Look Mom, I swallow: A follow-up

So after spending valuable time and money, the fourth doctor in the saga of "Veronica's swallowing problem" determined that I will need to have more studies conducted. Phew! For a second I thought someone was going to diagnose me with something.

But when the doctor is young and tall, and "Just got off the plane this morning after biking through Patagonia", it's easy to forget that you may possibly have Eosinophilic Esophagitis, that pesky allergy of the esophagus. Which just goes to show, good looking people can get away with murder. Note to hospitals.

In any event, both the good doctor and I were in agreement that my problem is more likely psychological than physiological, but as he said, let's do a biopsy just to be certain.

So let's! Let's put little Veronica under sedation (the right way). And let's stick a lighted instrument down her throat and scrape out little chunks of her esophagus.

I'll let you all know how that goes.

Punta del Este ain't for sissies

After a bit of hobgobling around Buenos Aires, stuffing our faces despite the heat, and knocking back Cinzanos without shame, we decide that its time to make a move. And thanks to SunTime travel, in a day we were on our way across the Rio Plata to visit the friendly neighbor to the North, Uruguay. A country, as I've been told, that exists only to act as a buffer between the mega-powers that are Argentina and Brazil.

I've also been told that Uruguay, in this intermediary position, gets the good fortune of being neglected in the world's political/social forum, thus leaving it to its own devices. Which are in no way significant.









Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure Uruguay has something good to offer the world. After all, Punta del Este, a city located on the coast, sprawling with beaches and yacht clubs, has been called the Monaco of South America. But still, a harbinger of culture it most certainly is not. And if i can be frank, the only things of significance in Punt del Este are the beaches, which are reminiscent of the Mediterranean, and the boys, which are exceptionally nice. And young. And show off their sinewy limbs while walking shirtless in the streets. That's worth a trip to Uruguay.

You see, Punte del Este's biggest import is Argentineans. And not just your regular, run of the mill Argentines with their mulletesque haircuts. Oh no my friends, these folk are the upper crust of Argentina, who obviously come from the right side of the tracks. Blonde and blue eyed, with really great bone structure, and smokin' hot bodies.

But more than just the nyph-like appeal of these vacationing Argentines, what interests me is the fact that these argies are aesthetically different from the other argies. Mar del Plata, Argentina's big resort town, for instance, brings a more down-home kind of crowd. And I'm not just talking about the family Campinelli and some of their friends. No, I'm talking about an evacuation of 60% of the city of Buenos Aires in January alone. So, imagine if you will, hordes of dark skinned and dark haired Argentines. All sad eyes and sly smiles, bustling about with their "catarra-catarra", playing fútbol on the beach, no less than two feet from "prima Milli" and her girlfriends from secondary school. Blankets and towels practically on top of each other. And then compare that with the lackadaisical world of the buxom Punta del Este crowd.

I think what's going on here is work in tandem. For instance, money and good looks went up to Uruguay, where a little more dough can buy you the peace and tranquility of pi-pi-cou-cou Punta del Este. While the working class folk and the cabezitas negras went four hours South to the rocky shores of Mar del Plata, where space is tight but nice all the same. After all, every Argentinean deserves a vacation carajo!

Which is not to say that Mar del Plata is a shite town. Not at all. Its a beautiful city, with great jagged cliffs that jutt up against the sea. And indeed, while the people are darker, they are also ridiculously hot (Argentina is a genetic phenomenon). And they like to eat and drink and stay out late. And really, in the end, it doesn't make much difference. After all, Mar del Plata like Punta del Este, is the kind of place where it ain't summertime until you've drank maté on the beach at dusk, had yourself a meal on the dock, and witnessed a pack of 8 year olds reaking havoc in the streets at midnight, drunk with sleep deprivation.

Chinchulines, the real way

According to my sources, Chinchulines are typcially cooked by FIRST soaking the intestines in milk for about a half hour. Then the caca is flushed out using the sink faucet. AND, chinchulines aren't commonly cooked on the grill, but ALWAYS cooked on the grill.

So now we've cleared that up.

Monday Movie Madness - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

As you all know, I love the French in a way that can only be classified as an "unhealthy obsession". Then how is it possible, you ask, that a Francofile such as myself would not keep up on the latest Fraunch films. Well,this is because while I love all things French, I don't necessarily understand them. I know this sounds cliché, but all cliches hold some truth. And when it comes to French cinema, the truth is that the French simply love to examine the tribulations of human emotion. And consequently, the more one suffers, the more convoluted the plot, the more insufferable the film. And just in case you think I'm being pedestrian, let me throw out a few films as an example: Le Moustache, Jeux d'enfants (Guillaume Canet, hello handsome), that movie with the violinist that falls in love with the crazy person, and then the one about the con-man that falls in love with American journalist, anything Goddard.

That said, there's really nothing more splendid than going to the movies on a Monday at 2:45pm. Especially when you know that besides the handful of other extraordinary individuals who somehow managed to evade the drudgery of "work", everyone else is slaving away at a computer while you're watching French cinema. Yes, my friends, life is good. And after watching The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the latest Julien Schnabel flick, I may even venture to say that life is a gift.

Or in the least I'd say, when life gives you shit luck, you should write a book about it. That way when everyone else is carrying on about their pitiful lives you can feel superior. Content in knowing that you have overcome a great deal of suffering and put forth a wonderful work of art that is tender and inspirational. And that kids, is a most gratifying feeling.

With that in mind, let's proceed with my completely arbitrary review of the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

1) Mathieu Almirac, France's answer to Andrew McCarthy only less creepy, and the second dreamiest French actor next to Malik Zidi, should win some sort of acting prize. Even with his eye all aflutter and practically popping out of his head, he still manages to be ridiculously charming and absolutely cute. Kudos to Almirac for making me think naughty things about a man in a vegetative state.

2) On that note, I love that Jean-Do remains saucy even in his vegetable-like condition.

3) Schnabel did an amazing job capturing the absolute horror of what it must be like to be trapped in one's body. And cinematically the imagery was all around amazing. The blurry faces and disembodied voices, the non-peripheral views, the flashbacks, the diving bell buoying in a vast sea of green and blue, were all perfect. The scenery was fantastic, with Breck looking desolate and bleak, all the while quasi-therapeutic. I really loved what he did with this movie. And thankfully Schnabel had the right mind to limit the gratuitous befuddling scenes to a minimum. Like when JD is on that pier like object in the middle of the ocean, yeesh, what's that supposed to mean?

4) Sometimes I got mixed up with the female characters. Perhaps my memory is bad or perhaps the females all looked somewhat similar, but sometimes I couldn't tell who was who. Like when they took their trip to Lourdes. I believe he went with the prettier nurse, not Henriette, but I just can't tell. I don't remember her having been so tall until I saw the Lourdes scene, but maybe that's because Jean-Do was always laying down. On second thought, did the trip to Lourdes even happen? And then there was that scene when JD was shaving his father, and at one point there was no shaving cream and at another there was. These are the kinds of continuity issues that my brain tends to harp on. However, I can overlook all of this simply because I understand that poor Jean-Do is living solely on memory, and if memory is anything, its erratic (and often fictitious), so it would make complete sense that images would be tangential and the dialogue circuitous. Applause to Schnabel, even I got that one.

In sum, this movie was excellent on many levels, and thus deserves a rating of 9.0. I was moved and entertained, which for someone like myself who has often been deemed cold and unresponsive further proves that this is a great film. I'd also like to note that despite being a simpleton, I understood this film. And even I can truly appreciate the notion that life can be brief and arduous, but beautiful all the same.

Food, Glorious Food: A Buenos Aires story continued

Turns out that all things good in Buenos Aires are ingestible. For instance, the "Super Vermicelli con Tuco y Pesto" from Pippos restaurant (located on Montevideo b/w Saramiento and Corrientes) will make your brain explode. Its that delicious. And the whole experience of slurping down a plate of homemade pasta amidst the work-a-day lunchtime bustle of the porteños; Half smothered with a pungent pesto sauce and half with a meaty bolognese, and you'll see what's what.

And let's not even begin to talk about Argentinean ice cream. It tastes exactly as you imagine a delicious ice cream would taste, except without the horrible realization that what you're really eating is made out of styrofoam. The "crema de fresas", strawberry ice cream, is exactly that. Strawberrys and full-fat milk, frozen. So good.

Then we have the "milanesa" made of beef, and of course the "milanesa suprema"made of chicken. Both of which go great with Ensalada Rusa. Then you have the pizza, more commonly referred to by the Argies as "pitzack". Entirely different taste then American Pizza, and with a thicker crust that's soft and buttery. There's also "facturas", the Argentinean answer to morning croissants. Yum.

However, Argentina also has foods that make a foreigner go, "Hmmm". Things that seem to exist without rhyme or reason. Take "faina". A bland, dry, flat cake-like substance, that the Argies put on top of their pizzas. Why bother, I ask, when the pizza is good on it's own.

Then there's "chinchulines". The lower intestines of the cow. Generally soaked in lemon and then doused in salt, and most commonly cooked on the parrilla. If you don't like being surprised about what might squirt in your mouth as you chomp down on your food, then chinchulines aren't for you. And while we're on this subject. I applaud the fact that Argentineans believe in eating every part of the cow, but really, if it smells like piss, it probably tastes like it too. And, well, piss tastes bad.

But of course, what takes the cake, chews it up and then barfs it out, are any, neigh all of the delightful dishes that mixes cream and fish. For instance, "Merlusa al Rochefort", one of the most disgusting things i've tasted in a long time, is served with a long, flat oily fish called Merlusa. Three or four of which have been rolled up, and covered with a cream sauce made of rochefort.

Now, imagine you take the sickening thought of that flavor explosion, and magnify it 10 times. That would become a dished loved by 3 in 4 Argentines, "Vittell Toné". A dish whose name betrays itself to anyone who is familiar with the romance languages. Vitell=Veal Toné=Tuna. Oh yes, dear friends, veal and tuna. Or rather, thin slices of veal, smothered in a sauce made of tuna and mayonaise, served cold.

Note the picture above. A table laden with plates upon plates of salads. You see, its dead summer on New Year's, so everything is served cold. Then you hear,"Don't give her any vegetables, she'll only eat the Vitell Toné". And you can't understand how anyone could think that the combination of meat and fish could be enjoyable in any way. Its frightening.

And just for good measure, I realize that I never mentioned the "Asado". Its a grill and meat. Nuff said. But for your viewing pleasure.
A typical asado.

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.