Minus the Turkey: Thanksgiving a la Porteña

I guess I would best describe it as May. Though it would be May in New York, not in Boston, because anyone who is from either city can tell you that a spring in Massachusetts is quite different from a spring in New York, and no two springs are alike. Every year it seems as though May is a wash out in New England, yet people are always surprised. It’s supposed to be nice, but of course it’s not. That’s exactly what I’m experiencing now in Buenos Aires. But the only difference is that it’s late November.

After going through your entire life with an expectation that the weather will be a certain way during a certain month, it’s hard to accept what your eyes see and your senses feel. I am sweating in this humidity, but the date on the calendar says November 27^th. An error message is popping up in my brain, telling me to reboot. Yesterday was Thanksgiving, giving a totally different perspective on the holiday.

All I can think of in terms of this day is the crisp air outside a boiling hot apartment in Brooklyn, the golden-brown-red leaves dangling from trees like a child’s teeth as their body pushes them out to make way for the new guys. The deep blue sky of impending winter and the looming storm front that inevitably comes, just in time for some cocoa, a fireplace, and a football game that puts you to sleep after stuffing your face with, well stuffing. Turkey, cranberry sauce, pie, more turkey, coffee, more pie, and finally a late night shwarma and beer if you have nothing else to do and just need to get out of that stinking hot apartment with no cable. This is the Thanksgiving I grew up with, yet in the humid spring of Buenos Aires, it was another world and another age.

I was pretty sure I was going to spend the holiday alone, frying up a steak and looking through pictures while listening to music—a standard night. But in the morning my new friend Tami said she was going to take care of everything. She called up a few friends and invited me over to her house for a Thanksgiving dinner, a la porteña, at 9 pm. A little late by most accounts, but since it wasn’t a holiday here, we all had to work a full day anyway.

Traditionally Argentinian, I showed up a bit late and found that the table was filled for a feast, though there were only five of us; Tami, her sister, and two other friends joined me in an American holiday. This would be their first Thanksgiving, and I explained a bit of what we normally do, such as eat, talk, watch football, and pass out. This was more than I could have hoped for, and I am still in a bit of shock that someone could be so friendly and throw together a feast like that out of no where. I just met her last week, after all.

Everything you could want was there. Minus the turkey. That was all that was missing, and though it’s the main ingredient in a Thanksgiving feast, the most important thing is just having people to share it with. The girls had prepared potatoes, Spanish rice, eggs that no one even touched, and to make it truly Argentinian, milanesa de carne, which is like a breaded meat. Somehow they even found cranberries, and though it wasn’t in sauce form, it went perfectly with the milanesa. We wound up not even eating half of the food, there was so much.

In continuing with the Argentinianization of the holiday, the conversation went late into the night, passing beyond 12:30 am. I kept thinking at some point someone would say it’s time to go home, but eventually Tami saw me yawning continuously and told me this could go on for hours. So she called up a taxi and I said my goodbyes. I don’t know when, if ever, porteños sleep, but they’ve found a way to function without it. I, on the other hand, still love my minimum 7-8 hours a night.

So passed my Thanksgiving in Argentina, but I don’t think it was just for my benefit. It was their first Thanksgiving too, and if anything it helped to spread a little bit of understanding between two cultures. We aren’t so different, but there are always things that will be unknown until they are introduced into the marketplace of conversation and experience. That’s what I love the most about traveling—the sharing and mixing of cultures and traditions. It’s something you have to witness and take part in to really understand.

My high school 5 year reunion is tonight, and instead of catching up with old friends who I haven’t seen in years, I am on another continent on the other side of the world. But I’m thankful that I’ve been able to make some new friends here. I’ll take that and call it a day.

Be Thankful

I just read this incredible essay from the New York Times. The essay is written by Afghanistan War veteran Erik Malmstrom, who is currently studying at the Kennedy School of Government and Harvard Business School. The essay, which reflects on loss in the war, is written simply and eloquently. Read this article, and be thankful for what you have this Thanksgiving.

No Turkey Day for Jon

While I could list in detail all the ways in which this year is different than last year, I won’t. Previous writings have already shown the differences, and it would be redundant to go through it all again. But instead, let’s just focus on a single point. Thanksgiving is coming up tomorrow, and I think I’m going to feel pretty homesick on this occasion. It’s not that Thanksgiving was ever a particularly important holiday in my family, but just the idea of doing something very American and being with family, or friends, is something to be desired.

For years we would pile into a car and drive down to Brooklyn, beating the traffic if we were lucky and arriving hours too early. We didn’t even have a traditional big turkey, because for some reason my grandma always wanted to cut it up the night before, causing it to dry out hours before it was ready. And in the last couple of years that I was home, my dad would take my brother and sister and a couple of cousins out to a bar and for shwarma in the Village later at night.

Last year was my first Thanksgiving away from home, but it really wasn’t all that bad. On Thanksgiving day I was actually climbing Chimborazo volcano with a friend, heading up with the last iceman of Chimborazo. I didn’t even realize it was Thanksgiving until later that day after we had come back down the mountain. I went back to Cuenca the next day, and that following Saturday my friend Lauren hosted a feast at her host sisters’ apartment, along with several Ecuadorians and a few gringos in the mix. It was also the night I met my good friend Jamie, which I can use as a bookmark later events throughout the year.

I was away from home but it didn’t really matter much because I formed a group of volunteers who were also away from home. So we at least had each other in that regard. And obviously I am now alone in Buenos Aires. I know a handful of expats here, but they are either English or vegetarians, and no one has even mentioned Thanksgiving. Even if someone had, I don’t know what we could do. It’s hard enough to find just sliced turkey breast at the supermarket, let alone a giant turkey fit for a holiday meal.

I don’t generally get homesick, and I try not to think about being at home so that I can enjoy myself in the moment. But I will definitely be missing being at home tomorrow afternoon. While I’m at work, dodging the humidity, everyone back home will be rubbing their bellies and picking their teeth while plopping down on the couch to watch a terrible football game (most likely involving the Lions). I don’t even have a couch, nor can I watch football games at home anymore.

So after work is over I’ll most likely come home and fry up a steak, to enjoy Thanksgiving in the Argentinian fashion. It’s not an ideal situation, but it’s the best I can do with what I’ve got.

Above: Photo by Joits

Get Your Own Culture!

How does one truly describe what culture is? You can go across the sea, visit museums, drink different wines and eat different foods, all in an attempt to get some culture. Listen to classical music, watch a foreign film, or see a play. Whatever it is that makes you think differently, well, that might just be on the right path. In my time overseas I’ve often had to explain that the United States doesn’t really have a culture of its own, partly because it’s such a young country and because it has borrowed from others because of the immigrants who settled there. Many Americans feel the same way. We are a “melting pot”, so they say. I haven't really believed in the whole "melting pot" idea since high school, but I at least thought that we had an eclectic gathering. However, as of last night, my thoughts on this have changed.

I was fortunate enough to get free tickets to dinner and a tango show at El Viejo Almacén, the oldest tango club in the city, founded in 1969. It’s also considered one of the best tango clubs around. I’ve been sort of a naysayer about tango since I got here, seeing only the street performers, and viewing it as a show put on only for the tourists. Not many Argentinians actually dance it, taking away from the authenticity of it in my eyes. But on Sunday at the San Telmo fair I heard a street band perform, and I could actually hear the pain in the songs. I was intrigued. Then I saw the show last night.

I’ve converted now. I wouldn’t say I love tango, but I appreciate it as an art, and just watching the dancers spinning and flying through the air proves that it takes work and dedication. I still think it’s for the tourists, especially after the show when a singer said good night in 15 languages, but there’s a clear difference between street performers and club performers. They deserve the high prices that are charged on the tickets.

Anyway, there are three main things that come to my mind when I think of Argentinian culture: steak, wine, and tango. You can also throw in soccer, hand gestures, etc, but before coming down here while planning a trip with my friend Kristine, we agreed on those three things over and over. Tango is a big part of Argentinian culture, so last night during the show I started thinking. Why does Argentina have such a rich and obvious culture, while the United States doesn’t? Both countries were built up by immigrants, and Argentina is younger than the U.S. The U.S. doesn’t have “typical” food, perhaps, but Argentina has just as many pizza shops, Chinese restaurants, and other international food options as well.

I can no longer say that the U.S. has no definable culture because I think the truth is that we have one that is clear cut, but we simply do not like it and thus close our eyes to it. Some cultures involve late night dinners and all night dancing, others include famous dances or folk songs. Ours is a more plastic culture. We have fast food, malls, long work schedules, and reality TV. Our culture is one that creates contempt in people around the globe because it lacks any significant contribution to the world, and when we can’t understand why they don’t like our culture, we assume it must be that they are jealous of our successes.

We don’t limit ourselves to borrowing from other cultures, but we impose ours on others. On Avenida 9 de Julio in downtown Buenos Aires, right by Avenida Corrientes, there is a giant McDonald’s. Just down the street there is a big Burger King. And just a few doors down from that Burger King, is another McDonald’s. My only guess could be that the 2^nd McDonald’s is a back up in case too many fat people try to leave the first at the same time and get lodged in the door frame. This is what foreigners see as our culture. Some like it, others don’t.

But if we are to expect that other cultures are founded on dances, songs, and lifestyles, then we must accept that ours is defined by the same characteristics. It might not be glamorous, but ours is a castle built on greasy food, hard work, and cheap television programming. And how long will those pillars hold?

Above: El Viejo Almacén

Canary in the Coal Mine

This following story was written by my friend Lewis ‘Lucho’ Wheelwright. I met Lucho in Cuenca, where he has been working for the last year as a study abroad program coordinator. He writes about some of the very sentiments that I have written on in the past, and presents a really nice and reflective voice on his perceptions of his place in Cuenca. So I offered to publish his story on Travel Guy, so that more people would be able to read it. Take a look, and leave some comments so he can get some feedback on his writing, which I think shows a lot of potential, considering he just started.

I think that every traveller at heart feels restless. It’s the kind of feeling which originates from passion, and is driven by unrelenting desire. It grabs you, lets you know it’s there, and shakes you by the shoulders as if to tell you to return yourself to the unknown. It is a time when majestic photos of sprawling white mountain ranges, every word of Kerouac or Thoreau speaking of the great vastness and the “ success unexpected in common hours,” and every leathery  sun-worn local face leaves us with a deep and inexplicable aching of the soul. The feeling from the gut, much as if jumping unknowingly from a plane, giving one the mentally confused, sensory overloaded, stomach dropping feeling which slaps you into a stupor. The legs bounce and a primordial voice whispering “move.” The heart beats, and then it passes until subconsciously stimulated again.


I am not a stagnant individual, nor am I one who is willing to settle. I would not fall, even though I might wish, under the category of “mochilero” or backpacking vagabond. Although I dream of the worn travellers shoes, with toes ignobly poking out, a road-weathered face only broken by the circular 1950s goggle shape from too much foreign road dust. No, no such nomadic meanderings have I completed, yet I would describe myself as itinerant; rather, ‘pata caliente’ or literally, hot-footed and restlessly adventurous, but stable for periods at a time.  

It is when the internal sands stop moving that this inner goliath grabs you and screams for something new. It burns to be let out of its comfort zone and begs to be placed on the wire. If to be just running for a bus, wide-eyed and nervous. The only real answer is to feed its insatiable hunger for something. Perhaps just a lick of burned earth wafting through a window, a lazy, loosely connected ceiling fan blowing in rank humid city air, or the jittery feeling of unfamiliar streets is that prescription which kills the voracious beast. Perhaps just a new type of frosty brew, maybe one like Ecuador’s Pilsener, which is Ecuatorianamente Refrescante, or “Ecuadorianally Refreshing” might cure all that ails.


Last week I completed my first full year here in Ecuador. A milestone in my book of international living. This day seemed to touch a nerve or re-awaken something sleeping. Now, the big elephant of a question that sits in the small room in my head, who normally is at peace, has decided to move into a fragile antique shop of my memories. It blithers non-stop about my past adventures, weighing in on the shoulds and should nots, asking “Where next?” and “How?” threatening to bring up every last great memory I had.  It comes on fast like a badly poured beer, rushing to the top while you unsuccessfully struggle to sip off the excess froth before running out of breath. Too much, too fast and you find yourself more confused than before.

If I have realized anything throughout my last year here, it’s that the simple things in life are what I miss. Although, I might go so far as to say that it’s the simple things in life that keep me here as well. True, a brilliant, colorful fall will never been seen in Ecuador,  but  the pace of life, the fingertips of the wild creeping at the city’s edges, and the forever lasting summer is one of the things that makes this second home so appealing. 


I frequently wonder why I left the amenities of my New England life behind. Perhaps I love being able to play with the Spanish language and to see a shocked face when I speak the local lingo, or it might be that I see people on the street, and they recognize me as if I at were home. Maybe I wait for my South American epiphany—Kerouac style—breaking through the clouds to provide momentous clarity on life. Or perhaps I am still waiting to take my Che Guevara motorcycle ride through the Andes, hoping for my moment of soul searching amongst the Incan ruins, travelling the dusty road, my thoughts vividly transposed into experiential writings.


Even as I wait for these possibly unattainable desires I realize that perhaps this is not the goal. There is ample time down here on the equator, plenty of warm faces, as well as rich communities and history in which I can peaceably pass my time. Yet I am feeling my feet itch and I am no longer passing my time peaceably. It’s as if to have a great urge to use the bathroom on a bumpy road, jammed between 5 non-English speaking passengers in a hot and overcrowded car. Uncomfortable at best. So the true question that lies at the heart of all of this is how to pass this feeling. The truth really is that I am living it in this moment, and my thoughts of returning to my homeland, moving to another country, or just a simple vacation are all running through my head. Which one will calm the urge, and tame the beast I do not know. I feel that this is a point which many arrive to, can perhaps delay for a while, but must eventually face. The challenge is with what, and more importantly, when will our “hot-feet” cool down, and allow us peace and tranquillity in being comfortable somewhere. Or better yet, do we want this?  

By Lewis Wheelwright 

Touristing

Thursday was a good day. One of those days you wish could be repeated. The weather was beautiful and I spent the afternoon out of the office visiting a few locations with a client. I was going to El Zanjón, a system of ancient tunnels and facilities from the original settlement of Buenos Aires, so that I could write some information about it. These facilities were restored privately over 24 years, and now serve as a museum and function hall. After getting a private tour of the facilities, I tagged along to visit some other sites in Buenos Aires with the client, including El Viejo Almacen, the oldest tango club in the city, Circular Militar, and Museo Evita.

Getting out of the office was great and really gave me a better view on parts of the city I hadn't yet seen, allowing me to do my job better. Even with a lousy weekend (weather-wise) I kept up with the touristy things. On little sleep Saturday, I went with some friends to MALBA, or the Museo Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires, to get a little culture. The main draw was the Andy Warhol exhibit, which is on display there from October to February, showing his famous work, including the cans of soup.

It cost $15 pesos to get in, which we debated on the value of. Yet the Warhol exhibit was still worthwhile. The museum features art from all over Latin America, and even a few from else where. I had to write about the museum last week for work, so I was curious to finally see it. A light mist was falling outside, and it was the perfect place to be on such a day. If you are traveling through Buenos Aires from now through February, you should check out the exhibit. No pictures are allowed at the museum, which is the reason you won't see any from me.

Today I went back to El Zanjón to get a more comprehensive tour, as I was invited back by my guide (and new friend) Tami. After touring through the facilities again, we walked around San Telmo's street fair, seeing tango performances and a tango band perform modern songs. Though it's extremely touristy and I've only been there 2 or 3 times for that reason, it was interesting being there today. Again, the weather was weird and gray, but altogether pleasant. We wrapped up San Telmo with some good pizza at Sr. Telmo, then headed up north to Tami's neighborhood.

The neighborhood was very residential--green with trees everywhere, parks, and a few cafes, it was a place that no tourist will ever go. Some ambassadors live there, and mansions line the streets. We sat in the park as a drizzle started to fall, and it was hard to imagine that it was still Buenos Aires. I really need to get out of the center more often. I think that to date, that neighborhood was one of my favorite places in the city. But I'm sorry, I'm not going to say where it is. I'd prefer, selfishly, to keep it a secret so that it doesn't become clogged with tourists. Not that I'm so egotistical as to imagine that this blog holds any serious power, but sometimes there is a special corner that you just want to keep like a secret. This one stays with me, and maybe a few good friends.

Has Technology Ruined Us (Me)? or: Damn Math Part 2

I don’t know if I’m alone on that one. Has technology totally done us in? People can’t even figure out tips anymore unless their cell phone has an option for it. I think about going to the movies. I love going to a theater to watch a new movie. There’s something so exciting and special about it that I’ve felt since I was a kid. You walk into this room in the dark, look for a seat as your shoes squeak off the sticky floor, and wait patiently. There’s the key—patience. The movie plays at its convenience, not yours, meaning you have to actually want to see it, not just put on a movie at any time because you are in front of the TV.

Maybe you’ve got some snacks or popcorn, an enormous soda. The screen goes a bit to the side and people yell, but it gets fixed. The noise of the projector at the back of the room, and the imperfect sound. These minor things that retain the human element, and remind you that you are in fact, simply watching something, but not involved. We used to have trivia to entertain us as we waited, though now it’s commercials, and they keep coming up with more complex food and ways to make you feel like you’re at home. But if ask me, I want to feel like I’m out and doing something. If I’m watching the movie at home, I’ll pause it and go to the bathroom. At the theater, I wait until the end.

But going to the movies isn’t such a simple thing anymore, mainly because of the technology. I imagine in the 1930s, people would pack movie theaters and watch the news reels before the show, talking of FDR and the New Deal, why you should buy government bonds, and how the Germans were preparing for war as the crowds grumbled. Cinemas were packed because it was a special evening out, and you weren’t able to go see a movie at home after leaving. It was a treat.

Now, you don’t even have to leave your house. Who can blame you? Movies cost $10.50, or whatever they are by now. You have to deal with 10 commercials before the previews, which used to be the best part because it gave you a reason to come back. But you don’t have to anymore. Blue Ray and On Demand killed the DVD and rental store which killed the VHS which killed the cinema which killed Vaudeville which killed plays and the opera which had been performed since Ancient Greece. You no longer have to use your imagination because the studio tells you exactly what Outer Space is like. For 2 hours in your living room while watching Apollo 13, you are in Space, or whatever they say it is.

I had Slingbox for a couple of months until the new software update somehow backfired and no longer will allow me access to TV from the United States. Slingbox used to let me watch shows and movies from my lap top in bed, a comfort which has totally taken away the allure of going out for a new show. It’s broken now which is certainly disappointing, but on the other hand, it will get me to look for something else to do again. I read so many books in Ecuador when I had no TV. There’s always something to see in Buenos Aires. And I might just take myself down to the movie theater to see what’s playing.

Above: Photo by thelightgatherer