“He climbs to the top of his ego and jumps off – but he doesn’t die from the impact, he dies of starvation on the way down.”
Now please excuse me while I make some massive generalizations about the people of the country I’ve spent the last six months getting to know.
They’re friendly. They love to talk. They’re soccer-mad, too interested in psychoanalysis, and they take care of their appearance. I am incredibly impressed with how many women wear the spindliest of heels while taking public transportation. Both plastic surgery and eating disorder statistics are through the roof; they had to pass a law insisting that shops stock sizes larger than Famine Barbie because normal people couldn’t buy clothes.
They are, as stereotyped, infinitely arrogant. Examples of this include the Malvinas issue, the four pages one of my tango readings spent methodically discounting Montevideo’s influence on the formation of the dance, and the fact that I’ve heard several people say things like “Oh, Uruguay is really just an Argentine province, you know. They ended up splitting off for some reason, but really, they’re with us.” (Uruguay to Argentina is kind of like Canada is to us. Apparently).
It’s marginally terrifying to think about what this attitude could do if Argentina had much international power, but as it doesn’t it’s just amusing.
On a personal level, the only way to deal with the arrogance sometimes is to be incredibly arrogant right back.
They hate giving change. (No, I don’t have seventy centavos. ¡Dame las monedas!) As far as I can tell, this is mostly because the buses only take coins and not bills, but about ninety percent of the time you hand someone a hundred-peso note (which, of course, the ATMs prefer to give out) they’ll kick up a fuss, too.
They cross themselves as they pass churches. I once saw a woman nearly fall down because she let go of her handhold on the bus in order to do this.
As previously noted, they’re part of a self-admitted ‘cultura machista.’
They’re kind of racist. It’s hard to tell if this is just the lack of the P.C. blanket, or maybe lingual differences. But I have heard disconcerting things like “oh, you know, Chinese people smile all the time” or “the black race and their sexual dancing,” which seem accepted by the porteños without the least twitch.
Their greeting is a kiss on the cheek. When you enter a room of people you know, the polite thing to do is greet everyone individually. This custom does not vary with gender, and I was very amused in the first month to hear some of the extranjeros complaining about how weird it was to touch another man’s beard. I think they’re used to it by now, though.
People hawk things and beg on the Subtes; I’ve seen at least as many musicians actually playing in the cars as I have in the stations.
There are usually at least three cafes per block. This is wonderful. When I went to Montevideo, there were far more hamburger/pizza joints than cafes, and it felt deeply, deeply wrong.
The waiters don’t bother you if you keep your table for three hours, chatting or studying, either: in fact, they can be difficult to flag down for the check or more coffee. I am going to miss the cafés so, so much.
And finally, they like the Rolling Stones. Don’t ask my why; my host brother told me this. “Argentina es muy Stone.”
note: I wrote this while still in the country - only just typed it up. To explain my use of tenses and the word 'here.'
chau, queridos, les extraño!
No comments:
Post a Comment