My day: Waiting to eat meat, eating meat, digesting meat

May 25

Today is el 25 de Mayo, a national holiday commemorating the start of the revolution for independence from Spain in the 1800s. And since it’s a holiday, that means no classes and no requirements!

But we got an early start anyway, leaving the house with Facu and his cousin Tatiana at 8:30. We took a bus to meet Facu’s father (his parents are divorced). With Guillermo, we hopped on another bus. Nearly an hour after we started, we arrived on the other side of the city and went food shopping. We bought pounds of food – most of it meat. After meeting up with Facu’s father’s second ex-wife Laura and her three-year-old daughter Natalia and their nanny Marta (my head was spinning, too), we all piled into a VW Golf and went to the club.

The club is basically a private park in a corner of the city. It’s very sporty – several artificial turf fields, swimming pool, tennis courts, floor hockey rink, etc, etc. But we were there to eat.

Un asado is an Argentine roast. Basically you get lots of meat from all sorts of different parts of a cow (ribs, shank, brisket, steak, tail, innards, etc.) and then slow cook it over an outdoor fire. It’s delicious and very filling.

Last night when I was invited the join this side of Facu’s family for the asado I was skeptical that we would need a whole day just to eat one meal. But they were right. It took about an hour and a half to get to the club, at least three hours to settle in and cook the meat, an hour plus to eat it, and then several more to relax and digest. Plus the hour-plus trip back home.

But it was a fun day. Very Argentine. I spent most of the time with Facu and his 18-year-old cousin Tatiana. They’re both great people. They don’t get mad even though I pester them endlessly for Spanish translations. We spent a lot of time wandering around the club, watching field hockey games, soccer matches, and floor hockey with roller skates (which was, as they say here, “¡Super-intenso!”). Facu, Tati, and me:




At the club, we met up and spent the day with a bunch of the family’s friends. Our party was probably six or seven families – the kids were mostly toddlers; Facu, Tati, and I were the only ones our age.

Today was also great for my Spanish. I could feel myself getting better spending time with Facu and the fam – more so than when I spend a day doing activities with my compañeros from the U.S. (even though we speak Spanish to one another). I’m very persistent with learning new vocab, asking “comó se llama” (what is that called…) constantly.

At the end of the day, a bunch of the fathers gathered up for some soccer (fútbol!). Facu and I joined. These are pre-middle-aged fathers, and it was intense. The ball was bouncing off heads, chests, and knees left and right. These are professionals by day, soccer super-star wannabes by weekend (we’re talking soccer sneaks, soccer socks, soccer shorts, soccer jerseys … the whole deal). It was a load of fun. Turns out I wasn’t half bad at soccer, and we all had a great time. But they definitely used my Americanness against me. I would be coming up on an opponent with the ball and he would suddenly point behind me and say “look! look!” in stilted English. Things like that. The teasing was all in good fun. So long as you win. We won.

The day was also interesting for me as a comparison of Argentine and American culture. I just can’t imagine many American families spending literally the entire day with no ostensible goal besides eating meat and socializing. That thought kept occurring to me throughout the day, and I mentioned it to Facu and Tati. If this were a party in an American backyard, the guests would never arrive and wait three hours for the food to cook. Today was an unhurried day with good company. There was no goal behind the gathering today, no reason to be there besides to enjoy the asado and each other.

A week, in brief

May 21 to 24

What did Nico do this week? (They call me Nico here, it’s a little easier on the Argentine tongue than Nick).

Spanish classes with Ariel and Diego.

I explored a barrio of the city with my friends Toni and John. Abasto is the birthplace of tango. The father of tango, Carlos Gardel, has his smiling face painted on edifices all over this district:

Lectures on Argentine social movements and Argentine music traditions.

Tango classes with Sofia and Guille. Laura y yo tearing up the dance floor:

Visit to a giant food bank, where we spent the morning volunteering and were rewarded with a delicious meal.

Fun and delicious meals in Argentine restaurants with my compañeros. What a great group.

Visited Comedor Caritas, a dining hall for poor kids that is supported by the church. We served the food and played with the kids. The ladies who spend every day cooking and serving the food do a great service. They also kept after me, saying I look like some British prince. You know, blond-haired blue-eyed males… we all look the same. Photo of Comedor Caritas:

Weekend with the fam

May 19 y 20

Weekend with Marta and Facu. Facu spent the night with his father (his parents are divorced) last night, and Marta had to leave early this morning for week (she’s a part-time real estate agent). So when I woke up Saturday morning, I had the house to myself. I unpacked my bags, settled into my room, had some breakfast, and cleaned up.

Around noon Facu got back and we went to walk around the neighborhood. He gave me a great tour and we grabbed hotdogs on the way back to the apartment. Besides that it was a lazy day. I spent a lot of time reading and working to catch up on this journal. I’m reading “What a Party!” by Terry McAuliffe, the former chair of the DNC. It’s a fun book, full of hard-to-believe anecdotes from a man who’s spent his life hobnobbing with the biggest names in politics.

In the late afternoon, Marta returned home from work. She made a tasty dinner of beef and tomato salad. We all chatted a while afterward.

On Sunday, I woke up pretty early and went for a run in the park. When I got back, Marta was making pancakes. We had talked yesterday about the differences in food in the U.S. and Argentina. In Argentina, breakfast is not an important meal – Argentines eat very little in the morning, and often skip breakfast all together. I made a big deal about how in the U.S. (or at least in the Anderson house), we have a big breakfast on the weekends of eggs or pancakes or something like that.

To treat me, Marta had figured out a patchwork pancake recipe this morning. I ran to the corner store to pick up bananas. And the night before I had given her and Facu a little bottle of maple syrup as a gift from back home. The pancakes turned out pretty well and we enjoyed them this morning. Marta didn’t eat them, but I think she felt really good about doing a little something for me to make me feel at home. Afterward, I cleaned up the kitchen from the past few days. Everyone started pitching in. Washing and drying dishes, sweeping the floor, folding laundry, that sort of thing. It was a nice little circle of family teamwork, and everyone was feeling really good. Call me crazy, but I really think that doing chores is both important and therapeutic – it gets everyone feeling like they have a stake in the household, and like they’re giving back to everyone around them. When everyone pitches in on their own accord, it’s like a little circle of good feelings.

This afternoon, I read some from my book and wandered around the neighborhood. I found a locutorio (internet café and telephone plaza), where I called home for the first time. It was great to check in with everyone, it sounds like they’ve had a busy but really exciting past week with events going on. Afterward, I continued my tour. I walked past a nice looking restaurant with outdoor tables. Hungry, I decided to check it out. I had a nice late lunch of empanadas de carne y jamon and a liquado de bananas. The service was as slow as an Argentine snail, but I enjoyed myself watching the foot traffic. The restaurant was right on the busy corner of the park. I don’t go out to eat solo very often, so this was a good experience. I took my time and enjoyed the smells and sights of Argentina, and imagined what it would be like to live in capitals all over the Latin world.

So that wraps up my first weekend at 1265 Santander. (Santander is the name of the street.) I like Marta a lot (we had some good discussions, and she speaks slowly and clearly). Facu’s nice and has a good job making me feel welcome. This afternoon, two of his friends came over. They were very nice and I spent time watching a movie with them. My room (and bed) is very comfortable. And it’s like they knew me before I even arrived – the room has a nice big desk! What more could I ask for?

This evening I went out with Facu and his friend Agostina. We took a colectivo 26 (bus 26) to a big shopping mall in Buenos Aires. We shopped around and I bought a cell phone (call me at 00-54-15-6869-5473). Then we wandered around the barrio a bit, dropped Agostina off at her apartment, and Facu and I hit up McDonald’s for some dinner. McD’s is one of the few American chains I’ve run into around here, and it seems a bit more upscale than back home. It’s still a bargain, but since it’s American it’s got a certain air of sophistication. And plus the beef is from Argentina, which makes it worthwhile.

Long colectivo ride back to Santander. So wraps up the weekend.

Here’s a photo of my room and then of the Aguilar kitchen:

And the Buenos Aires adventure begins!

May 18

Wake up, pack up, eat up, leave. Bus to Buenos Aires. Finish reading “The Thumpin’”

Arrive at The Language Experience (TLE) office in downtown Buenos Aires. Hustled off the bus. Longish orientation session by Adriana about the homestays. Lunchtime. Steak sandwiches and empanadas. Martín arrives. We head off with him and Valentina for a tour of the city. We take the subway. There was a crippling subway strike the day before, so today the subways are free for everyone to apologize. We visit Plaza de San Martín, the liberator of Chile, Bolivia, Peru, and Argentina.

Lots of construction everywhere because the city elections are approaching:

Cool trees in the park around Plaza de San Martín:


Big protest march through the city. At this point, we’re not sure what the protest is about. Photo below. Note Che Guevarra likeness on lower right of the sign. He’s a hero to the Argentine left.


Then to the Plaza de Mayo, which is bordered by the national cathedral, La Casa Rosada (a rose-colored house that is the seat of the executive branch) and the mayor’s building.

There is a major protest here. Fireworks going off like gunshots. Deep, impassioned speaker’s voice is broadcast through loudspeakers, reverberating around the plaza.

The police have erected a temporary fence around the Casa Rosada, and stand ready in riot gear just in case:


The protest is against child hunger in Argentina. There was a long march to B.A. from the provinces that capped with this protest. (Read the BBC article here). This banner reads, “Hunger is a crime:”


It is a crime. My project in Isonza helps fight malnourishment in Argentina’s rural children. That is a crucial component of the project, and it’s important to me. There are protests in Plaza de Mayo almost daily. Protesting seems to be a national sport. God bless the freedom to assemble and petition your government. But there’s more work to be done than just protesting. For me, some of these protests are frustrating. A protest is not the solution to child hunger. Imagine the good that could come if every one of the thousands of people here were to go to work on this issue in a more productive manner rather than just waving signs and making noise.

Onward with the tour. Buenos Aires has beautiful, and diverse, architecture:



We take a bus to Boca. It’s a neighborhood with brightly-painted houses and lots of gift shops. Reminds some in the group of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Tango dancers in seedy costumes dance for music and pose for pictures with passersby.


The iconic iron bridge over Boca:



Back to TLE offices. We’re about to meet up with our host families. We’re going to live with these families for three weeks. The host mothers are in the back room of the TLE office for an orientation with the staff; we’re in the front lobby mulling about in hushed tones. Seems some kids are nervous about the homestay. The program officers really built up the homestay over the past few days. I’m not anxious.

All of the sudden, noise. The mothers are piling out of the back room. “Nicolas!” someone yells. My host mother is the first one out of the room. A kiss on the cheek and a big hug. We greet each other in stilted Spanish. Soon she’s grabbed my bags and we’re the first group out of the office, marching down the street to her car. I’m surprised by how long the car ride takes. The Aguilar house is in Parque Chacabuco, a neighborhood far from the center of B.A. But it’s easily accessible by subway. It’s near the end of the the Plaza de los Virreyes line. That’s how I’ll get back and forth to my activities downtown.

The family consists of Marta, the mother, and Facu, her 15-year-old son. The house is comfortable but humble. On my first night there we ordered out for empanadas and spent time talking and getting to know one another. They seem very nice and I’m pleased with this selection. It should be a good three weeks with la familia Aguilar.

Day two in paradise

May 17

We go to Lobos, a nearby city of about thirty thousand. The infamous Argentine president General Perón was born in Lobos. We visit his house (that’s me in the photo).

Lobos is walkable. We split off in groups of two to explore the city, charged with finding answers to a number of questions by talking to locals. The night before we were given 300 pesos as a stipend for the next three weeks in B.A. We go to a bank to change the bills into smaller change. I chat up a policeman. His body shape is rather like a rolling pin. He belongs in a cartoon.

Here is a photo of Lobos:

After that, back to La Candelaria. Lily’s there! She couldn’t fly out of St. Louis on Tuesday because of tornadoes, so she was a day behind the rest of us. Another delicious meal. Relax time. A bike ride to la ruta. Take a nap for the first time in a long while. Do some good reading.

Fernando has arrived. He’s coordinating our multi-day horseback ride through the mountains (“cabalgata”) later in the program. I met him and Jean in North Carolina last November. He’s a wonderful guy. Trained as an engineer, he now runs highly-regarded cabalgatas with a service component. He and Jean are passionate about Escuela Isonza, the tiny school in the mountains where I will install solar panels later in the summer. I’ve been working with them via email and phone all spring to set up this project. This afternoon, he leads a session about the cabalgata and the Isonza project.

Then another delicious meal. La Candelaria offers everyone a glass of vivo tinto to thank us for our stay. We’re leaving in the morning.

Living well

May 16

Somewhere over Central America I switch off the light, and manage to sleep pretty well all the way to Argentina, even sleeping through breakfast. Soon we’re coming in on B.A. I move my watch one hour ahead. Ezeiza airport welcomes me like a long-lost friend – get my passport stamped by a competent passport-stamper, my luggage comes out right away, I’m waved through customs without having to open my bag or even stop, and soon we are greeted by Jean and Val. Smooches all around. We pile into a bus. We’re off to la estancia.

Everyone catches forty winks, but I’m wide-eyed and pass the hour-ish bus ride watching the Argentine countryside. We are traveling in the province of Buenos Aires, which, along with neighboring La Pampa, has the richest farming land in the country. The fields we pass are mostly filled with soybean plants. It’s winter here, so everything is brown.

I see an amazing bird fly across a field. I can’t identify it. Wishing I had Tim or Dad’s encyclopedic knowledge of our wingéd (pron: wing-ED) friends, I decide that I will memorize every interesting bird I see this summer and just look them up when I get home. This one is mid-sized with a big, flat-topped head, brown feathers, and a whitish breast. Then comes along another fascinating bird. I take a mental photo. Then another bird, and suddenly I forget them all. I laugh off that mental photo album idea, but deep down I’m crushed.

We arrive at the estancia. I didn’t know what to expect. The bus turns down a bumpy dirty road that travels a mile and a half through the soy fields into a wooded area. The road is marked with signs that warn explicitly against trespassing: (“if you enter, we will not let you leave.”)

I don’t know exactly what la estancia means in Spanish, but I’d guess “estate.” This estancia is called La Candelaria. It’s a several-hundred acre property of tightly manicured lawns dotted with palm trees and dramatic hunting-themed statues. Estancias were built in the 1800s by wealthy Argentines as estates in the countryside. This is one of the few remaining that is in good shape. The family that owns it today operates it as a corporate retreat. At its center sits an old French castle, complete with garish chandeliers, ornate woodwork, and dungeon. They forgot a kitchen and bathrooms, though.

One of the first things we do is go for a jog. That’s a natural choice for me. I love orienting myself in a new place by jogging around. We start as a big group, and finish up with three of us having a nice run to la ruta (highway).

We’re staying in rooms that are on the other side of the polo fields, about a seven minute walk from the castle. Our rooms are modest but comfortable. The buildings are Spanish-mission style.

This estancia also has a chapel. Ancient family tombs rest inside, amid mouse poop.

There’s also a landing strip. They keep a plane inside a tent.

We go horseback riding. These horses prefer not to move, so this adventure quickly becomes decidedly less adventurous that we imagined.

The food at La Estancia is amazing. For lunch we are served a multi-course “asado,” which translates to roast. Beef here is a big deal. Super big. It’s an Argentine tradition to slow-cook the meat for several hours over an outdoor fire. We are served course after course of meat, followed by desert.

During a pause in the action, I head to my room to read. Pulling back the covers on my bed, I come across a spider the size of a doorknob. He likes my pillow, but I like it better, so I send him packing.

A few hours later we’re back in the dining room: it’s time for “mate” and pies – roughly equivalent to English tea time, just more fattening.

We get a tour of the castle and an orientation to the Argentina program from Jean, Val, and Daniel. Excited!

Other notes: Daniel is hilarious (he also kind of looks like John Kerry), the mosquitoes are ferocious, I am having second thoughts about not getting malaria pills.

We’re back in the dining room again, and eating like kings. Another multi-course meal. Some sort of pumpkin-filled tortillas with cheese. It starts at 9:30 and we don’t finish up till nearly midnight.

Of flights and follies

May 15

Morning: last-minute purchases, packing, and goodbyes. Afternoon: Go time! Driver arrives late. I tell him to sit in the passenger seat; I’ll drive. He says: “A man after my own heart,” and, moaning that I’ll never make my flight in time, he spends the rest of the ride working through scenarios on how I could push my way past the lines to get to the gate in time. (“When you’re late, you have to be ready to make a scene,” he declares.)

Get on the road at 3:45 p.m., plane boards in one hour and fifteen minutes. Heading into the City at just before rush hour. Will I make it? I’m behind the wheel and we get to JFK in just over one hour. Complications at check-in (I’m not listed as a passenger, fussy passport scanner, bag is overweight, etc.). Complications at the gate (delay, delay, delay). 4:30 flight finally takes off at 5:45 p.m. And so trip begins!

The flight is just a quick hop to Dulles, where I meet with Nandini first and then the rest of the group trickles in. We hug and mull about excitedly. I make last-minute goodbye phone calls – my U.S. phone won’t work in Argentina, I’m told. Different sort of network, or something like that. I’m tempted to keep it turned on during the flight because I’m curious to see when exactly the service clicks off (when we leave Florida airspace? Over Cuba?), but I graciously defer to the FAA.

We board a 10:00 p.m. flight to Buenos Aires. I’m in the very last seat in the plane, squeezed between the plane’s wall, a seat that reclines all the way into my lap, and a mild-mannered business type who throughout the flight claims variously to live in Tokyo, D.C., and Buenos Aires. His English isn’t good, and he’s clearly jet lagged, so I decide he doesn’t understand my questions and ignore him.

Airlines are great hosts. It’s probably 11:30 p.m. and they serve dinner, waking up everyone who had begun to doze off. Packed into that 767 like Argentine cows, we all stare blankly ahead and eat the meal – what else is there to do?

I get some good reading done. Power through Grisham. Next up: “The Thumpin’” – about the overwhelming Democratic victories in the ’06 elections and the man behind it all, DCCC chair Rahm Emanuel. But before that, a quick literary detour. I’ve brought with me “The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Travel.” I’ve had the book awhile and read it several times, but figure this is a good time for a quick refresher. I start with the “how to survive an airplane crash” chapter since it’s relevant. I’m comforted to learn that the back of a plane (despite the noise, the drowsy foreigners, and the tight quarters) is the safest place in the event of a crash. I continue perusing the handbook. I know I’m headed to central and northern Argentina, so I skip past the unlikely (how to control a runaway camel, how to navigate a minefield, how to cross a piranha-infested river) and try to memorize the action-steps in more feasible scenarios (how to survive a mugging, how to escape from a car hanging over the edge of a cliff, how to foil a UFO abduction, etc.)