Proposed Sugar and Other Reflections

The best parts of visiting another country are the opportunities we get to see what life is like for other people. Not only is it fun, but it's important that we observe and reflect on the similarities and differences to our own homes. I've thought about this a lot during my travels. The similarities and differences are the things that make us human. In part they inform our collective cultures, which in turn help to define who we are. It is an undeniable privilege to be able to experience this first-hand.

If we're lucky, we gain perspective on our own homes, and how grateful we should be for what we have.

Like robust septic systems. For the entire time in Patagonia, on both sides of the border, every toilet was adorned with a sign admonishing the (naively foreign) user to avoid tossing toilet paper or anything else in the toilet. Use the bin, please.

There's been way too much toilet commentary in the blog of this trip, but it's best not to try and imagine the combination of the last toilet commentary with this toilet commentary. Oh well. It's good to be home.

Also the exchange rates. The rate in Chile gives around 800 Chilean Pesos to the dollar. I carried 276,000 pesos with me. This exchange rate presents two problems. First, try and divide a price tag by 800 on the fly. That shirt is 27.000,00 pesos (remember, they swap the comma and decimal in large numbers in other countries). Quick! Buy or pass? Who knows if that's a reasonable price. 

Actually it got a lot easier when I stopped dividing by 800 and started multiplying by 1.2 and omitting everything after the decimal. But still. Definitely a challenge.

And then there's Argentina, for which there are two exchange rates. The official exchange rate is around 190 Pesos to the dollar. But there's also a "blue dollar" exchange rate around 340 pesos to the dollar. So what's the deal?

Even searching Google I have a very poor understanding of this. As far as I can tell, Argentina's peso has become very volatile, with its value fluctuating significantly over the past few decades. The government controls the exchange rate, somewhat pegging it to the dollar. People don't trust the banks or the government, and since the dollar is significantly more stable than the peso, a black market has appeared for US cash. It's not strictly legal, but it's ubiquitous and out in the open. You can't avoid it.

So how it works is this. If you exchange dollars at an official institution like a bank, either from cash or ATM, you get the official rate. Before the trip, I exchanged some dollars in the US and got a rate of 160 (after commission). 

But in country, the blue dollar rate (named for the blue security stripe on modern Benjamins) is everywhere. Money changers from Western Union to the corner shop will sell you pesos at the 340 rate. They're often out on the streets of BA (the air is so good) shouting "CAMBIO CAMBIO!" (Embarrassingly, the whole time we thought they were people begging for pocket change...just keep walking). You also get the blue dollar in stores when you pay in USD. In one shop I bought 4 postcard stamps with a $50 and got some 17,000 ARG in change: the blue rate. The other way to get the blue dollar is to be a foreigner paying in credit or debit. I made quite a few credit transactions in Argentina, all of which under the assumption I was getting 190. You can imagine my surprise when I did the accounting back in the US and found that every single transaction was around 340! Even on the last day of the trip, Ellie and I were trying to figure out this confusing system.

Even hotels give foreigners a massive 30-40% discount for paying in cash or credit with a passport.

This is great for tourists (except the confusion and dubious legality), but I struggle to believe that the local economy actually benefits from giving foreigners a 40% discount while the locals pay full rate.

I've already talked about the infrastructure in Chile vs. Argentina. After the poorly marked (but well-surfaced) roads in Patagonia, it was a surprise that BA was so European. Slightly run down from it's glory days in a previous era, yet a very respectable national hub. 

Argentina actually had several other curiosities as well. One such curiosity was the blue signs all over Patagonia and especially around BA: Los Malvinas son Argentinas. That is, "The Malvinas are Argentina's." 41 years after a failed attempt to militarily reclaim the adjacent Malvinas (or Falklands, depending who you talk to) from the UK, it's clear Argentina still strongly believes that the island chain belongs to them. As I said in an earlier post, no se habla de Bruno. Except this time I'm not kidding. Don't talk about the Malvinas. 

 

It's clear as well that Argentina is proud of it's young democracy. On the last day of my trip, the book festival had a theme of democracy, celebrating 40 years since the transition from military dictatorship. I was sad I couldn't join the people in the streets for la noche de las librerias to see what it was all about. Still, inspired to learn, I've since watched the Oscar-nominated Amazon Original Argentina, 1985, about the prosecution of the military Juntas - the largest war crimes tribunal since Nuremberg. It's absolutely worth a watch. The key takeaway? A change of government is always tenuous, and something we should never take for granted. Nor should we ever forget the extraordinary cost of democracy.

There are a lot of things I'll miss about Argentina and Chile. I would absolutely love to go back. The people we met on our journey were so friendly. Even when we couldn't understand them. Even the police at the security checkpoint. Even the tour guides and the concierges. Even the guy that actually did try to beg me for cash. Everyone was really nice.

 

Whether the mountains or the plains or the sea, the rheas or the guanacos, the wind that is never at your back or the rain that changes by the minute, Patagonia is a wild, mysterious, and beautiful land that cannot fail to inspire. And Buenos Aires, too, a surprising city full of culture, history, and vibrant life.

 

So, sooner or later when I run out of alfajores or get bored of chicken... when I miss the smoked merken pepper on every dining table in Chile... and the helados manjar... when I dream about the yerba mate I never got to try (notwithstanding all the people drinking it out of curiously bowl-shaped, aluminum-lined wooden mugs with oversized metal sieve-straws)... And (tomorrow) when I'm thinking of a calafate sour.... then I'll look forward to setting my sights south once again.

And in the meantime, if you get to head to that part of the world, do be sure to leave your propina sugarida - your "suggested tip" (or proposed sugar, as I call it) - not because it's expected or required, but because it's a great place with wonderful people deserving of our gratitude and admiration.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed hearing about our travels as much as I enjoyed writing about them. I am forever grateful to those who are willing to slog through my writing to see what adventures I'm up to.

And for the next adventure........

Paris of the Southern hemisphere

[I'm now back home, getting back into the swing of the real world. Thanks for reading this far! Only this post plus one more to go.]

Landing in Buenos Aires was a shock to the system. 

There was no wind.

It was blazing hot.

The air was really humid.

I'm sure by now you've figured out that Buenos Aires (the air was so good) means "good airs," but indeed, it was actually hazy, humid, and a bit gross. It wasn't the crisp and beautiful Patagonian air anyway. Still, for the early settlers, I'm sure anything that wasn't "malaria" was muy bueno. 

It was also a far cry from the polluted air of some cities I've been to, so no complaints.

No time to think about that though: we were in a classic sprawling Latin American city and had to get to the hotel. Questions abounded: how safe was it? How expensive was it? How likely were we to be pickpocketed? 

The airport had a QR system to lock in a rate for a taxi. We did this and then got in a cab, showing the driver. We started driving, and then the driver started saying something in Spanish we didn't understand, but he appeared to be looking for more money. Something about autopista. The guy was very nice and I said ok. I thought "work with it - let's see what happens." Ellie wondered aloud if we were being scammed. I wasn't sure. I quickly got out my Spanish dictionary and looked up autopista: freeway. A ha, I got it. The driver tried to explain again just as we pulled onto an on ramp. I held up my dictionary to show him I understood, and he smiled. 

And, right on queue, we approached a toll booth. 150 pesos. He turned and looked at me, expectantly. 

"Oh, you need the cash now!" I wasn't expecting that. I quickly pulled out the pesos and we were on the way again. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Many thanks to my aunt for the very generous sharing of hotel rewards points, we were staying at the Marriott snack dab in the heart of the city. It's located in the bustling 9te de Julio, a magnificent promenade carrying some dozen lanes of traffic plus dedicated bus lanes down the middle. Between the lanes and the medians, one could not cross the entire promenade in one light cycle, so I propose to rename it Two-Thirds Boulevard. On the bright side, getting stuck in the median right in front of the Marriott gives you the best seat in BA to admire a Washington Monument-esque obelisk in the center of the promenade and the great Teatro Colon opera house a block the opposite direction. 

Well, the best seat except for the Marriott's rooftop pool on the 23rd floor. 

Staying in the Marriott was great. Extremely comfy beds, extravagant breakfast, really helpful concierge. But it was also a fascinating cultural experience. It was chock full of Americans. If you've ever people-watched Americans in another country, you know where I'm going with this.

In my opinion, a lot of American travelers tend to make unreasonable requests of service staff. There's a certain expectation not only of perfection, but of telepathy. Example: The room isn't ready for another half hour or so. Outrage. "Well how are they going to let us know when it's ready!?" Gasp, heaven forbid you wander around a bit or hang out at the bar and just come back in an hour. 

Never mind that the staff speak perfect English, have called six venues to find you exactly what you want, and have arranged for door to door transport so you don't have to take any risks on the streets at night; it's only grumpy face if the cost is a bit higher than you expected or there's a slight hiccup along the way. 

You also find that places like the Marriott are little havens for Americans to let loose and clump together like birds of a feather. It's not uncommon to hear a group of Americans from all the way across the lobby laughing out loud, talking about home, or sharing a slightly culturally insensitive anecdote. Awkward.

Or, totally unaware of who's in a tour van, assuming everyone wants to be part of their conversation. 

So I find these moments fascinating. I like my people, who are friendly, outgoing, and honest. I'm a proud American and I try to channel these best qualities. But I also have plenty of eye roll and cringe moments abroad. I find myself apologetic for my compatriots. 

For my part as a traveler, I think it's important to always watch and listen, being graceful, grateful, and respectful when I'm in someone else's "house".

By the time we were settled into our rooms, which by the way, were upgraded for free by the amazing concierge staff, it was already mid afternoon. We had deliberately under-planned the Buenos Aires portion of the trip to see how we felt.

So we hit the streets. Our host at Estancia La Estela was a native of BA and had given us a number of recommendations. We decided on this first afternoon we'd go to the obelisk and the stately Avenida de Mayo, stopping at the 160 year old Cafe Tortoni along the way. Stuffed with sandwiches and decadent chocolate tarts (think: Vienna coffee house), we worked our way south rather haphazardly. That's the best way to see a city. Touristy areas gave way to local neighborhoods of varying degrees of affluence, and we soaked it all in (and kept an eye on our stuff!).

We wound or way into the famous neighborhood called La Boca. Italian immigrants landed here in the early 1900s and created this extremely colorful Bohemian part of town. They built ramshackle modular dwellings in patchwork fashion, stacked on top of each other. It became an artists' community and all of the facades are painted in extremely bright colors: oranges, blues, pinks, greens, yellows... It's like a quilt. Throughout the neighborhood, painted plaster characters lean out of upstairs balconies, "yelling" at passersby or beckoning to each other. Market stalls fill the streets, which have a persistent festival atmosphere. 

Not only did we walk through the neighborhood, but we also passed by the stadium for CABJ, Club Athletico Boca Juniors, one of the Cinco Grandes ("big five") soccer teams in Argentina. One of the winningest teams in all of football, it's fair to say they're the Yankees of Argentina. And their blue and gold gear was proudly on show all over the city. 

As dusk drew near, Ellie and I caught a bus back to the obelisk, feeling very comfortable in this culturally vibrant city.

*******

Where Thursday we went south, Friday we went north. Our first stop was a tour of the Teatro Colon, an opera house of sufficient grandeur to rival any in Europe. Supposedly it's has superior acoustics and Pavarotti remarked that these were it's only deficiency; even the slightest error by a performer would be readily noticed by the audience. 

After asking in four places (in Spanish!) where to obtain a subway Sube card, we finally obtained one at a street newspaper stall. The subway itself was excellent - air conditioned, clean, and modern! I love a good subway experience. 

We got off at the Recoleta, BA's wealthy cemetery. I can hear dad now: people are dying to get in. Seriously though, the cemetery in this posh part of town houses row after row after row of mausoleums, packed in like sardines such that there's actually no greenery in the cemetery at all. Just streets of the dead and tile walkways between them. The names of the people here match the names of BA's most prominent streets: D. Sarmiento, H. Yriguren, Juan Duarte, and, of course, Eva Peron, amongst others: presidents of Argentina. The Duartes, including Eva, have a surprisingly plain black marble tomb. 

Our next stop on the tour was Palermo. This chic neighborhood in north central BA is full of tree-lined streets with various shops and restaurants. There was a lot of fashion here, and we enjoyed both popping into different places and getting some good people-watching in. Luccianos Helados (The self proclaimed "masters of ice cream"), The Burger Joint. Ogham bar. And - the best name: the Penguin of Palermo cafe.

This neighborhood also has the best Argentinian food in BA, but those places book months in advance so - no go. Just as well, as we were feeling kind of beefed out (I can't wait for a salad!).

After a golden hour walk through the Rosedel garden, which was in peak bloom and peak parakeet ("squawk squawk squawk squawk squawk squawk squawk", etc), we returned to the hotel to regroup before the evening.

And what an evening! We had booked a 10 pm tango show as our last hurrah in BA. Our show was in an intimate brick cellar with black box style stage. A live tango band consisting of upright piano, bass, violins and two accordions played a set of truly wonderful tango music. Three tango couples danced with flare and passion. There were legs everywhere and acrobatic lifts to boot. A mesmerizing and tantalizing performance... Makes me want to get back into dancing, honestly!

By the way, there were no roses in teeth, in case you wondered. But there were some other folk acts - beautiful opera; guitar, flute, and pipe music, and a stirring (if touristy) rendition of Don't Cry for Me Argentina. Fitting given we'd seen Eva's grave earlier.

And that's pretty much a wrap! Ellie's flight was early on Saturday whereas mine was at night. So I had much of a day on my own. Aside from blogging, I walked to the San Telmo neighborhood, the oldest part of town. Where much of BA has distinctly Parisian architecture, San Telmo is distinctly Spanish, with a gorgeous church and a convent in Spanish style. I also wandered to see the Congress, another magnificent state building in the center of town. With a ceremonial MacDonald's (what, bacon cheese fries and dulce de leche soft serve!?!?) to round out the cultural experience, I headed to the airport.

But I don't guanaco!