Kindness of Strangers

Monday, December 29, 2008

You’ve heard it before: Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America. Generally I’m leery of these descriptions, the ones that overlay one culturally distinct place upon another as a way to characterize it. I once read an article that described Portugal as “the poor man’s Italy.” While I’ve never been to Italy, Portugal seemed to have an identity unto itself, and I found it difficult to imagine that I was anywhere but Portgual. But as we rolled into Buenos Aires early yesterday morning, the streets still emptied of people, I couldn’t help but think, “I feel like I’m in Europe.” We made our way to where we’ll be staying for the next week and a half, an old mansion from Buenos Aires’ golden age that’s been converted to a guesthouse. A narrow marble staircase greeted us, as stained glass windows looked down from their high perch. A small salon with exposed brick rested at the top of the stairs, which opened onto a lovely patio. I felt like I was in Paris.

During Argentina’s wave of immigration in the 1800s, nearly two thirds of Buenos Aires’ population was European, primarily of German, Russian, Polish, and Italian descent. Wealthy portenos wished desperately to be European; they emulated popular French architecture of the period, even going so far as to import building materials from France. South America’s oldest subway system lives in Buenos Aires, its original wooden cars from the early 1900s still in operation, looking like something that should be rocketing under the streets of Paris. This European influence is felt everywhere throughout the city, from grand edifices to fashion and especially food.

Argentina is known internationally for its steak, but what gets less notice is its Italian cuisine. Due to the huge influx of Italians during the last 200 years, their food has become a mainstay of the Argentine diet. A stroll through the grocery store at Christmas revealed thirty different kinds of panettone, an Italian holiday dessert bread, and well as an entire wall of fresh pasta in the refrigerated aisle. Menus scream milanesa, the tender steak pounded within an inch of its life and dredged in breadcrumbs, while daily specials often include pizza, ravioli, fideos, and pasta shapes I’ve never even heard of, like sorrentinos. Buenos Aires is a city where you can walk into a modest cafe and expect a heaping plate of homemade pasta and sauce for a few dollars. God bless Argentina!

The 29^th of each month is known as the Day of the Gnocchi when, throughout Argentina, every restaurant serves gnocchi. The story goes that, when money was tight at the end of the month, people sought out gnocchi, a potato dumpling that is both filling and quite cheap. While Argentina is now one of the wealthiest countries in Latin America, the tradition remains. Realizing it was the 29th, we marched into a restaurant today and, while it wasn’t listed on the menu, asked if they were serving gnocchi. “Of course,” responded the waiter, “it’s the 29th.” Minutes later a deep bowl of perfectly steamed dumplings were placed before us, dressed in a lovely fresh tomato and cream sauce. It was a perfect slice of Italy right here in the Southern Hemisphere. Amen!

The Mendoza, Argentina album is completed.  There aren’t many photos there but, well, that’s how it goes sometimes.  We are now in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and are getting settled in for nine days of big city fun!

Sunday, December 28, 2008

We had a really rough Christmas. I don’t wish to delve into details in such a public forum, but suffice it to say that the holidays ended with us leaving our arranged accommodations prematurely and feeling like a train had flattened us. As we scrambled to figure out how we would spend our last night in Mendoza before departing for Buenos Aires the next day, Maikael’s genius struck. “Let’s stay in the best hotel in town for a night,” he suggested. We quickly called the Park Hyatt Mendoza, determined it was too expensive, and booked a room anyway. Our peace of mind was on the line.

As it turned out, it was the best decision we had made in days. We trudged through the air conditioned lobby, sweating profusely as we maneuvered our massive backpacks through the throngs of chic clientele. The incongruity was not lost on us. “Are you hiking Aconcagua?” asked the bellman, referring to the snow-studded mountain peak outside of Mendoza and looking for a way to explain why two grungy backpacks slumped on his pristine luggage trolley. “No,” we said, simply. “We’re just checking in for a night.” A glittering Christmas tree dripping with twinkling stars stretched towards the soaring ceiling. My dusty sandals slapped against the cool marble tile as strains of Christmas music drifted overhead. I gazed longingly at the cerulean pool as our tired Mastercard was swiped. I was in heaven.

Our room didn’t disappoint. A quarry full of marble lined the bathroom, which boasted a trench-like bathtub and a rainforest shower. There was house-made grape-scented bath products, created to reflect the area’s viticultural heritage. A flat panel monitor aired a constant stream of American movie channels, a real treat after watching Los Simpsons in Spanish (let me assure you that Nelson doesn’t translate). There were plush robes and slippers and a petite card with a personalized weather forecast for the following day (in Celsius and Fahrenheit, no conversion calculation required!). There was real, functioning air conditioning. Even the drapes fastened together with Velcro so as to let nary an errant shaft of light invade on our perfect little oasis. It was the ideal place to recuperate.

After slipping under the downy sheets and cradling my head on a perfect pile of feathers, I enjoyed one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had on this trip. I was finally starting to feel better by the time I slunk into breakfast at 10:45 am. We took a seat under a clear blue sky on the veranda overlooking the picturesque Plaza de la Independencia; a shady umbrella dipped low overhead against the backdrop of the hotel’s perfect white facade. After being served cafe con leche by a Jonathan Rhys-Meyers look-alike, we were ushered into the breakfast buffet. As a matter of course I hate buffets, as they are usually an excuse to serve large quantities of low-quality food. But the buffet at the Park Hyatt Mendoza brought tears to my eyes. Delicate plates of pastries were arranged architecturally along a well-lit granite counter. My plate was transformed to a pile of golden medialunas, a distinctly Argentine croissant; brioche; hand-crafted chocolate muffins; and pain au chocolat. Large decanters of fresh-squeezed juice beckoned, including carrot and grapefruit. Sauteed pear tomatoes and perfect wedges of potatoes, kissed with a dollop of crème fraiche, sidled up to omlettes of perfection. Chards of cinnamon swam in an apple compote, as sweet chunks of fresh fruit teased me. I had died and gone to breakfast heaven.

We listened to an entire CD full of Christmas music, and happily listened again as it repeated itself after an hour. I heard more Christmas music in 90 minutes than I had in the past month, and rather than finding the whole thing cloying, I was completely charmed. After breakfast we sought refuge in the well-appointed spa and lounged by the leafy pool. Later in the afternoon we ordered a chicken sandwich, whose simple perfection nearly made me weep.

Our trip to Mendoza was nothing like we imagined. We must be the only people on the planet who somehow managed to spend 10 days in this famous wine growing region without visiting a single winery. The closest we got was an afternoon at The Vines, “South America’s first and only tasting room,” where we enjoyed a Malbec wine flight. I enjoyed the obvious creative writing at the hands of a clever marketer, who described the wines using the most colorful language I’ve ever witnessed at a tasting:

This wine sparkles in the glass with the color of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.

The aromas will take you strolling through a rose garden.

The deep color of red bricks after a rainfall.

And my personal favorite: This wine is cherry cheesecake on fire.

As we boarded our luxury bus to Buenos Aires, where we would soon be treated to full meals, on-board movies, red wine which would taste nothing like cherry cheesecake on fire, fizzy champagne, and fully-reclining seats, I couldn’t help but feel mixed emotions. Those 24 hours at the Park Hyatt Mendoza had revived me; it was money well spent, the perfect — and only — Christmas gift to ourselves. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad that Mendoza had turned out so different than I had expected, that I had turned my back on the place and sought comfort in the arms of a swanky hotel. As the city faded into the distance, I turned my gaze towards Buenos Aires, a new chapter.

This is a very brief post to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas.  This year has been a very different Christmas; more so than almost any I can remember in years past.  It’s not the fact that it’s 90 degrees and I’m sipping white wine by the pool.  It’s not the lack of Christmas decorations, nor the fact that the only Christmas song I heard was I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Claus when calling Walgreens pharmacy in Albuquerque.  As much as you can deny it, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas without being surrounded by our families and closest friends.  It feels, well, foreign. So to all our friends and family, I’d like to extend a very special thanks and gratitude for being a part of our lives.  You mean something important to us, even when we are thousands of miles away.

We’ll post more on our time in Argentina in the coming days!  Until then, as they say here at Christmas, felices fiestas!

The Central Chile album is complete; the Mendoza, Argentina album is not.  Happy viewing!

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Latin Americans love their religious pilgrimage sites, and while I’m not Catholic, I enjoy these shrines as much as the next person. I’ve been to some pretty important ones, including a famous one in Mexico where La Virgen de Guadalupe was said to have appeared. Pam claimed the motherload was just a few hours north of Mendoza in Vallecito, a sprawling shrine to the Difunta Correa. The legend goes that Deolinda Correa trailed her military husband through the desert during the civil wars of the 1800s. She eventually died of thirst, and her body was discovered by a band of men passing through the desert: her infant son was found alive, suckling at her breast. Vallecito is believed to be the site of her death, and the town has evolved into a place where people come to worship and seek hope from La Difunta, a term used to denote a saint-like figure. Argentines pray to La Difunta Correa for all manner of things, from new cars to completed construction projects to medical miracles, and if their prayers are answered they bring offerings and thanks to the shrine at Vallecitos. Even major soccer players have been known to ask for successful outcomes to games, leaving their jerseys behind. “It’s a freak show,” Pam promised.

Always up for a good freak show, we crowded into the car and made our way north, where emerald vineyards eventually gave way to dry, barren tracts of land. We followed signs to “D. Correa,” stopping to ask for directions a few times. Everyone knew where La Difunta was. Eventually, a series of dusty, open-air shops sprang out of the desert like an oasis, selling all manner of Difunta paraphernalia. There were candles and incense, stickers and statues, and the all-important red ribbons emblazoned with messages to La Difunta in sunny yellow script. People tie the red ribbons to their cars, and once you start observing, most cars in this area of the country bear a faded red strip flapping in the breeze. Truck drivers are especially devotees. One ribbon read, “Protect my Peugot.”

At first the site looked relatively modest, the ubiquitous shrine perched high on a dessicated hill, the mid-afternoon sun beating through the ocean sky. We passed through a gauntlet of battered license plates, some inscribed with hand-lettered messages of thanks. Stretching out on either side were the houses, miniature architectural models of the homes that had been successfully completed or procured thanks to La Difunta. Some were crude, a few floor tiles slapped together to make an A-line roof, whereas others were beautifully ornate and scarily accurate.

And the shrine just kept going as far as the eye could see.

There were towering walls of plaques, some chiseled in marble, thanking La Difunta for prayers answered. There were school photographs and holy communion invitations crammed into every available space imaginable. There were hundreds of empty water bottles contained in a barricade, something to quench the thirst that killed La Difunta Correa. The model houses tumbled town the hillside towards even more buildings. One contained only wedding dresses, some looking antique and faded. One building held only model trucks. Another sports trophies. One building was dedicated entirely to the good fortune of horse jockeys. One building contained “las cosas mas antiguas,” the oldest things. A 1950s luxury car had been donated. One wall was blanketed in sports jerseys. There were photographs of birthday parties, ponchos, guns, plastic trinkets, and stuffed animals (both the cute, cuddly kind and the taxidermied ones). It was a virtual antique store, packed to the gills with stuff.

I had never seen anything like it.

There were few people visiting the shrine midweek, but weekends can see hoards of visitors. Most people seemed to be curiosity-seekers like us, snapping photos left and right. A few people quietly made offerings. Three men with a large, white dog on a leash strolled by. “That’s the guy who uses his dog to kill wild boars,” Pam whispered. “I remember him from the photos I saw in one of the rooms.” We couldn’t believe she recalled this artifact out of everything we had seen that day, but then again photos of a wild boar kill are hard to forget. On our way out we bought a clutch of red ribbons. Maikael bought “Protege mi Nissan.” I bought “Protect my journey,” which could come in handy before I even have a chance to tie it to my car’s antennae.

As we returned to town, the streets of Mendoza were flooded, the acequias gushing brown water. Clumps of hail littered the roadside, as cars sputtered and stalled in the streets that had turned to rivers. Everyone wore a look of sheer confusion on their faces. We had narrowly missed what Pam said was the worst storm she had ever seen hit town. “The Difunta protected us!” we joked. Or had she?