Stepping out of my door in BA, no matter what the agenda or the day, things happen which never fail to surprise me.
I admit I am pretty accustomed to how things roll here. That said, having grown up in the UK, certain practices and norms for society over here I simply can´t get used to. Random things happen all the time. Sometimes things I consider to be good, bad, some just downright inexplicable.
Curious indeed for this British Boluda.
Today in my local “Chinos” (Chinese-run supermarket), I had simply popped in to make an inquiry. Oblivious to the world I wait my turn to be able to talk to an assistant. I turn my head, and I am confronted by a wall of cow flesh (or half a dead cow to be precise), bouncing past me.
The cow carcass is huge (albeit only a half), and the little man dressed in white overalls carrying it looked slightly dwarfed in size in comparison. Slapped over his shoulder he was pretty swift in movement, and looked like he knew what he was doing as he hauled the load through the middle aisle of the supermarket.
My eyes followed him as he went to the “butchers quarters”, at the back of the shop and disappeared for a sec. Curious, (and a bit nosy) I tilt my head and look down the aisle to the meat counter, and through the back door. The half cow is hung on a hook in the back room.
Urhh.
Ok, alright, fair enough. Even though having almost been whacked in the face by dead cow leg a few seconds ago, I shake off the immediate shock. Acceptance of the situation filters through my mind, and just as it does…. oh, the other half of the cow cadaver comes flying through.
This time I can do nothing but stare. Everyone is just getting on with their business as per.
The British side of me has seen dead cow before, but not right up in my face. It was being carried as if the bloke bearing the burden had just finished skinning the poor bugger.
Odd odd odd.
In the world I am more accustomed to, these kinds of processes are well-hidden, and with good reason.
Later I pondered how hygienic it is to carry meat in such a way (uncovered and over shoulder), also wondered how long the meat had not been refrigerated for.
The Chino supermarkets don't have great fame for their hygiene, but this one in particular turns off its fridges at night to save money on electricity.
Best not think about it.
Lesson learned?
Don´t buy beef from my local Chinos.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Saturday, 22 May 2010
A thought bubble please: Can we open our minds a little?
Recently I went on a trip to Rosario. I came across a good looking lad who kindly tried to chamullar me (for those of you who don't understand this expression, it's when an Arg guy chats you up). We got to talking, and he was like,
"oh, so you're not from here, whereabouts are you from?"
Well, well. In just over a year that I have been living in Buenos Aires, you can imagine just how many times I have been asked this particular question.
"Well," I said, "I am from England, but I am half-English half-Argentine".
He looks at me puzzled, with a slight smirk on his face. He says,
"Cómo que, Cómo es eso?" saying, "Well what's that all about then?"
Ah here we go again, I must explain my life story once again... well not really, but I feel like I should try to at least make a little effort, so I keep the conversation going...
"Yeah my mum's from BA and my dad is English, from London. I was born in England, but I live here now."
(whilst I talk the intrigue turns to uber intrigue)
"Yepp, I am half and half", I say wholeheartedly.
The guy almost goes to question me in more depth about that, but turns to ask me about which country I prefer overall, and would prefer to live in.
The conversation became even more complicated because it began to pull towards him trying to make me define which nationality I preferred.
(the funniest thing was though, that he did so by trying to get me to express my opinion on who owns the Falkland islands...)
Now, this isn't the first time that this has happened to me living here. In fact it happens on a regular basis that people categorize you into one nationality, mostly by where exactly you were born. But this isn't necessarily the correct way to approach the subject of ones cultural identity, as it simply isn't that black and white.
I came across some literature which brings forth some wonderful questions for analysis, which provoke deeper thought on this matter, which I will discuss in further detail in later posts.
The next quote (rather long) is by Stuart Hall, a Professor of Sociology from the Open University, UK.
"Questions of cultural identity have become central to the agenda of contemporary social and anthropological research. As the waves of forced and unplanned migration transform the hitherto well-defined and apparently stable cultural formations of the globe, so the issues of how and with what groups, do peoples on the move identify themselves - and how this is influencing the self-identifications of people from the indigenous, native, or 'host' societies - has come to constitute a subject of enormous public interest and debate."
.....
Now, it is something to consider - giving that the Argentine society was formed by immigrants having come from Europe at the turn of the twentieth century....
Stuart Hall continues,
"Are the cultural identities of social groups constituted primarily by stable, structural features of social organization, such that the vicissitudes of movement, dispersal, and displacement cannot deeply influence or disturb them?"
"Has ethnicity acquired something of the permanence of shared genetic dispositions?"
"Do we bare our cultural identities, the signs and symbols of our 'belongingness', like indelible number-plates on our backs?"
"Is ethnicity moving from a matter of 'descent' to 'assent' - not the rediscovery of our 'roots' in the past, but a tracking of our 'routes' to the present?"
(... and most importantly...)
"Is cultural identity those imperatives we obey, or that which we perform?"
........
These are all questions I consider to be hugely valid and important to wonder and ponder on.
All opinions are welcome...
That said, I will leave you all now to ponder on what you consider to be your own cultural identity...
Is it important?
"oh, so you're not from here, whereabouts are you from?"
Well, well. In just over a year that I have been living in Buenos Aires, you can imagine just how many times I have been asked this particular question.
"Well," I said, "I am from England, but I am half-English half-Argentine".
He looks at me puzzled, with a slight smirk on his face. He says,
"Cómo que, Cómo es eso?" saying, "Well what's that all about then?"
Ah here we go again, I must explain my life story once again... well not really, but I feel like I should try to at least make a little effort, so I keep the conversation going...
"Yeah my mum's from BA and my dad is English, from London. I was born in England, but I live here now."
(whilst I talk the intrigue turns to uber intrigue)
"Yepp, I am half and half", I say wholeheartedly.
The guy almost goes to question me in more depth about that, but turns to ask me about which country I prefer overall, and would prefer to live in.
The conversation became even more complicated because it began to pull towards him trying to make me define which nationality I preferred.
(the funniest thing was though, that he did so by trying to get me to express my opinion on who owns the Falkland islands...)
Now, this isn't the first time that this has happened to me living here. In fact it happens on a regular basis that people categorize you into one nationality, mostly by where exactly you were born. But this isn't necessarily the correct way to approach the subject of ones cultural identity, as it simply isn't that black and white.
I came across some literature which brings forth some wonderful questions for analysis, which provoke deeper thought on this matter, which I will discuss in further detail in later posts.
The next quote (rather long) is by Stuart Hall, a Professor of Sociology from the Open University, UK.
"Questions of cultural identity have become central to the agenda of contemporary social and anthropological research. As the waves of forced and unplanned migration transform the hitherto well-defined and apparently stable cultural formations of the globe, so the issues of how and with what groups, do peoples on the move identify themselves - and how this is influencing the self-identifications of people from the indigenous, native, or 'host' societies - has come to constitute a subject of enormous public interest and debate."
.....
Now, it is something to consider - giving that the Argentine society was formed by immigrants having come from Europe at the turn of the twentieth century....
Stuart Hall continues,
"Are the cultural identities of social groups constituted primarily by stable, structural features of social organization, such that the vicissitudes of movement, dispersal, and displacement cannot deeply influence or disturb them?"
"Has ethnicity acquired something of the permanence of shared genetic dispositions?"
"Do we bare our cultural identities, the signs and symbols of our 'belongingness', like indelible number-plates on our backs?"
"Is ethnicity moving from a matter of 'descent' to 'assent' - not the rediscovery of our 'roots' in the past, but a tracking of our 'routes' to the present?"
(... and most importantly...)
"Is cultural identity those imperatives we obey, or that which we perform?"
........
These are all questions I consider to be hugely valid and important to wonder and ponder on.
All opinions are welcome...
That said, I will leave you all now to ponder on what you consider to be your own cultural identity...
Is it important?
Friday, 23 April 2010
Tremendous Torrential Tormenta part én:
The return from work on not just any Tuesday.
The 19th January 2010
The scene:
I am in town and my classes have finished for the day. Distracted. A little light headed from the heat, I look up to a screen outside some office and see that it’s 34 degrees outside. Bleugh, yuck. Stuffy day and feels like the world has toppled onto my shoulders and flies are buzzing inside my brain from the sounds of the traffic blurring past me.
Heavy greyish-black clouds weigh over my head, and distant thunder sounds say to me that the storm is on its way. I dont get too worried, it has rained many times since I have been here, I am not afraid of a little storm. No need for concern whatsoever. So, I ignore the clouds, get on the Subte(underground) at Facultad de Medicina innocently thinking, “oo I must pop by the pharmacy in Belgrano on my way home”, knowing it'll probably rain, but by the time I get to where I need to be, I will have missed the shower.. ..
I am minding my own business on the Subte hoping to go unnoticed as I zone out and enter the world of my own head whilst listening to my trusty I pod.
Now, there is one thing I should explain about Porteño folk. Strangers talk to strangers without knowing one another, sort of as if they were already friends. It is commonplace and considered totally normal.
In London this sort of chatter pretty much doesn't exist on public transport. If someone talks to you on the London Underground whom you don't know, you are well within your rights to induce a funny face, make a snide comment, or in fact pretend entirely as if they don't exist. Here it is slightly different, something which I will write about in more depth in future posts.
So, I am just day-dreaming, travelling on the D-line when a random woman sits next to me (who, I’ve got to be honest, I did not acknowledge in the slightest until she started talking to me) says, "You know what apparently it's absolutely horrific weather outside."
I look at her puzzled, as if to say, “oh right, are you talking to me then?”
Apparently she was, as she rambled on, "Yeah I am totally screwed because like I didn't bring my umbrella and like I have to pick up my kid, and you know I don't have a car, and err my husband had a problem y... que se yo......." Her story went on and on, something about a child... I don’t know. I sort of tune out for a bit (consequentially you can imagine that my selective hearing has been perfected over here).
All of a sudden I tune in again and she stands up hurriedly as this is her stop. I say goodbye cordially, and she buggers off still blabbering. Into my own world again, we get to Congreso de Tucuman. Middle of the rush hour, I think nothing of the hoards of people crowding on the staircases to move up to the top of the station. When I get to the main part of the station, I acknowledge that something random is happening, as everyone is just standing by the exit next to the escalators staring upwards. Everyone is chattering away, and a lot of people look stressed. Confused but intrigued, I move to the front of the crowd to see what the fuss is all about. I get there and see rain cascading down the metal stairways roaring through, as I have never seen before.
It is night-time, but you can see the sheer force of the downpour through the gleaming orange street lamps on Cabildo Avenue. The heat is astounding and the humidity is 100%, and every living thing is perspiring. The rain water is trickling into the Subte station, and I wonder what to do. To top it off, I am wearing open sandals. No matter. The British side of me has taught me to be tough.
Chin up darlin. I suck it up and proceed ahead. I walk into the sheet of wetness and within moments my clothes are totally saturated. I get to the top of the stairs and look around. The streets are chaos, cars beeping, people shouting, colectivos stuck in a huge scrambled jam. I get my bearings and by which time have totally disregarded the prospect of going to the pharmacy as planned. Now I just need to figure out how the hell I am going to get home.
Belgrano is a beautiful neighbourhood of BA, but at the same time,the pavements are not trustworthy, nor the drainage system. Water is warbling through the streets causing huge puddles the size of miniature lakes between the pavement step and the road, making it impossible to not get wet feet.
Drains are dribbling and overflowing. Screw it. My sandals are officially ruined. I just have to get to the colectivo stop without being swept away. (I tell you, a bloody lifeboat would have been handy, but I foolishly forgot to pack that in my bag before work this morning...)
I manage to make it one piece to the stop, having passed various clothes shops where it seems all the shop assistants and customers are barricaded in by waterfalls of rain slop making it impossible to gain access through their entrances. The shop staff stare at me through the tall glass windows as I scramble through this mess.
There is only one other girl standing at the stop. We both look at one another, and with one small affirmative nod, both of us acknowledged that we were boludas importantes (a right pair of eeediots) for having braved this mess. Finally the colectivo swings in and more people appear out of nowhere running our way.
Rah!
Middle-aged women, students, kids, all pile into the doors of the colectivo half lost in the sludge of the puddles trying to get in. The vehicle moves forward and sharply breaks causing all 10 of us soaked individuals to topple down onto the floor like bowling pins being sharply whacked.
I pick myself up and see that two women have got into a fight after having shoved one-another repeatedly and start screaming at each another, “ba-ba-da-ba-ba-badaanaiiii”..... I thought there couldn’t be anymore chaos today, what with all I had seen already just from being outside. The huge argument caused all “normal” (civilised and quiet) people on the bus to almost applaud this outrage.
Civilisation had pretty much gone out the window by this time of the day. All I could do was just crack up laughing. Things had just gotten so ridiculous by this point.
On rolled the journey and I just about got home in one piece.
Sods law came to find me though and my day of surprised wasn’t over.
Trapse in, kick off dead sandals, walk down hall.
I enter my room and the ceiling is falling down from a leak caused by the rain....
Algo mas????
The 19th January 2010
The scene:
I am in town and my classes have finished for the day. Distracted. A little light headed from the heat, I look up to a screen outside some office and see that it’s 34 degrees outside. Bleugh, yuck. Stuffy day and feels like the world has toppled onto my shoulders and flies are buzzing inside my brain from the sounds of the traffic blurring past me.
Heavy greyish-black clouds weigh over my head, and distant thunder sounds say to me that the storm is on its way. I dont get too worried, it has rained many times since I have been here, I am not afraid of a little storm. No need for concern whatsoever. So, I ignore the clouds, get on the Subte(underground) at Facultad de Medicina innocently thinking, “oo I must pop by the pharmacy in Belgrano on my way home”, knowing it'll probably rain, but by the time I get to where I need to be, I will have missed the shower.. ..
I am minding my own business on the Subte hoping to go unnoticed as I zone out and enter the world of my own head whilst listening to my trusty I pod.
Now, there is one thing I should explain about Porteño folk. Strangers talk to strangers without knowing one another, sort of as if they were already friends. It is commonplace and considered totally normal.
In London this sort of chatter pretty much doesn't exist on public transport. If someone talks to you on the London Underground whom you don't know, you are well within your rights to induce a funny face, make a snide comment, or in fact pretend entirely as if they don't exist. Here it is slightly different, something which I will write about in more depth in future posts.
So, I am just day-dreaming, travelling on the D-line when a random woman sits next to me (who, I’ve got to be honest, I did not acknowledge in the slightest until she started talking to me) says, "You know what apparently it's absolutely horrific weather outside."
I look at her puzzled, as if to say, “oh right, are you talking to me then?”
Apparently she was, as she rambled on, "Yeah I am totally screwed because like I didn't bring my umbrella and like I have to pick up my kid, and you know I don't have a car, and err my husband had a problem y... que se yo......." Her story went on and on, something about a child... I don’t know. I sort of tune out for a bit (consequentially you can imagine that my selective hearing has been perfected over here).
All of a sudden I tune in again and she stands up hurriedly as this is her stop. I say goodbye cordially, and she buggers off still blabbering. Into my own world again, we get to Congreso de Tucuman. Middle of the rush hour, I think nothing of the hoards of people crowding on the staircases to move up to the top of the station. When I get to the main part of the station, I acknowledge that something random is happening, as everyone is just standing by the exit next to the escalators staring upwards. Everyone is chattering away, and a lot of people look stressed. Confused but intrigued, I move to the front of the crowd to see what the fuss is all about. I get there and see rain cascading down the metal stairways roaring through, as I have never seen before.
It is night-time, but you can see the sheer force of the downpour through the gleaming orange street lamps on Cabildo Avenue. The heat is astounding and the humidity is 100%, and every living thing is perspiring. The rain water is trickling into the Subte station, and I wonder what to do. To top it off, I am wearing open sandals. No matter. The British side of me has taught me to be tough.
Chin up darlin. I suck it up and proceed ahead. I walk into the sheet of wetness and within moments my clothes are totally saturated. I get to the top of the stairs and look around. The streets are chaos, cars beeping, people shouting, colectivos stuck in a huge scrambled jam. I get my bearings and by which time have totally disregarded the prospect of going to the pharmacy as planned. Now I just need to figure out how the hell I am going to get home.
Belgrano is a beautiful neighbourhood of BA, but at the same time,the pavements are not trustworthy, nor the drainage system. Water is warbling through the streets causing huge puddles the size of miniature lakes between the pavement step and the road, making it impossible to not get wet feet.
Drains are dribbling and overflowing. Screw it. My sandals are officially ruined. I just have to get to the colectivo stop without being swept away. (I tell you, a bloody lifeboat would have been handy, but I foolishly forgot to pack that in my bag before work this morning...)
I manage to make it one piece to the stop, having passed various clothes shops where it seems all the shop assistants and customers are barricaded in by waterfalls of rain slop making it impossible to gain access through their entrances. The shop staff stare at me through the tall glass windows as I scramble through this mess.
There is only one other girl standing at the stop. We both look at one another, and with one small affirmative nod, both of us acknowledged that we were boludas importantes (a right pair of eeediots) for having braved this mess. Finally the colectivo swings in and more people appear out of nowhere running our way.
Rah!
Middle-aged women, students, kids, all pile into the doors of the colectivo half lost in the sludge of the puddles trying to get in. The vehicle moves forward and sharply breaks causing all 10 of us soaked individuals to topple down onto the floor like bowling pins being sharply whacked.
I pick myself up and see that two women have got into a fight after having shoved one-another repeatedly and start screaming at each another, “ba-ba-da-ba-ba-badaanaiiii”..... I thought there couldn’t be anymore chaos today, what with all I had seen already just from being outside. The huge argument caused all “normal” (civilised and quiet) people on the bus to almost applaud this outrage.
Civilisation had pretty much gone out the window by this time of the day. All I could do was just crack up laughing. Things had just gotten so ridiculous by this point.
On rolled the journey and I just about got home in one piece.
Sods law came to find me though and my day of surprised wasn’t over.
Trapse in, kick off dead sandals, walk down hall.
I enter my room and the ceiling is falling down from a leak caused by the rain....
Algo mas????
Friday, 5 February 2010
Tremendous Torrential Tormenta; Beyond British.
Introduction to the piece:
I have been looking after my friends three year-old son. Our daily routine was for me to pick him up every day from nursery, and walk down the road and round the corner to get to his house.
Albeit a short walk for an adult, through the eyes of a youngling this was a huge adventure. Over time we have been caught in all types of weather, from scorching heat and suffocating humidity to strong winds and torrential rain.
One particular day, my friend (the little one’s auntie) had joined us on this exceptional trail. It was raining (as readers of my blog will have noticed, it has rained quite a bit in BA in recent months), and Miss auntie was trying to explain to the little sir why we needed to be careful in the rain.
Kitted out in Spiderman rain gear with an excellent miniature umbrella he listened intently as auntie spoke. She said: “Es que cuando llueve, se hace todo mas difícil”.
Right she was and since, this quote has stuck in my mind.
Everything does become more difficult in the rain. . . .
I have been looking after my friends three year-old son. Our daily routine was for me to pick him up every day from nursery, and walk down the road and round the corner to get to his house.
Albeit a short walk for an adult, through the eyes of a youngling this was a huge adventure. Over time we have been caught in all types of weather, from scorching heat and suffocating humidity to strong winds and torrential rain.
One particular day, my friend (the little one’s auntie) had joined us on this exceptional trail. It was raining (as readers of my blog will have noticed, it has rained quite a bit in BA in recent months), and Miss auntie was trying to explain to the little sir why we needed to be careful in the rain.
Kitted out in Spiderman rain gear with an excellent miniature umbrella he listened intently as auntie spoke. She said: “Es que cuando llueve, se hace todo mas difícil”.
Right she was and since, this quote has stuck in my mind.
Everything does become more difficult in the rain. . . .
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
A Rainy Day Thought: British Days in Buenos Aires.
So, I decided not to leave the house this afternoon. English classes were casually cancelled at the last minute which has given me time to reflect.
Our house is quiet and peaceful. Outside the rainstorm is roaring and the humidity is clouding my mind. On the TV all the news channels can talk about is the weather. It is hot, it is humid, it is basically uncomfortable. British weather people would call the climate “close”, but I am not a fan of this term. "It's rather close out int it??"
......It makes my face screw up slightly.
I am feeling the effects of the dear climate very well indeed, so I decide it’s probably best I turn off the television, as to not get annoyed.
The scene:
It is 6pm, and the parrot is talking and singing over the pattering sounds of rain hitting the roof. This is his hour you see. Let me explain, we have a bit of an animal farm in our house at the moment. We have a parrot, a dog, a bunny rabbit, a tortoise (my favourite), and my three 20 something yr old male cousins......
So, I’m sipping mate, listening to our parrot sing the Copacabana (not madeup) and pondering. . .
November is coming to a close, and the days are becoming hotter and hotter. Walking through Buenos Aires in 30 degree heat and 80 + % humidity can make one feel slightly strange. Especially while staring at colourful tinsel and all things sparkly, preparing for the festive season.
I still have to adjust. It is November, yet summer. The British side of me is totally confused and in panic. My inner Brit does not understand hot Christmas. I have only spent one Christmas away from London and dear Hertfordshire in my lifetime so far, but this was back in 1994. My mother, my sister and I came to Buenos Aires in December that year to meet the Argentine side of the family and spend the holidays with them. My inner chica Argentina was unleashed and by the end of the trip I was drinking mate like a native and eating crackers with jam at every given opportunity. I started to become used to new customs and ways of life.
We spent some time in Buenos Aires, where we stayed with our cousins, and then for Christmas and New Year, we moved to the seaside. We went as a unit to stay with my grandmother (la abuela “Quica”) in a town called Villa Gesell. This town by the sea is hugely popular in the summer for residents of BA, to escape the heat during the summer months. My abuela however, had already been a resident for some time when we went to visit.
It was a memorable experience in which my sister and I got a chance to meet some of my mothers most important friends, and we had some wonderful reunions on the beach during our trip. Every time we walked back from the beach my sister and I would count the amount of squashed frogs along the sandy roads, en route to our abuelas house (I think our record count was 30 something frogs along the way). Apparently drivers do not care much for small amphibian wanderers in Gesell town. Being 8 years old, skipping up a sandy road in summer counting frogs with big sis was excellent though.
So, those are my last references to what it is like to live through a hot Christmas. Going to the beach until 12/1pm when the heat really started. Coming back, having a shower, afterward having a barbecued lunch and singing Lion King songs. After lunch we slept the Spanish siesta through the hottest hours of the day, and played in the afternoons inside while the winds swept through the town.In the evenings we said hello to the frogs, had a late dinner and went down to town to buy friendship bracelets and eat ice-cream at 1am. (my mum is cool) Looking back, it sounds like a pretty good way to spend your Christmas. Especially the bit about The Lion King sing-song, that was a must.
Well, this year will bring whole new memories and a fresh perspective through eyes of a 23-year old with my Argy family. We will be together minus my sister and mum (who will be in The Shire) to toast on Noche Buena (Christmas Eve).
I get distracted and look outside again.
I think the parrot’s (his nickname is Lori, coming from Loro-Spanish for parrot) choir session is over for today, and while this saddens me...... I am also smiling inside.
This then brings to a close my daydream on this very British day. I will continue one day soon.
Hasta pronto,
M
Our house is quiet and peaceful. Outside the rainstorm is roaring and the humidity is clouding my mind. On the TV all the news channels can talk about is the weather. It is hot, it is humid, it is basically uncomfortable. British weather people would call the climate “close”, but I am not a fan of this term. "It's rather close out int it??"
......It makes my face screw up slightly.
I am feeling the effects of the dear climate very well indeed, so I decide it’s probably best I turn off the television, as to not get annoyed.
The scene:
It is 6pm, and the parrot is talking and singing over the pattering sounds of rain hitting the roof. This is his hour you see. Let me explain, we have a bit of an animal farm in our house at the moment. We have a parrot, a dog, a bunny rabbit, a tortoise (my favourite), and my three 20 something yr old male cousins......
So, I’m sipping mate, listening to our parrot sing the Copacabana (not madeup) and pondering. . .
November is coming to a close, and the days are becoming hotter and hotter. Walking through Buenos Aires in 30 degree heat and 80 + % humidity can make one feel slightly strange. Especially while staring at colourful tinsel and all things sparkly, preparing for the festive season.
I still have to adjust. It is November, yet summer. The British side of me is totally confused and in panic. My inner Brit does not understand hot Christmas. I have only spent one Christmas away from London and dear Hertfordshire in my lifetime so far, but this was back in 1994. My mother, my sister and I came to Buenos Aires in December that year to meet the Argentine side of the family and spend the holidays with them. My inner chica Argentina was unleashed and by the end of the trip I was drinking mate like a native and eating crackers with jam at every given opportunity. I started to become used to new customs and ways of life.
We spent some time in Buenos Aires, where we stayed with our cousins, and then for Christmas and New Year, we moved to the seaside. We went as a unit to stay with my grandmother (la abuela “Quica”) in a town called Villa Gesell. This town by the sea is hugely popular in the summer for residents of BA, to escape the heat during the summer months. My abuela however, had already been a resident for some time when we went to visit.
It was a memorable experience in which my sister and I got a chance to meet some of my mothers most important friends, and we had some wonderful reunions on the beach during our trip. Every time we walked back from the beach my sister and I would count the amount of squashed frogs along the sandy roads, en route to our abuelas house (I think our record count was 30 something frogs along the way). Apparently drivers do not care much for small amphibian wanderers in Gesell town. Being 8 years old, skipping up a sandy road in summer counting frogs with big sis was excellent though.
So, those are my last references to what it is like to live through a hot Christmas. Going to the beach until 12/1pm when the heat really started. Coming back, having a shower, afterward having a barbecued lunch and singing Lion King songs. After lunch we slept the Spanish siesta through the hottest hours of the day, and played in the afternoons inside while the winds swept through the town.In the evenings we said hello to the frogs, had a late dinner and went down to town to buy friendship bracelets and eat ice-cream at 1am. (my mum is cool) Looking back, it sounds like a pretty good way to spend your Christmas. Especially the bit about The Lion King sing-song, that was a must.
Well, this year will bring whole new memories and a fresh perspective through eyes of a 23-year old with my Argy family. We will be together minus my sister and mum (who will be in The Shire) to toast on Noche Buena (Christmas Eve).
I get distracted and look outside again.
I think the parrot’s (his nickname is Lori, coming from Loro-Spanish for parrot) choir session is over for today, and while this saddens me...... I am also smiling inside.
This then brings to a close my daydream on this very British day. I will continue one day soon.
Hasta pronto,
M
Monday, 9 November 2009
British Days in Buenos Aires
I bought a new raincoat. I have a thing for rain macs, what can I say. Well I needed a neutral colour that wasnt a short mac. I left my black one in England; neutral colour, and well. So. I bought one in a vintage shop, had it shortened, and it has turned out to be some sort of saviour in previous weeks. . .
Sometimes you get caught by the rain. It is just inevitable. You take your umbrella, it doesnt rain, you wear your boots and its boiling hot. You decide, ok sandals, thin jacket - its going to be ok. . . Except it isnt, because sods law works against you remember. So it rains, you get wet hair, wet foot and a spring cold. lovely jubley.
More on this will follow shortly. Just thought I would share this much so far.
Hasta pronto
M
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Spring in September
Hello there my dear blog readers.
Apologies for my absence these past months. Many funny, strange and odd situations have crossed my path in this time, which will eventually creep their way onto here for your reading pleasure.
It is September, almost October and all is well in Buenos Aires. There will be many updates coming your way in the near future so make sure you don’t miss out.
The weather is doing crazy things for us here. Winter is officially over, as we celebrated “Happy Spring Day” the other day :) - however yesterday it was a nippy 9 degrees and really humid, which did not make me feel very springy at all. Infact, my next piece is on "British days" in Buenos Aires. Yes, that’s right, more rain talk. . . .
Grab a cup of tea. 5 minutes. Feet... Up.
Enjoy.
M.
Apologies for my absence these past months. Many funny, strange and odd situations have crossed my path in this time, which will eventually creep their way onto here for your reading pleasure.
It is September, almost October and all is well in Buenos Aires. There will be many updates coming your way in the near future so make sure you don’t miss out.
The weather is doing crazy things for us here. Winter is officially over, as we celebrated “Happy Spring Day” the other day :) - however yesterday it was a nippy 9 degrees and really humid, which did not make me feel very springy at all. Infact, my next piece is on "British days" in Buenos Aires. Yes, that’s right, more rain talk. . . .
Grab a cup of tea. 5 minutes. Feet... Up.
Enjoy.
M.
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