolks gushed forth. My husband pretended we'd gotten a call and had to take the “food” para llevar (to go). Turns out there are two styles of eggs popular here, “crudo” (raw) and “cocido” (cooked). Most people prefer 'em crudo. Myself, however, not so much.
Bathrooms
Every bathroom is completely different from the next. Strike that: every STALL is its own entity, distinct from any other stall anywhere in the country. On a bus trip through the Andes, we stopped at a place where you had to pick between the stall that had light but no toilet seat, or the one that had the toilet seat and was dark as the inside of a locked suitcase. Oh yeah, and bring your own toilet paper just to be safe, and some change. Some places simply didn't have t.p. Buena suerte. (Good luck.) Others had it, but you needed to make a donation in order to have access to it. In still others, there was good old absorbent, familiar, paper product.
The “Nonkin”
And speaking of paper products, none of us were able to unravel The Mystery of The Nonkin. A nonkin is what passes for a table napkin in Argentina. At first glance, it looks like any other of its ilk, if a bit smaller, about the size of your average drink coaster folded daintily in half. Alas, if you're an American and have the misfortune to actually need a napkin in Argentina, you then come face to face with The Mystery of The Nonkin. Nonkins feel like the wax paper Americans use to pick up doughnuts, they crinkle, and have the absorbent properties of, say, steel or rubber. You cannot clean up a spill with a nonkin. You can, however, contain whatever mess has been made by building a barrier of crumpled nonkins around the liquid and waiting for it to dry on its own.
Dogs and Cats
My husband doesn't know this, but prior to coming here, it was my settled intention to acquire a very small dog upon our return. Since our sojourn in Argentina, however, I've realized there are enough dogs in the world and I don't need to encourage people to produce more. Ownerless (vs. feral) dogs and cats are everywhere in the cities we visited. They're friendly and used to people, and they're also accomplished shmoozers. I never got up enough gumption to actually touch one of the dogs. As an aggregate, they are a testimony to the wonders of the genetic crapshoot, and they tend to be filthy and sort of moth eaten. However, one night in Mendoza, I bonded with a small, yellowish dog that I surmised was the result of one night's torrid passion between a pomeranian and a basset hound. We made eye contact. I slipped him some gristle from my steak and half an egg I didn't want. He lay at my feet for a few minutes, not begging or even looking at me. Then he moved on. Wish I could have taken him home. THAT was a good dog.I have so much more to tell, but I'll stop. It's a lovely day. We only have about an hour before the taxi comes. There are guys in the high rise next door flying paper airplanes from the fifteenth story fire escape.
Why not?
Anna
Dogs and Cats
My husband doesn't know this, but prior to coming here, it was my settled intention to acquire a very small dog upon our return. Since our sojourn in Argentina, however, I've realized there are enough dogs in the world and I don't need to encourage people to produce more. Ownerless (vs. feral) dogs and cats are everywhere in the cities we visited. They're friendly and used to people, and they're also accomplished shmoozers. I never got up enough gumption to actually touch one of the dogs. As an aggregate, they are a testimony to the wonders of the genetic crapshoot, and they tend to be filthy and sort of moth eaten. However, one night in Mendoza, I bonded with a small, yellowish dog that I surmised was the result of one night's torrid passion between a pomeranian and a basset hound. We made eye contact. I slipped him some gristle from my steak and half an egg I didn't want. He lay at my feet for a few minutes, not begging or even looking at me. Then he moved on. Wish I could have taken him home. THAT was a good dog.I have so much more to tell, but I'll stop. It's a lovely day. We only have about an hour before the taxi comes. There are guys in the high rise next door flying paper airplanes from the fifteenth story fire escape.
Why not?
Anna
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