Kindness of Strangers

Friday, December 20, 2008

We woke at the crack of dawn on Wednesday morning to catch our bus to Mendoza, Argentina, picking our way through the gritty, deserted streets of Valparaiso, Chile.  After stopping for empanadas at the panaderia, the only shop open so early in the morning, we boarded our first South American long-haul bus, outfitted with cushy seats, TV screens, restrooms, and coffee machines.  It was more comfortable than flying on a plane.  I dozed as we crossed the Andes Mountains, barren masses of rock capped with whipped cream peaks.  After passing through the relatively hassle-free border crossing at the summit, the landscape changed, giving way to crimson rock, parched vistas, and rising temperatures.  It felt like being home.

Pam, a high school friend of Maikael’s from Costa Rica, was there to greet us at the bus station in Mendoza.  She moved here two years ago when her parents purchased two vineyards in the heart of Argentina’s burgeoning wine country, with the hopes of one day starting their own label.  A maniac driver who’s a dead ringer for a Latina Renee Zellweger, she talked excitedly as we drove through the town’s lush, tree-lined avenues:  although Mendoza is situated in desert terrain, the city planners built acequias, a series of irrigation ditches, to feed the city’s greenery, creating an oasis in the midst of a harsh landscape.  Even though I was starving, having only snacked on what were possibly the worst empanadas that have ever seen the light of day, it was still too early for dinner.  “Restaurants don’t even open until nine for dinner,” Pam said.  It was barely five o’clock.  Instead, we took a seat at a sidewalk cafe, which was just opening its shuttered doors.  Pam explained that everything closes in the middle of the day.  Lunch is served beginning at noon, which is one o’clock, and everyone goes for a big meal in the middle of the afternoon.  This sounded a lot like the Spain of the southern hemisphere.  “Are there tapas before dinner?” I asked hopefully.  Not really.

Pam ordered us a round of gancia batido, the national liquor of Argentina shaken with lemon juice.  It was a South American lemon drop in a tall, cool glass.  After another round I was desperately in need of food, so we headed towards the backyard setting of Anna Bistro, where chairs and tables were sprinkled amongst a shady garden.  “Service in Argentina is terrible,” Pam explained, and indeed it was.  I was elated when we were finally handed food menus, and disappointed when I learned that half the items weren’t available until 8:30, when dinner service began.

After running into some ex-pat friends of Pam’s, we settled the bill and moved onto Cafe Flora for more drinks and dessert.  It was nearly nine by now; traffic was suddenly heavy and the restaurants were just beginning to fill.  Pam confirmed that it really is true what they say about Argentines:  they eat a lot of beef.  Most people eat a slab of steak with a petite green salad and not much else for dinner.  Rice and beans, a staple in most of Latin America, is unheard of here:  as the world’s number one producer of beef, it’s cheaper than vegetables.  Pasta is also popular here, as Argentina is home to huge numbers of Italian immigrants, so if it’s not heavy meat it’s carbs for dinner.  And if you’re eating heavy meals at 11 pm you’re probably not very hungry for breakfast, when most Argentines eat a sweet roll and a cup of coffee.  What a diet, huh?  And yet, most people appear to be trim and fit, leaving me to wonder if the Argentines swim in the same gene pool as the French.

“Don’t call an Argentine before 9 am and expect them to be awake,” Pam warned.  “But it’s totally fine to call someone until 11 o’clock at night,” she continued.  The clubs don’t open until 2:30 am, and with those late dinners, most nights are late nights by US standards.  “The afternoon officially goes to 9 pm,” Pam explained, “and it’s common to have business meetings and appointments until that time.”  Later that evening, Pam got a text message confirming a pedicure appointment for eight o’clock in the afternoon.

So as far as I can tell, here’s how a typical Argentine day goes:  stumble out of bed for work around 9 am; eat a light, quick breakfast; work until 1 pm; go for a big, leisurely lunch or take a nap; work through the early evening; have a late, heavy dinner; go out for drinks; then hit the hay.  Rinse and repeat.  If the Australians can drink anyone under the table, then the Argentines win the award for the least amount of sleep required to still call yourself a functioning human being.

Of all the places we’ve visited in the world, Argentina seems to have the most complex and structured rules about schedules.  I had never thought about schedules as being such a salient part of culture, but it most certainly tells you something about a national psyche.  This is a place that values having fun and taking one’s time with eating.  And while this appeals to me, I am beginning to see how deeply ingrained our schedules are with respect to our culture.  I have always been an early riser, reinforced through my culture’s industrial, Puritanical roots, and the thought of waiting to eat a proper meal until halfway through the afternoon makes me a little uneasy.  I’m slowly trying to get on the Argentine schedule – I even slept in until 11 am today in the hopes that I will be able to stay up late tonight without feeling like death warmed over — but it leaves me feeling out of sorts.

Maikael the Nightowl, on the other hand, has found Mecca.