The C-Lo Has Landed

Having a boyfriend literally hemispheres away is definitely not an ideal situation. If ours is not the epitome of a long-distance relationship, then I have no idea what one could be. Thanks to technology, however, it hasn't been as hard to take as it could have been. Between the invention of email, laptops, wireless internet, and now the glorious program Skype, the feeling of distance can be partially undone for a small pocket of time nearly every day.

As I said in my very first entry, I am a very lucky girl. For ten days, my boyfriend, Mel, visited me here in Buenos Aires - a major trip that took miraculously little prodding and nagging on my part.

***

He arrived early on Sunday, which meant that I had a handful of hours to drag him around before we had to watch the Colts v Patriots football game that evening. "This game is bigger than the Superbowl," he said, and I sighed. Okay, okay, whatever you want, dear.

That first day sort of set the tone for a lot of our time together. After checking into the apartment he'd rented for his stay, we went right out to the flea market in San Telmo. That extreme Argentine experience was then balanced out by a packed Shoeless Joe's, one of the city's most popular ex-pat destinations, thanks to a subscription to Sunday Ticket and a football-loving American population in BA.

Though I groaned when the game (not to mention the other two that week) was originally added to the itinerary, it turned out to be a welcome flash of home. Here I was, eating nachos, surrounded by my own language, sitting next to my boyfriend, who was shockingly good at splitting his attention between me and the television (well done, Mel, well done.)

The time we spent in Buenos Aires wasn't spent hiking miles and miles into every neighborhood, but rather strolling this way and that, as he was more content to relax than be hauled around to see the sights. He's not much of a city person, anyway. So we did fun little things with our days.

That first Monday, we met Liz to go to the zoo. Finding that it was closed, we headed over to my favorite park and decided to go paddle-boating, which was a wonderful way to spend an hour, if incredibly exhausting. I'd never paddle-boated before, but according to the other two, ours was the hardest in all of paddle-boating history to...well...paddle. Afterward we stopped for popsicles, which really do make any sunny day a million times more awesome, by the way.

That night was Monday Night Football, at which point we put Mel's cheffyness (I made that one up, do you like it?) to use with a pile of steaks, burgers and chorizo on the parilla. Another pleasant departure from the norm, even if the Ravens did end up losing... oh well.

Another day we went to the zoo, where I morphed into a 5 year old, complete with bucket of generic animal food, running from cage to cage and squealing when I got to pet the camels and goats. And don't get me started on feeding the tiny little monkey. Oh man, that was the best!

At night we'd flip through our stack of guide books for restaurant suggestions, trying our best (and often succeeding, which was a miracle) to wait until the requisite absurd hour to eat. We tried everything from the take-out pizza from down the street to Casa Cruz, often referred to as the best restaurant in Buenos Aires (it was definitely my favorite so far.) Between all the dinner feasts and breakfast pastries, his visit wasn't kind to my waist, but you'll hear no complaints from my happily fed tummy.

Tucked between these laid-back days and nights were bigger adventures, including jaunts to the falls in Iguazú and a day trip to Uruguay, trips that I will detail in separate entries.

***

Being an only child, I'm not a fan of sharing. But when it comes to experiences, the more people I can share them with the better. And when those people happen to be among the most important in my life, it all circles back around to luck.

It's difficult to sum up the whole visit without venturing into cheeseball territory. It was about as perfect as it could get. Such separations can often bring changes to a relationship that deteriorate their strength, but we have managed to slip by unscathed.

Sure, his departure ushered in another two weeks of intense homesickness, but that's a small price to pay for being lucky enough to have the opportunity to just unwind, show off my life abroad, and forget for just a moment that we were ever apart in the first place.

Day Trippin'

Not long after we arrived in Buenos Aires, Liz and Eriks sought out a church to attend together on Sundays. They were able to find one through the The Buenos Aires Herald, BA's English-language newspaper. Because services are held alternately in Spanish and English, the community there ended up being full of English-speaking expats who -from what I've heard- all sound quite lovely.

Among the congregation are Katie and Luis, a sweet pairing of Argentine man and British woman. After having them over for dinner one evening, they offered to take us out to San Antonio de Areco, a town that dates back to the 1700's and has been recognized by presidential decree as historic and of national interest. Encouraged by newly warm & sunny weather and the promise of some much-needed fresh air, we accepted their invitation for the following weekend.

We arrived around lunchtime that Saturday, and opted to sit down for lunch before doing the rounds. Luis suggested Esquina de Merti, which faces the town's main plaza. The restaurant, somewhat recently restored, is decked out in vintage ads for Quilmes (an Argentine beer) and antique tills. A severely broken-in upright piano stands in one corner, buzzing with energy of past players.

There I encountered something that could easily fall into Eriks's Surprise Series. Thinking I'd do myself a favor by ordering a few small bites to eat, I went ahead and ordered two beef empanadas and what was described as a potato and chorizo tortilla. What I have come to learn is that the word tortilla does not mean the same thing here as it does in, say, Mexico. Instead, apparently, it means something more along the lines of soufflé, as evidenced by my massive, fluffy-but-not mound of potato, egg and meat.

Between Liz, Eriks and myself we managed to get through approximately half, but had to throw in the towel lest our chairs break beneath our engorged selves. It was delicious, if something I'd expect more as some sort of shared breakfast dish rather than something to introduce an entire other meal.

From there we took a walk across town to the Museo Gauchesco Ricardo Güiraldes. The property, a preserved estancia (ranch) with the original house and stables, exists to educate visitors about the life of gauchos, or Argentine cowboys. The rooms of the building are filled with photographs, paintings and traditional gaucho clothing as well as accessories like guns, spurs and bridles and bits for their horses.

It's certainly interesting, especially the curious and somewhat unsettling wax gaucho models in the entrance, having a drink at the local pub, but to be perfectly honest I was just glad to be out in the fresh breezes, walking through big, wide fields of grass.

Next we made our way to the other side of town to visit the home/studio/museum dedicated to a late local artist, known for his depictions of gauchos on the plains. The operation is maintained by his...how should I put it? ...eccentric artist son. After paying our pesitos to walk through the house, we were greeted by this son, who wore a beret and was missing several teeth. He beckoned us to follow him to his desk, where he got rolling on a 30-minute ramble about how he draws horses, how he's very famous and has been invited into the city because of his work. He showed us other areas of the property - art was hung in the garden and in the guest house. Soon we came to a wall full of photos of him with people who are apparently important in some way.

Keep in mind this is all in Spanish, spoken through a gappy grin and in gruff Castellano, the name for Argentine Spanish. That said, I had no idea what was going on the entire time, other than he was showing us a lot more of his own work than his father's and that he was saying "horses" a lot.

At the end of the tour, he brought us back to his workspace and commenced making a sales pitch: 50 pesos for an original piece, complete with protective tube decorated with yet another drawing of a horse and his signature. As he worked it as hard as he could, Liz tried to take a candid shot, which only resulted in exciting him, at which point he pulled all of us in for a group picture. As you can see, he was a special man.


After letting him down gently, we headed to a small cafe for some tea before heading back to the city.

There is more to see there, more history to learn and artists to visit, but all in all it was a lovely break for the day. Katie and Luis are a sweet couple, the countryside was beautiful, and it was just nice to finally get out and see another part of Argentina, even if only for a few hours.

Teeny Bikinis

Back at home men and women alike are pulling out layers and breathing sighs of relief, letting their guts and bikini lines fall out of thier top priorities. Here, however, summer has been getting a move on for the past month. Sleeves are getting shorter and toes are peeking out of shoes. In the parks, bellies are being bared in hopes of some kisses from the sun, and clothiers are displaying their idea of acceptable swimwear in their shop windows.

It is true that Argentine women tend to come in significantly smaller frames than my American sisters. And when they aren't super skinny, they're trying hard to drop those pounds, whether in the gym or leaning over that porcelain bowl. (Eating disorders are rampant here, and it's easy to see why.)

So I'm not sure if it's a matter of actual demand, or some nasty idea of incentive to get these girls to drop the pounds, but my oh my are their bikinis teeny weeny!


Now I'll admit to a number of overtly girly near-obsessions. Shoes, bags, the usual. But bikini collecting has become an unintentional plague on my supply of available drawer space for years now. With the exception of this past summer, I have bought at least one (if not three) new bikinis every season, despite generally favoring the same two when actually putting the things to use.

Naturally, heading to a country where Summer No. 2 was just around the corner, and where they are known for their blooming fashion designers, I thought this place would be a goldmine for my guilty shopping pleasure.

I was wrong.

Fingering the racks of string-tied bits in store after store, my insides lurched at the idea of donning any of the micro-specimens offered. The tops? Tiny. Even for me, and I'm not exactly busting out up top. But some were do-able, which gave me a certain amount of hope. Hope that would prove itself false once I moved onto the...

Bottoms. Dear lord, the bottoms. No lower half exhibited fabric for the backside any larger than the fabric from the frontside. Meaning you'd better love your booty and want to share it with the world, because that's exactly what you'd be doing with those babies.

For kicks, I popped into a store clearly intended for the lower teen set, only to find that their offerings were even smaller than the rest out there -- suits so small that only the most anorexic of eight year olds could manage to pull them off.

And here I thought I was being somewhat risqué in my Victoria's Secret string number. Puh! It would be like showing up at the beach in a muumuu to these people.

What I don't understand - and what I assume I'll find out should I make the trek down the coast to the beach before I leave here - is what we normal-sized girls are to do? Are we supposed to bare our bigger behinds, even if they aren't steely and the size of two chicken breast filets? Or are we supposed to march directly into the grandma section with the skirted one-pieces, then hide behind the dunes, waiting for nightfall before tiptoeing out to the shore? Not everyone here is Vogue perfect, not by any means. So there must be some protocol.


Just for the sake of science (?) and out of some sort of masochistic curiosity, I decided to suck it up (though apparently not nearly enough) and step into one of the more modest suits (relatively speaking, of course) that had caught my eye. It was a pair of striped pieces, alternating between white and bright pink. The bottoms were a wider "boy" cut, though still missing at least a yard of fabric compared to those at home.


I cannot emphasize enough how bad of an idea that was.

I laughed, I cried. I took it off very, very fast. As I left the store, having handed the delicate thing back to the salesgirl with a chuckle masking my broken soul, I made a vow that I have steadfastly kept: no more bikini shopping in Argentina.

Blast!

MilkJuice update:

I have failed again. In the refrigerator is one box of orange milkjuice and one box of pineapple milkjuice. That last one is the heartbreaker.