Día de los Caídos por Malvinas
Six years ago this week I arrived in a little town on the Pampas of Argentina. San Jorge was small and remote enough that I was regarded as something of an oddity, so during the first several days following my arrival I underwent frequent interrogations on a variety of topics. These invariably touched on comparative anthropology and were accompanied by endless gourds of yerba maté. The first day of my first week at work was a national holiday, which I spent drinking yerba maté and trying to remember how to talk. Though the place appeared sleepy at first, I ended up having a rich social life there, hinted at by having been invited to a wedding after only 12 hours in the country, and by the constant round of visitors to the public room of the small hotel where I was living. And though my stay in Argentina was relatively short, it made a deep impression on me and I am happy that I kept a detailed journal while I was there. Some extracts from my entry for Monday, April 2
Here is what I was telling the dueña’s daughter:
“In my country one cannot run in the wintertime. Even until now there is snow on the ground, on the floor? On the ground, even to one meter, and in the winter the highways are covered with snow and with ice cream.”She tells me that in her country the weather is so humid that one cannot run in the summertime, unless in the very early morning. She tells me that she likes to run in the early morning, but cannot because she must be present to serve coffee and breakfast to the guests.
[...]
The radio in the hotel’s dining room/bar is playing “Sweet Home Buenos Aires,” as I attempt to describe the differences between North American and Argentine wedding ceremonies. “In my country, it is not the custom for the bride and groom to arrive at the reception upon a motorcycle, for example,” I tell Claudio, the dueña’s daughter, Mauricio, and Mauricio’s dark, pretty girlfriend, who keeps looking at me like I am the new panda in the zoo. “Also, it is required that the bridesmaids wear dresses which are as ugly as may be possible.”
“Ugly! Why must they be ugly?”
“Yes, it is so, the dresses must be of a squalid shade of pink, or, or, violet, or…”
“Yellow!” Claudio contributes. He looks like Tom Cruise, though with a bigger nose and unfortunate teeth, and has variously offered to buy me a hooker and (or?) find me a fiancée. I hope that this would entail different women.
“How strange, that the dresses should be ugly,” Mauricio’s girl pursues.
“Well, then, it is so as to be sure that the dress of the bride herself is surely the most lovely, and that no other dress should draw the eyes from the bride,” I offer. The dueña’s daughter nods her lovely blonde head knowingly, and all murmur in comprehension. I am about to attempt to describe the estadounindense tradition wherein all ugly-dress-wearing bridesmaids must attempt to get laid at the reception when the dueña’s daughter gets up to boil more water for the maté.
Today in Argentina it is Día del Veterano de Guerra y los Caídos en las Islas Malvinas: Veterans’ Day and a day of remembrance for those who fell in the Falklands War.
Previous mentions of the Southern Cone:
The Argentine
Día de San Martín
Paper or plastic?
When mustaches ruled the earth
Nostalgic for lunch
So,
When is Pomposities on the Pampas going to be self-published? And will it be issued in Spanish and English?
Comment by DarkoV — Monday 2 April 07 @ 15.22 MDT+2.00
Watch out, David Sedaris. You talk rather pretty in Spanish at the then. Great post.
Comment by juliloquy — Monday 2 April 07 @ 16.23 MDT+2.00
I said this in my email but I should say it here too: you are an awfully good writer.
*jealous*
Comment by Jane — Wednesday 4 April 07 @ 23.58 MDT+2.00