Lines, and those who wait in them

The line for the bus to Buenos Aires was long today. Usually, a trip to the big city is an uncomplicated hour trip, and I rarely wait more than 10 minutes for the bus. Today, it took much longer. The line stretched to the corner of the block. As always, it was perfectly straight. Finally, the bus arrived.

As we boarded, a man ran up and tried to cut the line. “Che, hay una cola,” someone objected. “Hey man, there’s a line.” The would-be cutter hung his head and slouched off to the end of the line, taking his rightful and non-negotiable place in the most egalitarian of all Argentine institutions: the line, or as it as known here, la cola. (In proper Spanish, fila is line, and cola means tail, or ass. Argentine slang is rich in double entendres.)

Some social scientists may take issue with my designation of the line as a social institution. I suggest any pointy-headed detractors pull their heads out of their colas and spend some time waiting in colas. (Or is it filas?) Like any society, Argentina has a complex system of norms and expectations entirely apart from the law. It can be difficult to understand--the concept of timeliness is confounding, and the rules of the road are simultaneously Darwinian and illogical--but rules about lines are rock-solid. As evidenced by the boludo (fool, jerk) who tried to cut the cola this morning, those who transgress this norm are shamed.

Lines rarely curve here: when they must deviate from a perfectly straight path, they tend to make sharp, clear turns, like the number seven. When lines do curve, they seem to have been drawn with a compass. At least in this aspect of Argentine life, predictability is valued.

Lines materialize, even when they seem not to exist. There is some sort of southern-cone spidey sense that helps Argentines know who arrived first. I haven’t picked up on these cues, but I appreciate them. “¿Estás próximo, no?” I am often asked while waiting: “You’re next, right?” It’s not so much a question as a gentle reminder that it’s my turn, and that I should have known that.

It must be said that Argentines have lots of practice with these lines, and it shows. Government institutions, and plenty of businesses, remain inscrutable mazes of red tape and confusing--sometimes contradictory--requirements, and I sometimes wonder if these perfect lines are a reaction to bureaucratic processes that reward the slightest irregularity with a quick rejection. Perhaps the Argentine fondness for lines formed in reaction to bureaucratic confusion, an attempt, if you will, to bring some level of order and predictability to government and business proceedings. Or, could it be the reverse? Could such predictably perfect lines enable bureaucratic arbitrariness? I think I would need to spend much more time in colas to answer this question.

More likely, though, this admirable (if somewhat excessive) focus on waiting one’s turn stems from Argentina’s emphasis on solidarity and egalitarianism. The disastrous neoliberal policies of the last 40 years have dramatically increased the gap between rich and poor here, but old ideals of advancing together, as Argentines, die hard. Like any national narrative, Argentina’s story about fairness and equality is part fiction, part fact. Argentina, the story goes, was once a more equal country, and nostalgia for this partially invented past is strong.

This telling of history largely excludes women (the franchise wasn’t extended to them until 1951), indigenous groups, poor immigrants (both European and later other Latin Americans), and other groups outside traditional narratives of Argentine statehood and progress. It is much easier to see a mostly middle-class society when one doesn’t go looking for poverty and inequality. I don’t know if the lines were just as straight at the height of Argentine power and wealth in the 1920’s, but the people who stood in them would have been far from equal.

My class attendance here has been spotty, but one clear lesson has been that the truth about the past doesn’t matter half as much as what people think is true. (See Turkey.) This can be dangerous, but here in Argentina, I think nostalgia for a more equal past is positive, as long as attempts to build a fairer future are actually inclusive. Based at least on the lines I stand in, that seems likely. Waiting in line here, we really are all equal, and remarkably civil about it too.

I joined a different kind of line a few nights ago, when I went for a nocturnal jog around La Plata’s main plaza. Unlike the queues for buses, the long line of runners, walkers, and in-line skaters was not so strictly regulated. The trees here absorb water during springtime’s regular, semi-tropical rainstorms, and release it when the skies are clear. So on this night, it felt as if it were raining, but the sky was clear and the stars were out. The big, cool drops are welcome during hot afternoons, and I appreciated them even more as I turned three, four, five laps around Plaza Moreno, cutting the line as I went.

Searching high and low for hops in Argentina

I can make more pie, but the beer was irreplaceable.

I spend a lot of time here talking about Oregon, and explaining how it differs from the United States people see on television. I combat misperceptions about American beer on a regular basis, and La Plata now knows that it is not all Budweiser.

It's rare, however, for me to get a chance to demonstrate exactly what Oregon is to my friends here. Last week, that changed just a bit. To further my friends’ education, I decided to share my two precious bottles of Oregon microbrew, accompanied by dinner, peach pie, a couple decent local beers, and Argentine wine. (I added the wine to the list with some regret, but two 22-ounce bottles of beer don’t go very far in a group of nine.)

Thanks to the generosity of a number of friends, these two bottles of Oregon’s finest cerveza had made their way to me, and I had guarded them in my fridge, admiring them longingly every couple of days. It takes great self-restraint not to drink a chilled bottle of Ninkasi Tricerahops when you're in a land as hop-starved as Argentina: my forays to various corners of Argentina in search of hoppy beers have almost all failed. My friends have grown used to my frustrated refrain of “¡¿donde está el maldito lúpulo?¡” or, “Where are the damn hops?!”

There have been some moments when the malbec clouds have parted and bright, hop-scented sunshine has poured into my life here in Argentina. The first of those moments has already been detailed in a previous post: I found a not-so-shabby red ale, imported into the United States by a company out of Bend.

As months passed, I found more and more local brews. Claudio, the manager of the little wine shop I stop by once or twice a week, would let me know whenever he added to his small stock of beers. Some were disappointments--I will not say they were bitter disappointments--but others were acceptable. I sometimes wonder what Claudio thinks about Oregon. I often tell him about the multitudes of breweries in my home state, but that’s about all he knows about where I’m from.

For months, I sampled bottle after bottle, which ranged from swill to just shy of swell. Good beers on tap were almost impossible to find. Antares, the much-feted Argentine brewery chain, disappointed: the tap list lacked a single ale, and the other beers were too sweet. Some reminded me more of the Snapple I used to drink at my grandparents’ house than beer, targeted at lager-drinking ladies and their stout-drinking boyfriends.

Rebecca and I discover good beer in Rosario. We had just finished a 

30-hour train ride, but still hustled straight to the brewery.

All this changed while Rebecca and I were traveling in August. Near the end of our trip, we stopped to visit my cousin Jessica in Rosario, where she was studying for two months. Jessica knows me well, and hearing of our arrival, excitedly texted that she had found a great brewery with real beer. We should come right away. We hustled over, and were surprised to find a balanced, hoppy pale ale on tap. Our time in Rosario was short, but we returned to Fenicia a few more times.

When we arrived back in La Plata, another surprise awaited. Antares, home of sickly sweet beers, had a seasonal IPA on tap. It didn’t equal the pale ale in Rosario, but I approved. Apparently, the rest of Antares’ clientele did not: it lasted less than a month before being replaced with an undrinkable “Oktoberfest.” I despaired, and drank more wine. The bottle of Ninkasi in the fridge was like a security blanket: I knew that if things ever got really bad, I had an evenings’ worth of hops waiting for me.

I knew, though, that those bottles of Oregon’s bounty should be shared. Last week, I invited some friends over, made some pizzas and a peach pie, and contemplated the fresh-hopped Deschutes Brewery pale ale, recently delivered by my friend Paul, visiting from Oregon. Yes, I would share it.

We made our way through some homemade pizzas, a bottle of wine, and the peach pie before arriving at the main event: the beers. I was a little worried about the possible reception, so we started with a local Larsen Red Ale, a likable attempt from a brewery in a La Plata suburb. Reviews were positive.

We moved on to the Ninkasi Tricerahops. As the bottle went around, conversation turned to the beer’s strong hops scent. Someone compared it to flowers. I told a story about carrying a keg of Ninkasi home on a bike trailer for my going-away party in Eugene. “So college in the US is really like in the movies, with lots of beer?” someone asked. “Not really,” I said. “When is the last time you saw a keg on a bike in a movie about college?”

The Tricerahops Double IPA met with great approval. It’s a strong, somewhat sweet ale, but the hops were still present. “This is what we need more of here,” I commented, and people agreed.

Xava contemplates fresh hops,  and approves.

The next beer to sample was the seasonal, fresh-hopped version of Deschutes Mirror Pond Pale Ale. My Grandma Gale used to buy it by the case. (Her husband, my grandfather, still prefers Budweiser, which is a source of great shame for the rest of the family.) The fresh hops gave the beer a slightly more sour taste than the brew’s normal variety, but it was pretty close to the familiar, clean Mirror Pond taste. My friends preferred the Tricerahops. This is Argentina, after all: whether sugar comes as the glazing of a medialuna, mixed in mate, or as the product of fermented malt, sweetness is rewarded.

Thanksgiving is just a few weeks off now, and I’ve invited the same group over for a traditional dinner of pavo, mezcla de relleno, puré de batata y papa, salsa de arándanos, y pie de calabaza. (That would be turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. There is no Spanish word for “pie.”) I’ve already reserved the turkey, and Sulma and Orlando, my greengrocers, are looking for a pumpkin for me--might be a little tough to find in the South American spring. I’ll leave La Plata soon after Thanksgiving, so the holiday will be both another opportunity to showcase the good in American culture and a going-away party. I’m okay with my pending departure, but I will miss this place. (The beer, not so much.)

Brewers in search of an adventure: Argentina is waiting. The hops can grow in Mendoza and the barley on the pampas. Come and build an empire. Me? Well, I’m looking forward to riding my bike through the rain to the market near my parents’ house back in Portland, where I’ll have un montón of choices of local beers. I’ll toast your success from there.

Asado 101

I guess it was pretty obvious that we didn't know what we were doing. 

After three nights of lentils and pasta, my friend Joseph and I had decided to buy a hunk of beef and make ourselves a\ Argentine style asado, or barbecue. It seemed a fitting way to mark a successful backpacking trip in the mountains of Cordoba province.

Per my carnivorous brother's advice, given some months earlier, I rubbed the olive oil and black pepper into the meat. It felt kind of gross. Joseph found some charcoal and busied himself building a little pyramid of briquettes on the huge grill. We had no lighter fluid, so we decided that white gas would have to suffice. 

The first time we tried to light the charcoal, we hadn't added enough gas. Our fire quickly flickered out, so we added more gas. This time we added too much--a giant fireball nearly took off our eyebrows--but the flames did not last. What were we going to do? The salad was made, and the wine had been opened. We needed that meat.

A pair of Argentines had been watching our confused attempts bemusedly from the other side of the open-air kitchen. It was time to ask for help, manhood (so closely linked to the grill, and in so many countries) be damned. I turned around.

"We don't know what we're doing," I said. "But from what I've seen, cada argentino es un experto del asado. Will you teach us?" 

Our new friends jumped up and busied themselves finding wood and sawdust, moving our charcoal to a different part of the grill, and sizing up our cut of beef. ("Not very big" was the verdict.) They stacked wood, charcoal, paper, and sawdust carefully, explaining how everything was to work as they went. I was not exactly surprised to learn that we had done approximately everything wrong.

We offered our new friends wine: they declined, explaining that last night had been a little too wild. Fifteen minutes later, one said, "Actually, could you pass me a glass? The smell of the meat is making me thirsty." His two friends quickly assented. I was starting to wish we had bought two bottles; I should have remembered that everything is shared in Argentina. We should have planned for that.

Where our fires had briefly bellowed and quickly faded, the Argentines' provided a steady supply of perfect coals to cook our too-small steak. Our friends did not disappear after the grill was prepped. Instead, they told us to sit down; they would handle the grilling too. I protested: we didn't want to inconvenience them, and plus, I wanted to learn how to make a good asado. 

"Honestly, you're kind of hopeless," came the response. "Just enjoy it." 

We piled salad on our plates and ate the beef as small, perfectly cooked bits were delivered to us. It was the opposite of the American steak experience: there was no single hunk of rapidly-cooling, irregularly cooked meat on my plate. Instead, every bite was hot and just the right amount of pink all the way through. 

Joseph and I had hoped to eat an early dinner, but as our asado failures compounded with lengthening conversation with our parilla tutors, we realized that it would not be an early night. We finished the dishes just after midnight: right on schedule for Argentina. 

Brownies, Taxi

Running late, and encumbered by a large pan of still hot brownies, I decided to hail a taxi to a friend’s dinner party last night. “Que rico olor,” my driver greeted me as a slid into his dented, vaguely musty car. I had to agree: the brownies did smell good.

“What are you thinking getting into a taxi at this time of night with a big plate of brownies like that one there?” my driver asked. He sounded a little irritated.

“Well, I’m headed to a friend’s dinner,” I said, caught slightly off guard. Since when did taxistas tell people to find another driver in Argentina?

“No, no, it’s okay,” the driver said, realizing that I was a foreigner and not entirely accustomed to the particulars of Argentine taxi drivers. “This time of night is tough, though... some cute girl gets in your taxi with two dozen empanadas, you know, homemade empanadas, and I haven’t had anything since lunch! Sometimes I give a girl a couple pesos off her fare for an empanada or two. Did you make those?”

“Yeah. Brownies are easy,” I said, warming up to my driver and his commentary as we passed by the cathedral.

“That’s what I tell my girlfriend, but she’ll only make them out of the box! It’s what, six ingredients? I used to make them with my mom.”

I could tell what he was thinking, but the brownies weren’t cut yet. I had no way to give him one short of digging into the tray with my fingers, which I was not about to do. “Lo siento, che...” I said. “No, it’s okay,” the taxista said. “I’m going to get some empanadas soon.”

When I arrived at my friend’s apartment, I was 15 minutes late: early, even, by Argentine standards. The brownies were still warm. As I slipped out of the taxi, the driver looked over his shoulder and said, “I hope they’re good. Maybe I’ll make some this weekend.”

Peanut butter imperialism

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I went to Wal-Mart. As a good Portland liberal, I am more than a little ashamed of this, and I should make it clear that my decision to visit a (very) southern outpost of the Walton Empire was not an easy one. My calculus looked something like this:

Wal-Mart = Evil

Wal-Mart = Peanut Butter

Peanut Butter ≠ Evil

Therefore,

Wal-Mart ≠ Root of all Evil

(Okay, that's not really calculus, but it's close enough for me.)

Any American who has traveled in Latin America knows how difficult it is to find peanut butter, and what a strange place our staple occupies in the collective conscious of Latin America. Everyone knows what it is, thanks to The Simpsons, but almost no one has tried it. This was true of the store employee who helped me find it too.

“I have a question,” he said, as we approached the “ethnic foods” aisle. (Yes, peanut butter was shelved next to other niche foods: matza, german-labeled muesli, gluten-free bread, canned Mexican chilis, sushi rice, etc.) “What is peanut butter, really? I know you all eat a lot of it, and my grandmother—she’s been to the US—says it’s delicious, but I’ve always been kind of skeptical. Is it just peanuts, ground up?”  Yes, I said, just peanuts ground up. “Well, I think I’ll take some next time I go visit my grandmother, and we’ll try it together.”

I left Wal-Mart with a jar of peanut butter, feeling like I had done my part in explaining my country to the rest of the world. We’re not just Hollywood and imperialism: some parts of the US are unambiguously good… namely, peanut butter.

It's merienda time here--about six--so countless Argentines are putting away a little something to tide them over until dinner. Some sort of little snack, often croissant-like medialunas and a coffee, is necessary in a country where dinner is chronologically akin to a midnight snack: eleven is a common dinner time, ten if you're lucky.

I continue to struggle with the schedule of Argentine life. I worry a bit that I'm gaining a reputation as "Riley, that nice American guy that goes to bed early," because I often duck out of parties, bars, and clubs before four a.m. I made it to 5:30 a.m. last week, but was such a wreck all of the next day that it hardly seemed worth it. To make matters worse, my 5:30 departure was still hours earlier than my friends': they made it to nearly eight.

Although I haven't adjusted to the late nights, much of the rest of La Plata and its assorted quirks has become familiar. I do my best to greet everyone—and I mean everyone—with a kiss on the right cheek, even in big groups. I like this tradition, but sometimes wonder just how much time I spend every week touching cheeks and saying "hola." This is a very norteamericano way of thinking, though, and I try to avoid it.

Walking back to my apartment a couple days ago, I heard a women comment, "¡'ta rebien, boludo!" A literal translation of this familiar Argentine interjection makes no sense, but its closest English equivalent would be something like "wicked, dude!" Occasionally, I give this linguistic badge of Argentine nationality a try, but it’s not quite the same. There’s an inescapable irony in an estadounidense saying “boludo.”

This is the first time I’ve lived outside of the US: although I’ve traveled a lot over the last several years, I never really stayed put for very long. I’m still not sure what to think of it. The one real conclusion I’ve reached is that life is up and down here.

I’m finding writing about life in one location much more difficult that writing about traveling. Without the imposed contrast of movement, it’s easy to fall into a rhythm; easy to take the same route every day, eat the same foods, talk with the same people. I try to avoid this, but at the same time, sometimes it’s a comfort to go to a restaurant knowing exactly what I’m going to order—because I’ve ordered the same thing a couple times before. That’s a bad example. I guess I mean that I enjoy being a regular.

The neighborhood’s Chinese grocers don’t bother asking if I’ve remembered to bring back my bottles for the deposit now; they just assume that I have. There’s a man who sells rosaries and mirrors (strange combination) on a corner near my apartment; we greet each other most mornings. I promised that I’d deliver my greengrocer some American-style chocolate chip cookies tomorrow. I notice the little changes that I’d miss if I were just passing through. La Plata is not a permanent home (I don’t really know what that is), but it’s close enough for me to feel at ease.

An afternoon mate is as much a part of my routine as my morning coffee now, but I’m still avoiding the dulce de leche. Argentina is saturated with sugar and other sweet things, but my taste buds haven’t quite acclimated yet. I did cook half a kilo of cow for dinner a few days ago, though, so I’m making progress in some culinary fields.

Sometimes, I get tired of speaking a foreign language all day, every day, and come back to my apartment and long for Oregon. Theoretically, it’s the end of fall here, with winter just a few weeks away. Yet somehow, it’s sunny and warm most days. I could really go for dark, rainy nights, wet leaves, strong fall brews, and earthy meals right now. Autumn just isn’t the same when you’re eating empanadas and drinking Stella Artois.

Wal-Mart might import peanut butter, but that other American force for good—the IPA—is nowhere to be found.

Update, 22 May:
I am equally happy and ashamed to report that all my complaining about the lack of peanut butter and strong, hoppy beers was for naught. Yesterday, after publishing this post, I stopped in at my local dietetica (health food store, kind of), and the owner greeted me and said, "We have peanut butter now!" (She knows I am American, and thus inferred that I loved peanut butter.) Turns out that trip to Wal-Mart wasn't necessary.

More importantly, I have discovered the holy grail, the fountain of youth, the northwest passage, the lost city of Atlantis. They were all hiding in a 22-ounce bottle in a wine shop a few blocks from my apartment, labeled, "Cerveza Jerome, Andean Red Ale." More importantly, on the back: "Imported in the USA by: SWG Imports, Bend, Oregon." This was a beer fit to be enjoyed in Oregon--and in Argentina too.

A walk around La Plata

I went on a long walk on Tuesday. This is what I saw. Or, click here to see a fullscreen slideshow. (It's better that way.)



La Plata, Argentina. It's nice here.

Che quilombo, and other reasons I walk

Slowly, I am finding my place in La Plata, my lovely, symmetrical city an hour south of Buenos Aires. I’ve rented an apartment, bought a bicycle, and stocked my kitchen. (All three of these tasks proved much more complicated than I had hoped.) Classes have yet to start, so I’ve spend most of my time walking around the city’s tree-lined streets, looking for one thing or another, or sometimes just looking for nothing in particular. I’ve taken to noting the cross streets of interesting places in a notebook: I have a couple pages of note like “used bikes, corner 44/7,” “veg. restaurant!, 36/14,” “kitchen supply store, 42/1,” and “Basque cultural center? 14/52.”

La Plata’s proximity to Buenos Aires has condemned the city to relative obscurity, even within Argentina. Despite its tree-lined streets, beautiful buildings, and many parks, La Plata is not somewhere people visit on holiday. In almost all ways, La Plata is outclassed by Buenos Aires, but to be fair, almost every city in the world is out-classed, out-glitzed, out-everythinged by the cultural and political behemoth to the north.

That may be why I like it so much here. The search for La Plata’s charms requires some patience: there are no big poster-boards touting historic attractions or tango shows. I’m rewarded every day with some curious shop or attraction, all of which are duly recorded in my notebook... “art gallery, 5/52,” “beautiful nursery, 56/9.” Of course, I find many more places than I have time to visit, and my list of curiosities and attractions grows longer by the day.

My days here feel like an accumulation of unrelated moments, some more memorable than others. Nothing really flows, but somehow the anecdotes fit together into complete days. The friendly Bolivian greengrocer on my block asked me where I’m from yesterday. The United States, I said. “Interesting,” she commented. “You have a Canadian face, but when you bought hot peppers, I was sure you were from Mexico. Mexicans always ask for hot peppers.” I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was flattered. (And confused about what a Canadian face looks like.)

Those hot peppers are hard to find here, but some Argentine staples are not. Dulce de leche, a sticky, sickly-sweet spread, lurks beneath the surface of all too many pastries and desserts. Entire tarts are filled with the stuff, and it hurts my teeth. My local friends remain incredulous that I don’t like the stuff. I do like mate, the tea-like national drink everyone consumes almost daily. However, mate hasn’t become part of my daily life yet, and sometimes I think that some people are able to identify me as a foreigner simply because I am not carrying around a gourd of mate and a thermos for hot water everywhere I go.

As mentioned above, I have a bicycle, but I haven’t been riding it much. La Plata isn’t all that bike-friendly, and after a lifetime of coddling in the bike lanes in Portland and Eugene, riding here is one long exercise in panic-control for me. (I am one of maybe five people in the city here that wears a helmet.) More importantly, though, is my bicycle’s temperament. I have named it “Che Quilombo,” which translates from Argentine slang as “problem, dude.” It loses its chain often, the headset is loose, and the seat tends to pitch backwards. None of these problems were evident when I bought my bike, and I lack the tools to fix them. At the moment, Che Quilombo is locked up on the street, and I think it’ll remain there for a while.

The loss of Che Quilombo is not that big of a problem, though. For one, I only paid fifty dollars. More importantly, La Plata is better suited for walking. Like I wrote, this city is perfectly symmetrical. Tree-lined avenues predictably radiate out from consistently-placed plazas. There’s no need to memorize street names or confusing intersections; there’s a simple system of numbering that makes everything easy to find. I haven’t needed a map since day three. (Those that know me best will attest that this says much more about the city than about me.) The bus system, however, is still a mystery, so I usually walk.

And when I walk, I find curious places and notice more about this lovely little city. Eventually, I think it’ll feel normal and maybe even a little too small. But for now, I’m enjoying discovering La Plata, one street at a time.

Argentina: a little bit different

When I arrived at Camping Don Bartolo this afternoon, the caretaker, a short man with a manicured mustache, a broad hat, and a 10-inch long knife tucked into his woven belt, looked at me funny and said, "pero llueve." But it's raining.

"I know," I said. "I come from a very rainy place." He shrugged, named his price, and told me I was welcome to camp in any unoccupied site. (That was all of them, of course.) As I set up my camp in a drizzle, he went back to chopping wood, preparing for the long winter to come.

That winter is not far off here in the Argentine lake district. The songbirds are abandoning the cooling hills of Patagonia for the warmer pampas and tropical lands to the north, and the travelers seem to be going with them too: nearly all the tourists I've meet in the last few weeks seem to be pushing north to Salta, north to Bolivia, north to Peru and Ecuador, north to places where it is still summer. For better or worse, I am still headed south, but not for much longer.

The end of summer has necessitated a number of changes to my style of travel. Most Argentine universities and schools (but strangely, not mine) started classes a week ago, so the number of locals traveling has dropped. Not surprisingly, this means that public transit links to national parks have become almost nonexistent, so I've been hitching a lot more. "Ir a dedo" (to go on a finger: Spanish doesn´t distinguish between fingers and thumbs) has proven easy and enjoyable: I've never waited more that 10 minutes, and I've been invited to stay in touch or visit often. (I have a standing invitation to go water skiing with two doctors in Cordoba, for example.)

A couple days ago, I hitched a ride out of Parque Nacional Lanín with a group of park rangers. I rode in the bed of their truck as we bounced down narrow, potholed gravel roads through a forest of trees unique to Patagonia. From my perch atop a horse's saddle, squeezed between a spare tire and a chainsaw, I took in a view of crystalline lakes, hills covered with forests of contorted, strangely-hued trees, and towering above it all, Volcan Lanín.

Volcan Lanín is really quite easy to picture: it looks exactly like a mountain should. Lanín is a perfect equilateral triangle, with a broad, brownish-grayish-blackish field of cinder and scree at its base, and capped by a huge, glistening ice cap .

Camping Don Bartolo, my home for the night, is not much more than a pasture. Horses graze around my tent, only slightly interested in my spaceship-shaped tent and its sole inhabitant. I like to think the birds that have not yet flown north find me more interesting, but I suspect they are focused on my crumbs. Some sort of woodpecker--carpintero, I learned recently--is insistently putting holes into a living coihue beech next to my tent. I have been paying lots of attention to the birds here: so similar in form and function to those I know in North America, but subtly, almost imperceptibly different. Subtle distinction reigns in the Americas, it seems: I've spent lots of time in the parks here sitting, staring at plants, fungi, lichen, and insects that diverge just slightly from what I know.

Sometimes, though, the differences are more obvious. For a native Pacific Northwesterner used to fir, hemlock, maples, and cedar, staring at the trees feels like being very, very high: the trees are alien to me. Even their names--lenga, pehuén, ñire, coihue, guindo--sound otherworldly. The coihue  twist slowly skyward, branching into discrete canopies, while the pehuén shoots straight to the sky and bursts into a rounded, spiny ball of branches and needles at its top. Standing in the middle of one of these bizarre forests... there are no words.

I think I've been focusing on the trees, birds, and insects more than I usually do because I'm alone. I'm not sure if I appreciate the subtleties and the beauty of this place more or less as a solo traveler. with no one to share it with, I may notice more but I comment and consider less. I am still relearning how to be alone--it's been a while.

Not that I am always alone. Sometimes company comes in spades. I shared a campsite last night with a group of retired Argentine men out for a drinking and fishing trip. Around their fire, we shared weak beer and heavy wine and listened as one man--el gordo, they called him--sang traditional songs about women, horses, sadness, and drink. So close to familiar American country music, but just slightly different--like to much here.

La fiesta de espuma

It happened quite suddenly: a jet of foam hit my cheek, splattered over my arms, and settled on the table in front of me. I had been ambushed as I sat at a sidewalk cafe, and to my great dismay, I couldn’t spot the would-be assassin.

Something was strange about the people passing by on the sidewalk as I ate my empanadas and drank my licuado, though: they were unusually young, were all walking one way, and were all carrying bottles of spray foam. Some of the younger passers-by playfully shook the bottles at me, threatening to add an ingredient to my dinner. After a few minutes, I asked another pedestrian why everyone had bottles of foam. “Bueno, el carnival porteño. ¿No sabes?” No, I definitely did not know about el carnival porteño.

I finished my dinner and walked toward the sounds of drums, whistles, and bells, stopping in a corner store that had foam for sale, advertised as nieve--snow. I would call it something like a cross between silly string and shaving cream, but hey, it doesn’t snow in Buenos Aires. As I walked the last few blocks to the festival, I worried that I would be the only adult with his own can of nieve. That worry quickly passed when a woman in her 50’s sprayed me from head to toe. I had not expected people to be so, well, vicious with their aim.

I took a few steps back from the foam-soaked crowds to take in the scene. Moments later, a girl--no more than 12--walked up, her hands cupped. “Por favor, nieve,” she asked, and unwittingly, I filled her hands. She smiled, thanked me, and then smashed it all into my face. She ran. I was too stunned to chase her, but it wouldn’t have made any difference: she quickly vanished into the crowd. The people around me laughed, and after a moment, I did too.

Just beyond the running, foam-covered children paraded a marching drum line, all dressed in bright colors and adorned with sequins. When the sound of the snares, whistles, and cymbals faded, a voice came over the loudspeaker, exhorting people to be proud of their neighborhood and of their city. (I couldn’t help but remember that elections are only a few months away here: a timely delivery of good times in hopes of favor at the voting booth would hardly be unusual in Argentina.)

Over the heads of the dancers and drummers flags--blue, red, and yellow in all possible patterns--flew, and at their feet danced toddlers, doing their best to keep up. The costuming matched the flags, but it was impossible not to notice that as much as the costumes sagged and billowed on the men, they clung tight on the women.

Although few of the bejeweled, sequin-covered performers were focused on making music, they managed to produce a sound that boomed and echoed off the high rises for blocks. Base and snare drums, whistles, bells, and who knows what else combined in a unpredictable but melodic manner. Even the base drummers high stepped in rhythm despite their unwieldy instruments, and the those with more manageable instruments twisted and moved in unison. None of the performers could match the enthusiasm of the youngest performers: toddlers in miniature versions of the troupe’s shiny costumes. They did not exactly stick to the beat or follow any choreography, but that didn’t seem to be a priority.

I haven’t done a very good job of explaining just how covered in foam the crowd was. Nieve clung in hair, tripling or quadrupling its volume. I occasionally wiped of what felt like liters of the slippery, slightly aromatic foam from my face. Little kids rushed about, completely obscured from head to toe--I’m honestly not sure how their parents could keep them straight. Carnival porteño was one big, slippery mess.

I left after about two hours. As I walked away, the girl who had so cruelly smeared foam all over my face walked up to ask for some more, and I looked at her skeptically. “¿Vas a pegarme en el rostro otra vez?” She smiled--the same smile!--and said, no, she wouldn’t hit me in the face this time.

I am a trusting person--sometimes I trust too much--but this time, I was right too. I watched her run off and smack some other adult with a thick pie of nieve and laughed.