An Argentine Christmas

It’s December 22nd and I have felt nothing remotely close to “christmassy”. Feeling christmassy surely involves drinking mulled wine, eating mince pies whilst at a carol service, or huddling indoors by a fireplace, drying out snow sodden socks and wishing you hadn’t given your scarf to the snowman.

Or maybe it involves being bombarded with tacky christmas hits right from November, rushing around the shops madly with the “stress of christmas” looming, desperately rooting through piles of overly packaged goods in the hunt for the perfect gift for someone you barely know but feel obliged to buy for.

For some it means a time for giving, for sharing, for being with your family, not to mention the religious motive we’re all supposed to be celebrating.

For me, in no particular order it involves the following:  drinking mulled wine, enjoying crappy cracker jokes, eating homemade sausage rolls at my friend’s house, watching the Muppet’s Christmas Carol, being with family, having a discussion about whether or not granddad is going to get out of bed this year, mum stressing out about the food, and vehemently assuring us that this year she isn’t going to buy everyone hoards of presents, and then doing so, so she finishes opening her own present pile first (everyone else believed her). Crappy tv and a BBC version of a classic, multiple exclamations of thanks (some more well-meant than others), a chocolate orange and a satsuma in my stocking, and copious amounts of wrapping paper. In more recent years, since being a “grown-up” it also involves seeing everyone I know but haven’t seen since the year before down the pub on Christmas eve.

I can most definitely say I have experienced absolutely none of the above. The closest I got was watching the end of Home Alone. But I was in my bikini eating ice cream so I don’t think it counts.

I did also, do some Christmas shopping. The whole process of this is very different here. Absolutely no one has asked me if I’ve done my Christmas shopping yet, and I’m grateful. It’s refreshing not to have to rush around in the run up to the big day.

 Friends from home remark that there’s only two weeks to Christmas and they haven’t done ANY shopping yet and ARGGGHH it’s all so stressful. I meanwhile, did my minimal shopping in two rounds, round one for the family back home, packaged and sent two weeks ago. Round two involved shopping for a friend and my boyfriend on the last possible day I could. The combination of these processes probably took about 3 hours.

 There is something inherently wrong about Christmas shopping in a 30 degree heat, I found the huge plastic Christmas scene in the middle of a shopping centre, which contains a large snow dusted Christmas tree and various smiling children wrapped up in scarves and hats, unnerving. It’s particularly odd when everyone ignores this scene, even the kids, and all those milling around the rest of the mall are in shorts.

 One can’t help but wonder if plastic Santa might want to do the same, and ditch that suit for something cooler. He must get mighty hot, never mind the fact he has to travel round the whole world in one single night.

Signs of the big day coming across the rest of the city are minimal, there are a few lights along the main avenues. There was a large Christmas tree in the main square, but some protesters decided to burn it down the other day, in commemoration of 10 years since the bloodiest days in Argentine history. In 2001, post-economic crash, the people took to the streets, the president had to flee, and 39 people were killed in clashes with the police. I don’t really understand how burning a Christmas tree is any sort of commemoration of these events. A friend told me he was glad they’d burned it. When I asked him why he said it was because the police that killed those people 10 years now were the same police of today, and that the tree was put there by Macri (the mayor of Buenos Aires). I don’t know if he’s right about the police, and I don’t know how these two facts lead to a burnt tree.

It appears to me, that none of this is in the Christmas spirit.

It also occurs to me, that the entire idea of Christmas spirit is an invention, and the idea of feeling Christmassy too. I actually find this thought quite comforting, and with this in mind off I go to pack my bikini and dream about the big bbq I will be eating on the 24^th.  Is it possible I will ever reminisce about an Argentine Christmas? Quien sabe.

Felices fiestas.

Walking Home

It’s hot. I’m walking home after a birthday party. I’ve eaten too much dulce de leche cake and I’m feeling a little sick. The party was of a four year old, so it’s only 8pm but I feel worn out and sticky, resembling the remnants of the cake no doubt.

From: http://www.recetascocinas.com

I wait for the green (yellow) man and cross the busy street with the masses. No one walks quickly, it’s too humid to be in a rush, plus it’s Saturday so that means that doing as little as possible is not only desirable but expected. The shops on the side streets are obeying this rule, they have their shutters down and the lights off, but on the main avenue it’s business as usual.

A clothing shop boasts ventas por mayor y menor.  My latest Buenos Aires revelation is that this claim doesn’t advertise sales for old and young people, but in fact brags you can buy in bulk or normally. I marvel again at this discovery as I pass a shop with floor to ceiling tupperware. It says descuentos por mayor. A few months ago I would’ve thought that pensioners had a discount, but now I get that the more plastic bins you buy, the cheaper they become. I wonder whether I might need a tupperware bin. I don’t. I walk on.

I attempt to get out cash at 5 cash machines in 3 different banks before I eventually find one that has some money. To enter the cash machine booth I have to swipe my card to open the door. Everytime I do this I feel sure I am going to swipe the wrong way and be stuck there like an idiot for 10 minutes turning my card this way and that before I get it right. This happens. There is a woman waiting inside the bank and she watches me struggle, not bothering to open the door for me. She also lets me try out the cash machine she has just discovered has no money in it before looking at me with a “this country” shake of the head. I imagine she blames the newly reelected president for the lack of money in the bank.

From http://www.servicios.salvador.edu.ar

She is wearing white trousers and a cream top. I wonder what it about these colours that either signify someone as rich (Buenos Aires) or poor (council estate in England). She has strappy sandals and dyed blonde hair. She’s carrying several shopping bags and has painted nails. I know she has strappy sandals, painted nails and shopping bags before I even look.

When I do eventually find a cash machine that works, I feel surprised to hear the whir of the money coming out. It’s so shocking I almost walk away with my prize and leave my bank card in the machine. But then I remember for the hundreth time that here the money comes out before the card. And I remember that when I lost my last card it took a month and several hours of queues to get a new one. I retrieve card, money and receipt, and wonder why the security guard is staring at me.

I continue, past the bazaar selling chrismas lights and santa figuerines, past the man on the street selling holographic religious placemats, and past the flower stand, with its welcome whiff of jasmine.

From: http://www.fractalmegaforce.blogspot.com

I take a left, down a dimly lit street, the trees cast shadows on the cracked pavement, making the hazardous holes in the road difficult to make out. A thin woman walks past with a tiny white poodle on a lead. It has a bow on top of its head. A chubby man walks past with two bigger dogs, and shouts at them in an attempt to lure them away from the rubbish bags they are so eager to sniff.

At the next set of rubbish a man rummages through the bags, looking for cardboard to add to his haul. His pile is already far taller than him, and he wears the flourescent clothing of his trade.

From: http://www.border-blog.com

I cross another main street, and am narrowly missed by a motorbike which whizzes past me, ignoring the red traffic light. I realise my shoes hurt and stop to adjust them, I read the sign for the gym next to me, it boasts pilates, reggateon and aerolatino. I don’t know what aerolatino is.

Ahead, a girl jumps on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike. He wears a helmet yet she carries hers like a fashion accessory. They whiz off into the night. A breeze whooshes softly by, welcome in the stuffy night air. Drip, drip, drip go the air conditioning units above my head. They leave pools of water on the floor. they leave drops of what is probably other people’s sweat on my shoulder.

I turn another corner and, focused on the pavement, I nearly bash into a woman carrying her shopping bags. Perdon – sorry, we say, Nooo, esta bien – it’s ok, we reassure each other, and we continue on.

I’m nearly home now, and I walk past the estacionamiento – car park. The old man who works there has abandoned his usual glass office, he’s rolled out the wheely chairs and sits in front of the cars, proudly guarding those under his care whilst he contemplates the street before him. He looks at his watch. I look at the empty chair beside him. He looks at me and for a moment I think he’s going to say something. A younger guy approaches the other chair, mate in hand. Hollaa hermosaa – hello beautiful he winks at me. The older guy takes the mate and nods his head.

From: http://www.taringa.net

I look up, and notice for the first time that a couple of the apartments have fairy lights on their balconys. Garish blue and green flash at me from the 5th floor. A softer yellow set keep a watchful eye from the highest flat.

I also notice that the doorways of a couple of apartment blocks have christmas trees in them. I wonder if my building will get a christmas tree. I doubt it. I also wonder if I’m supposed to give my porter, or portero, some kind of christmas tip.

I walk in the door, “buenas noches”, Washington, my portero is sitting on the step, his usual perch. H always has a contented look in his eye, whether he’s taking out the rubbish or cleaning the floor at 9 in the morning. “Buenas noches joven” he responds. We smile. And I’m home.