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!

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!

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Our downtime on Easter Island has been spent in our casita, named for the French-Rapa Nui couple who own it. We have scarcely seen the wife since our airport pickup, and we’ve only spotted the enigmatic French husband in profile – a long, slender, Aqualine nose and wavy dirty-blond hair always pulled into a ponytail – as he passes our patio daily in his SUV. Instead, our care has been entrusted to the wife’s extended family, who seem to live out their lives in our backyard engaged in all manner of activity including: child care, barbecuing, impromptu construction on our casita, car repair, and, of course, drinking. Add to this scene the constant visits of friends and relatives, blasting music, barking dogs, and squabbling chickens, and you have damning evidence that the long tentacles of Latin American culture have reached even here.

But don’t get me wrong; our hosts are quite friendly. On my first night I met several of the male members of the family, and was promptly invited to go fishing with them the following night. I thought it a strange time to go, but it seemed a great chance to get off the beaten path and gain a window into the culture. I warned them that I’m prone to motion sickness, but was assured that all fishing would take place on the seaside. When I showed up at the designated time the next evening, no one seemed hurried to go. One of the men, named Mateo, was watching Scarface with Al Pacino, apparently to improve his English; he explained to me that fishing had to wait until the moon dropped below the horizon, lest the fish see the awaiting net. He produced a harpoon and told me that it’s sometimes used as a more sporting way to fish. As we waited, more and more people showed up, including an uncle of Mateo, an older bronzed bald man, who was incomprehensibly drunk, but somehow still walking.

Around midnight, six of us loaded in to a mint green 28 year-old VW bus named Claudia. Claudia could not be started by traditional means, but had to be jumped by popping the clutch while rolling, meaning that I would be pushing the bus many times over the course of the night. A beer was produced, seemingly from thin air, and we were off as Claudia roared to life, copiously backfiring.

Our first stop was a volcanic moon rockscape on the edge of town, jetting into the ocean. Mateo handed me an underwater flashlight, which I casually turned on. The beam hit the water and Mateo exclaimed, “No, no! Be careful to never point the light at the water because the fish are intelligent. They associate light with danger and will swim away.” Two of the men had donned wetsuits and snorkel equipment, two pairs of white cotton socks on their feet. Waves were crashing furiously into the rocks, splashing frighteningly high into the air. “They’re actually getting in the water?” I asked, surprised. “Si.”

Mateo explained that they study the waves to learn their cycle to understand the currents, then get in the water with a long net with floaters and weights, and direct the fish into the nets. The fish are scared into the nets by the powerful flashlights, as one man on each end of the net directs them inward. It is one thing to hear this and quite another to witness it. The men slowly lowered themselves into the black water from our elevated perch, somehow impervious to the pounding waves. I could barely see them from even a short distance away. Soon, they were far out, flashlights waving wildly. “Did you see that fish!?”, Mateo asked excitedly, catching details that I could not see with my untrained eyes.

Mateo was not participating that night, but was critical of their technique. “We all have a different tecnica,” he said, “but you can clearly see that they have left an escape route for the fish on one side.” I asked him about the lucrativeness of fishing. A certain base amount is used to feed the family, but the surplus is sold at market the next day. A typical catch brings $400 US dollars, but their best night netted them – no pun intended – a whopping $1,200 US dollars. Two of his uncles have died in fishing-related accidents. One of them devised a method of weights to sink himself to a depth of over 60 meters – no oxygen tank, of course. Once the desired depth was reached, he cut his weights and harpooned a fish and started to ascend. He had miscalculated the amount of time it would take to reach the top, and drowned.

Scarcely 15 minutes had passed and it was all over. The net was tightly wrapped around a wooden stick and thrown into the bus. After a small push, Claudia awoke from her deep slumber, and a fresh beer was produced. We drove to a patch of flat land with yellowed grass, where the net was slowly unrolled and trapped fish started to magically appear, which were removed and placed in a bin. As if by magic, the drunk uncle roused to life, and slowly approached me. It seemed he wanted to impart a few pearls of wisdom to me. He exclaimed, “Las mujeres…” His index finger jetted fiercely into the air to accentuate his point. I was eager to hear what he had to say, certain he would solve a life mystery about women for me. What followed was a series of slurs in Spanish and Rapa Nui, backslaps, and maniacal laughter, apparently pleased with what he had just conveyed. He jetted his hand out, miscalculating in both height and distance, and it ended up somewhere around my clavicle. I took his hand and shook it, and felt a surprising amount of power, given his age and current state.

The two men in wetsuits asked me how to say bebe in English. “Baby,” I said. They were referring to the 17 year-old apprenticing with them. He appeared resentful, in the way teenagers do. I had the opportunity to talk with the 17 year old while the men went out for a second round of fishing. He was born on Easter Island, but had lived much of his life in Tahiti, and thus spoke French. I asked why he wasn’t going to school, and he told me he had been expelled for smoking marijuana, but could return next year if he wished. But that was not in his plans, he said. He would fish for a year, and then go to France to join the Foreign Legion. “Like the movie with Van Damme, you know?” I nodded. The fishermen submerged from the water. “Baby! Come and help us!” Defeated, he went over.

We went for a third, and, as it turns out, ill-fated round of fishing. Just as they were about to enter the water, a boat came by with a powerful floodlight. There would be no more fish to be had, and everyone promptly called it a night. It was not the most bountiful catch, but it would be enough to feed the family for a few days. We drove the 17 year-old to his house, and Mateo told me that Claudia is notorious for waking neighborhoods of people up. Claudia promptly backfired, as if showing her appreciation.

It was four in the morning when we arrived home. Mateo invited Liz and I to a traditional fish BBQ the next day. “You came out with us, so you get to share in the fish.” The drunk uncle, awake once again, delivered another slurred sermon, let out a large belly laugh, grabbed the back of my head, and gave me a hard head-butt. A fitting end to the night.

* * *

The next day we smelled something good coming from the backyard, and wandered outside to find a dozen whole fish crackling over a rustic parrilla fashioned from half of an oil drum. We joined the family circle that had already assembled, and were promptly offered “lay-mon ston-ays.” After agreeing to god-only-knows-what, we were passed a citrus-colored can of Lemon Stones, a curious mix of bad beer and lemon juice, and were relieved when a bottle of Chilean red wine was introduced minutes later. We discussed the events of last night, and I asked more about the drunk uncle. Apparently, he has been known to drink for up to three days straight, and had refused to go to bed the previous night.

When the fish was done, we were served first. A huge pua was placed on each of our plates, alongside fresh greens (where were they getting these vegetables?); roasted kumara, a South Pacific sweet potato; and a mound of yellow arroz fashioned after a volcano, with a plume of mayonnaise on top. We pried away the silvery paper-thin skin and dug into the white flesh. It was one of the best fish I had ever eaten. Even Liz, who hates seafood, nodded enthusiastically and exclaimed, “Que rico!” The rest of the family ate their fish hunched over the grill, which had been transformed to a kind of communal table. “It keeps the flies away.” When we were done, the remains of the fish were thrown back onto the grill. “An offering, so that next time we’ll have good fishing.”

***

Admittedly, when we first arrived, we were a little disappointed with our accommodation. The rooms weren’t as quaint and the view not as spectacular as our usually-trusty Lonely Planet had led us to believe. We briefly considered switching places, but the fishing expedition made us a part of this cozy little family. It’s a little like being in the mafia: once you’re in, you can never leave. And much like real families, for better or worse, they’re your family. And these folks have made us honorary members of their families – at least for the next week.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Today is Thanksgiving, our first major holiday away from home, and truth be told, it’s a little odd. There is no turkey roasting in the oven, no cranberry relish, no visitors, no pies cooling on the counter, no Macy’s Day Parade humming in the background. It just doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving.

We were planning on spending the day with an American friend living near Auckland, but a last-minute clearing of weather meant that Maikael and Tim had a final opportunity to hike the Tongariro Alpine Crossing (better known as Mt. Doom from the Lord of the Rings), and we decided to take a detour and go for it. The Milford Track provided a month’s worth of hiking for me, so I am spending the day back at the hotel, catching up on email, calling my dad, watching DVDs, reading Twilight, and soaking in the spa. “It’s just a regular day,” I’m telling myself, but my mind keeps wandering to thoughts of Thanksgiving. It seems like a good time to pause and put myself in the spirit of the holiday; to give thanks.

During the course of this trip, there are amazing moments, phenomenal people, and sights so beautiful I want to cry. It is easy to feel grateful in these moments. But for every moment of gratitude, there seems to be an experience that causes you to ask yourself, “Why did I go on this trip?” I am always dancing on the thin blade of a double-edged sword, loving and loathing the journey, often in the same breath.

As I’ve said a million time before, traveling around the world is hard work. There are the obvious things that make life difficult like lugging around a 25 pound backpack in 100 degree weather, riding on jangling overnight buses, getting sick, and finding yourself constantly in the process of making plans. All of it is exhausting, but what takes a bigger toll is the emotional wringer, the messed-up mind games that this kind of extended travel plays on you. This trip is one big mirror that has reflected the worst of my personality. The pace we’re keeping has led to short fuses and the inevitable bickering that follows. I’ve threatened to go home more times than I’d care to count. I’ve been known to declare multiple times a day, “I’m not cut out for this. I’m not a traveler.”

But this is the gift of this trip. I am thankful for the opportunity to genuinely face myself, to see myself for who I am, even if I don’t always like what I see. It is through these experiences, through the journey itself, that I am growing. (What I’ve learned about myself in four months would have taken me countless years and thousands of dollars in therapy to reveal!) The gift of time is precious, and I am thankful to have the chance to take a break from my everyday life and reevaluate my place in this crazy world. If I can stop fighting myself and see the opportunities for transformation that this trip presents, I’ll be the better for it.

I am thankful for ALL of our friends and family back home, who have followed our journey with interest and curiosity, and who I am excited to reconnect with in March. I am especially thankful to Mark Monda, who keeps our household running in our absence, and Tim Eriksson, who not only took the time the time to meet us in New Zealand, but keeps our website running from abroad (and is schlepping a bunch of crap home for us). And I am thankful to all the new friends I’ve made while traveling, whose different perspectives are helping to shape the person I am growing into.

Most of all, I am thankful for my husband, Maikael. Even though we sometimes irritate each other to no end and engage in our fair share of bickering, I can’t imagine doing this trip with anyone else. He calmly steps in when I’ve reached the end of my tether and does what needs doing. He encourages me daily to keep going with this trip, and is my greatest supporter. Whatever changes may come as a result of this trip, I know he’ll encourage me to be the best person I can be. And even though it’s sometimes hard to see, I think we’ll emerge from this experience stronger than we went into it.

So while there won’t be any pumpkin pie this year, know that I am in New Zealand, sitting in the shadow of Mt. Doom, feeling incredibly grateful to be here.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Until now, we’ve been out of touch with the presidential election. For those of you back home who have been inundated with election news for months, this must seem impossible. We didn’t learn until recently that Sarah Palin’s name is pronounced Pay-lin, not Paw-lin, and I think we’re the only people on the face of the earth who haven’t seen Tina Fey’s controversial impression of her on Saturday Night Live. The only news we’ve received has been through brief glances at Internet reports or snatches of stories from Americans we’ve met while traveling. But despite the paucity of news, we’ve observed intense interest in the election while traveling the world. We are constantly asked, “When is the election? Who do you think will win? Who do you want to win?” And as the election has drawn closer, we have been badgered with one question: have you cast your ballot? There is clearly a vested interest in the outcome of this election from all corners of the globe.

It felt odd to spending this historic election so far from home, and we wanted nothing more than to be with our countrymen on Election Day, which, given the monumental time difference, falls on Wednesday in Australia. A quick Google search revealed that Democrats Abroad was hosting a party at the Maori Chief Hotel in Melbourne from 10:30 am until “late.” Finger food was promised. We weren’t sure who would attend a party mid-morning on a Wednesday, and feared that we’d walk into a geriatric scene. As we approached the hotel on foot, we saw a sea of Obama ’08 shirts spilling out of a packed bar. Beer, sweat, and anticipation filled the air, and we were directed to an upstairs banquet room. CNN blasted from a large screen television, and we were immediately greeted by Sandeep, the Vice President of Democrats Abroad’s Melbourne Chapter, who was sporting an Uncle Sam Hat, an Obama T-shirt, and a blue velveteen blazer studded with Obama ’08 buttons. He said he was so excited that he couldn’t sleep last night.

We ducked our head into a small room, where partygoers palming schooners of beer were packed in like sardines. Early election results were sprinting across the screen, and a news crew filmed footage of the rabid Democrats, who were pumping their fists and chanting, “O-bam-a, O-bam-a!” We angled for a seat on the outside patio, which was also screening CNN, and settled in for a long afternoon. I immediately noticed the mix of people, from young college students to professionals to retirees. Most of them lived in Australia, and I couldn’t help but wonder how they got the time off work to attend this soirée. As I listened to the unfolding conversations, I was surprised by the number of Australians who had turned out to watch the results. Some were partnered with Americans, but many of them were there to celebrate what they hoped would be a victory.

As Florida and Iowa went to Obama, big cheers waved through the rooms. A cannon shot of victory exploded as it was announced that Obama had taken Ohio. “As Ohio goes, so goes the nation,” Wolf Blitzer reminded us. The most excited viewer was Ishmael from England, who donned skinny black jeans, a funky white shirt, and clapped at everything. I overheard him recount the story of the first time he had heard Obama speak. Ishmael was watching television in Cambodia when Senator Obama was broadcast questioning Condolezza Rica. “I saw this man, who was obviously so smart, and I thought, ‘Who is he?’ I asked my girlfriend to look him up on the Internet. And I knew. I just knew: he was something special.” It was as if he had single-handedly discovered Obama and carried him on his shoulders to the White House. Still, I couldn’t help but admire the guy’s enthusiasm.

Our BLT was delivered (how much more American can you get?), and only the West Coast votes remained to be counted, when a riot of applause swept through the rooms. Suddenly, the television screen flashed, “Obama Elected President.” Ismael was on his feet, screaming. As footage began playing of supporters in Chicago, I watched tears roll down one woman’s cheek. Another man, held in rapt attention, began to cry, his lower lip quivering. We watched McCain’s concession speech in near silence, except for the periodic heckler. When McCain referred to Senator Obama, a lone, Australian-accented voice piped up from the back, “That’s President Obama!” The troops refueled as we waited for Obama to give his acceptance speech, ordering rounds of frothy Cooper’s beer. A bottle of Dom Perignon champagne was produced, chilling in a rustic Budweiser bucket. We knew this would be the pinnacle of the day – indeed, of the last two years. It was the moment we had been waiting for.

As Obama made his way to the stage, a shiver ran up my arms. He began his speech, and electric silence took over. I carefully scanned the room, watching men and women, old and young, Americans and Australians, wipe tears from their eyes. The feeling of hope and optimism that gripped this room, thousands of miles from where the action was taking place, was palpable. I was completely moved, and soon hot tears streamed from my eyes. As Obama referenced the people abroad who were watching this election, a cheer of pride raced through the room. I finally understood, on a very real level, the impact of American politics abroad.

The crowd slowly dispersed after the speech ended, and the mood shifted to a festive party atmosphere. Australians were congratulating Americans, shaking our hands, and we all expressed our genuine hope and excitement for the years to come. It’s sometimes hard to be an American traveling overseas. We as solitary citizens are often blamed for the unpopular politics of our government, and it’s sometimes hard to hear others’ impressions of our nation. But today, as a grassroots participant in this truly global election, I am proud to be an American.