Meat, Pharmaceuticals and Rock Nacional

I know, I know. I said I would write and I didn't. Which just goes to show that along with my firm belief in coupling ones vices, these kinds of empty promises will ensure my children at least 10 years of therapy. However, I'm not completely heartless. In fact, a part of that black little lump of coal that I call a heart really wants to make good on fallen promises. So I'm going to do what my parents always did whenever they ended up disappointing me - indulge you in ad hoc gratuitous gifts, which in this case, and basically because I'm cheap, will be stories of all the revelries, mishaps and banalities (that I can remember) of my trip to Argentina.

Firstly, I'd like to note that I'm probably one of the best travelers there can be. When flying I anticipate delays and discomfort, and thus am content with sub-par standards. I never argue with the stewards over there not being any alternatives to chicken for diner, I could care less when children shriek at the top of their lungs (poor things can't rationalize cabin pressure or turbulence), and I only roll my eyes when other passengers get up from their seats even when the seat belt sign is lit. However when flying on a plane full of Argentineans, my general placid demeanor slowly starts to ruffle.

The thing is, not yet minutes into the flight and already I've came head to head with the ever irritating, yet often endearing Argentinean character. Classified as bittersweet and plagued by unwieldy polarities in nature, the Argentine can be simultaneously charming and loathsome. While the passengers are loading into the airplane, I notice that the Argentines are incredibly flippant in respect to common courtesy. Their acts of benevolence towards fellow passengers, which while being manifold, are bristly and insincere. And when viewed as an outsider is an eerie reminder that if the plane goes down, the kindly act of allowing women and children to go first out the emergency exit is to ensure that their corpses can be used as comfy floatation devices.

You see, it’s no exaggeration when I say that I’ve never come across a culture that’s anything like that of the Argentineans. Say what you will about the French and their sang-froid disposition, or the tarty Italians, the English with their pomp and snobbery, and of course we horribly irksome and loud Americans, but the Argentines are a special breed that seem to have perfected the art of platitudinous discourse. And when coupled with their particular Spanish "sh-sh-sh" dialect, that somewhere along their ancestral history has acquired the off-putting dissonance of whiny cat, one begins to realize that it’s a wonder that Argentina continues to peacefully coexist in South America.

The truth is somehow the Argentineans have acquired a national bipolar persona, and I hope that through recounting my trip I can help uncover why this is the case. I imagine that it’s part of their pedigree that has resulted from being the product of a country whose illimitable Pampa allows for endless forays of the imagination and that also fosters a kind of desperation. A country with its jungles to the North, mountains to the West, the Atlantic to the East. It has the widest river, the largest street, the Southern most tip of the Americas. A country that was built by immigrants, with cities that have streets named "O'Higgins" and an airport named "Jorge Newberry". A dictatorship that spurred paranoia. Decades of monetary deflation that manifested ambiguous work ethics. And a general distrust of everyone and anything. A country where anyone kisses everyone when greeting. A society that is culturally progressive, harvesting some of the world's most revered literati, and yet remains politically antiquated. A people whose acrid complaints are copious and yet always told with a laugh. In short; The tristesa of the tango, the fanaticism of fútbol, the grisly "asado". Beloved Argentina.