Steakhouse, Buenos Aires

For a while I was concerned that some of my coworkers hated me. There are two sides of the office, one being younger and more talkative, the other a bit older and quieter. I'm on the quiet side, and for the most part, no one spoke to me for 6 weeks. Suddenly on Monday I was invited to have coffee at the end of the day with the other guys on my side of the office, which I take as a sign that the haze is now over. For one reason or another, maybe it was just a test.

During the conversation the guys asked me all about steak and what I've eaten. I haven't had much experience with the Argentinian grilling, and they invited me out for lunch on Friday to try different kinds of meat. They go out to eat lunch together every day while I eat at my desk, so I was pretty happy that I was invited. We went to a parilla that was packed with business suits and skirts. So packed, in fact, that we had to sit at the bar.

One of my coworkers spoke quickly to the waiter and ordered four different kinds of meat that I had never heard of. I explained that while we have different cuts of meat in the U.S., it's nothing like down here, and I couldn't match up the different names with my own personal knowledge. The first dish brought out was a sausage and some grilled cheese--provolone I think. I'm not a culinary whiz, but I know good food when I eat it, and this food was above good.

There were three kinds of sauces: chimichurri, which is about the only thing put on steak here, if something is put on, a red sauce that tasted similar to the aji I used to get at La Viña restaurant in Cuenca, and a tangy tomato and onion sauce. They warned me that the red sauce was spicy, but Argentinians don't know anything about spice, so I piled it on as they watched and expected water to form from my eyes. Of course it was mild as mayonnaise, and they seemed impressed. The interesting thing is that the only way for that sauce to taste the way it did would be to have tomate de arbol, or tree tomato. But that doesn't grow here, and as far as I know it only grows in Ecuador.

The next plate that came out was an enormous platter with enough steak to feed four grown men, which it did. Everyone got a fair share as they put a different kind of each on my plate and explained what it was, as well as where on the cow it came from. They all definitely had different tastes, that's for sure. But I just don't know how to explain it. There's a clear difference between ground beef and Filet Mignon, but with these different cuts, I couldn't say which was better or what the taste was. One of the other guys was able to clearly distinguish and name every cut of steak.

On top of all the steak, we also had two plates of steak fries. I don't know why, but for some reason fries just taste better as steak fries. They go together so well. Once the food was finished we had espresso to wake us up--full bellies of steak make you sleepy and are not conducive of going back to work. A coworker paid for all of us and I thanked him graciously as we stepped into the drizzle and back to the office, where we joked around and eased into the weekend.

So So Salsa

On Friday night I went back to the salsa club Cuba Mia in San Telmo. This time I was meeting up with a couple of Colombians that I had met at a party a few weeks ago. I was definitely tired from the week, but excited nonetheless to dance. The boyfriend wasn't actually much of a dancer, but his girlfriend studied dance and was obviously very good. He actually asked me to dance with her for a while because he said I was better than him and he wanted her to be happy.

But this second experience in this salsa club was different than last weeks. Honestly, I didn't like it as much as before, and I'm not sure if I'll go back. First, it's too expensive. You pay $30 ARG to get in which includes a drink, which is standard club price in Buenos Aires. But if I'm paying that much for a salsa club, I only want to hear salsa, or maybe a few songs of merengue, bachata, or cumbia mixed in. But they kept mixing it up with reggaeton, which I do not like.

I guess I never noticed it before, but there's no way to be a very good salsa dancer and be humble out it. The dance just doesn't allow it. There are only two types of people who go to that club. Excellent dancers and people who don't know how to dance salsa at all. I'm pretty much the only middle ground. There's just something annoying about watching someone show off their moves. It's obviously the only place they would be able to show the talent, but I just don't want to sit and watch people do it.

So instead of impressing Argentinians who don't know how to dance, I faded into the background as Cubans, Venezuelans, and Colombians rocked the floor. Not that I need the attention though. It's actually a relief to just be there and not be questioned why. I might try to find another salsa club at some point, but as for Cuba Mia, I think I'm going to put it on hold for a while.

A Picture For Your Thoughts

The other night I went home and found that an American couple was in my apartment purchasing a painting from my roommate, who’s an artist. It turns out they live on Nantucket, and we wound up talking for a long time. At some point the conversation turned to photography, and the boyfriend told me that he has a lot of camera equipment and is a big photography buff. That was something I could easily understand.

But I was surprised when the conversation took a sharp turn, and everyone started discussing how stupid it is of people to take pictures of themselves in front of large monuments or other places where tons of tourists have already taken shots. He mentioned that he traveled all over India and never had any interest in seeing the Taj Mahal because there are already thousands of pictures of it online. In Iran, he was taken to some of the most beautiful mosques in the world, but would instead take pictures of graffiti on a wall around the corner.

I could definitely understand seeing an interesting angle in some graffiti near a mosque, or not wanting to go to a place that is too touristy, but I don’t appreciate the elitist attitude on the personal photography aspect. At the time I was polite and didn’t offer much of a contest, simply saying "uh-huh", and "yeah." But the more that I think about it, the more it bothers me. I’m somewhere between an amateur photographer and mere photo enthusiast, but I still like to get a picture taken of me in front of a monument from time to time.

I won’t go so far as the self portrait, which I’m not a fan of, but I don’t worry about it if other people do it. To each his own, and it’s none of my business if people want to take an off-centered picture of a famous statue behind them. I’ll just keep my mouth quiet and take my pictures the way I want to. The whole point of photography is to capture a moment and have a memory of something, so you can prove that you were there and a part of something. That’s why we take pictures in the first place. It’s supposed to be something fun, which explains the smiling rather than frowning. If I get a picture of myself in front of Iguazú Falls or the Eiffel Tower, so what? I want to look back when I’m an old geezer when my brain is going out the window and say, "Ha! I knew I was there. See?!"

I was a bit taken aback, then, by the highbrow comments in my apartment. Those talking made the impressions that you have to be an idiot or a materialistic jerk to want a picture of yourself unless it was done in an artistic manner. I’m all about going for more interesting photos, but I’d like to get the photo first too. And honestly, if I’m standing in front of the pyramids and snap 100 photos of a Coke can on the ground before I take one of the pyramids, what does that accomplish? I can look back and say I saw a piece of garbage? Who am I taking these photos for then?

If you travel for the right reasons, you don’t go to the Taj Mahal to take a picture; you go there to see a work of art that has been standing for centuries. You go there to experience something that most people in the world aren’t fortunate enough to witness. And you go there to see how it affects you. Taking the picture is a side effect of how it makes you feel. If you liked it enough you’ll take a picture. Often I find I don’t need to take a picture of a place I’ve been. Sometimes you have to deal with the street kids begging for money or the pickpockets, but that’s always a part of travel all over the world, so should you only go to empty villages instead? Places are popular for reason, generally. And if the trash on the ground is what captivates you, then take a picture of that. It’s all about how you want to remember it, and not all photography has to be art.

All I’m trying to say is, photography is an extension of how travel makes you feel. There are certainly people who snap away mindlessly, hoping to record every moment without even seeing the place unless it’s through a viewfinder or lens. But again, to each his own. Just keep that in mind the next time you see someone taking a picture, be it of the Washington Monument or a leaf in the gutter.

Above: Photos I have taken, for whatever reason

Mountains, Football, Dreams

You take away the mountains and the rough country roads, you take away the ancient buses with black plumes of smoke billowing behind, and you take away the expectation that every day will bring something totally new and unexpected. I wake up and it's all according to a plan now. This is a big city, but it follows some sort of pattern. So I have my routine and not much else changes that, though I eyeball it on a week by week basis.

Living in Ecuador, there was always something different happening that I wasn't used to. A random parade through the street and fireworks being set off for a different saint every other day. A random 5 day weekend. Roads blocked because of protests. They added a spice to life that made things like television and Internet unnecessary. Life was far more entertaining. I didn't have a chance to keep up with football or baseball last season, and while I missed watching the games, I didn't think about it much. I went about my business on Sunday as usual, and I would be happy if I heard the Patriots won, but I wasn't surrounded by the need to care.

Before coming to Argentina, though, I got Slingbox. Slingbox is a wonder of the Internet, allowing you to watch cable TV from back home anywhere in the world with a solid connection. I complain about it a lot because it's not perfect. It comes in pixilated and disconnects from time to time, but just when I start to get aggravated I remind myself that I could also have nothing. So occasionally I miss a touchdown, but I also get to watch the game. It's a trade off.

Today is a bye week for the Patriots, and I'm disappointed. I have gotten really into this season because I have the ability to watch, and it gives me something to do on Sunday afternoons alone in the apartment, whereas last year I pained away during the weekends, unsure of what to do in the beginning of the year. I have put myself into the routine of watching football, and I wonder how far away I am from where I was last year. It's an awful day, otherwise I would have taken full advantage of the free day and gone to the park. But it's still just a city.

In Ecuador I didn't need a TV because I would walk outside and see mountains that blew my mind. After a while I got jaded to it and didn't even bat my eyes, winding through mountains that I grew tired of using trite adjectives for, so I simply started saying they were "mountnanimous." That's my word, but you can use it. There aren't any mountains in Buenos Aires, and maybe that's why I'm more interested in watching TV. Mountains captivate my imagination, but I never knew this, growing up on the east coast. It turns out I should have been a mountain man living in the wilderness of the Rockies.

So if you take away the mountains and the high altitude, take away the fact that reality, as Mark Twain said, is stranger than fiction, then you're bound to look for other things to entertain you. I live sort of an interesting life. At work I would appear to be young and successful, at a prominent company, wearing business appropriate clothes. What kind of yuppie have I become? But at home I'm a bohemian. We have no couch. I sit on cushions on the floor, and I constantly think about the crappy situation I'm in. Too broke, not eating well enough, working too hard, etc, etc. A phony in both worlds, I'm simply living as myself. Just as I'll never truly be a yuppie, I'll never be a real bohemian writer either.

When I used to look at the mountains my mind would wander off into a thousand different stories, ideas, movies, whatever. They released imagination that a cracked city can't. I was a well respected writer, walking down the street in the Village in New York, dropping in to a cafe, writing a new story, going to a rooftop party and being well respected for the words that entertained so many, but I was humble and that's what made it cool. Yet that was all in my head, and where it will remain, as just a dream. Because I'll never be quarterback for the Patriots either, but it's a dream that I like to think of from time to time. And that's why you have the dreams in the first place.

No more mountains though, just the rainy day, sans the football game to keep me occupied. Hence the blogging. Still, I'll dream of the mountains and hope that the inspiration comes back in another way. So I'll always be that writer.

Above: Mountnanimous defined

Salsa? In Buenos Aires?

I made it my mission during the last two weeks or so to find a salsa club and to also find someone who would be willing to go with me. First and foremost, I still don't know a ton of people, and it's hard to organize something when you know people from different walks of live all over the city. Everyone has their own plans every weekend. Argentinians are not known for dancing salsa, and they mostly do not get it, so I put my faith in an Ecuadorian who once lived here for advice.

I was told a couple of places to check out, but ultimately went to a club called Cuba Mia in San Telmo. I met up with a friend of a friend who I had been trying to meet with since I got here, and her boyfriend came as well. It was a bit pricey to get in--$30 ARG, which included a drink, but there were few other options at that point. A live salsa band from Cuba was playing and it was pretty packed. Along the walls were Halloween decorations and the staff were handing out little costumes. Sebastian, the boyfriend, commented how odd it was that we were in a Cuban bar listening to salsa music while they were celebrating an American holiday. He had a point.

The bar got pretty packed and we all wound up dancing for a while. It turns out the bar was packed with Venezuelans, Cubans, and Colombians, so I wasn't the only one who knew how to dance. In fact, I probably looked like a shmuck compared to them, but in terms of the Argentinians, I was turning some heads. I wound up dancing with a couple of women for most of the night who guessed that I was 35 or 36, which they said was a compliment. I'm not entirely sold on that one.

It felt good to be dancing salsa again. I am not great at it, but I learned to enjoy it in Ecuador and it can really be fun if you just go with it. Sitting in the bar, listening to those familiar beats, it all made me think of Ecuador and for a moment felt like I was back there. Of course, Cuba Mia would have been one of the nicer clubs you could go to, and so expensive that only the richest people in town would go, thus changing the element a bit. I was kind of hoping for something more hole in the wally, but what can you do. There are other salsa clubs out there, and I'm starting to hear about more and more of them.

It's been raining hard all day with on and off thunderstorms, and should continue through Monday. But for now anyway, I have plans to go to another salsa club tonight. Azucar is pretty well known, though gets sort of a negative image too. I'm interested in checking it out and seeing how it ranks with the others, especially since I was told about it by an Ecuadorian. So maybe I'll find an even better club to write about soon.

How To Tackle A Phone Call In Your Second Language

Below is an article I was wrote in September and was hoping to get published, but I don't see that happening, so there's no sense in wasting something that was written. On a 14 hour night bus from Buenos Aires to Mendoza, I suddenly got the urge to write about this topic at 3 am, and I wrote it in about 20 minutes or so. This article deals with exactly what the title sounds like: How To Tackle A Phone Call In Your Second Language. Take a look through, and maybe some of this information will help you some day when learning a new language...

Oooh! Matron!!!

Anytime you are learning a language in a foreign country for an extended period of time, you’re probably going to wind up getting a temporary cell phone. And if you really dive deeply into the experience, you’ll actually get some local friends in addition to the other foreign students in your program. Of course, this means that you will have to master the art of speaking your second language in a harder medium, which isn’t easy in the beginning. There are some things you can do to help in the process and make sure you survive a phone call.

If you’re like I was when I was first learning Spanish, the idea of a phone call in your second language is downright scary. It’s not so daunting trying to speak when you can actually see the person, because you have the benefit of your facial expressions to speak for you and show whether or not you get it. But when you’re on the phone the other person can’t really tell if you do, and as many people often mistakenly do, they simply say “Yes” to everything.

Seeing someone’s mouth move is a big part of conversation, and it really helps you see the word being formed. It’s something that’s missed in phone conversation, but it doesn’t end the world then and there.

First, always speak slowly. If you try to show off how skilled you are in the new language and speak quickly with pop terms you recently learned, your friend or boss or whoever will match your speed, assuming you truly understand everything, maybe even throwing in other pop phrases you don’t yet know. Speak slowly and clearly, giving them the signal that you’re trying really hard to get all of the information correctly.

Second, get to a quiet place. It’s hard enough sometimes to fully hear a phone call in your native tongue, and it’s imaginably worse in your second. If you’re on a busy street or at a bar, wherever, just get somewhere quiet enough to at the very least tell the caller that you’re unable to hear and when you can call back. Just tell them to hold on a minute until the noise dies down--they won’t hang up on you. As always, plug the other ear and strain as you must to hear. If it’s still not working, slowly tell them that you can’t hear and ask them to call back or send you a text message. In many countries, especially those who use phone cards, it’s often cheaper and easier to send texts rather than make calls.

If you’re really uncomfortable making the calls at first, work into it with text messages. It’s often better because you have time to think about what to write as well as look up the words you don’t understand, given that they are actually in the dictionary. But when you do have to make a call, always repeat the information back to the caller to make sure what you have told them is what they told you. “OK, so 7 pm, in front of the administration building, wearing a green jacket.” Just always check the facts.

Lastly, you may get very flustered and embarrassed on the phone, often trying to shy away from it. But just remember, it’s not easy to speak a second language, especially on the phone. Yet if you stick with it long enough and really make an effort, then in due time you’ll notice that you are able to have conversations, if not with ease than at least clearly enough to truly capture the call. Take a breath before hitting the numbers, think about what you want to say, and prepare for what you might hear. Have a dictionary next to you, or lacking that, your notebook from class. The more you practice the better you will become, and you’ll be well on your way to working up a huge phone bill every month.

Above: Photo by GeorgieR

All Study and No Play Makes Jon a Dull Boy

I am a tired man. I'm working long hours and filling in the gaps with grad school applications and studying for the GRE. It's really too much to be taking on at one time, and if I were a wiser man I would have studied for the GRE when I worked 20 hours a week in Ecuador, taken the exam when I was home in the states, and applied for grad schools before I had a job. Well, I'm an idiot. You live and you learn, but hopefully you only need to suffer through this experience once.

Filling out all of the application materials for a grad school is painful, and it's as bad as you can imagine when you are applying to eight of them. They are all online now, and some of them even use the same "standard" application system. Yet though they are online and using the same systems, you still have to plug in the same information every time, which defeats the purpose. All of these personal statements are basically the same but questioned just a little bit differently so that you have to write them all over again, and edit them all over again just the same.

Obviously this hard work should go towards something, should really show that if you're willing to fill all of this junk out and take the GRE that you are serious about studying for a Masters. But it's not enough to get you in. It's just so draining that it really gives me respect for those who work full time jobs and then study at night school. I don't know how you could find the focus to sit in a class after working all day, let alone find the time to study, eat, do laundry, figure out bills, and try to have some semblance of a normal life. The hope would be that it will all pay off in the end. If it does.

I walk out of the office now and instead of going home with a skip in my step like every day is Friday before vacation, I'm simply drudging along to get home, change, and start studying again or filling out more applications. I eat a quick and usually unimaginative dinner of pasta because it's easy and quick to cook, and then it's back to the books. I feel guilty if I quit for a half hour before bed to unwind with some TV. This won't go on forever, and once I take the GRE in Buenos Aires on December 12th I can breath. Once all of the applications have been turned in by January (one in April) I can actually rest and start enjoying myself fully (with any luck).

My time here is going by quickly so far, mainly because I am so busy. I didn't intend to come down here and throw everything on the table like I have done, but it just kind of happened. It prevents me from doing more enjoyable during the week and makes me feel guilty on the weekend if I'm not making the most of every minute, but I have to believe that it will pay off in the end. Otherwise, it's been a good waste of time.