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

Thanksgiving in Ecuador

Thanksgiving in Cuenca

On Friday night my friend Becky came up from Loja, about 5 or 6 hours south of Cuenca, so that we could celebrate Thanksgiving together. I'd tried to get some other volunteers into Cuenca to have a little feast at my house/hostel, but Becky was the only one who wanted or was able to come in. It worked out fine however, because Lauren, who also teaches at the University of Cuenca, was hosting a little dinner at her house.

After a quick dinner at Monday Blue we met up with some friends at a bar on Calle Larga called Red Candle. I'd never been there, but the atmosphere was friendly. Lauren was there with her friend Carol, a German woman who teaches at the University as well. Claire, who teaches at SECAP was hosting a little "class" with some students and her boyfriend, Stalin. Only about 7 of her 30-something students showed up, but it was cozy and perfect for the situation.

Though we were all supposed to be speaking in English for the benefit of the students, we were mostly using Spanish. We did find a fun game to play with both languages, however. "Limon, Medio Limon, Limon," is a game that is like a variation of many games back home. Everyone is assigned a number that you have to remember. Someone starts by saying, "Uno limon, medio limon, cinco limon," and the person with number 5 has to continue and say another number. If they mess up they have to drink.

We played this game in Spanish at first, and the foreigners kept screwing up by saying, "limon, medio limon, milon." We then switched to English and laughed as the students struggled. Sharing the fun for a few hours, Becky and I headed home around 2 am, as we were both tired from long traveling days.

On Saturday morning we walked around and Becky bought a panama hat, while I bought season 4 of The Simpsons for $5 and then another movie for $1.50. It's very easy to spend all of your money on movies here. Our plan was to make green bean caserole for the dinner, but we couldn't find the right ingredients at Supermaxi. Also, neither of us are good or creative cooks. So we settled on a can of corn and later on heated it up before heading over to Laurens' house. To be fair, we also brought some soda.

Lauren was nervous about cooking the turkey because she'd never done it before, and swore she'd never do it again after that night. For all of the worrying she did, the turkey came out great, as well as her stuffing. It wasn't a huge crowd, but rather 9 guests, most of whom were Ecuadorians. The Americans were Becky, Lauren, Claire, a new friend named Jamie, and myself. The Ecuadorians were Laurens' host mom, Sonia, her two friends both named Fabia, Stalin, and Israel, Carol's boyfriend.

As it turns out, Jamie just arrived in Cuenca last week to teach English for a year. Her mother is Ecuadorian and so she wanted to spend time with her family in Cuenca. She's from Massachusetts, and it turns out she knew someone from my hometown of Sharon. She couldn't remember the name for a few minutes, but eventually she said the name, "Silverberg," and I realized that she was talking about my friend Adam. They were friends together when they both studied in Madrid. Again, the incredible coincidences continue in Ecuador.

The dinner lacked gravy, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and maybe other regular fixings at a Thanksgiving meal, but it was made up for in good friends to share the holiday with and a familiar feeling of doing something "American." Israel led a heated debate about sexism that seemed to go on forever, with the women getting angrier. Eventually it was decided that the three men should do the dishes to make up for it.

One thing we did that I've never done at a Thanksgiving meal before was go around the table and say what we were thankful for. It was nice and though we did it in Spanish, I think I got the message across. I was thankful to have friends in Ecuador to share the holiday with and for the food that we were sharing. After dinner some of us headed out to go dancing for a while, and as we danced in a circle to some crazy Ecuadorian songs, it was clear that we'd made some new friends. And I'm truly thankful for that.

It wasn't Thanksgiving in my grandma's boiling hot Brooklyn apartment, and I didn't get to spend it with my family, but it was a good day nonetheless. I'm not sure where I'll be spending Thanksgiving next year, but I'll remember this one for a long time to come.

A Week of Finals and Firsts

This week has seen my time occupied with proctoring final exams, and though there have been some days when I've had almost no work to do, there have been others, like yesterday, when I had to grade 52 tests at once. It feels a bit like leaving a stifling hot house and going out into the cold winter night. It's just screwing up my system and confusing my body.

In between nearly falling asleep listening to the same oral exams over and again and grading the written exams, I've been trying to figure out what to do with my week off next week. I had originally planned to head south to Loja and Vilcabamba for a couple days each. But then I was suddenly presented with a great opportunity.

My friend Casey had gone up with his wife Lara to Riobamba last week and did some climbing on Chimborazo, the tallest mountain in Ecuador. Also, because of the equatorial bulge, Chimborazo is technically the highest peak in the world. While there, Casey and Lara met a man who is the last of a dying breed. For centuries, indigenous people would climb up the mountain to chop out blocks of ice and sell them at the market, but because of the invention of the refrigerator, they have been dwindling away. Now there is one man left, a 65 year old, who is the last ice man.

Though he hates tourists, you can arrange to follow him up on the 8 hour hike to about 16,000 ft and watch him chop out the ice and bring it back down the mountain. The man also speaks Quichua, and not much Spanish, making it a bit more complicated. But I plan to go to Riobamba now and do this climb, and hopefully be able to write a nice story about it. Along the way, I'll probably also stop in Guaranda, about 2 hours away, to see a couple friends for a day or two.

I'm by no means an expert climber, so hopefully the altitude won't do me in too badly. I have been living at about 8,800 feet for a couple months, but when I was still in Quito, I was sucking air at about 13,000 feet on Pichincha.

Next week is also Thanksgiving, and some people were planning on coming into Cuenca for a little feast Saturday night. I'm hoping to be back by Friday afternoon, but the only problem is I have no idea how to cook a turkey. Or anything else for Thanksgiving. We might have to just wind up going with some street meat in the end. The main point, however, is to meet up with some friends and other Americans to celebrate the holiday in one way or another.

I've also learned something important. For a while I would say that some people in Ecuador speak Quechua, but that is a mistake. The indigenous in Ecuador speak Quichua (kee-chew-ah), and the indigenous in Peru speak Quechua (keh-chew-ah). The pronunciation is slightly different, but apparently it's nearly an entirely different language. So to review: Ecuador=Quichua, Peru=Quechua.

So there's the chance that I won't be writing much next week, but you can be sure that when I get back there will plenty of good stories to tell, and no doubt with some nice pictures as well. Who knows, there might even be some video. Stay tuned.