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.