by Lynne Martin
As the days grew warmer, the jacaranda trees threw a mantle of purple blooms across the city. The blossoms carpeted the sidewalks with beauty, and the locals seemed a little less hostile and melancholy, which cheered us up considerably.
By then, we had discovered there are separate rates for travel within Argentina, a lesson that forced us to determine what was truly important to us to see. For instance, airfare cost about half price for citizens as it does for foreigners; unfortunately, that meant we couldn’t afford to see the other side of the large country (roughly one-third the size of the United States). Our alternative was an overnight bus, which didn’t appeal to us for many reasons. We also learned that if we went to Iguazu Falls, about which everyone raves, we’d have to enter Chile, a country that charges tourists $160 each for a visa. Our desire to see the falls didn’t overcome our budget constraints, so we had to skip that trip. Between the visa, transportation, lodging, and food, we would have spent an enormous amount of money and effort to see that spectacular sight.
We decided to content ourselves by visiting places in our adopted city, starting with the Teatro Colón, considered to be one of the world’s top five opera houses because of its near-perfect acoustics. Virtually every significant classical performer in the world has appeared in the hundred years of its history. The opera house, which had just reopened after its three-year $100 million renovation, is an ode to classical French and Italian decoration. Walking up the impressive, graceful staircase toward the auditorium, surrounded by glorious gilded opulence, made us want to be more than afternoon visitors. It thrilled us so much that we bought tickets for the ballet, just so we could sit in the red velvet seats.
We tarted up for the evening. Tim looked handsome in his tie and coat, and I swanned around in my basic black three-piece outfit and pearls, so we didn’t embarrass ourselves among BA’s cultural elite. The ballet performance was forgettable, but the setting and sublime acoustics made up for it. We were ecstatic to be out and about among the locals.
As we descended the opera house steps and slipped away into the luscious spring night, Tim asked, “Hey, baby, how about some real dancin’?” Off we headed to San Telmo, the funky-groovy part of BA, where the best bars, dives, and vintage stores are found. Tim lost the tie, and we watched muscular young couples tango until the small hours. (Oh, all right, stop smirking: you know we didn’t stay up till the small hours. We were home by midnight.) It was great fun to watch the beautiful girls pout and stamp their feet, then eventually capitulate and drape themselves over their partners, allowing them to dominate the situation. Any brief desire to join in the fun was quelled by the sure and certain knowledge that one or both of us would end up in the emergency room if we tried to emulate their sexy contortions.
Another morning, we took a half-hour train ride to Tigre (named for the jaguars that were hunted there in its early years), a delta created by several streams and rivers. The delta rivers are lazily brown and wide, lined with boats of all sizes, and picturesque little towns full of restaurants and shops and countless marinas. There are English-style rowing clubs, humble dwellings, and elegant mansions from the gracious period before World War I, the “Belle Époque,” to see. The tremendous influx of Germans and Italians clearly marked Argentina as different from all other South American countries, so during our entire stay we found ourselves confused about exactly where we were.
We found a luncheon cruise and indulged in a little more voyeuristic fun looking into the peoples’ houses, which faced the river. We scored a table in the stern of the boat, where it was lovely to sip wine and watch the water slide by all afternoon. It was the most peaceful, relaxed day we had experienced in our entire visit, and Tim and I are both really happy whenever we are on or near water. That day we felt as if we’d really settled in.
Soon, we became almost proficient at living like porteños, the local people of Buenos Aires. (Translation: “people of the port.”) We made friends with the women who ran the local fluff-and-fold operation across the boulevard, after Tim used his considerable charm to penetrate their stern facades. At last, we received smiles and attempts at conversation when we dumped our duds. We began to know where to look for things we needed in the local grocery, and also acquired a bright green two-wheel rolling cart in which to bring them home. By now, negotiating the subway system was second nature, and we put the key the right spot in our apartment door about 80 percent of the time. We enjoyed bountiful servings of meat, cheese, and wine—too much for our waistlines—and swore we would eat better the next day.
Our outings continued. Every day, the temperature rose a bit more. We strolled the gorgeous parks and took in the excellent art museums, which offered some real surprises. During the past one hundred fifty years, many Europeans immigrated to Argentina and brought their art with them. We marveled at a number of rare works by some of my favorite painters at Las Bellas Artes Museum, many of which I had never seen even in catalogs or books.
Our occasional visits to Puerto Madero, where fancy hotels and restaurants line a wide boardwalk, sabotaged our intermittent resolve to behave ourselves dietetically. We enjoyed some epic lunches and dinners in world-class seafood restaurants, the Malbec flowing in a ceaseless cascade down my willing throat—and directly to my hips.
As we began to feel more comfortable in the city, we still felt rather lonely. We quickly were learning that when you live in 500 square feet in fairly unfriendly surroundings, you’d better really like your partner. Although we were doing fine ourselves, situations with the Argentineans themselves kept arising that puzzled and challenged us.
“I just don’t get it, honey,” Tim said one evening as we sat, knees touching, on our apartment’s little outcropping having a cocktail while surreptitiously watching our neighbors dine in that red room. It was pork chop night for them, and they were enjoying themselves. “I can’t figure out why these people are so mean to us. I mean, being a nice person is really easy for you, but I have been working really hard to hide my basic contempt for everyone, and the Argentines still treat me like crap.” He smiled wryly and continued, “Remember the other day when you asked the waitress at that Chinese restaurant for a glass of red wine and she refused you? I still can’t figure out what the hell that was about.”
He referred to our visit to Buenos Aires’ Chinatown for lunch. I had asked a harried waitress for a glass of red wine, using my best Spanish coupled with a submissive smile, but she looked at me with narrowed eyes. “No,” she said emphatically. She spun on her heel and disappeared behind the beaded curtain leading to the kitchen as I looked on astonished.
“Beats me,” I said. “I mean, why wouldn’t she ask if I’d like a beer, or offer a half bottle, anything but just saying ‘no.’ It was almost as crazy as that taxi driver you wanted to punch.”
During that incident, Tim had proffered a large Argentine bill to a cab driver. The guy claimed he had no change; clearly he intended to take the whole bill and drive away. When Tim tried politely to talk sense, the driver crossed his arms, leaned against his car, and refused to budge. We then offered to buy some magazines from a guy who had been watching the scene from his news kiosk on the curb beside the cab so we could get change, but he took an oddly malicious delight in declining to sell them to us. None of the grim-faced shop owners nearby would help us either, even when we offered to buy their products. Finally, Tim gave the driver the only other currency we had, twenty American dollars, twice what we owed him, just to make him go away.
After he paid the cabbie, I grabbed his arm and firmly steered him away from the scene. He was steaming over the incident, waving his arms and venting his frustrations so loudly that I was afraid someone might call a cop. It took several blocks to talk him down. Usually tall, broad-shouldered Tim is kind and affable. But on the very rare occasions when he gets riled up, he can be, well, a little intimidating.
I understood his departure from his normal behavior. After several weeks of unnecessary roughness, like young men purpose
ly bumping into me on the sidewalk, and our being told “no” repeatedly by locals before we even finished a question, Tim had just had enough. “You were so furious that I thought you might throw a punch,” I reflected.
Tim shook his head in dismayed agreement.
“There’s something going on in this culture that we’re just not getting. Do you understand why everything is so uphill here? Could it be that we are not adaptable anymore? Dear God, maybe we’re too set in our ways and too old to be out here living in the world.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” I replied. “The thing is, we’ve traveled a lot and I think we’re really pretty flexible, but I’ve certainly never run into a culture quite like this. It’s going to be interesting to see if we feel this way in other places. By the way, I thought you were wonderful!”
By week four, we definitely needed an American fix—something familiar to orient us in this foreign place where we were floundering. One afternoon, as Tim sat at his computer making a car pickup reservation for our arrival in Paris the following June, he announced that we could watch the classic Alabama vs. LSU football grudge game at a bar downtown. I was delighted. My dad had been a lifelong active Alabama alum, so these games are always of special interest to us. We hoped we could enjoy a little schmoozing with other American tourists or expats by way of this good old-fashioned Southern sports rivalry.
On game day we walked a few blocks from the subway station, and when Tim opened the door, the racket hit us like a wall. Everyone was screaming, which sounded normal except for one small detail: the game hadn’t even started. Clearly, something had happened to bar culture in the years since we were active participants. People didn’t talk to one another anymore; they bellowed. Or perhaps the dialed-up music made everyone shout to be heard.
Or maybe, just maybe, we were simply growing old and crotchety.
It also became apparent that not only were we the oldest people in the room by at least thirty years, but also part of a very small minority of Alabama boosters. The young American professionals in the house, casually dressed in their Ralph Lauren Polo gear, were LSU Tiger devotees. Our Crimson Tide cheering section, made up of three mature traveling businessmen from Mobile, plus the Martins, congregated in a booth near the front door. We huddled together and tried to communicate over the LSU fans’ screeching. Chicken wings, barbecued ribs, and beer contributed to the down-home atmosphere, and we were delighted with the tastes and aromas of home. We watched, but did not hear, LSU tear into Alabama. The bloodbath on the field was more demoralizing than the deafening roar, which rose by several decibels every time one of their guys maimed one of our gentlemen. We were getting really tired of their rude, crazy behavior.
Sometime in the third quarter, as the numbers on the big screens became more disheartening and the mood of the liquor-fueled crowd even more boisterous, a scuffle broke out at the bar. Limbs flailed, and a different type of Southern cry pierced the room. Now, I have spent a respectable amount of time in drinking establishments in my life, but somehow never witnessed a bar fight.
The fight was thrilling…and quick. Almost as soon as we became aware of the conflict, two big guys at the front door managed to part the crowd and reach the bar. Within seconds, the bouncers carried a young man aloft through the crowd, right over our heads. They pitched him out the door and slammed it. For a nanosecond, we actually heard the TV announcers. Then the roar resumed at exactly the same pitch as before the drama. But we were speechless. Seeing your first bar fight after age sixty-five is not an insignificant event.
***
By November, the temperature was rising a little uncomfortably in the afternoon. Since our apartment faced south, we couldn’t delay learning about the air conditioner any longer. We started seriously searching for the answer, peeking around corners, following electrical lines, and playing with wall switches. We minutely inspected the compressor unit on the balcony, trying to find a switch. No success.
Since I still didn’t know to use the telephone (despite numerous attempts!), I sent an email to Marina, hoping she would reply this time.
Miraculously, she got right back to me. Her message verbatim:
The air conditioning turn on with the blue button. Then press the button “mode” and put the symbol of could (snow) if the air conditioning stay in hot (sun). If you cant, Eduardo is in the front door. call Eduardo for help- :)
Confirm me that.
besos
m
The hunt was on. Tim and I retraced every step of our previous searches and considered taking up the floorboards. Once more, we failed. We saw no blue button anywhere in the apartment. I emailed again:
Where is the blue button?
She replied at once:
It is on the remote.
Remote? What remote?
We found the remote. In fact, we’d never lost it. Of course it was there. We had shoved the small clicker aside because we thought it belonged to the clunky CD player that hogged valuable space on a kitchen shelf. It had a blue button, as well as a “mode” button that displayed the above-mentioned snowflake. The machine started as instructed. Life was good!
A few days later, Marina accepted our invitation for wine and hors d’oeuvres. She looked darling in her high spindly heels and filmy summer top. We stood on our balcony, and for the first time, the red wall people looked at us. Of course, it was the fetching Marina who caught their interest, but we waved and smiled anyway. This time they waved back. I’m sure that the beautiful Marina was more wave-worthy than two older tourists!
Marina told us about her work as an assistant to a mid-level politician. She also shared about her boyfriend, who was still in school pursuing an advanced degree, and she told us about her parents. Later in the evening, after several large glasses of Malbec, Marina favored us with a song. We had no idea she could sing, and her a cappella performance thrilled us, just as people who routinely present after-dinner “party pieces” without embarrassment had always delighted me when I lived in Ireland in the nineties. Marina told us that her mother had written the mournful tune that she sang in her husky alto voice. The girl was full of surprises; we were so smitten that she became daughter number six for us, after the lovely Maribel in Mexico. Her giggling acceptance to be one of our own made us homesick for our brood. If we kept this up, we’d end up with dozens of adopted daughters, but we were pleased to finally have a friend in this city.
Tim took the floor. “Marina, before you go I have a very serious question for you. We’ve been here for many weeks, and we have tried very hard to assimilate, to understand the culture, to be good guests, flexible visitors, but somehow we seem to miss the mark.”
He told her about the cabbie incident, the Chinese wine fiasco, and the Disco Disaster. He even mentioned the blue button incident, all examples of an overall communication problem.
She listened carefully, thought about it for a minute, and smiled. “I know what the problem is. You are asking the wrong questions.”
We glanced at each other. “What?” we said in unison.
“Okay, let me explain: it is true that the first response from an Argentine to any question will be ‘no.’ It’s just part of the culture. And it’s also part of our culture for women to look so unhappy. They pout all the time because they are all waiting for some man to come along and make them happy—buy the woman a gift, a meal, an apartment!” she laughed.
We expressed disbelief, but she swore it was true. It accounted for the surly looks I had interpreted as personal dislike. Now we were getting somewhere.
“Now, about the questions. Here’s an example: with the cabbie, the right question, before you got into the cab, would have been, ‘Do you have change for one hundred pesos?’ If he said ‘no,’ then you move on to the next cabbie.”
We stared at her. Suddenly, things began to make sense. We had been making assumptions the whole time based on the way we were used to doing things in America.
“So, let me try this out,” Tim said. “
If Lynne had asked the Chinese restaurant waitress if they sold wine by the glass, instead of assuming that they did, she might have gotten further?”
Marina nodded.
After she left, we reviewed other situations in which we had been frustrated and thwarted. In all cases, we realized the outcome could have been different had we known to take that approach. We swore that we’d remember this lesson and apply it.
Marina’s explanation proved to be the lesson that would make our life abroad much easier overall. Invariably, when we find ourselves struggling in a new environment, we realize we are failing to ask the right question in the first place.
It also relieved us to realize that we weren’t too old or inflexible to take on the world. We simply needed to let go of any assumptions or expectations we had and change our perspective.
However, when we set out the next day for the racetrack, expecting a fun-filled afternoon among excited people cheering on their chosen nags, enjoying their companions and maybe even smiling at us, we were let down again. The gamblers proved to be quiet and dead-pan, their women clearly hoping to frown and growl their way to riches, and the food servers apparently alumni of the same training school as the Chinese restaurant lady. Our re-phrasing questions and attempts at charm didn’t seem to warm any hearts at the racetrack. We were truly disappointed that our newly minted skills didn’t produce the outcome we hoped for.
We left the track early, lonely and frustrated. No matter what we did, we didn’t seem to be able to make Argentina work. This is when my darling, so desperate for conversation that he chatted up a “lady of the evening,” announced we were leaving the country two weeks early. In two days, we had learned two valuable lessons. The first was to stop and ask the right questions. The second was that we don’t have time to waste in places where we were struggling to be happy.
We called Alexandra, one of my California daughters, and announced our new plan: to return to the United States for Thanksgiving. We heard delight on the other end and a promise to buy a bigger turkey. We started packing up our gear that very day. And for better or worse, we didn’t regret it.