Week Two In Bariloche - Our first Asados

Oi. So much to tell, so little time. First of all, someone needs to help out with the marketing here - there's a casino called Worest Casino, and down the road a children's store called Mr. Cock.

It's Sunday afternoon and as I write this, Mirta is pacing her yard talking to her daughter in Spain. Peter's studying his Spanish - which I should be doing too. Ila's sleeping and recovering from a rotten stomach flu, and I'm sitting underneath the sheets on the clothesline so there's no glare while I type. It's slightly overcast, but somehow bright too. The neighbors are laughing and screaming in their little compound next-door. The lake looks still from where I sit but there's wind and I'm glad we didn't take a boat trip today as originally planned.

Poor Ila. She's much better today, but was very sick all day Saturday and just at the point where we were about to whisk her off to the hospital for fear of dehydration, we got her to keep some water down and she slept for about 14 hours. Now I think she's just recovering from the physical exhaustion of being ill, plus fighting a cold. It's hard being so far from home, and in someone else's house while Ila's sick. We don't know who to call - and it's the weekend of course. It put us into a state of high tension. But Mirta has been wonderfully understanding and helpful. She even said a prayer, made the sign of the cross, and rubbed Ila's forehead with her thumb to help make the illness go away. She asked my permission first of course, and how could I say no?

Friday night we went to our second asado at the house of one of my classmates. It started at 9:30 and after pulling Ila and her neighbor friend out of Mirta's dirtpile, we walked down to the bus at about 9 pm thinking we had plenty of time. The bus was packed, but as usual someone gave up a seat immediately for us because we were holding Ila. It's never an issue. The driver was the same driver we'd had the first time we rode the bus sometime last week. He's a young guy, very handsome and wholesome looking, wearing a white short-sleeved collared shirt with a tie, incongruous in the dirty dilapidated bus. He is very serious and gruff, but as we quickly learned, is also just about the sweetest guy in town. Once we sorted out where we were going and what the fare was going to be he pretty much ignored us, until he was about to turn off onto the dirt roads of a neighborhood off the main route. He asked to see the map I was looking at, which was drawn by my classmate, turned on a light and read it while he navigated the potholes and dogs with no evident change in speed. He nodded and gave it back to me without a glance my way. We were on zig-zagging dirt roads for about 20 minutes. The bus was now essentially empty and we came to a cross-roads where people were congregated, drinking beer, leaning against crappy cars. I started to feel a bit nervous about the whole thing and wondered if my confidence in our driver wasn't just a bit naive. But, five minutes later, he asked for the map again. This time, he stopped the bus to read it, looked around, drove another block, then pointed out the house we were going to just off the road. We thanked him over and over, got off and watched as he drove away taking with him the last little bit of light but the stars. Unused to the darkness, we stumbled our way down the road toward the smell of smoke and the distant sound of conversation barely audible over the barking of the dogs now alert to our intrusion. They started to converge on us a bit and Ila got scared, but we pressed on and finally heard Irene's familiar Aussie accent welcoming us. At that moment I realized just how panicky I was starting to get. What the hell were we thinking?

Irene and her local boyfriend Ariel live in a small house with no fridge, but a big barbecue pit. Their friends were there already along with some delicious homemade (or Artesenal) beer and if I squinted, or didn't listen to the words, we might have been in Berkeley with all the beards and long skirts and the cool summer night weather. My lovely teacher, Laura, was there too with her two children and husband Christian. Asado is a great concept, but as Peter says, the food's not that great. It starts with chorizo which is delicious for the most part, but has too many crunchy bits of fat - or whatever that is - for the taste of an only recently reformed vegetarian. The chorizo is usually the first course, followed by morsilla (blood sausage - MMMMMM), vasio - which is the thickest cut and most palatable to me, and something I can't quite catch the name of but basically looks like a meat blanket. (Matambre Peter just reminded me) It's just a long thin sheet of meat and fat about the surface space of Ila. I'd guess it comes from right inside the skin. Again - MMMMMM. I don't know if it's that the meat is too fatty for us, or if we're just weaklings, or it's the lack of steak knives (says Peter), but the asado just hasn't won us over. Except for the manner in which it is executed of course. It's a warm gathering. Someone salts the meat while someone else starts the coals with some scraps of wood and prepares the barbecue. It seems as if everyone has one of these big brick ovens as a free-standing structure, built into the side of the house or just as a pit in the yard. It's an essential, more so than a fridge apparently. There are tomato, onion and lettuce salads to make, there's wine and beer to drink, and just all around pleasant relaxing. No running around to find condiments and buns and build burgers, just a big dish of meat and a side of salad.

The kids played hopscotch on the tile floor of the house then fell asleep while the adults chatted outside after dinner. It was about 1am when the parents all decided to pack it in. The last bus had gone by shortly after our arrival so we were relieved to be offered a ride home by Laura and Christian. They live about three kilometers away from Mirta and swore up and down it was not a problem. We piled into their two-door. Me with Ila asleep on my lap, Peter and Laura's snoring older daughter in the back, and Laura with her younger daughter on her lap in the front. The driver side door opened on its own once or twice when we bumped up and down dirt roads but Christian just slammed it back shut without a break in our cheerful conversation.

Thursday afternoon, after class I went for a hike with the young folks at Llau Llau which is a very pretty spot along the lake about 25K away from town. We had a nice view of the lake, a good workout, and it was pleasant to chat with the other students and the very sweet guide, Evo. I was tired afterwards and was glad we had a relatively early night - in bed by 11:00. Peter stayed home with Ila and they had a fun day visiting with the neighbors and Mirta and playing make-believe.

Tuesday Mirta had surprise guests - a wonderful, funny, friendly and very authentic family of three. The daughter, Valeria, was about 14 and was absolutely beautiful and incredibly sweet. She showed no sign at all of the bitter angry teen spirt that seems to invade every girl I've ever known in the States. She appeared to genuinely enjoy the company of her parents and was looking forward to the camping trip they had planned for the next day. The father, Ricardo, was a very tall, thin man with graceful, strong, expressive hands. He was initially a little shy but warmed up quickly and seemed to get a kick out of helping us along in Spanish. Adele, the mother, was a large woman who shook her belly with her hands after every meal, let out shrill peals of laughter and spoke a mile a minute. They came unannounced with hopes of staying in Mirta's house, and upon finding it booked, took a room at a hosteria down the road. For dinner Mirta cooked a pile of her delicious meat empanadas and an onion pizza and we shared a bottle or two of wine. We didn't get to bed until midnight. The next day I suffered in school having had little chance at sleep or studying and I was looking forward to a quiet night but found the family still there when we came home from school. They disappeared with Mirta for a while and returned at 8:30pm with arms full of groceries for an asado. Our first. Another late night for us, but filled with lots of laughter and practicing of Spanish. At one point I asked why there were so many stray dogs in South America and Adela told me it was because the animal rights activists wouldn't let people shoot them. It wasn't really what I was getting at.

So, we're not on our way home, and we're getting more comfortable, but I wouldn't say we're having the relaxed, introspective journey we'd planned. Traveling with a child makes things so completely different. I envy the hung-over card playing backpackers and their last minute weekend excursions into the mountains. I envy the well-to-do Buenos Aires and Santiago vacationers window shopping and wandering without a language barrier. But, I'm still glad we're here. It's been a mere three weeks - not even. Still so much to come!