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.
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.
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