Queridos Amigos,
It was my dream to come to Argentina all my life. My grandfather told us stories about General Jose de San Martin and the long Argentine fight for independence. He carried a copy of Sarmiento, the early literary president of Argentina along with Don Quijote and the Odyssey with him when he crossed the plains in a covered wagon to Nebraska. Later he told us that in crossing the Great Plains he thought they might look like the pampas that Sarmiento described. John Stevens, my grandfather, studied a book of Spanish grammar during his last days at the hospital in Onowa, Iowa. "You never know, he said, "when I might go to Mexico." He infected me with Spanish but it took five generations for the condition to come into full contagion.
Now I was landing in Argentina with my son, his wife from Mexico, Yasmin, and my two bilingual grandchildren, Linda 12, and Andrew, 6. We arrived on August 9 and we were met by Dario who helped us through customs. We were in Canning, town of the international airport, but where were all the people? The streets in the town were empty except for the signs advertising media lunas for breakfast tomorrow. We finally found an Italian deli open. Servers were carrying out giant trays of antipastos: cheeses, olives, cured meats... Parties were going on, but where? It seemed to us that August 9, 2016 was the day the Martians came to Argentina and carried off all of the people. It was a historic day, and we and the Italian deli servers who kindly made room for us on a table they pulled out from behind the wine crates, were the only ones who survived the abduction. Lucky or not?
Well, it was a historic day but it was not until I saw the paper when we arrived in Iguasu the next day that I realized the importance. The front page pictured a throng of thousands in front of La Casa Rosa downtown at the Proclamation marking 200 years of independence for Argentina. The president, the citizens, the soldiers, the musicians and the Italian antipastos were all there, except for us. Argentina's 200th anniversary and we missed it!
El dia de los Amigos
We nearly missed another important celebration, el dio de la Amigos, if it were not for the taxi drivers we came to rely on for local information. It was terrible to forget this day which is as important as Mother's Day in Argentina. It was July 20 and still new in Baires, we had only three friends: Marlen, a native Argentine who invited us to her elegant apartment in Ricoleta, the area of parks and statues, Paula, the young dean of education, who showed us all around Baires on our arrival, and Peter, recently arrived back home from his native Scotland. How to get messages to our three friends?
When we returned home from the museum, I found Marlen sent a message about a friendship between a rose and a frog. One day, the cobra said to the rose, "You are so beautiful. Why do you have the ugly frog for your friend?" So the rose told the frog he could no longer come to the garden to see her. The frog was very sad, but one day he did come back to the garden and saw the rose looking wilted. He asked, "What happened?" The rose said, "When you were here you ate the insects and the aphids who attacked me. Now there is no one to take care of me. Please forgive me". The rose and the frog became friends again and she was restored to her former beauty.
At dinner I told this parable to my family. They were captivated.
"Don't listen to the Cobra," said Andrew.
"Be kind to people that help you," said Linda.
"Know who has your back," said Tom.
I found out the history of el dia de las Amigos. It was proclaimed by an Argentine senator in honor of Apollo XI manned by US and Russian astronauts which landed on the moon on July 20, 1969. Ironically, it was also the day on which I published the first issue of Cafe Solo.
July 28, 2016
It was the day we visited the tomb in the famous Ricoleta cemetery of Evita, the most controversial woman in Argentine history and its president. She was the champion of the homeless women and orphans and she built a home for them which is now a museum showing her gorgeous gowns and jewels she wore at receptions. She became so powerful that it is rumored that her husband, Juan Peron, had a lobotomy performed to keep her under control. He himself escaped on an underground passageway to a ship headed to Uruguay. Evita's greatest fear was that she would be forgotten. Judging by the cascade of flowers on her tomb and the poems pinned to the stone, she will never be forgotten.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
The Sacred Brew...Mate Instead of Cafe?
Queridos amigos,
The truth is you can have both. We tried to order tea when we first arrived in Baires only to be turned down over and over again,. The leather cup is so handsome and the silver bombilla so elegant, what did we have to do to become initiated? We already knew the mystique and would try not to commit a faux pas like actually touching the bombilla. We knew the cebador had to pour the mate and pass it to you and then you had to polish it off in a single gulp. We learned to recognize the thermos that people carried with them which carried the sacred brew. The cebradores did not seem at all mysterious. They looked like normal workmen. Or maybe that was the mate costume? They told us in cafes that it was only offered in homes and at special parties. Surely some hospitable person would invite us. Hint, hint.
We tried to let go of our obsession. Linda and Andrew became content with hand squeezed and stirred limonadas which we thought delicious too. Tom learned to order cortados, the demitasse cup of espresso by making cutting motions with his first two fingers. Often a cortado came after dinner with a caramel dessert called "dulce de leche", called "cajeta" in Mexico. There was a special breakfast roll called "dulce de leche" which my morning routine led me to buy along with the media lunes. You could buy a dozen breakfast rolls for a hundred peso note, about $7. The hundred peso note indeed seemed to be the lynch pin of local currency. Everything was a multiple of a hundred pesos. Evita's picture was on it and I showed it to Luis, my hairdresser when I wanted him to do my hair in an up-sweep like hers. You will forgive me for digressing to confide that in the middle of one coiffure Luis exclaimed, "Oh my God, Que belleza!". Everyone in the salon came running out to admire his creation. I knew they were drinking mate in the back room, but even as the object of admiration I was not offered a sip.
We also loved to drink cafe con lagrimas, milk with only a tear drop of coffee before bed, guaranteed for dreams of a handsome tango partner. I might have asked Luis had there been any mate in the picture. I named my magazine "Cafe Solo" fifty years ago. Should I adopt "Mate" for the title now? I had to come to terms with this passion, either forget it or acquire it.
The day before we left I was finally invited for mate by the homeless man I had befriended. He looked so sad and starving that I started bringing him all my left over dinners. Don Julio's, our favorite steak house, was more than obliging to package up the miraculous lomo (please forgive me for abandoning my vegetarian regimen). I also bought a leather suitcase. My cashmere sweater and fox fur cape will forever remain a secret but I will wear my waterproof gaucho hat during the California rains. When in the pampas do as the gauchos do.
My benefactor was consuming the mate in the park where Yasmin and I took the children to feed left over media lunas to the las palomas. A groups of scruffy men and women gathered around him. We often give them our small peso bills. Now he was offering me my heart's desire. I said, "gracias" to this cebrador and accepted the taza. I drank it down. The brew was not ambrosia, but the ceremony was sacred. It would have been a mortal insult to refuse. At last I became an authentic porteno.
I do not think it was the kind homeless group that gave me pneumonia. I think it was the stale air in the airplane. Shortly after our return I couldn't breathe. Tom took me to emergency and the hospital kept me there for three days. That is why, querido amigos, you have not heard from me. More soon now that I am well.
Abrazos,
Glenna
The truth is you can have both. We tried to order tea when we first arrived in Baires only to be turned down over and over again,. The leather cup is so handsome and the silver bombilla so elegant, what did we have to do to become initiated? We already knew the mystique and would try not to commit a faux pas like actually touching the bombilla. We knew the cebador had to pour the mate and pass it to you and then you had to polish it off in a single gulp. We learned to recognize the thermos that people carried with them which carried the sacred brew. The cebradores did not seem at all mysterious. They looked like normal workmen. Or maybe that was the mate costume? They told us in cafes that it was only offered in homes and at special parties. Surely some hospitable person would invite us. Hint, hint.
We tried to let go of our obsession. Linda and Andrew became content with hand squeezed and stirred limonadas which we thought delicious too. Tom learned to order cortados, the demitasse cup of espresso by making cutting motions with his first two fingers. Often a cortado came after dinner with a caramel dessert called "dulce de leche", called "cajeta" in Mexico. There was a special breakfast roll called "dulce de leche" which my morning routine led me to buy along with the media lunes. You could buy a dozen breakfast rolls for a hundred peso note, about $7. The hundred peso note indeed seemed to be the lynch pin of local currency. Everything was a multiple of a hundred pesos. Evita's picture was on it and I showed it to Luis, my hairdresser when I wanted him to do my hair in an up-sweep like hers. You will forgive me for digressing to confide that in the middle of one coiffure Luis exclaimed, "Oh my God, Que belleza!". Everyone in the salon came running out to admire his creation. I knew they were drinking mate in the back room, but even as the object of admiration I was not offered a sip.
We also loved to drink cafe con lagrimas, milk with only a tear drop of coffee before bed, guaranteed for dreams of a handsome tango partner. I might have asked Luis had there been any mate in the picture. I named my magazine "Cafe Solo" fifty years ago. Should I adopt "Mate" for the title now? I had to come to terms with this passion, either forget it or acquire it.
The day before we left I was finally invited for mate by the homeless man I had befriended. He looked so sad and starving that I started bringing him all my left over dinners. Don Julio's, our favorite steak house, was more than obliging to package up the miraculous lomo (please forgive me for abandoning my vegetarian regimen). I also bought a leather suitcase. My cashmere sweater and fox fur cape will forever remain a secret but I will wear my waterproof gaucho hat during the California rains. When in the pampas do as the gauchos do.
My benefactor was consuming the mate in the park where Yasmin and I took the children to feed left over media lunas to the las palomas. A groups of scruffy men and women gathered around him. We often give them our small peso bills. Now he was offering me my heart's desire. I said, "gracias" to this cebrador and accepted the taza. I drank it down. The brew was not ambrosia, but the ceremony was sacred. It would have been a mortal insult to refuse. At last I became an authentic porteno.
I do not think it was the kind homeless group that gave me pneumonia. I think it was the stale air in the airplane. Shortly after our return I couldn't breathe. Tom took me to emergency and the hospital kept me there for three days. That is why, querido amigos, you have not heard from me. More soon now that I am well.
Abrazos,
Glenna
Monday, August 8, 2016
Euphoric at Home
Queridos amigos,
I can't tell you how euphoric I feel to be safe in the United Stages again. I never felt threatened in Argentina, but there were always the potholes in the street, a language with a different vocabulary than the Spanish I had learned, a peso in which you were deluged with bills and more bills, some of them of less value of a dime, the word of "miedo" on everyone's tongue: fear of rising gas, water, and electricity plus shrinking social security, and the explosions on the streets when I went with Tom for his final lecture at San Andres City College near the Ministry of Labor.
There were the succulent steak dinners following his lectures, but I also can't tell you how thrilled I was to visit the fruits and vegetables this morning at Trader Joe's. In Buenos Aires fruits and vegetables were prized displays, arranged in boxes like precious gifts covered with Saran Wrap so no one could steal or pinch them. It's too cold in the Argentine winter to grow many vegetables or fruits. My mouth watered during our meat-infused month when I passed the outdoor display of Brussels sprouts. I had forgotten the time for them.
It's "repollitos de Bruselas." I found them at Trader Joe's and that's what I'm cooking tonight for supper at Tom's house.
When Tom and I got to the airport to leave Baires we ran into the porter Dario who had met us when we first landed a month ago. He asked about Yasmin and the children who returned a week earlier for school schedules. He found a wheelchair for me and whisked me through the visa and custom's process. Because of the kind Latin disposition toward the elderly and people with disablities, it is heavenly to travel there. Dario said to let him know (he has a Facebook account) when next we came and he would meet us. Despite my passion
for American fruits and vegetables, I don't think I could find replacements for dear friends we made in only a month: Paula, Tom's counterpart, who drove us all through the city and offered me my first view of The Rio de la Plata. Peter, an immigrant from Scotland who offered me a valued place in his magazine, and Marlen, a widow like myself, who invited us into her home in beautiful Ricoleta, the area of lovely parks and museums. It was Marlen who demystified us about the the explosions that night. It may have been in protest of one of the mothers of the desapracidos, the dissidents who had been tossed out of airplanes during the "dirty war." This mother was granted repatriation for her group but then was later criticized for vanishing with the money.
This morning I was able to see my grandchildren off to Andrew's first grade and Linda's Junior High. What a blessing to live this long in good health and except for traveling, able to take long walks on my own two feet. What a blessing to return and still carry the prospect of returning to Argentina in the future. At the bottom of my purse I found four 100 peso notes so I am good to go.
Abrazos y todos!
I can't tell you how euphoric I feel to be safe in the United Stages again. I never felt threatened in Argentina, but there were always the potholes in the street, a language with a different vocabulary than the Spanish I had learned, a peso in which you were deluged with bills and more bills, some of them of less value of a dime, the word of "miedo" on everyone's tongue: fear of rising gas, water, and electricity plus shrinking social security, and the explosions on the streets when I went with Tom for his final lecture at San Andres City College near the Ministry of Labor.
There were the succulent steak dinners following his lectures, but I also can't tell you how thrilled I was to visit the fruits and vegetables this morning at Trader Joe's. In Buenos Aires fruits and vegetables were prized displays, arranged in boxes like precious gifts covered with Saran Wrap so no one could steal or pinch them. It's too cold in the Argentine winter to grow many vegetables or fruits. My mouth watered during our meat-infused month when I passed the outdoor display of Brussels sprouts. I had forgotten the time for them.
It's "repollitos de Bruselas." I found them at Trader Joe's and that's what I'm cooking tonight for supper at Tom's house.
When Tom and I got to the airport to leave Baires we ran into the porter Dario who had met us when we first landed a month ago. He asked about Yasmin and the children who returned a week earlier for school schedules. He found a wheelchair for me and whisked me through the visa and custom's process. Because of the kind Latin disposition toward the elderly and people with disablities, it is heavenly to travel there. Dario said to let him know (he has a Facebook account) when next we came and he would meet us. Despite my passion
for American fruits and vegetables, I don't think I could find replacements for dear friends we made in only a month: Paula, Tom's counterpart, who drove us all through the city and offered me my first view of The Rio de la Plata. Peter, an immigrant from Scotland who offered me a valued place in his magazine, and Marlen, a widow like myself, who invited us into her home in beautiful Ricoleta, the area of lovely parks and museums. It was Marlen who demystified us about the the explosions that night. It may have been in protest of one of the mothers of the desapracidos, the dissidents who had been tossed out of airplanes during the "dirty war." This mother was granted repatriation for her group but then was later criticized for vanishing with the money.
This morning I was able to see my grandchildren off to Andrew's first grade and Linda's Junior High. What a blessing to live this long in good health and except for traveling, able to take long walks on my own two feet. What a blessing to return and still carry the prospect of returning to Argentina in the future. At the bottom of my purse I found four 100 peso notes so I am good to go.
Abrazos y todos!
Friday, August 5, 2016
Kissing Goodbye
Queridos Amigos,
Our friend Peter is coming this morning for despedida, a goodbye time set for onces, morning tea. Although he is a Scotsman and I do have scones on the table, I will try to persuade him to drink mate with me. You don't really know a Porteno unless you drink mate with him or her. It's the same with the Argentine kiss and the tango.
The kiss starts with a running leap for the cheekbone. You try not to knock anyone over. Men kiss men, women kiss women, and men and women kiss. Everyone kisses! We were surprised when the graduate student assigned to pick-up Tom lunged for his cheek. Now we've gotten good at it.
The tango is a passionate but serious, unsmiling dance performed with lips touching but no kissing. The tango developed as a dance men on the pampas, but now the woman takes the lead with great strides forward. Women seem to press forward with life and politics. They have elected two women presidents here already so they are not very impressed with our prospects of a woman president.
Besos y todos!
Our friend Peter is coming this morning for despedida, a goodbye time set for onces, morning tea. Although he is a Scotsman and I do have scones on the table, I will try to persuade him to drink mate with me. You don't really know a Porteno unless you drink mate with him or her. It's the same with the Argentine kiss and the tango.
The kiss starts with a running leap for the cheekbone. You try not to knock anyone over. Men kiss men, women kiss women, and men and women kiss. Everyone kisses! We were surprised when the graduate student assigned to pick-up Tom lunged for his cheek. Now we've gotten good at it.
The tango is a passionate but serious, unsmiling dance performed with lips touching but no kissing. The tango developed as a dance men on the pampas, but now the woman takes the lead with great strides forward. Women seem to press forward with life and politics. They have elected two women presidents here already so they are not very impressed with our prospects of a woman president.
Besos y todos!
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Preparing to Leave Baires
Queridos Amigos,
When I arrived in Argentina a month ago my only intentions were to pay homage to the latitude where Linda was conceived sixty years ago, and to scatter Bill's ashes at Iguazu Falls. Bill had always wanted to visit Iguazu when we came to Brazil years ago for him to deliver a paper which was translated into Spanish from English, but we never got to see the mighty falls. I am so fortunate to have the opportunity to visit Iguaza Falls with my family.
Now I am busy as my son Tom and I prepare to leave. I am planning the unfolding of the day as I drink mate. When I started my magazine fifty years ago I named it Cafe Solo after the strong black coffee we drank in Colombia. Now I think mate is a brew that suits it better. A cebrador pours brewed tea into a leather-lined cup which is passed from person to person. Each person sips from a bombilla to drink the herba dry. Everyone who is nearby is invited to the ritual... the postman, cleaning lady...it is bad form to touch the bombilla. I like the taste of the tea which is like my favorite oolong. I like the idea of passing around the spirit of the circle as well. It has the strong, audacious sense of the tango (more about that in the future). I have become a porteno during my month here. Everyone asks when we'll return. I pray we do and for a longer time.
My first task today is to clean out the refrigerator which frightens me like the refrigerator in the Douglas Adams story which took on a life of its own. Whenever the family went out to eat here in Baires, we ordered the delicious lomo at a parilla. Unable to eat it all, we always took it home. Now, there is a month's supply of lomo which we must find a home for. It is just too fabulous to throw away! Kind-hearted Yasmine liked to give the box to a beggar on the street, but it's a tribute to Buenos Aires that there are so few beggars, only the mate drinking homeless in the park who On our trip to Uruguay we wrapped up all the left-over chicken, fish and lomo dinners and took them for a walk on the beach of Rio de la Plata. It has been a lifetime dream to visit the river and put an elbow into it. As a child of the State between the Missouri and the Misssissippi, I revere Iowa the place that did not seem that cold for wading. Unfortunately, we didn't find any poor people there, or any people at all, to receive our bountiful doggie bag. We did make friends with a lone dog, La Mancha, who happily wolfed down all of our leftovers. Now that Yasmin and the children have left for school, I suppose Tom and I will have to go to the park we visited every day to feed the pigeons and the parakeets, and offer the lomo to the dogs who chase the pigeons.
Soon I must say farewell to the shopkeepers I befriended: the pandaleria where we bought our media lunas and dulce de leche every morning, the lavenderia which washed our clothes every week, and to my hairdresser, Luis, who refused to cut my hair. "No, I won't do it!," he protested in Spanish, "it is too beautiful, I will wash it and comb it." Yesterday was special as I planned to go hear Tom's end of term speech and go to dinner with his colleagues. Luis went to work. In the middle of the coiffure, he stopped. "Oh my God!, he exclaimed, I have never done anything so beautiful." He made me feel wonderful and it was certainly worth the $20 including tip he charged.
To get to Tom's speech we took a taxi through avenues of Buenos Aires that I had never visited before. This is winter and to honor Tom I wore a woolen skirt and was freezing! I forgot about the cold however during his talk about education in an auditorium full of educators and graduate students. They seemed rapt with attention and eagerly questioned him after the talk. I felt so proud. After the talk some of Tom's co-workers took us to the Nautical Club for supper. I ordered salmon from the Rio Plata. They revere the river here as I do and insisted we pay homage to it before warming-up inside. I will stand in the cold for the Rio de la Plata any day!
The conversation that night was one of the most fascinating I have had during my month here. Upper class women who were finishing their doctoral studies in education told of their conversations with the Minister of Education and of their passion for further educating Argentina. They believe education is the hope for their country. I feel they are the hope of their country. When I told them how thrilled I was by their commitment, Paula, Tom's Fulbright guide, asked me, "why are you so surprised ?". Maybe I wasn't surprised, just thrilled.
Queridos amigos, I am so grateful to you who have had faith in my journey all this time. How miraculous I could go through life with you.
Adios, muchachos, companeros, de mi vida..........
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Out on the Town
Last night Tom and I went out on the town with our friend, Peter a Scot who has lived in Buenos Aires for 15 years. He took us to a coffee house, Cafe Tortoni, which is the place to go but we had never been there. Then, we were off to a wine bar. Most cafe's don't start swinging until 3 a.m., but thankfully we were home early.
Saturday, we took one of Tom's colleague's out to a favorite steak house, Don Julio's....everyone devours steak here! Then, she treated us to delicious ice cream. The ice cream places are also open until midnight with people steaming into the streets.
We are still figuring out the customs here. Like the custom of mate....we tried to order it upon first arriving in Mendoza but the server explained that mate was only served in the home or on special occasions. We went to a tango performance, it is such a passionate, aggressive, unsmiling dance, just like the city.
Saturday, we took one of Tom's colleague's out to a favorite steak house, Don Julio's....everyone devours steak here! Then, she treated us to delicious ice cream. The ice cream places are also open until midnight with people steaming into the streets.
We are still figuring out the customs here. Like the custom of mate....we tried to order it upon first arriving in Mendoza but the server explained that mate was only served in the home or on special occasions. We went to a tango performance, it is such a passionate, aggressive, unsmiling dance, just like the city.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Wildness Lost Forever?
We had the idea that we could please the paraquits by offering them food from the
jungle: bananas and mangos. Sadly, they refused what we supposed was their native food and instead fought with the pigeons for the white bread.
Given a choice, would every creature become civilized and wildness lost forever?
I, for one, cherish my tenth floor apartment with the Baires lights at my feet and the bright winter's sun moving in across my balcony.
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