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News from the U.S. doesn’t reach me easily or often. Yes, I understand there is literally no excuse for that, given things like the “newspapers” and “the Internet,” but still, it’s surprising how easy it is to avoid all that business when you really try.
None the less, I’ve been hearing a lot about this horse called Big Brown, probably because he won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness Stakes this month and could be first Triple Crown Winner in 30 years. Well, I did about five minutes of research on him; watched replays of the races on ESPN.com.
I was impressed with both races, but there is no way I’m buying into the whole, “This is the One” hype. It’s just a roller-coaster I don’t feel like riding right now. In my recent past as a Triple Crown vulture, I’ve ridden that roller-coaster with War Emblem, Funny Cide, Smarty Jones, even got my heart broken by Barbaro like so many others. Every time there was a Triple Crown at stake, I dutifully went to Belmont Park for the race and cheered my guts out.
So, because of all that, and because I’m out of the country, I’m just going to calmly register my prediction that this horse IS NOT GOING TO WIN THE TRIPLE CROWN. Not only because it just can’t happen, but because it can’t happen while I’m out of the country. I won’t allow it, by God!!
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Grant Catton: Mucho Macho Hombre
Alright, enough with the Armchair Anthropology and attempts at serious cultural observation. I’ve been traveling in Argentina and Chile for nearly a month now, and the following are some of the funnier observations, situations, and actual conversations that I’ve encountered in that time.
* Below is an actual conversation between me and a Maitre d’ at a restaurant on Cerro Florida in Valparaiso, Chile (translated from Spanish).
Me: Hello.
Maitre d’: Hello.
Me: Is it possible to eat dinner here?
Maitre d’: No. I’m sorry. It is not possible.
Me: Oh. Okay. (Awkward pause) But I see other people eating inside.
Maitre d’: Yes.
Me: But you are not open for dinner?
Maitre d’: No.
Me: But it’s 6:00pm.
Maitre d’: Yes.
Me: And you’re telling me you are closed?
Maitre d’: No. We are open.
Me: So I can eat here.
Maitre d’: Of course. It is a restaurant.
Me: But I just asked you if I could eat here.
Maitre d’: You asked if you could eat dinner. We are only serving lunch now.
Me: May I eat lunch?
Maitre d’: Certainly. Right this way, sir.
(Moments later)
Waiter: You are here for lunch, yes?
Me: I just want to eat.
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This week I’m in Mendoza, which is about a 14 hour bus ride west of Buenos Aires, or 1050 km. It’s a great small city, population 100,000, and probably the second most visited place in Argentina after Buenos Aires. It’s mostly known for being in the middle of wine country, but it’s a great city in it’s own right; clean, flat, manageable, and with a thriving night life.
The 14 hour busride sounds torturous, yes, but it’s not as bad as it seems. The busses here, at least the company I took, give you a couple sandwiches and cookies when you board in BA. Not to mention a coffee machine that dispenses good coffee, and water, throughout the trip, for free. And they have these things that fold under your legs so you can stretch out. Not at all like the Greyhound-death I’ve experienced on many a trip from New York City to Pittsburgh. No, here they do it right. I was actually able to fall asleep for about six hours of the journey.
The trip took me across the belly of Argentina; a long, flat (and I mean FLAT) expanse of land covered with scrub brush. I saw a few small towns, and some cows, but not much else. And the highway was two lanes, one in each direction. Furthermore, our bus driver fancied himself some kind of professional stunt man, because he insisted on passing, especially when there was another vehicle coming in the other lane. I´ve got to hand it to the man: he did things with a four-ton bus most people couldn’t do in a Ferrari. The busses here have two levels, and I was on the top, in the front, so I had a bird’s eye view of this perpetual excitement. Read more »
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What It’s Like to be a Foreigner in Buenos Aires
…Notes From a Confused Gringo
Today in front of the Congreso Nacional I saw a father, mother, and their two-year-old kid on a motorcycle together. The father was driving, the mother was on the back, and the niño was in the middle, holding on to his father’s torso. None of them were wearing helmets, in fact there was a helmet tied to the front handlebars. The strange thing is, after just one week in Buenos Aires, this scene barely even surprised me…
In Buenos Aires parents seem to take their children everywhere. The other day I saw a man walking down Avenida Santa Fe, one of the busiest streets in BA (think Madison Ave.), holding the hand of a baby who was barely able to walk. She was just sort of stumbling along in her diaper, as babies do, to calls of “vamos, vamos” from her father. Just a regular little porteña trying to make her way to the next café or restaurant or party, or whatever. At the San Lorenzo soccer game last week, in a neighborhood called Bajo Flores, in a scene that was composed of 95% men, there were children of all ages. Even some infants…yes, infants.
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From Grant’s going-away party. Guess which financial journalist in this picture isn’t going to work the next week?
In the first of a hopefully limitless series, Grant Catton reports from Buenos Aires where he arrived exactly a week ago. He has gone there to escape the banality of New York City life and now serves as a kind of mythological hero for every financial journalist who would like to escape to a place where beer costs $2, a good bottle of wine goes for $2.50 and a one-room share in a palatial Victorian-esque apartment in a tony neighborhood runs $300/month. Surrounded by half-naked American coeds on spring break, all that Grant can think about is the suffocating haze the greeted him. It will be interesting to see if, like the haze, his mood lifts after prolonged exposure to Argentina’s many (and affordable) delights. - JF
A Strange Argentine Welcome…or…Buenos Aires Does Not Live Up to It’s Name
I arrived in Buenos Aires to find that a strange haze of smoke had enveloped the city. This was not the light haze of smog and/or pollution I’d seen firsthand and read about prior to this trip. No, this was something more. This was the smell of a massive amount of burning vegetable matter, like the leaf fires we used to have in autumn in Pennsylvania. Except it felt as though someone had made a massive leaf fire in the middle of the city. Read more »
