Photo by Flickr user CristianGs. As you can see by that watermark.

Last night Sol, our tour guide from a couple of weeks back, invited us out to her dad’s swank house just north of the city to eat asado. Asado is Argentine barbecue, a ritualized feast of a variety of God’s grilled creatures that puts our sad North American hamburger and hot-dog endeavors to total shame. Chorizo, pork chop, two kinds of beef and an exquisitely marinated chicken were all consumed in the same belly-expanding meal. Before last night, I would never have believed this was physically possible.

It was a fabulously Argentine affair, gabbing over Fernet with Cola about the Argentine economy (key word: INFLATION!) with J, Sol and two of her friends, Sabrina and (I think?) Natalia, whom she lovingly referred to as “las pendejas” (which in this situation roughly translates to “my bitches.” Argentines swear a lot more than Canadians do, and it’s usually pretty endearing). Anyway, I’ve eaten so much meat in the past three weeks that I feel the chemistry of my body has actually changed. I’m starting to smell like a bouillon cube.

Argentina is well known for its earth-shattering, grass-fed Pampas beef, but the truth is all meat in Argentina is cheap, plentiful, and of exceptional quality. Sol said that it’s actually rare to encounter bad meat, a legitimate challenge. For this reason, Argentines eat an absurd amount of flesh; fresh produce, though also abundant, is very much an afterthought. In fact, the very word used to describe salad items at many Buenos Aires restaurants translates literally to “garnish.” Go figure.

Sol sent us home with leftovers from the asado. “A doggie bag,” she joked, a concept she must have picked up in her dealings with foreigners as a tour guide. While no longer as unthinkably gauche as it once was, the practice of bringing home leftovers from restaurants and the like remains decisively outside the norm. I’m not sure her Argentine galpals caught the reference.

Argentines have had a rough go of it over the past several decades, between military dictatorship and, more recently, total economic collapse. But throughout it all, they’ve maintained a healthy appetite. While leafy greens might not be a national staple, even the most run-of-the-mill street food here is worthy of marvel. Lonely Planet did a roundup not too long ago of 10 non-steak edibles to eat in Buenos Aires, and I’d say they were right on the money with their mention of ice cream (also, the best I’ve ever had in my life), pizza (ditto), and dulce de leche. Apart from some horrible American tourists we encountered while waiting in line to eat at B.A.’s ancient and famous Cafe Tortoni (“Empana-what? Looked like Hot Pockets to me!”), all the foreigners we’ve encountered have been impressed by the offerings here–and rightfully so. But, even more impressive is that the locals know better than to take it for granted.

What if, say, Barack Obama had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer? Surely, the media wouldn’t let it go. But then, say, after his nationally-breath-held operation came through and it turned out that, Oops! The cells were healthy after all!  wouldn’t there be investigation? Wouldn’t people insist that something smelled fishy? Of course they would; someone would immediately suspect a stunt at play. North American democracy is founded upon a healthy sense of skepticism. Not so in Argentina. The fundamental distrust of democratic governance held by the Argentine people, recently released from the throngs of a dictatorial regime, is apparently immune to bizarre marketing schemes that will play up a head of state’s potentially life-threatening illness only to overlook its subsequently positive prognosis. It’s easier, here, to simply put one’s faith in one’s leader. She’s strong and speaks for the people!  is the prevailing rationale. It’s called Peronism, and it’s a curious beast.

The Peronist political machine relies upon a degree of personality cultishness that I’ve never experienced elsewhere. When I visited the Casa Rosada (presidential palace) last week, I was immediately stricken by the dozens of photo installations of the president, her late husband and their children, displayed along the entrance. These mini-billboards showed “day in the life” type scenes: photos of the president blowing kisses from outside a car window, presumably at a crowd of her loyal countrypeople; la presidenta mid-embrace with her children; “candid” shots of Cristina at speaking engagements, eyes welling with emotion before the masses. Why are images politically relevant? Well, they aren’t. Nothing about Cristina’s ability to smile at a camera suggests shrewd policymaking. Rather, the message is, “I am one of you. Love me.” And, it seems to work.

Back to the cancer thing. Why wasn’t this front-page news last week? Why has it been discussed on television broadcasts only as an afterthought? Why haven’t people been celebrating her–apparently, unexpectedly–good health? I can’t help but come to the conclusion that there’s a fear of throwing off a narrative of support and well-wishes coming from high up, trickling down to mainstream media. A populist head of state’s life-threatening illness is quite the unifier, after all. Why break the circle? It’s an idea that especially makes sense in the context of what I’ve been told, that the press isn’t completely, 100% free in Argentina.

Not to say that North American politics are any more civil, but it’s been fascinating to see a totally different kind of machine at play. Techniques of ruling also have their cultural differences.

A blurry live-action tango scene.

Buenos Aires is beginning to make sense. Maybe because today was the first time I got properly lost on my own, which is a fabulous way to get one’s bearings in an unfamiliar place. For the past 13 days (!) I’ve been relying on my travel partner for navigation. In a sense, he’s the orchestrator of this trip, and I’m the guest, so I follow. Besides, this is a working holiday for me; many potential brain-map-making hours have been spent drinking cortados in coffee shops while pounding away at my laptop about goings-on back home. This is no complaint, but it was an adventure to begin forging my own sense of geography earlier tonight.

Stationed on the southern-ish edge of B.A.’s “old money” Recoleta neighbourhood (note: the apartment sublet here was, miraculously, comparable in price to others in less quiet/chi-chi locations), I ventured for a 10k run to and from the border of Palermo, a gigantic expanse of parks and nightlife broken up into four real-estate subsections for easy marketing appeal. From my monthlong dwelling at the intersection of Ayacucho and Peña, I headed northeast along increasingly swanky territory along Ayacucho and onto Avenida del Libertador–Avenue of the Liberator–to make my way westward.

As a headphones runner, I had the latest record by Argentine electro group Poncho to keep me from bursting into an anti-exercise tantrum. According to the current Argentine edition of Rolling Stone (which I picked up at a nearby kiosko a few days ago)  iTunes is relatively new to the country and, within moments of its inception, Poncho’s sole English-language single “Please Me” became its most-downloaded track, even surpassing Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep”–quite a feat, if you’ll ask anyone in the Western Hemisphere.  In true tech-gen fashion, I discovered the tune by Shazaaming it at a Palermo bar earlier in the week, but it’s been apparently inescapable for months. ( In case you’re wondering, the entire album is brilliant.)

After I figured out how to return home, we ate what could almost be called a homecooked meal and drank Fernet and Cola, which I’ve discovered is the cocktail of choice for Porteños (the name given to people from Buenos Aires, a port city, which literally translates to “Port dwellers”). I learned about the concoction during a fabulous walking tour last Monday, which I’d recommend to anyone considering a visit to the city. Upon mention of the drink, a German tourist in the group made a horrible face and said that his experience with Fernet y Cola was unpleasant and headache-inducing, which naturally led me to try it a few hours later. Some loser on Vimeo described its taste as “mouthwash,” but my refined palate reads notes of Ricola cough drops and Sicilian mafiosos. It’s simultaneously classy and dirty, which is really the best any of us can aspire to. For my Toronto friends: Fernet Branca is apparently available at the LCBO, but at about 6x the Buenos Aires price. In other words: hit me up, for I shall be importing.

Fernet y cola was something that got consumed last night, as well, when we ventured to a hip milonga called La Catedral at the recommendation of a local friend-of-a-friend named Elena. Milongas are where tango happens, and el tango is just short of religion here. The dance originated at the end of the 19th century but waned in popularity during the mid-20th century, when newfangled rock-n-roll business decided to take over the public consciousness. The folkloric dance was further suppressed during Argentina’s most recent, and most violent, military dictarorship, which lasted from 1976-1983. But, after a long period of decline, tango is making a major comeback, thanks to a number of Bohemian and youth-centric milongas and–of course–a bounty of international tourists drawn to  its undeniable sexiness. As my new friend Elena explained, “Es una obsesion.”  Having experienced my own first tango lesson and show last night, I can understand why: it’s a dance that relies on intuition and reflex, a communication between dance partners, more than any other.  Basically, the dance is foreplay on heels. I hope to get a second lesson tomorrow.

Beyond tango and exploration, today involved a visit to the MALBA–the museum of Latin American Art in Buenos Aires–where we experienced some amazingly trippy “physiocromic” (my own attempt at an English translation for it) work by the artist Carlos Cruz-Diez. Google the guy, as your mind will surely be blown. The following photo is from one of his less-impressive (but more interactively fun) pieces. Apologies for dorkiness (I is what I is).

[Final note: for more intelligent/comprehensive Buenos Aires recaps, follow this blog here.]

Yeah. Back to that.

This was never intended to be a full vacation for me, and the freelance assignments continue to exist. Today marks my return to something resembling a disciplined work schedule, which is tricky given  Argentine proclivities toward staying out until sunrise, not to mention my travel partner’s total holiday state of mind. No complaints, though; better to be here than not. Though, as I’ve hinted before, I appreciate being forced to keep one foot grounded in Toronto.

For some of us–maybe most of us–travel is an unnatural state. I’ve come across a number of serial wanderers in my lifetime, those shaggy-haired creatures who’ve long abandoned the idea of a permanent home base, can ask for directions in a dozen different languages and sport the distinctive curve of backpack scoliosis. While I admire their perpetual curiosity and adventure-seeking, I don’t identify with it. It may even be fair to say that being away from familiar faces and routines throws me into a state of existential turmoil. Surprise. But, really, so much of what defines us is what we’re tied to; away from all that, who are we? Here, I’m just an interchangeable Canadian tourist. That’s my label, and the nuances don’t matter.

That said, it’s affirming to feel stripped-down. Important to feel unimportant, maybe. I don’t feel at ease, say,  stepping into a dance club where I don’t speak the slang or look the part, but that’s arguably all the more reason to take that particular plunge. We all owe it to ourselves to step outside of our cultural comfort zones, both at home and abroad. It’s like a ceremonial bullshit cleanse. So, I say: here’s to more of that in the year to come.

The apartment is in Recoleta, about a 10-minute walk from where I stayed during my last visit to B.A. That one was strictly work though, and minimal pleasure. This time, I hope to get in a fair bit of both.

This afternoon we walked past an embassy that I foggily remember stumbling past on my last night in town last year, during my one moment of fun. A late night at El Alamo bar with instant expat friends led to a long night of very 20-something adventures. It was a relief at the time, a moment of excitement in the middle of a period I don’t remember too fondly.

I bought new sandals for this trip. Attempts at chicdom. The 5-inch platforms need to be broken in; after an hour in them, my feet are temporarily ruined. But they make me feel elegant, and this city deserves the effort.

Buenos Aires has a choose-your-own-adventure vibe. As my friend Lisan said, it’s a cultural gray area somewhere in between Latin America and Western Europe, or maybe both and not both at the same time, like a Venn Diagram of identities. We look like everyone else here, more or less, and it’s nice not to be pegged for a tourist until I open my mouth and the gutter rust of my mother tongue stumbles out instead of spilling.

We drink totally passable red wine that cost $4 USD, which I first thought tasted like soap but now, a mug in, am beginning to appreciate.

“I think it’s good for my heart and shit, just to feel excited. And scared.” J said that, but I agree. My brain is still in Toronto, but my body is here. And my heart, I think. Another Venn Diagram.

There are, as my mother would say, “Gringo things” and, conversely, there are non-Gringo things. Growing up, this dichotomy served the useful purpose of flagging certain Euro-American idiosyncrasies to scare us kids into retaining our (half-) Latin culture. It was with this implicit taxonomy in mind that I determined, fairly early in my childhood, that Christmas Eve midnight Mass was among the former, and that it was no good.

For a few years of my childhood, Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was the horrible cap to hours of exhilaration and excess. Because I grew up within one mile of both sets of grandparents, and because said grandparents had all bred prolifically during their birth-control-free years of fertility, I could always count on Christmas Eve to be one giant, wonderful, people-filled gong show. Every year we’d start out at my dad’s parents’ house with a couple dozen aunts, uncles, and cousins in the late-afternoon and would proceed to gorge ourselves, run around, fight, cry, injure ourselves, open presents, and eat some more until around 9pm. From there we’d make the five-minute drive to my maternal grandparents’ house where another dozen or so relatives insisted we eat yet again, open more presents, and watch Spanish-language Christmas specials that inevitably featured some combination of music and buxom dancers dressed as either sexy Santas or naughty elves. A couple of hours later, my brothers and I would be ripped away from Telemundo‘s hypnotic gyrations and herded into my parents’ minivan—overtired and sugar crashed—to get to the church in time for midnight Mass. My aunts, uncles and grandparents stayed behind.

For those who haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing a Catholic Mass, the whole thing might have been designed explicitly for the torture of children: an hour of staid hymns, recitation, sit-standing repeatedly from a hard-ass wooden bench, and “SHH! NO TALKING!” hissed sharply into tender little ear canals. This was all difficult enough on a normal Sunday morning, but at the midnight hour of an exhausting day it was the seventh circle of hell. In between our tears of protest, my parents liked to remind us that this was a family tradition that my father and his six siblings had endured every single year of their childhoods without complaint. My grandparents still went—and they were old! Surely we spry, energetic youngsters could suck it up. It was that or a time-out.

While I’m sure midnight Mass existed in the nearby Spanish churches, my Salvadoran relatives never went. I suspect they figured, having lived through civil war and all, they were entitled a pass on avoidable unpleasantness. Or, maybe, it wasn’t part of their cultural repertoire. Either way, I was grateful when my parents finally decided, after those few years of midnight experimentation, to let the infinity-symbol-hips of naughty elves and sexy Santas lull us to sleep on our grandparents’ couch instead of putting us through a song and dance of late-night piety—a holiday tradition that continues today.

This post is a part of EthnicAisle, a blog about race, culture, and ethnicity. Read it or else.

-On Occupy Toronto feeling like a high school cafeteria in the Toronto Standard

-…And the queer community taking on Occupy Toronto 

-…And Occupy Toronto post-eviction from St.James Park

-A “catvertising” video spoof that brought international attention to a Toronto ad agency

-…and another YouTube video spot, this time by Toronto firefighters, on why their jobs aren’t “gravy”

-Dogs in costumes

-Queer press in Toronto

-A homecoming show for local synthpop babes Austra

-Billboards on heritage buildings (namely the Toronto Dominion Centre)

-A chat with the city’s outgoing chief planner on Toronto’s past, present, and futre

-Massive craft shows and the state of DIY in Toronto

-A wedding in a boxing ring in The Grid

-An Afro-Brazilian lovefest in AVClub

This isn’t everything that’s been written in the past month (there’s also, as always, my weekly print exclusive for GlobeTO, and a couple of items forthcoming in magazines). But just wanted to remind that I’ve been very much alive, despite blog silence.