some pics..!

Ecological Reserve, a breath of fresh air...

bridge in Puerto Madero called la Pierna de la Mujer, modeled off the leg of a woman dancing tango.

parilla after parilla in Puerto Madero

skating on the federal bank steps

A Culture of Thinkers

Homer, Gabriel Garcia Marques, Pierre Bordieu, Simon de Bouvier, Leo Trotsky. The authors of the featured books flash by like billboards on a freeway. In the gut of the bookstore, psychology clasics and philosophy reign the shelves, followed by a large section set aside for Argentine history. The Porteno bookstore doesn't have a New York Times bestsellers or a "hot reads" table like American bookstores to shine a spotlight on the newest, most popular books that capture fleeting zietgiests and opinions of critics and polls. Bookstores in Buenos Aires feature classics, books with lasting reputations by authors of high esteem.

The psychology section here doesn't celebrate self help titles and quick fix mood swing books. Herman Hesse, Freud and Skinner lie cover up, facing eachother, like a round table discussion of some of the most renowned thinkers in modern psychology.

In outdoor used book stalls, similar patterns govern, with more distinguished scholars and famous titles catch my attention from worn book covers like a closet of dense wool sweaters; they may have holes or a couple torn pages, but the quality is both lasting and charming.


The intriguing thing about the bookstores here is not just that they have different books, but what this difference means. I think they're are many ways to learn about and try to understand a culture, and one of my new anthropological methods is to peruse a people's bookstores. People generally read about things that mean a lot to them. If you're going to spend your free time reading a book, the topic of the book is obviously interesting to you. So bookstores tell you what people care and think about. They have a sampling of the important issues, favorite musings and topics, and generally just the things people find interesting. Now obviously, not everybody frequents bookstores, and not everyone reads books (so no this sampling method cannot be used in anywhere other than conversation or travel blogs) but nonetheless, here's what I've learned about Buenos Aires form bookstores.


First off, the sheer number of them is a shock, it seems every block I pass a bookstore or two. Most relatively are small (the only one remotely similar to Barnes and Noble is the Ateneo) and have both new and used books. In addition, the books are pretty cheap, about 5 USD for used books. Which leads me to wonder how they are possibly making profits as books are dirt cheap and bookstores are endemic. Well it turns out bookstores are everywhere because readers are everywhere. On the subte (subway), at outside tables of cafes, on benches at the park; everyone's reading.


The second interesting thing is what I discussed above, about the value of classics and dense theoretical books. It seems to me that the Portenos value history and intellect much more than us Americans. Every young adult I've talked to here knows about and is excited to talk about Argentine history, and the large history sections confirm this. As I mentioned before, classic literature dominates the fiction section, verifying that the Argentines are intellectuals. They don't want the "next best thing" throw-away paperback best seller. They want the tried and true works of art, the books you remember and can read twice and still not fully understand. In our American culture where, the next best thing is obviously better, the best seller tables always have fresh flashy batch of bestsellers, jsut waiting for our quick consumption, a routine book club discussion, and a quick disposal to a trash can, used bookstore or mother in law nearby. Here, books have longer lives, as all the bookstores have a used section which is often larger than the new. They are treated more like works of art, that deserve mulling over in cafes and discussing for years and years. Now that I write this, I'm actually feeling a bit sorry for American books, with their fleeting popularity, like the cool girls in middle school; you always knew their lack of substance and bad quality would get them in the end.


In addition, the bookstores are chock full dense social theory, the stuff that makes whole anthropology lecture hall groan. Books like Pierre Bourdieu's 'Outline of a Theory of Practice' which considers human symbols and relations through abstract language and really long words. This book is not just in bookstores (you have to order this online in the states, i know) but it's featured in windows.


Anyways, I could go on forever, but I think hte point has been made. The Portenos are intellectual and really value reading in general, literature, books about the meanings of life and theories on human actions and they still think the thoughts of people who aren't living are worth reading (we would prefer to forget about most these people, I mean duh, they're dead they can't be too smart!...plus Twilight 4 got 3 stars in People, has a shiny cover, and has vampires going to third base!)



Photos.....






The Ateneo is a bookstore in an old theater built in 1920. It seats over 1,000 and has seen many famous tango artists including Carlos Gardel and others. It then became a movie theater in the late '20's and following the obvious succession of events, was converted into a bookstore in 2000 (chiste..?). It still features a hand painted ceiling and sculptures on the walls.






A book stall at the "feria de librerias" outside my apartment. There's about 30 stalls like this where people have collections of used books. The same guys (yes, almost all older men) sell books from the same stalls and from what I gather, most have been here for years. At night they lock up the books with iron gates and start anew in the morning ... if they feel up to it. Any given day some are open and some are closed, depending on weather, day of the week and mod of the vender. Seems like a pretty nice gig.

Riquisimo!

I guess it makes sense that if 14 million immigrants from around the globe are crammed into a single limited geographical area, some nice fresh human culture would emerge. And Buenos Aires, has taken this to extremes. I'm taking about culture, you know, that shared, learned, symbolic system of values, beliefs and attitudes that shapes and influences perception and behavior that we all take part in.

It seems to me, that back in olden days, everywhere had their own culture, with specific, rituals, traditions, ideas, relationships, celebrations, beliefs and foods, that existed more or less independent of others. Sure, they'd trade and battle and mate every once in a while, but for the most part, people around the world just kind of did their own thing.

Then, some guy invented a steam engine, airplanes, and pretty soon, the iphone and poof, thousands of cultures and subcultures mix and mash, twist and clash, into this crazy global world today, where there are more people than ever, but less diversity of culture or at least that's how I'd pictured it.

McDonald's has stamped it's big clown shoes down in over 120 countries (yes that's a fact, I found it on Wikipedia), more and more people have access to TV and commercials and blah blah. It seems that with a globalized media and planes taking this culture here and that culture there, we'd be living in a confusing mix, a cultural jumble where no one's sure who they are and we all want to be the same.

But that's just not how it all works. One of the cool things about culture is that it a) it reinvents itself constantly; meanings, rituals, etc. all change with time. and b) even things that seem to be soul-sucking, homogeneous making culture killers, like commercials and McDonald's are actualy interpreted differently in different places, for instance, here in BsAs you can get an empanada at McDonald's and most the beauty magazines have photo-shopped Britney Spears to have an uncanny dark contrast in here hair, turning this blond Texan into a perfectly suitable Hispanic mamasita. See McDonald's and beauty mags don't hurt anybody, wink ..... wink. So what I'm trying to get at is that here in Buenos Aires, sure they watch the same American films, carry Prada bags, and worship the Black Eyed Peas, but they really have their own thing going.

Native Argentines, a slew of diverse European immigrants, and more and more people from other parts of South America have danced, sang, mated, drank and ate their way to a whole new unique way of life: the way of the Porteno.

While there are obviously countless characteristics that one could consider to be defining parts of Porteno culture, as an outsider diving into this culture, a few key things really stand out. Portenos cherish a drink called mate, sipping gourds of the stuff in a circle at all hours of the day like freshmen pot smokers in Santa Cruz chatting around a bong.

Portenos start their weekends on early Saturday morning, prepping, primping and "pre-boliche-ing" until they leave for the cornucopia of bars, clubs and dance halls at about 1:30 or 2 am. It apparently is common to see girls walking out the 'boliches' after the sun's up, pulling high heels off blister feet next to the park by my apartment.

Another key trait of any real Porteno is near and dear soccer team. The question is not whether one is a soccer fan (everyone is), but who you are a fan of. This usually means Boca Jrs or River, the two teams that call BsAs home. Children apparently choose a team when they can barely kick a soccer ball themselves, and after this rite of passage, there's no returning. Through thick and thin, wins and losses, player trades and coach firings, the Portenos stick with their chosen equipos. I had the honor of witnessing one of the ritual Sunday night soccer games in the home of native Argentine 20-somethings. These guys lived and died with each score and shouted and cussed with each blow of the ref's whistle. They knew every players name had opinions on each play. It was like Superbowl Sunday, if your team played in the Superbowl and the Superbowl was every Sunday, if that makes sense.

A couple of notable things about the layout of the city that seem to me to be key parts of Porteno life are bookstores, graffiti, and old European buildings. If you ever need something to read, don't stress, because likely you're within 500ft from a bookstore. All are small, some are used, and many are actually temporary kiosks in the middle of the street. Across from my apartment is a "Feria de Librerias" with stall after stall of used book peddlers. From Pierre Bordieu to Yoga instruction manuals, these guys have it all. One of my favorite parts of wandering the city of BsAs so far is the graffiti that cloacks some buildings and shyly tiptoes on others. This graffiti isn't gang slur but either bright, beautiful, creative or obviously political. These best part is that the canvases for most of these murals are neo-classic style buildings, often with textured walls and intricate columns. The graffiti and neo-classicism complement eachother in a most ironic and picturesque manner.

The last things that I will mention as a first impression of this one-of-a-kind culture is that they have their own language. It happens to fall under the arbitrary category of spanish, but the words and manner in which people speak here are not like those I learned in the kitchen of Hopmonk Tavern in Sebastopol or the desk of my high school spanish class. I've pretty much had to start from square one (or more like square 3/20) learning to say "muchisimo gracias!" without a smirk and "che boludo!" rather than "que tal!"

This post will end rather abruptly, but I hope to expand on each of these topics with furster depth in the future.

The above photos are from the Malba, the modern art museum here.

Carne, mucho carne

I look down at my plate and forge a smile, "smells great," I say through clenched teeth. Nancy, my host mom has spent the past three hours slicing, sauteing, roasting, and stuffing the some type of very meaty dish. I had many clues that tonight's meal was extreme carne. First was the heavy smell wafting out the apartment door to before I'd even turned the key. Next, I saw a pool of blood and oil the soaking the bottom of a roasting pan on top of the oven. Last, I caught a glimpse of a large brown centerpiece on the dining room table as I came out of my room for water. I knew the moment of truth and taste would come soon, but I thought it might be a few minutes farther off.

But here I am, sitting in front of what I've just learned it steak stuffed with bacon or "carne machado", not having touched meat in over 12 years now, and I have no choice but to cut it up and put it inside my mouth. I go for the stuffing first, dates, onions, peppers, and yes, bacon. The flavor of bacon fills my mouth, and this familiar smell now takes on an actual taste in my mouth. Wierd. Intense. Rico. Muy muy rico. I have no choice but to go in for the meat of the matter next, no pun intended. I stab the steak with my knife and attempt to saw a piece off. This piece catches the knife, and soars across the table.

After a lesson in using a steak knife, I'm back in business, putting piece after pice of cooked flesh in my mouth until my plate is entirely empty. I don't know how, it all happened so fast, but somehow I managed to put down an entire steak, and not a small on at that, with bacon and a side of potatoes.

The strangest part about this first meat experience was how small of an event it was. My host parents had no idea about my vegetarian past, about the pervasive head chatter during this meal or the fact that that steak stuffed with bacon was down beside fried pigs ears on the list of meats I had even an inkling of a desire to try. It just kind of happened. I sat down, sucked it up and chowed down.

Immediately afterwards I felt good, even proud of myself for being flexible, thankful, and not dwelling upon where, when, how this meat was produced or other such things that could seriously ihibit my ability to swallow this fibrous delicacy. A few minutes later, this satisfaction was over come by a sharp side pain and a sudden need to lie down, but none the less the experience went well.

Since then I've had meat almost every night: fried chicken, meatballs, leftover steak and pot roast, and it's going fine. I don't particularly like the stuff, and surely will revert back to my vegetarian ways upon returning to the US. However, as the saying goes "when in Rome, do as the Romans do" and when in Argentina, eat as the Argentines do; and that means carne, mas carne, and mediolunas.

Mucho gusto, Argentina

The plane descends through a thick layer of pillowy clouds, emerging above in a vast landscape of lush green farmlands. Like a beginner's quilt, plots of various shapes and sizes are patchworked together into a haphazard but overwhelmingly picturesque pattern. The farms are broken up by rivers, thick and thin, twisting together and splitting apart again, tangled into a beautiful mess of brown knots disturbing the parallel and perpendicular lines of the farms.

The plane ride itself was a nightmare, not for any particular reason, but for a millions small reasons. The food, no sleep, bad movies, long lines in customs. But after 15 hours in the air, I have finally arrived in the place I've thought, dreamed, hoped, worried, and fantasized about for the past year or so. The Rio de Plata is no longer a figure in my imagination but is an actual concrete land formation 30,000 feet below my eyes, the Argentine people are now surrounding me on this dense train, and the food of Argentina is now in my mouth (if plane food counts). All the expecations, aspirations, and worries are finally taking some sort of solid form.

La adventura esta empeciendo.