That Is So Much Better Than Milking A Cow

What's better than milking a cow? Read on people. Read and learn.

Whilst reading a novel yesterday morning with my Secondary little 11 year old people, we came upon a scene where a character milks a cow.

- Have you ever milked a cow, Sir? a youngster yelled out from the back.
Rather than bollocking him for shouting out (I would hate to be consistent) and as I was in a playful mood, I confirmed that I had indeed milked a cow, and decided to throw back the question at them, unsuspecting fools.
- And may I ask how many of you have ever milked a cow?

One young lad, who had appeared to have been asleep until this point, absentmindedly raised his hand. So I chose him. Little did he know he was about to become immortal with the following line:

- Yes, Marco, and when did you milk a cow?
- Hmm. I never exactly milked a cow, Sir. Marco replied.

Wait for it.

- But I did once wash a duck.

Yes, we collectively died laughing. All, that is, except the kid speaking, little Marco, who continued in the pursuit of clarity.

- Is that the right word, Sir, he continued, in apparently blissful ignorance of the chaos around him, an ignorance befitting, one feels, of one who thinks nothing of washing a duck.

- Is that the right word... washed?

Oh stop it. Please!

- You know. With shampoo?

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but that is so much better than milking a cow.

Culture Shock

Me, after 3 hours in Argie

I was emailed an article about Culture Shock. How useful, 18 months in... But I thought I should give the run down anyway. My thoughts following the theory. The amount of people being paid to state the obvious, I tell you...

1. The Euphoric Stage (or Honeymoon Period)
When a person arrives in a new country the first stage that they will go through is the euphoric stage. At this stage everything about the new culture will delight and amuse the new arrival. The country of origin will be constantly compared in disparaging terms. This honeymoon period commonly lasts from three to six months, but for some people it can last up to a year.

My thoughts: Any euphoria lasted 3-6 hours. I was not delighted my flight took 44 hours, nor that I did not have a timetable a week before the year started, and I was not amused when it came in at 31 hours a week (9 more than any other member of staff), nor the rain nor the mosquitoes. Oh I've been bitten again, how delightful. How amusing, that bus only narrowly failed to kill me as I crossed the road. What larks. Let's celebrate the differences.

The Hostile Stage
After the first stage, new immigrants will be shocked to find themselves becoming antagonistic to everything about the host culture. This hostile stage is characterised by depression and aggression towards the previously revered hosts. Cultural differences will no longer be celebrated, but seen as a source of conflict.

My thoughts: Don't get it, I guess this was Stage 1. But then I find everyone antagonising and hostile. If anything I arrived in this state of mind ('arrived' into the world or into the country I don't know), then got me some Honeymoon Stage.

The Acceptance Stage
The third stage is the acceptance stage. In this stage a kind of equilibrium is reached where the immigrant learns to accept the differences between their host culture and their home culture and to celebrate those differences where appropriate. Parts of the host culture will become part of the immigrants everyday life.

My thoughts: Like an Indian in England drinking tea and eating a curry? Ah... Me, I intent to continue the cultural norm of kissing every one I come into contact with, and the pretty ones twice. If accused of anything untoward, I shall claim that my kissee is suffering from a sense of cultural imperialism, and it’s perfectly normal where I have come from. Oh, by the way the above is resignation, not acceptance.

Reverse Culture Shock Stage
Finally, in the vast majority of cases the immigrant will return to their own country. Once there the fourth, and most unexpected, stage occurs and this is referred to as the reverse culture shock stage. Upon arriving back, the returning resident will be eager to share their experiences of another culture that have made them a different person. However, they have returned to a group of people, and indeed a country, that has changed in the interim.

My thoughts:
It's not that the country has 'changed', it's just that everyone thinks you are behaving like a pretentious tool, mostly based on the fact that you are:
a) sporting ridiculous facial hair
b) behaving like a pretentious tool
c) affecting a foreign accent
d) holding a digeridoo
e) wearing a poncho
f) constantly referring to how things are done by the Wah-chi-chi tribe, who are so friendly by the way
g) all of the above.

My advice for cultural assimilation? Laugh when everyone else laughs. That's it, and that's all.

Paris, full on Stage 1

Barbeque v Asado

Ah, the art of 'doing' asado. A national, and very male, passtime of the country, few subjects I have encountered so immediately get tongues wagging so loquatiously as how to, and how not to, go about preparing an asado.

A very quick summary. Our building has a parilla, a huge meat grill with an adjustable handle at the side. You burn your carbon, charcoal, in a 'ribcage' affair that is so designed to allow the hot coats to fall through the 'ribs', whereupon you sweep them under the parilla and start cooking.

Sometimes, for the benefit or the gringoes, people will translate asado to 'barbeque'. To consider the words synoymous is rather like asking the owner of a Aston Martin if he owns a car, and commenting that you also own a car, a Peugeot 206, and expecting him to accept the comparison.

In Argentina, the asado revolves around the carne, the meat. Who's your butcher? Where do they get their meat? How do they hang it? What's your choice cut? What are your cooking: tira de asado, vacio, colita, lomo?

In the UK the barbeque and conversation revolves entirely around the weather.

And the booze. Here, you go to the carneceria and they essentially won't let you leave until you have half a kilo of meat per person. But a few beers and a couple of bottles of wine wouldn't be commented upon. In the UK, you weigh things in liquid: a gallon (or eight pints) of beer each, half a litre of spirits each; wine doesn't count.

But I was slightly nervous at the prospect of 'doing' an asado for 20 people, around half of whom were Argentine (or at least consider themselves Argentine, or at least consider themselves Argentine when it comes to an asado...), so, during lunch on Friday, thought I would ask for some solid Argentine advice when it comes to preparing the perfect asado.

Well, 3 hours later, after people had run from the staff room to offer their centavo's worth, but I couldn't help but find it amusing to compare the approach and focus with the Mighty Blighty. 

How was your asado/bbq? 

(Arg)  Beautiful. Everything was cooked to perfection. It was lovely.
(UK)  Beautiful. It didn't rain once.

Where did you buy your meat? Cost much?

(Arg) My family has gone to the same carneceria for decades. We always buy half a kilo per person as we like everyone to have 5 or 6 different cuts, and like to finish with a Colita de Cuadril. Er, in pounds, it would be about 20 pounds for 20 people.

(UK) Tescos. I'm a Hedge Fund Manager, so we can only afford a chicken drumstick each.   

Did your guests enjoy themselves?
(Arg) They loved it. Everyone was stuffed, we had a stack of food left over.

(UK)   They loved it. Saying that, I can't really remember anything past noon.

How was the weather?
(Arg) I don't remember. Sunny I think...
(UK) Not bad. It looked a bit murky in the morning but the weather comes from the west this time of year, particularly with the fall back in the el nino effect these day, but it cleared up nicely: I took my jumper off at one point.

What booze have you bought?
(Arg) Plenty. A couple of bottles of wine, a Fernet to aid digestion.
(UK) Shedloads! We'll kick things off with a few stellas, wine for the ladies but that's mostly for the food - mardinade, isn't it? – and then onwards with the shots and mixers.

(A post script. It went well, and to bridge the cultural divide: cooked to perfection but weather was a bit brisk late on...) 

Things To Do In BsAs... (ongoing)

More things to tick off my Must Do In Argentina Before We Leave list.

A confusing combination of authentically Argentine experiences, and experiences so authentically Argentine that ONLY a tourist/ex-pat and never a local would do them.

 

Driving in the city at rush hour.

After hiring a car once again without correct docs (last time I had no driving license cause I left it in BsAs, this time we didn't pay a deposit: I think he swiped my Blockbuster card), I weaved with Fangio-like skill through the mental asylum on wheels that is the rush hour around the city. And we didn't die once. 

 

Riding a horse like a crazed gaucho.

After initially embarrassing myself un poco by asking el gaucho where the seatbelt was, it turns out I'm a cross between Robert Redford and Robert Redford (part Horse Whisperer part Butch Cassidy) and took to the saddle with gay abandon, as they used to say in more innocent times. 

 

Near death experience on the autopista. 

Suffered a full on explosion enroute to work. The fire extinguisher exploded on the bus on the way to work. It was all very exciting: smoke filled the cabin in seconds and it was determined that we would all DEFINITELY HAVE DIED had this happened on the autopista. As it was we were parked, and only a little dusty. I think I speak for everyone in saying that it was a great disappointment it hadn't been foam.

 

Tourist Price: paying miles over the odds for something on account of being foreign.

Tourist Price is actually a very clever pun as Pricey is here at the moment, and bought two train tickets into town yesterday morning. The costs was 1.70, or 0.85 each (or nothing, in sterling or dollars). For reasons known only to him, Pricey gave the guy two 50$ notes and walked away without any change. With the quick thinking of an American military general, he realised that paying around $35 for 2 local train tickets was a bit steep, and (tone changing to respect now) somehow managed to communicate this to the invisible man behind the one way glass counter, who - with an ever growing commuter queue growing ever angrier - returned him his remaining 98.30. In change.    

 

Doing an asado.

You do not cocinar (cook) an asado, you hacer (do/make) an asado. I would say I cooked an asado at Christmas. I pretty much broke every golden rule of the asador (see next entry) en route to producing what ended up being an acceptably large amount of meat. But I was cooking for fellow foreigners, which is not the acid test. On Saturday I would claim to have done an asado, from coals to colita, and satisfied some locals. 

Enjoying Fernet.

A medicinal little black number that tastes like pastis, or maybe licorice or maybe mouthwash, or maybe medicine. Much like when you're a kid/teenager trying lager for the first time (my first was Tennants). The first time you taste it it's like stale ashtray, but you soldier on through for months and months, past the pain barrier, dumbing you senses in between with bar snacks until you've had so many enjoyable nights out whilst drinking the filth that you're convinced you enjoy it. And then suddenly you do. Well, I've reached that stage with Fernet (thought not yet with Tennants, which really just does tastes like a stale ashtray).  

Drunk a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine.

Wine tasting Friday night. 160$. Confirming in my mind that I do not need to drink a 160$ bottle of wine to enjoy good wine. I think the clue to my ignorance lies in the fact that I can remember the price, the colour and nothing else.

Gracias, y ciao. 

In Cobos We Trust

'May history judge me, my vote is not for, it is against.' Julio Cobos, Vice President, Argentina, 430am 16.7.08

And with that, Cobos becomes a legend, my hero, and everyone else's too. Cobos is now, consequently, and rightly, God. T-shirts have been printed, graffiti scrawled praising the now great man, a ray of light in the dark world of Argentine politics. Set in the context of the utter negativity of the news here, the belief that everybody can be bought, bribed, bullied out of what is the right thing to do, the belief amongst Argentines that Argentines self-destruct, lie, cheat, steal, stab each other in the back - this is a great thing. 

But first, a quick backtrack to set this in context. 

I made a commitment that this blog wouldn't be political - there are newspapers for that, nor would it be a guidebook, there are... Well, it's obvious isn't it? But this is an exception.

I make this exception because, in my first week of winter holidays, I was blissfully enjoying the unseasonable hot weather (29 degrees on Tuesday 15th, exactly a year after the snow...), playing a spot of tennis, hanging with the family. It was bliss. 

Catching up with a mate, who works for the Embassy, at as asado on Friday, as we 'cheers'd' the first drink of the weekend, she said:

'Cheers! Gosh... What a week!'

'Yeah...' I replied, realising that I was shamefully and utterly unaware of what was going on in the country/world, but hoping it was just a conversation filler.  I can be hard work sometimes.

My inspired reply of 'Yeah' invoked no verbal response. She did look at me incredulously, which in retrospect really did mean what I guessed: You actually do not have any idea what I'm referring to, do you?

To put off that moment by a split scond, I ventured: 'The.. weather? It's been...really... hot, eh?'

Swing and a miss. Picture how you would have reacted to someone on September 12th, 2001, who talked about the weather in New York when you said, 'What a day...' Well, that's the look I got.

For this week in Argentina was 'The Week of NO'.  

VERY briefly - The Argentine Senate were discussing Kirschner's controversial tax increases on agricultural exports that have provoked repeated protests by farmers, aka The Farmer's Strike. 

The BBC reported the story thus: 

(full story at http:// news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7511111.stm):

With senators tied 36 to 36 after more than 16 hours of debate, Vice-President Julio Cobos cast the deciding vote to reject his government's proposals.

Mr Cobos, who is also leader of the Senate, said it had been "the most difficult day of my life".
Close to tears, he cast his deciding vote.

"They tell me I must go along with the government for institutional reasons, but my heart tells me otherwise. May history judge me, my vote is not for, it's against," he said.

And the country went mental (apparently). That, ladies and gents, is integrity. Permit me a small, retrospective vamos! In Cobos We Trust. 

Working Mum

Above is an image par excellence of the modern day uber-mum-wife-businesswoman. Baby breast feeding under one arm, project for Coca Cola annotated under the other.  

But enough about her. Christ, this has been a hard couple of weeks. A three week holiday should have been a time for relaxation, but times have changed. Without delving into every parenthood cliche going, things are rather different now. 

Things may have been different had Katie not decided to take a project with Coca Cola. 

Things were a lot more simple to our parents' generation: the mother/father roles could not have been more clearly defined and I think best described in the words of Matt Groening, 'Mothers know every little detail about their children, from what's in their packed lunch to what lessons they have that day. Fathers are vaguely aware of some small people living in the house.'

But we're luckier, I think, and get to do everything. 

So it was that I loaded the nappy/diaper/panales bag, packed up the pram/pushchair/cochecito and headed down town with Katie to her meeting. On the way we bumped into a colleague from work: a traditional scene, as she was loyally pushing her baby son whilst walking her husband to the station before he headed off to work. 

And I've got to say that a couple of 3-4 hour straight shifts with the bub makes working for a living seem a cinch. Who'd have thought it: I need the holidays to end so I can get back to work and relax...

Crashing in Palermo

There are few things better in life than mates letting you crash at their place for a few nights. Maybe you're waiting for a flat to become available, or you're new in London and can't yet bring yourself to pay that much for that little. But in between A and B, a couch, a sofa bed, maybe - just maybe - a spare room... but whatever it is, it's a favour you never forget. 

It's particular great when your mates aren't even there, and you can have the place to yourself. 

And it's particularly good when your mates' place slap bang in the middle of Palermo, and they usually rent in out for a small fortune, but let you crash there for 3 nights while it's empty-ish... and it looks like this.