The Astromaid Chronicles

Slow Travel, Creative Living, and Speculation

Tag: differences between chile and argentina

What Do I Look Like, A Drug Lord?

When Jorge, Kelli, our friend Sam and I began packing up and shipping out of Argentina, we opted for the night bus between Mendoza and Valparaiso. About 9 hours long, it’s an easy way to save a night’s expense at a hostel, though you do miss some of the stunning views by day as you ascend the craggy, rusted mountains of the Andes.

Being that it was a full moon the night of our trip, we were able to catch ghostly glimpses of the terrain. And with our bottle of wine, the four of us had a fun time chatting, sipping delicately out of the world’s tiniest plastic cups, and planning for the upcoming days in Chile.

andes mountains

Here’s a shot of the Andes during the day, from a border run in late 2013.

A few hours into the ride, we knew the aduana, or customs control, would be happening soon. The typical steps of a land border crossing, at least between Argentina and Chile, are as follows:

  1. Approaching the border, a border official will board the bus to inspect things. He usually leaves after a quick once over.
  2. Fifteen minutes later, you’re at the actual border. Enjoy the frigid mountain air.
  3. Everyone must get off the bus, line up in front of two windows, and get their passports stamped/attended to.
  4. Linger outside for awhile, buy some Chilean sandwiches, wait until your bus pulls up to the next customs door.
  5. All the luggage is offloaded from the bus onto a conveyor belt, where it is automatically X-rayed.
  6. Passengers must line up in front of two long tables, where we place our hand luggage in front of us. Dogs sniff up and down the tables a few times.
  7. Our hand luggage is then scanned through the same machine. Anyone who didn’t pass the screening has to open their luggage so it can be inspected by an official. (And if they don’t pass the inspection…well, they don’t cross the border!)
  8. Re-board the bus, and try to catch a few more hours sleep until you arrive in Valparaiso!

Los libertadores border crossing

“Los Libertadores” border crossing; every Mendoza-Santiago bus route runs through here, high up in the Andes. [Photo Credit: Soy Chile]

Fairly straightforward. Getting INTO Chile is often more difficult than getting INTO Argentina because their import rules are much stricter. They do not allow any fruits or vegetables of any kind to be brought into the country, and most loose food is confiscated.

So around the time we knew we’d be approaching customs, we collectively realized we still had a crapton of chocolates leftover from our impulse purchases earlier that day at the Mendoza bus terminal. And nuts! We had so many nuts and chocolates.

TIME TO EAT. We began scarfing chocolate, unwilling to let Chilean officials confiscate our hard-earned candy. They were gourmet, for god’s sake! I’ll eat myself sick before I hand these over just so they can be tossed in the garbage.

Our bus shuddered to a stop at the first control (step 1) while we were mowing down. The official boarded the bus as normal. Our bus was oddly empty, only about ten people on the 2nd level with us, where normally it could fit up to 60. The official didn’t have many people to assess before he made it to us.

He paused at our seats. After a curt assessment, he asked if he could see all of our hand luggage.

I nodded and grabbed my backpack, still popping chocolate almonds into my mouth. He began to rummage, one by one, through our bags. We exchanged confused glances as he did so.

He hadn’t asked anyone else on the bus for their hand luggage. And in my ample border crossing experience, on this exact route, the most I’d ever been asked to show was my passport.

As he rifled through our belongings, I offered him some chocolate. He curtly declined.

“What is this?” He held up Sam’s lip gloss, which was in a spherical pod.

JUST LIKE THIS LIP BALM, except without the pineapple, the floating face, and the HILARIOUS ENGRISH. Take care of that crackle with this adorable lip balm.  [Photo Credit: Alibaba.com]

“Just lip balm,” she said, as he opened it up and examined it against the lights of the bus.

After he’d inspected all of our hand luggage, he told us to get off the bus. “Bring your hand luggage with you, we need to get your bags out from the bottom.”

Now this was really weird. Wordlessly, we followed him off the bus, sending wide-eyed looks between each other, wondering why we were being singled out. At the side of the bus where the luggage is stored, the border official and the bus employee pulled our bags down. They laid them unceremoniously on the side of the highway.

The official pulled me aside as he opened my big backpack. Wearing gloves, he pulled out my personal items and handed them to me to hold as he searched–my sandals, a Little Mermaid towel, piles of clothes. At the same time, another border official, who had already searched through some of Kelli and Sam’s things, grabbed my hand luggage and began searching through it again.

“Who’s is this?” His voice came out gruff, angry.

“Mine,” I told him, arms piled high with my crap as his colleague continued scouring my bag.

“Come here.”

I looked helplessly between the two officials. How was I supposed to go through two of my bags at once? “Uh…I don’t–…um, what do you–? It’s already been inspected!”

He grunted and pushed it aside. Then he motioned to Jorge to follow him behind the back of the bus. The official searching my bag finished, and told me I could put everything back inside. Then he disappeared to where Jorge and the other guy were.

All I could see was Jorge’s face as they talked. Serious faces; occasional nodding. Intense glances. They were fucking questioning him.

My belly flopped. Was this about to be a problem, like a real, honest-to-god IMMIGRATION PROBLEM? [Cue horrifying flashback to Bolivian Immigration problems.] My mind started doing somersaults as I waited for some word from them, or my husband. Kelli, Sam and I huddled nervously as we waited.

Finally, the officials motioned us over. “Get back on the bus.”

THANK GOD. We re-boarded the bus quickly, settling into our seats with something like delirious relief pulsing through the air.

“What did they say to you?” I asked Jorge as the bus rumbled to life once more. The passengers at the front of the bus side-eyed us, probably wondering what we had done to warrant such a search.

“They were looking for weed,” he said, and went on to explain that the officials were looking for marijuana in all our bags–all the way down to Sam’s lip gloss. Convinced that we had it stashed somewhere, that we had been smoking it somewhere. Behind the bus, the officials had tried to bargain with him–if you guys have any on you, just let us know and we can work something out for you. We’ll make you a deal. Just admit it.

SERIOUSLY.

We gaped at him, incredulous, horrified, totally confused. Why on EARTH would they suspect us for SMUGGLING AN ILLEGAL DRUG INTO CHILE?

Clearly, they didn’t find the treasure they were looking for, because we don’t smuggle illegal substances across international borders. 

Of all the passengers on the bus, they chose us. And why was that?

Was it because we were foreign? Maybe because of my dreadlocks? Was it because we were three American tourists, lost in a conversation in our own language, trying to be nice by offering chocolates?

Who knows. We sure don’t.

The incident weighed on us, hanging somewhere between astonishment and fear. What if this had been a different country, a place where cops bribe people to confess something, while they plant a drug in their belongings? What if this had been a situation where not finding anything in our luggage didn’t matter, and we’d be carried off to jail anyway?

Those places exist in the world. And oftentimes, it’s up to luck about what happens to you on the road: what society you’re traveling in, what border official is looking you up and down, what night of the week you happen to be traveling.

Once we made it to the actual border and our luggage was offloaded again to be X-Ray’d and sniffed out, none of the dogs noticed us, our backpack, or Sam’s “questionable” (yet adorable) lip balm.

It’s times like these that make you wonder all the ways that things can go REALLY wrong! Have you guys ever had a touchy situation like this traveling abroad? I want to hear about it!

Stop One in Mendoza…and Chilean Cuisine Comments

This is my third visit to Mendoza and the third time I haven’t gone to a bodega.

This is unacceptable for a variety of reasons. First of all, Mendoza isn’t just wine country, it’s MALBEC WINE COUNTRY. For anyone with a set of tastebuds and eyeballs, you’ll know that Malbec is lovely and that I prefer drinking this over almost anything else in the world. Furthermore, I’ve had three chances to get my ass to a vineyard and spend my day lazily tasting wines and gazing out over the grapes. Have I done this? No. Why not? I have no idea. Maybe next time.

This visit to Mendoza has been very pleasing and lovely for other reasons. We’re going to be here about a week in total and in this week I have tried more typical Argentine dishes than Chilean dishes in my whole year and a half in Chile.

Seriously.

Some of you may already know my thoughts on Chilean cuisine (see tag: Hey Chile, you could use a little more salt), but this isn’t just a personal palatte issue, or even a personal vendetta. It’s a fact: Chilean Cuisine is notably sparse.

Typical Chilean dishes are as follows: Completos (Hot dogs piled with avocado, mayonnaise, and tomato in what resembles a veritable condiment boat), Curanto (a big stew of meat, chicken, and seafood), Chorillana (French Fries, fried egg, hot dog, and caramelized onions, all mixed together. Great hangover food. Also great heart attack food), Empanadas (think of an overgrown hot pocket from scratch, with a variety of vegetable/meat/seafood and cheese fillings).

This is Chorillana. No joke, it’s the bomb.

Also: seafood in general, because of the access to the sea.

That constitutes la cocina chilena.  And it took me the full year and a half and plenty of interrogation to get the real scoop on Chilean cuisine. It’s just…not their strong suit.

But here in Argentina?

I get to Argentina and take a bite of bread and there is a shuddering wave of contentment.  I think to myself, “Yes. This is what BREAD tastes like!” And the butter is tastier. And the asados….don’t get me started.

In this one week in Mendoza I’ve had two traditionally Argentinian homemade dishes.

The first one was pastel de papa (potato pie). Our friends Sergio and Sandra made this dish with Sandra’s 1st-generation Italian immigrant grandmother, and watching the process alone convinced me that this was already my favorite dish without even having tried it.

Pastel de papa…POTATO PIE. This is my personal portion, right?!

Thin layer of flimsy dough. Slather on a nice layer of mashed potatoes, add a layer of “picadillo”, which is essentially ground beef and onions and picante and tomato mixed together. Then a layer of cheese; another layer of mashed potatoes; and then final layer of thin flimsy dough. The dough is pinched shut at the perimeter, coated with a whisked egg glaze, and then it bakes for 30 minutes.

And then you put it in your mouth and the heavens open and angels shriek and things rain from the sky.

The next dish I had the extreme pleasure of trying for the first time this visit was locro de choclo. Hell if I know what this means in English, except that choclo means corn, and this was certainly a corn-based dish.

I was able to witness some of the cooking process and it seemed that corn boiled for three hours and then suddenly onions were cooking and it was ready. I think I missed part of this process.

Whatever you are, I want more of you.

At any rate, what ends up in front of your face at the lunch table is a steaming bowl of (let’s say) corn soup, with a nice variety of condiments, a dollop of homemade tomato sauce with caramelized onions, and a couple variety of squash or potatoes mixed in. Two or three cubes of a creamy cheese are added, you wait until it no longer scorches the top layer of skin from inside your mouth, and then you shovel that down your throat.

Sopped up at the end, of course, with homemade Argentinian bread.

*kicks leg in the air* YES!

The first time I came to Argentina, I was able to have a few first-timers then: if we’ll recall Jorge’s family greeting us with lamb, and then the crowd favorite milanesa, breaded meat fried to perfection. To be fair, milanesa exists in all countries to some degree (except in Chile). In Mexico, my mama used to make this for me almost on the daily, with a nice side of mashed potatoes. In the USA, it’s consumed under the name country fried steak, also with mashed potatoes.

I don’t know what it is about Chilean food. There are, of course, extremely tasty options available, but mostly in fine ass restaurants with a strong outside influence (as in, the owner studied cooking in France). Desserts in Chile were always pretty disappointing, as well. I don’t know what the problem is. Lack of sweet? Lack of salt? Or lack of full-bodied flavor in general in the ingredients?

We can probably boil the debate down to this: when I first got to Chile, it took me approximately one year to come to terms with the fact that the butter sucked.

I’m talking like, the regular supermarket nice brand. Not the cheap crappy supermarket brand.

After a year there, I found the artesenal butter, made in the countryside of Patagonia, and yeah, that butter was great, and distinct.

But there is something lacking in the majority of Chilean food. It has to go back to what the animals are eating, and any Argentinian will regale you for hours about the superior feeding process of their cows and pigs that allow that award-winning reputation to flourish. Chile doesn’t have bad meat by any means, but there is something under the surface that is missing, and I can’t put my finger on it.

Here is an Argentinian carrying a pile of Argentinian meat. The debate rages over which country does it better.

If it doesn’t come from Patagonia/the general south, if it hasn’t had exposure to outside influences, or if you don’t make it yourself…it’s probably going to be bland.

I’m sorry, Chile. I love you, we’ve had great times.

But you could use a little more damn salt.

Signs of Change

There comes a point in life when you look around and you realize little things have changed despite your best efforts.

I won’t lie, when I started dating the Argentinian Jorge, I wasn’t too keen on learning Argentinian Spanish or adopting his customs. I don’t know why — it just wasn’t on my agenda. I had come to Chile and that felt to be enough of a cultural endeavor.

Eating lunch at 4 or 5 pm? Dinner at 10? Drinking mate (pronounced MAH-tay) instead of coffee? Bread and/or mayonnaise with every meal? WTF with ‘vos’ and ‘desis’? Sorry, the correct terminology is “tu” and “dices”. Thanks. 

Both of us being ex-pats in Chile, it hasn’t been too hard to concentrate on learning Chilean culture and Spanish instead of Argentinian. I at least have an excuse to resist mate, I figured.

But then comes the day-in and day-out. There’s the fact that the person I hear and speak to most is Jorge, and no matter how hard I wish it otherwise, he will never use the tu form when he speaks. There’s the fact that when he gets excited, upset, impassioned or irritated, his Italian-influenced Spanish starts flooding out, and I understand even less of what he’s saying (when I’m not giggling). There’s the fact that he takes me to his country to meet his entire sprawling Argentinian family, and we spend lazy afternoons sharing mate and getting to know one another and I begin to understand the real meaning of taking mate.

It’s the end of the year so I’m looking around at my life, taking stock of where I am and what I’m doing, asking myself if I want to keep doing this or maybe take another leap. Asking myself hard questions (Do I like what I’m doing? Do I feel healthy? Am I happy?), looking at other areas (a move to Ecuador? What about Columbia? Costa Rica?), thinking about other lifestyles I might want to explore.

And while the swirl of questions continues dense like a cloud around my head, I look around my immediate area — my desk, my plethora of pens, the journals, the craft supplies that I always give away but continue to follow me and accumulate no matter what country I’m in — and I notice something suspicious.

This is mate. My very own mate.
As in, I own this mate set.

I’m drinking mate, by myself, and I might not have even made coffee this morning.
And maybe some mornings I wake up and prefer mate over coffee.
And maybe sometimes I look at Jorge and in my head I use ‘vos’ (though I would never say it to his face). (Yet.)
And maybe yesterday I slathered mayo all over toasted bread and then ate it. Happily.
And pretty much every day I eat lunch after 2pm. 
And when I get excited, upset, impassioned or irritated with Jorge, I find his same Italian-Spanish mannerisms and expressions slipping out.
When did all of this happen???
2013 brought a lot of unexpected lessons, changes, cycles and more. It has been, by far, the best year of my life. If I can end the year thinking ‘vos’ and drinking mate over coffee, then anything is possible. 2014 is on the cusp of existence and I couldn’t be more excited for what lay ahead. I lift my mate to you all as we close up this lovely year and embark upon new journeys.
Salud!

Between Here And There: Part 2

In April of this year, I went to Mendoza on my first official border run, which I wrote about in the original post, Between Here And There. I spent only two days there — a perfunctory visit as opposed to a sight-seeing, money-spending, OMG-I’m-visiting-vineyards-and-drunk-at-3pm trip like I typically like to have — so when my next border run came up at the end of October, my boyfriend and I decided to make a vacation of it.

(Did I mention Jorge yet? I apologize, blog-o-fiends — I have an Argentinian boyfriend. He is lovely, and darling, and sweet, and supportive, and talented, and a total delight in my life. This month we will celebrate 8 months together. This is his face:)

I like his face a lot. Like, A LOT a lot.

This was not only our first vacation together, but a vacation that would allow me to meet every single important person in his life. I was going to meet the entire family.

Jorge’s family is big. They hail from rural Argentina, a total born-n’-bred-on-the-farm type family. Jorge is the youngest of 6 children, and his eldest sibling is over 45 years old. He has 17 nieces and nephews.

Let me repeat that. Jorge has 17 nieces and nephews. And the eldest nephew is ALMOST THE SAME AGE AS HIM. Jorge became an uncle for the first time when he was 6 years old.
When we first spoke of the trip, I had nightmares about it. Not because I didn’t want to meet the family (I did), but the thought of being surrounded by so many of his blood relatives who only speak deep-Argentina Spanish (i.e. mostly incomprehensible) and would be sizing me up as the novia kind of made me freak out.
Also, I’m an only child. I don’t have troubles remembering my family member’s names, because there aren’t a lot of us. My family can comfortably fit into a regular sized living room. We don’t have to opt for the warehouse for graduation parties, and instead can choose the picnic table option. I don’t have 17 nieces and nephews. I don’t actually have ANY nieces or nephews.
We spent the first leg of our trip with 2 of Jorge’s “brahs” in Mendoza, where I got to experience far more Mendoza than the first time in April. There were no pink fountains this time, though there was plenty of city-exploring and Andes mountain-visiting.

Me and Jorge, posing by mountains in Mendoza, ‘CAUSE WE BY THE ANDES, YA’LL.

The next leg of our trip featured Candelaria, the 4,500-resident pueblito where Jorge was born and raised. The majority of his family still lives there, minus two siblings who raise their families in the capital city of that province. This is where the cultural differences started to rack up. Let’s use a list, because I haven’t made one in awhile and am feeling twitchy:
More cultural differences between Argentina and Chile, and other things that are just bizarre:
1. Remember when I was horrified about chilled red wine, and *hard swallow* the use of ice cubes? Well, readers, things took a turn for the worse (for my palate, at least). There exists a phenomenon called vino cortado, which is red wine with soda water. Sometimes, they mix it with coca-cola. [lengthy pause] Needless to say, this was one cultural activity in which I did not participate. Most family members were horrified by the fact that I drank pure wine. COME ON, IT’S MALBEC!

Nothing to do with Malbec wine; this is part of the campo (farmland) where Jorge grew up and helped raise racehorses and generally ran around half-naked at all times.

2. City planning is…different. In both the USA and Chile, cities are cities and towns are towns and there you go. Not in Argentina. They get a bit grabby with the city planning, and what is called “Mendoza” is actually several cities lumped together but differentiated by different names but still…Mendoza. The same for other cities in Argentina as well. It’s kind of like how Brooklyn is still New York City but it’s also Brooklyn. For my Ohio peeps, it would be like if Huron, Castalia, Sandusky and Milan were all called their names but technically named and considered Sandusky. Whaaat??
3. News coverage is a little excessive. While it reminded me of news coverage back home at times, especially with a preference for celebrity happenings over legitimate world news coverage, the segments in general were long-winded and redundant. The Buenos Aires news channel devoted a lot of time to the fact that it was drizzling. They sent a reporter to cover the drizzle, and the segment featured voluminous quantities of live footage of people ambling on city sidewalks where no rain could be seen. The amount of time dedicated to this segment was like something I’d see back home where a tornado had touched down in Oklahoma and ruined 35 houses and maybe some animals were injured. But no — it was just raining. Invisibly. And not impacting anyone’s day in Buenos Aires. At all.
4. Meat, man. Meat. Meat meat meat meat. Meat meaty meatmeat MEAT!!! Argentina is famous for meat — I knew that before I ever went there — and while both Chile and Argentina are meat-centric cultures, Argentina wins the award on this one. Though my vegetarianism went out the window with my USA residency, I don’t eat a LOT of meat in Chile, despite our frequent asados. I knew that going to Argentina under the wing of an Argentinian would be a, well, intestinal shockventure, since I wouldn’t be cooking for myself at all. But I wasn’t prepared for how damn GOOD it was all going to taste! Jorge’s family killed and cooked a lamb for our arrival. That’t not even a joke. I was honored, in a way, but also not sure that I should feel honored, because it’s normal for them to raise and then kill lambs and then eat them in large group settings because all they can do is large group settings because there’s 17 nieces and nephews. (Editor’s note: my bowels went on strike after the third consecutive day of eating meat. My return to Chile — and return to majority vegetarian diet — has helped the situation, but there was a good week of alarming inactivity in my gut.)

This is Candelaria, by the way.

5. Americans aren’t the only ones struggling with geography. I met plenty of people in rural Argentina who weren’t really sure of USA’s whereabouts. In a way, this felt good: finally, people who don’t CARE that I’m American! In another way, this was shocking: how can you not know where America is? Or that we speak English? I suppose this revealed more of my latent egosim as an American, which is a good thing to get rid of while I can. Small towns are small towns anywhere, I suppose. And in some parts of the world, “America” is just a word you hear on the television.
We wrapped up the last leg of our trip visiting Jorge’s other siblings and their respective families in the capital of San Luis province (which also had an alarming amount of neighborhoods the size of cities grouped under the same city name but still called different names), and spent a lot of time eating meat, hanging out, playing with exorbitant amounts of nieces and nephews, and, well, eating more meat.

Jorge with Bauti, Alma and Tobias (you guessed it — nieces and nephews)

Jorge’s brother and sister-in-law with spawn, and us (not their spawn) during our daytrip to La Florida, a beautiful spot outside of San Luis with views of the Andes and a lot of gorgeous hues in the air.

We’re back in Chile now, happy to be home but a little salty that the vacation is over. It was fun meeting all 3,487 members of Jorge’s family — I remember all of their names, I swear — and it was great getting a tan that will soon wither in the penetrating gray chill of Valparaiso, but it’s also nice to be back home: to Valpo, to our house and its rhythms and its kitchen and the coffee, to frequent and consistent wifi connections, and to regular intestinal events.

Between Here and There

Argentina and Chile are close neighbors: in the time it would take for me to travel by car between Sandusky and Cincinnati, I had moved from one country to another. Being such close neighbors I had assumed there would be small differences but not many.  I also had assumed that, generally speaking, they would be friends. I was wrong on both accounts.

If my childhood, elementary school experiences and general politics of the world have been any indicators at all, I would have realized that those living in close proximity are usually the fiercest of enemies. Maybe enemies is a strong word here, but it’s safe to say that there exists a certain tension between Argentines and Chileans. As a matter of public opinion, both Chileans and Argentines have choice words regarding the other. Most of the things they say are the same on both ends. Both claim to have invented the asado and perfected it. Both regard themselves as slightly if not indisputably superior. I’m speaking in general terms here, the overarching stereotype of public opinion, and don’t mean to proclaim any of these things as facts or even my own opinion. However, it exists, just as unsavory opinions and undercurrents run rampant in the U.S. and every other country of the world. I’ve met as many Chileans who talk down on Argentines as Chileans who don’t give a crap and have tons of Argentine friends

Argentina, however, has a different feel. Like the Portokalos family house in My Big Fat Greek Wedding serving as a painfully obvious physical tribute to Greece, Argentina almost feels like the beacon of Europe within a continent dominated by energies more associated with “typical Latin America”. The people have lighter skin, are taller, trendier. The order and energy of the city here remind me more of Italy and Spain. Distance between countries may not be great down here, but the differences in culture, language and customs can be as different as if they were on opposite ends of the world. Chile’s neighbors alone are the perfect example: third-world Latin America to the north with Peru and Bolivia; trendy, upscale Argentina to the east; and then Chile itself, a blend of Latin America and Europe with a booming economy and first-world standards of living.

Some Notes about Argentina:

  • They chill their red wine. I’m not kidding. Isn’t this the biggest no-no of wine connoisseurs everywhere? I had thought so, until I met Argentinians who put ice cubes in their red wine. And then I came to WINE COUNTRY in Argentina and am finding both regular and chilled red wine. My palate is appalled, but being the open-minded gal I am, I shall continue the wine-tasting until I acclimate.
What you can’t see in this picture is that 
THE WINE IS CHILLED.
  • The Spanish is more musical. Being that this was a haven for Italian immigrants at some point in the past, the Argentinian accent is as melodic and enchanting as Italian. Get a group of Argentinians together and sit back and enjoy. 
  • Argentinian Spanish has its own set of frustrating peculiarities. “Si po” is replaced by “Si che”; “Weon” gives way to “voludo”. The most confounding part? Argentinians utilize the vosotros verb tense. Anyone from Perkins High School’s Spanish Club will recall that we specifically did not learn that part of speech because “it doesn’t get used that much anymore”.  Sigh. Luckily I know enough Spanish to know what I’m being asked/told/shouted/repeated for the fifth time. 
  • Purchasing one, tiny item in a store does not require four different employees and four unnamed, unadvertised steps. Chile is famous for the Check-Out Hassle; most common stores (apart from the big name chain stores) utilize the four-step checkout, which entails the following: one employee to select your item from the wall of available items, another employee to hand you your ‘check-out ticket’ which you then take to the caja (register) where another employee will handle your money, who then gives you another receipt to take to a final counter where a fourth employee will re-find your items, package them, and hand them to you. The pattern of steps and shuffles this creates across the floor of the store would look like a drunk hectagon. Phew. Learning this was irritating and confusing, to say the least. Argentina’s system is less bureaucratic – I can just wak into a store and buy what I want from one employee –  but then again, less checks and balances might be the reason why their economy is suffering at the moment. Who knows. 
  • Argentinians are physically unable to consume a meal without bread. Also, there exists a vaguely unhealthy obsession with mayonnaise. 
Plaza de Independencia at dusk.
This has nothing to do with bread or mayonnaise.
Editor’s Note: For as long as I can remember, there have been discussions, disputes and full-on linguist wars about which term is more appropriate: Argentine or Argentinian. Do I have any idea which is technically correct? No. Have I used both terms wantonly and interchangeably throughout this post? Yes. For those who would like to opine, feel free to chime in. 
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