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.

I just finished uploading photos from the first part of Chile, Santiago and Valparaiso.  Tomorrow we are taking an eight-hour bus ride to Mendoza, Argentina, where we will do our first overland border crossing.  We’ll spend Christmas there with a friend of Maikael’s from high school, which we’re really looking forward to.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

The New York Times features a travel column called “24 Hours in (insert name of major international city here),” which I always thought was a ridiculous idea. How, I wondered, could you even begin to get a flavor for a city in a mere 24 hour period? But we had only 24 hours to see Santiago de Chile, the country’s capital city, and I was going to put the New York Times’ theory to the test. As it turns out, they might be on to something.

We arrived late yesterday afternoon, soaring over the Andes Mountains, as dusty brown hills gave way to jagged, snow-capped peaks, even in the height of summer. Santiago sits cradled in a giant bowl, hugged snugly by the imposing Andes. After dropping our bags at our Providencia neighborhood digs, we made our way to dinner at Pizzeria Nostra, a 30-year tradition in Santiago. We munched on pizza that would make Napoli proud, accompanied by fresh frutilla, Chile’s answer to fresh strawberry juice. When I thanked the waiter, he demurred. “No, thank you,” providing what an affable, modest, and polite bunch the Chileans are. As we crawled through the nighttime streets, we noticed a group of giggling girls, dressed like little fairies, having just come from a school Christmas pageant, and women chatting on cell phones on park benches: this was obviously a safe city. We marveled at how light and orderly the traffic was, feeling more like Europe than Latin America.

In the morning we made our way towards Bellavista, Santiago’s bohemian enclave, where the buildings are slathered in colorful murals. As we crossed a street, three perky cheerleaders dashed out into traffic, quickly clapping their hands three times like cheerleaders do, and promptly began performing aerial tricks in the crosswalk. The idling drivers, waiting for the traffic light to change, craned their necks out of the car windows. Just before the light turned green, the cheerleaders dashed between cars collecting donations; it was the most jovial and inspired bit of entrepreneurship that I’d seen in a long time.

The fun continued at La Chascona, one of Pablo Neruda’s notoriously zany houses. Although I knew little of Chile’s most celebrated poet, I had read that his houses were a love song to kitsch, and I was eager to see what all the fuss was about. Perched on the hill above Bellavista, La Chascona, named for the famously unruly locks of his third wife, didn’t disappoint. Each of his three houses was built to reflect his fascination with ships, and each is filled with his staggering collections. He collected everything: bottles, colored glass, maritime objects, hand-shaped door knockers, dolls, salt and pepper shakers, Blue Willow china, paintings featuring watermelons. What he chose to collect didn’t have much rhyme or reason, and nothing was of particular value (he believed the best way to understand a place was to visit their flea markets). He simply collected what he liked, with little regard as to whether it made sense or “went together” from a design standpoint, and I found this to be completely admirable. Each room was a fascinating hodge podge of things that shouldn’t have worked together, but somehow did (my favorite part was the dining room table set with Blue Willow china and chunky waterglasses in primary colors). I can only guess it worked because it was a reflection of him and what he loved best, and it made me wonder what the world would look like if we simply decorated ourselves and our homes with the things we loved. Indeed, if our lives were guided by what felt right, and not what we thought we should do or be.

Feeling philosophical, we made our way further downtown towards Santiago’s most iconic sights. We stopped in at The Clinic, a small retail shop named for the satirical newspaper bearing the same name. My Lonely Planet states, “This is where you get your T-shirt with Pinochet’s mugshot!” Although it was tempting, we skipped over the T-shirts and headed to El Palacio de la Moneda, the site of the 1973 coup that heralded the beginning of Chile’s revolution. Mammoth Chilean flags flapped in the breeze in front of the refurbished palace, having been closed during the entire course of the dictatorship and reopened in 2000. The site of one of modern history’s bloodiest coups now plays host to sunny military men dressed in their Sunday best and a courtyard displaying modern art. It was hard to believe what had taken place there less than 40 years ago; clearly, Chile was ready to shake off its past and move on to better times.

We walked around the central area of town, a mix of classic architecture and skyscrapers, a reminder of Santiago’s place as a Latin American trading center. Passing by a large cathedral, scores of women sat outside reading tarot cards at rickety folding tables; I have always been fascinated with the mix of the occult and Catholicism that seems to play a role in Latin America spirituality. In need of a rejuvenation, we ducked into Bar Nacional, a bustling place sent from a bygone era. Waiters clad in black vests and bow ties dashed around the restaurant, while a man dressed as a soda jerk lorded over an old fashioned soda counter brimming with fresh fruit. Like a bartender, his sole responsibility at this establishment was to whip up cold, frothy jugos naturales, which are hands down one of the best parts of traveling in Latin America.

As we wandered the tidy streets, we stumbled upon a Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera exhibition below the Palacio de la Moneda, the former being my favorite artist. We were able to take in some of her greatest paintings for less than two dollars. And just when I had begun to think that Santiago was a mini European city, an obnoxiously loud (and bad) garage band began throbbing from a nearby stage, its sound promptly cutting out within 30 seconds, reminding me that we were in Latin America.

That evening we enjoyed a great meal at the quirky Ligurgia, whose walls were crammed with vintage paintings, posters, and memorabilia. A pitcher of borgona was produced, Chile’s answer to sangria, an infusion of wine and frutilla. Unlike Spain, we enjoyed a gigantic pitcher for less than $10.

This was my kind of city – even if I only had 24 hours to enjoy it.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

My dad kindly reminded me that, as of approximately 2:20 pm yesterday (Rapa Nui time), we officially circumnavigated the globe! It’s nothing I ever dreamed that I’d do in my entire life, and it’s a little crazy to think that it actually happened before I turned 31. Although we still have three months left to enjoy the journey, we can now claim that we’re true round-the-world travelers! My dad did a little research, and there is apparently an organization that brings together individuals who have accomplished this very goal. Check out the Circumnavigtor’s Club here!

Thursday, December 11, 2008

I realized today, in a panic, that one of my prescriptions would run out a month early, and I needed to place a call to my local Walgreen’s pharmacy to sort things out. (In the end, this will mean that a friend will need to pick it up at the pharmacy, mail it to my mother-in-law in Laredo, Texas, which will then be airmailed to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where it will then be hand-delivered to me when said mother-in-law meets us is in Bolivia in February.) I hadn’t made a phone call to New Mexico since September, when we were in Jordan and needed to request our absentee ballots in the dead of the night, given the time zone change. I was greeted by a county clerk with that distinct Northern New Mexican accent, and I wanted to exclaim, “Guess where I’m at? I’m in Amman!” This phone call felt big to me – I had made special arrangements to place the call – but to the county clerk I was just another caller. It seemed strange to be having such an ordinary conversation when the listener didn’t know how far away I was.

Today I trekked to the local Internet cafe, a run-down place with a mammoth flat-panel monitor that screams ADD compilations of music videos from the 1980s that I’ve never even seen (Phil Collins is especially popular). I bellied up to a computer and placed the headphones on my ears to make my call through Skype, a Web-based program that allows us to call the US for two cents per minute. I was walked through a phone tree and promptly placed on hold (I was disappointed to learn that there was no special bypass code for international calls). It was then that the strains of a familiar song blasted through my eardrums. At first I couldn’t place it, but slowly it sank in. It was I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus — you know, the Michael Jackson version, back when he was a cute little kid? It was so out of context that at first I didn’t recognize this most popular of Christmas ditties. Then I couldn’t figure out why the song was playing now. I was completely disoriented; it was the auditory equivalent of being blindfolded and turned around for a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. It suddenly dawned on me that Christmas is just days away. Except for the lone Christmas tree in the courtyard of the Chilean Aramada’s headquarters on Easter Island, a strange looking pine tree that I’ve only seen near beaches, there have been few signs of Christmas. Calling the United States from one of the most remote corners of the globe, to do something as mundane as placing a prescription refill, just felt unreal. I realized how out of touch and disconnected I am from what is going on back at home – even something as all-encompassing as Christmas.

This overwhelming feeling of disorientation probably explains the dreams I’ve been having lately. Since I arrived on Easter Island I’ve been treated to nighttime dramas that would make an LSD addict proud. Most of them involve Maikael and I making an unexpected trip home to pay visits to friends. We show up on doorsteps, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, but find our hosts wholly unprepared to receive us. The Island is known for having some intense energy, and I figured that my dreams were probably a product of Rapa Nui’s ancestors worming their way into my brain. As interesting as that sounds, I think it probably has more to do with my own insecurities about returning home; as we enter the last phase of this trip, I’m sure my subconscious is working overtime. In one of the dreams President-elect Obama was giving a televised speech on the television that played constantly in the background, undoubtedly a symbol of change in the dream. This trip has changed me, and I know my life will be different when I return; I think I’m afraid that I won’t “fit” into that life anymore, that the space that once contained me has been filled in and there will no longer be “room” for me. In another dream food was served, and our unexpected visit meant there wasn’t enough to go around. Perhaps I fear that my life back home won’t “nourish” me? Whatever the reason, it’s clear I’m feeling out of sorts with my place in the world these days. Despite the fact that we are the closest to home that we’ve been since we left last July – we are practically due south of Albuquerque at this moment – that life couldn’t feel farther away.

We are in the process of uploading the final batch of Easter Island photos.  I promise that you will never want to see another stone head after you finishing looking at that album.  Tomorrow it’s on to mainland South America, via Santiago, the most anticipated part of the trip (at least for me!).