Following the Sun
Every year it's like this. There are days where the temperature barely breaks 70º. Mexican people, in particular, seem to be particularly affected by what they would call the bitter cold. You see them in down jackets, mufflers wrapped around their lower faces, hunched over against the icy wind.
I've been colder in San Francisco, but four years of living in Mexico has taken all of the starch out of me.
Jean and I look for some kind of relief around Christmastime. Usually we wind up at the beach: Akumal, Puerto Vallarta, small towns north of Banderas Bay. This year we decided to try something different.
We flew to Argentina.
As we touched down at Buenos Aires' Ezeiza International Airport, we passed over terrain that looked like the Texas Hill Country in summer: shimmering sun, a little haze, green grass, leafy trees.
The Little Drummer Boy played softly on the aircraft PA system. Surreal.
Early in the last century, Argentina was one of the dozen or so richest countries in the world. Frequent economic collapse has relegated the country to the pack of also-rans, but driving through the countryside, I can see echos of the old wealth, and the huge promise of the country. Roads are good. Everyone has a car. Houses are built to European standards, some with ornately-laid high-fired brick. You can drink the water. Really.
Argentina is no banana republic.
Six months ago, along with some friends of ours, we reserved apartments in an upscale neighborhood. This is our building.
Boring, no? We chose to live in an apartment because we'll be staying for a month, and because I want to experience living here, as opposed to touring.
Here is Jean in our living room, settling details with Cecilia, our rental agent. Cecilia looks like she belongs in middle school. Note that she is perfectly attired for late December in a white tank top.
In addition to a living room, we have one bedroom, an office with a WiFi hot spot, a fully-equipped kitchen, and one and one-half baths, for around $65 per day. It's utilitarian, has little charm, is perfectly located, and very comfortable. It has a concierge.
Our neighborhood is called Recoleta, named after the cemetery where rich and powerful Argentineans are buried; among them, Evita Perón. She's somewhere out there in this view of the cemetery from our balcony.
I read an article: Argentina on Two Steaks a Day. The national diet isn't quite that limited. But beef fed on the grasses of the pampas and grilled over charcoal is the culinary crown jewel. These animals never saw a feedlot, were given neither growth hormones nor antibiotics. It's said to be the best beef in the world.
I'm tired and cranky from the 24-hour journey, and I'm hungry. I intend to put one of these steaks inside of me as soon as I get done with this post, followed by a good night's sleep.