Have You Tried Pierna?

Ah, the pierna. I never thought it would gain such a special status in my heart, but somehow, meat in Argentina can just do that to a person.

Pierna is leg – literally, an entire animal leg, often complete with hoof. It is the ingenious Argentine solution to the problem of making sure all the guests are happily fed at birthday parties and weddings. The leg, either of pig or goat or cow, or all three, depending on the size of the gathering, is cut fresh the day of the party and prepared and cooked either on the party premises or at a catering kitchen.

Being the main course of the evening, everyone waits in anticipation of the leg until 11pm or so, when it is finally served as part of an elaborate carving station with plenty of flair and embellishment. Cloth napkins are ceremoniously removed from overflowing baskets of little, multi-flavored buns at both ends of the table, and a lavish spread of sauces and condiments is laid out in the middle, in front of the pierna.

No matter how many meat and cheese empanadas have been consumed to kill time up to this moment, the guests unfailingly flock to the table, select their buns (only one bun at a time) and hover in line to present their empty sandwiches to the carver. The carver cuts a few slivers of meat, ladles some tangy broth over it, and places the meat neatly on the bread. I personally prefer adding the condiments and sauces before the meat to allow them to soak into the bread, but the assembly is scrumptious either way. The meat is so tender it is almost falling off the leg. The sauces vary from spicy pulverized tomatoes, to leak and onion mayonnaise, to chunky eggplant in escabache (flavored oil).

The delectable, two-bite, custom-made concoctions keep the guests coming back to the station for an hour or two. The sandwiches are effortlessly eaten standing up and without the aid of a plate (or even a napkin unless you ask for one). Your other hand is free to hold a drink. (I told you this was ingenious.)

The only danger of the pierna system that I can see is that it produces a tremendous temptation to eat way too many sandwiches. But, if the party is planned correctly, you can usually shake off your overeating with a little (or several hours of) dancing afterwards, and really, there have to be worse problems than having eaten too many buns with pierna.

Try not to eat too many empanadas while waiting for the pierna!

Check out the sauce rainbow.

A little more leg, please.

 

Some Things Just Slip Past

Today I noticed that I have been using hair loss shampoo for the past five months.

All I wanted was a simple shampoo that wasn’t too expensive and that didn’t promise any sort of lifting, straightening, curling, thickening, or color brightening. I saw a plain, cream-colored bottle with a green cap and a picture of aloe vera on the label, and I thought, “That’s the one.”

I read the sticker: “Para la caida del cabello. Con aloe vera para cabellos secos.”

“Perfect! It has aloe vera for dry hair. I have dry hair!”

I even turned it over and read the back. Natural ingredients… Nettle, mallow, and aloe extracts… Deep clean and keeps dry hair soft and shiny…. Great.

That was five months ago. (If you are wondering how a single bottle of shampoo can last me five months, I alternated with my other brand until it ran out, and then I went on a month of vacation and used various 3oz hotel shampoos.)

Today, I got in the shower, looked at my shampoo, and read the words in large-font, all-capital letters, “PARA LA CAIDA DEL CABELLO.” FOR THE FALLING OUT OF HAIR. It is, literally, the largest thing on the label.

I felt surprised and at the same time amused by my own surprise. It was one of those moments that makes you remember that you just really might not have it all figured out. I felt the same way the first time I used a blow dryer (also here in Argentina) and realized that it actually did help my hair look the way I wanted it to. Amazing.

Sometimes, I just get stuck in a mindset, and things slip past the radar. So far, these have been mostly insignificant and amusing things that keep life interesting. I think I’ll take this opportunity to thank family, friends, helpful strangers, and NPR for helping me to stay mentally and physically afloat and avoid many more potentially disastrous faux pas.

 

Guess the Phrase

Marita:  “This is one of my favorite things in the world. You know when it is very dry and it doesn’t rain for a long time? Well, this is what happens to the land. Land? Land or floor? Ground?”

Teacher:  “Earth or ground.”

Marita:  “OK, earth. This is what happens to the earth when it rains for the first time after a long period of being dry. Like in Salta, it usually doesn’t rain from April to September, and everything gets so dry and brown and dusty.”

Teacher:  “Yes, I’ve seen. Everything was so green when I got here! Now, all the hills are brown. It’s completely different. OK, so it rains, and the earth becomes damp?”

Marita: “Yes, but it has a smell. I will tell you, whenever this thing happens, I go outside with my sister after it rains, and we sit on the earth–earth?”

Teacher:  “Ground.”

M:  “We sit on the ground, or in the street, and we look at the stars. It is beautiful! This thing smells so good. I love it. It is so peaceful and quiet. We just look at the stars, and the earth is making that smell. It is so calm. This is one of my favorite memories of my life.”

T:  “Does this thing only happen at night?”

M:  “Yes, it is at night.”

T:  “After the rain. And you sit on the ground? But isn’t the ground wet? Or do you wait until it dries?”

“No, we go out right after the rain. Sometimes there is a lot of rain, and we can’t sit. But sometimes there is only a little bit, and it doesn’t get very wet, so then we can sit. Where I live, there is not pavement in the street. The street is just rocks, so we can sit in the street because it dries very fast.”

“Oh, OK. And you can see the stars? Do the stars have to be out for this thing to happen?”

“Well, that’s part of it. Sometimes there are not stars because it is cloudy. But I remember seeing stars.”

“That is such a beautiful image. And this thing that happens when you go out with your sister after the rain, it has a special smell? Does it have a special name?”

“Yes, this is a very specific thing. Maybe you will not be able to guess it.”

“Well, I come from a place that does not have an especially dramatic change between the wet season and the dry season. I know the smell of rain after it has been dry for a week or two. I love that smell. It’s, like, sweet, almost, and fresh. We call it “earthy,” too. But I don’t know if the first rain after the dry season has a special name. I don’t know what that is. Is that what your phrase was?”

“Mmm, no. I don’t think so.”

“OK, I don’t think I have another guess, and I’m really curious. What is it?”

“It was, ‘Smell of earth after spring night rain.’”

Yesterday, three days after I failed to guess this phrase, it rained in Salta for the first time since early April. A little thunderhead opened up, and fat plops of water fell for several minutes as the sky turned grayish orange. I heard some rolling thunder in the distance and kids shouting outside. No sooner had we affirmed that the bicycle was safely covered, than the rain had disappeared. It was just enough to settle some of the dust outside. We were left with a radiant pink, purple, and orange sunset and a cool breeze smelling like sweet, slightly wet earth. We weren’t looking at stars, but this is now one of the favorite memories of my life.

 

Things I Miss

To all those who think that South America will pull me away forever, here is my shout out to life back home and some of the things I miss the most:

• riding in Brett’s car to go rock climbing on Sunday mornings
• squirrels
• not worrying about stepping on dog poop on the sidewalk
• being relatively anonymous in most public places
• being able to crash on Jenny’s couch whenever I need to escape Brett’s crazy parties and go to sleep
• not having omnibuses pass under my window at all hours, loud enough to shake the windowpane
• Indian food that tastes Indian
• 7-11 medium coffee to go – 4 flavors, half regular, half decaf, with skim milk, Splenda, and a splash of sugar-free vanilla syrup
• being terrified of Matt’s driving
• always having at least one person to play Frisbee with
• my down pillow
• Stair Masters (and functional cardio equipment in general)
• hanging out in my mom’s kitchen
• mom’s cooking
• mom’s refrigerator, so full of delightful surprises
• maple trees
• Belgian beer
• conversations about things I heard on NPR
• doing laundry in the house where I live
• turkey sandwiches
• quality panty liners
• an overabundance of bookshelves where I can neatly stack all of my piles of papers, folders, notebooks, and books and find everything I need
• experimenting with recipes from the newspaper
• hearing about my dad’s latest tennis match, ski trip, or investment deal with China
• tap dancing (specifically, my attempts to keep up with Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in Jessie’s class)
• the smell of water (bay, river, or ocean)
• my nephew Luke, even though I have never met him

 

Kids are the Same Everywhere

Hard at work?

Of course we’re working, Miss Krista!

Group photo with the 8th graders

What are you laughing at?

Good friends giggle a lot.

I think I caught them working

Visitors get their names on the chalkboard!

Can we have recess soon?

I spend my weeknights, Monday through Thursday, at the Profesorado de Lenguas Vivas surrounded by 19 to 35 year-old students who are studying to be English teachers. I love getting to know them, learning cultural tidbits from them, and sharing what I know of American English literature, writing, grammar, and life. During the days, though, I miss my kids from the dance studio at home. I miss my little girls in Level III Tap and Ballet. I miss teaching the 3 and 4-year-olds how to take big, giant steps and turn in circles in Pre-Ballet. I miss singing, counting, and pronouncing the word “clarinet.” I really just miss teaching children. So, to fill this particular void, I decided to try my luck at visiting some local elementary schools. I will try to describe in this post the two very different sets of kids I found that, surprisingly to me, still seemed to have plenty in common.

Colegio Santa María

Located several blocks west of the city center in a renovated women’s prison, Colegio Santa María is a private primary and secondary school that serves children of many of Salta’s wealthier families. Many of them enjoy privileges that aren’t as common among the general population, as in, having traveled outside of Argentina, having parents who speak English at home, and being able to take private sports or academic lessons. Many of their families have larger estates in the counryside where they keep horses and other animals and spend time on the weekends. (I haven’t given up hope of being invited to one yet!) I have also heard them talk of the social clubs to which their families belong and where many of the girls will have their 15th birthday parties. (I thought instantly of débutante balls and Emily Post.) The striking prevalence of blue eyes and light skin here could be a phenonemon fit for its own blog post, but here I just want convey the scene I observed.

I worked in at least one class of each primary level, or form, (1^st to 6^th grades) and in a few secondary level classes (equivalent to 10^th and 12^th grades). I also recently completed four weeks of substitute teaching 8^th grade Social Studies, about which I still feel a lot a ambivalence – rewarding, yes, but also frustrating occasionally to the point of tears.

After only a few visits, all of the children on the primary half of the building recognized me and surrounded me like puppies as soon as I walked in the gate. They all wanted to ask me questions at once. They wanted me to say their names “in English.” They shouted and jostled each other to get close so I would pay attention to them. Three or four tried to grab my hands and lead me away to their classes – in opposite directions. One little boy said, “My father is in the United States. He lives in New York. Do you know him?”  Nope. Sorry, dear.

I have to admit, I enjoyed the momentary ego boost of feeling like the most popular, special person in the school. There’s nothing like the unconditional adoration of children to re-energize your day.

In most of the classes I visisted, the kids seemed eager to learn, curious, and enthusiastic. My 8th graders were particularly excited when I taught them a Navajo prayer that I learned in high school that means, “It is a good day, and we are thankful.” They were fascinated by the fact that the US has native languages, too, and they still repeat the phrase to me every time I walk by. Sometimes, though, these students had a bit of trouble listening and focusing. To be tactful, I could say that they had difficulties with discipline and self-control. To be blunt and rude, I could say that they seemed spoiled and disrespectful and were occasionally obnoxious. I of course had the enormous disadvantage of being a substitute teacher who did not speak their native language, so they enjoyed testing my limits. Despite my troubles with keeping them on track and enforcing rules, the kids still somehow did learn something about the European Counter Reformation, and every so often, they showed an inquisitiveness, humor, and desire for success that was truly inspiring for me.

After a few classes with the 8th graders, I began to figure out how to relate to them as young adults going through an awkward transition phase. I also realized that I had quite a few things to learn from them, as well. They reminded me of the things I wanted at that time of life, of the person I wanted to be (and the confusion I felt about how to get there), and of the knowledge I’ve gained since then, especially regarding my own self-confidence. I realized that to help them learn how to be responsible, socially conscious adults (which I consider part of any teacher’s role, even a temporary one), I would need to be confident in my own position as an educator, guide, and model. Observing and dealing with their amusing, frustrating, and baffling antics actually gave me a big boost forward in my own “growing up.” I was grateful for that, and at the same time rather relieved to return to my regular job teaching adults.

Of course we're working, Miss Krista!

Colegio Independencia Nacional

On the other side of the city, and a ten minute drive from the center, sits the public elementary school Colegio Independencia Nacional, which I visited for the first time on a Tuesday at 7:30am with my friend and colleague Adriana. To get there, we drove to the south of the city, passed several pay-by-the-hour hotels (“telos”), and crossed a highway into a neighborhood with dirt roads and modest houses, many with corrugated tin roofs. We passed groups of men bicycling to work in the opposite direction, as well as several horse-drawn carts loaded with tomatoes, potatoes, and corn to sell in town. The horses looked like they could use a break, a bath, and new shoes, but I guess that’s their lot if they’re not fit for gaucho parades or polo.

The school was a moderately large, single story complex, built by the State, so it looked very similar to other public, rural and semi-rural schools I’ve seen. A horseshoe of classrooms circled a spacious, uncovered central patio where the children raised and lowered the Argentine flag every morning and afternoon. When I walked into the building for the first time with Adriana, I felt sort of like an alien. The kids stared at me, whispered and laughed to each other, and ran away when they saw us coming toward them. I wasn’t nervous, but I hoped that I would be able to communicate with them. I hoped that they would feel comfortable talking to me.

When we started the class, I was astounded by their silence. I smiled at them and tried not to show that I felt like an alien. Adriana came to the rescue; my dear friend and teacher whom I most admire here introduced me as her friend from the United States, and the fun began. These kids were rambunctious, but in a different way from the kids at Santa Maria. They didn’t ask me to say their names in Spanish. They asked me if I was “River or Boca.” (I am now Boca, but at the time, I had no idea what they were talking about.) They asked me how old I was, if I was married, and if I had kids. They were shocked (especially the girls) when I said no, and they laughed when I said that my boyfriend was in the US.

“What about your boyfriend in Argentina? You have one here, too, right?” asked one girl in the front row.

“Um… nope,” I said, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.

Some of them were so shy that they wouldn’t even look at me. One group of boys asked Adriana how to say “You are very pretty” in English. I thought that was very sweet and laughed, but I probably also turned red. It’s funny how there are always different rules for what you can say to a foreigner.

I told them everything I could about my life and my home. I drew a big United States and a big lacrosse stick on the board. I told them I only had one sister and they looked confused and sad. I told them she was pregnant, and they all got excited for me! Like most everyone I have met here, including the Santa Maria kids, they asked me if I liked empanadas. I told them yes, and I like humitas better than tamales, and I still haven’t tried locro.

I only saw a couple of classes, but I was really sad to leave. From what I could tell, they were slightly (but not much) more polite than their counterparts at Santa Maria, curious, goofy, and very energetic. They wanted to have notebooks full of words in English and big red check marks on their homework. They wanted to be the first to respond to my questions and then have a little more time to think. They wanted me to pay attention to them, or they sank down in their seats and pretended they were invisible. Mine were the only pair of blue eyes in the room, and quite possibly in the entire school, and by the time I left I’ll admit I still felt like an alien… but a welcome and appreciated one.

English is hard work sometimes

 

Sporty Girls in Salta Wear Leather Hush Puppies

The Sporty Chick exists in Salta! I know because I practiced volleyball last night with ten of them, and they kicked my butt.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I showed up at the outdoor volleyball court of Club Gimnasia y Tiro, but the team of high schoolers adopted me with enthusiastic curiosity.

I was at least six years older than my courtmates, and I felt like a stiff old lady trying to keep up with kids on a jungle gym. They served harder, hit more accurately, and defended with a more throw-myself-on-the-floor-for-every-single-ball intensity than I’ve experienced since, um, well, never.

My forearms are swollen and covered with bruises. My thighs sting when I walk up the stairs. My wrists feel restricted to about 60% of their usual range of motion. And I keep getting cramps in my feet. I love it! I missed the battle scars! I missed having a goal! I missed having an entire team of girls pushing me to keep playing, keep serving, keep hitting, and keep trying to do everything better than the last time. Because the team depends on it. Because I could help them, help us, to win… something, sometime.

My biggest surprise was that these sporty girls actually exist here! They don’t stick out in a crowd like they often do in the US. They don’t wear sporty clothes, or tie their hair back in tighter pony-tails, or have fancy athletic shoes. There is no such thing as a female “jock” here, in an affirmative sense, in regards to style. Girls who would fit this category are called instead, “demasiado deportista,” “too sporty.”

But they are damn good at what they do. They take things just as seriously, if not more so, than the club teams I experienced back home. Playing with those high-schoolers for one night completely rejuvenated my faith in the self-affirming beauty and power of female athletes. So what if these girls don’t have a separate social style to conform to? They have no trouble expressing themselves on the court where it matters. But I do wonder, would they really be changing into those skin tight jeans and high-heeled boots after practice if no one would judge them for wearing sweatpants and a hoodie sweater?

 

Private Birthday Party, Argentine Style

First, the invitation: You are at the gym, resting between leg presses. Your trainer casually whips out a little white card elegantly printed with an invitation to “come, celebrate a birthday!” It looks more like a wedding announcement, and you are not sure if you own the proper attire for a “black and white” affair. You give a solid “maybe.”

Later, you discover that all you have to do is to look “completely divine,” in black and white or not. Just look divine. Ok.

So you try on twelve different combinations, pick one, shower, dry your hair, put on your clothes, hate them, change, put on some makeup, change your clothes again, and decide that you do, indeed, look divine.

Your friend arrives and also agrees that you look divine (as he should). He calls his buddy that drives a remise. On the way, you stop at a tiny corner kiosk that somehow has everything you ever needed and purchase two bottles of fizzy white wine.

The party is hosted at a colonial-style cottage in the country, rigged for renting and hosting parties. (The living room is a dance floor, and a DJ sits in the corner, surrounded by high definition speakers and lighting equipment.)

You arrive around 11:00pm. There are three other people in the room who also came early. You introduce yourself and stand awkwardly waiting for other people to arrive. You open the first bottle of wine. Empanadas arrive, followed by more people, Fernet, Coca-Cola, cases of 40oz Salta and Quilmes beer, more wine, more people, and more empanadas.

By 1:00am, the entire building is filled, and the music has transformed into a mixed barrage of dance-able 80’s, 90’s, and recent Top-40 hip-hop, rock, Latin cumbia, quartet, and techno-ish dance. You find your friend through a haze of fake fog, appearing intermittently in flashes of colored strobe lights. You eat empanadas, discover that the second bottle of white wine has disappeared, take a red instead, drink half, and then decide that you’d really prefer a water.

Your friend is shocked by your ability to dance. He has no idea that basic American swing dancing is almost identical to his Latin moves. You don’t tell him. You try to learn how to shake your butt like those other chicks who’ve done this since high school, but you fail pathetically. Maybe someday you will be Latin enough, but not today. Oh, well.

It doesn’t matter anyway because the cakes have arrived! It’s 3:30am and time to sing Felíz Cumpleaños. The music pauses briefly; the strobes cease. You fan your face and sing along with the crowd. The birthday girl looks ecstatic, overwhelmed, and slightly embarrassed. She gives tearful hugs to all that surround her and then drowns back into the foggy, flashing, pulsating party. Almost immediately afterwards, you realize that you are sweaty and exhausted, and the music is getting too loud.

At 4:00am, the remise arrives. You and your friend sit in the back and talk about your sore feet, your ringing ears, your smoky, sweaty clothes, and how awesome the party was. You decide that birthday parties might be your new favorite thing in this town. You are glad that you decided to go, that you didn’t get nervous on the dance floor, and that you looked divine.

 

National Birthday Party, Argentine Style

March 25, Día de la Patria

La Presidenta Cristina Kirchner came to Salta this morning to commemorate Argentina’s birthday, give one of her ardently sincere speeches, and avoid big protests in Buenos Aires. Personally, I think she made a great choice not just because I live here, but because from what I saw of the crowds today, people here in the North were more concerned with showing off their identification with a particular province than with expressing their complaints about national politics.

Walking down the main avenue, I felt like I was back in high school at some huge music festival. The waves of faces and bodies churned and pulsed, their conversations mostly drowned by trumpets, drumming, and official speeches bursting from the loudspeakers. I stepped over plastic soda bottles, beer bottles (no cans), empty popcorn bags, peanut shells, trampled miniature flags of every color, and lots and lots of little bits of paper flyers and confetti. The banners and flags impressed me the most: blue and white from Tucumán, yellow and black from Jujuy, green from Corrientes, the rainbow-colored, checkered design that I have seen on woven tapestries in the market (I still have no clue what it is, but I love it!), and a white banner with three faces in black: Evita Perón, Che Guevara, and Tupac Amaru (d. 1572), the last modern indigenous leader of the Inca state in Peru.

All of these flag-bearing groups, mostly of men, chanted and beat drums and surged up the avenue in successive waves. Some of them sang heated anthems and jumped and jostled like a mosh pit mob, minus the crowd-surfers. I circulated the scene as much as I could, catching whiffs of stale beer, cigarette smoke, coffee, hair gel, sweat, and more beer.

I heard the Governor of Salta speak, followed by Cristina, and despite the throngs of humanity present, the atmosphere remained relatively calm. There were no riots or even small outbreaks of violence; I saw no one dangerously intoxicated or getting arrested. People gathered to be seen and heard, but not to condemn the rest. There was a palpable feeling of community among the sundry bands and banners, and I felt sort of like a teacup in a tool shed.

Later, I went to Catholic mass for the second time that weekend. The service was held outside Iglesia Catedral, the rose-pink, colonial style cathedral in the central square, Plaza 9 de Julio. As pairs of white-robed priests and acolytes marched out of the vestibule, singing and swinging incense, I gazed around at the rapt, solemn crowd and marveled at the change from the beer-stinking revelry just a few hours before. The ceremony followed the traditional Catholic format, and once again, I felt conspicuously foreign as the crowd sang and recited each familiar segment in its Castilian translation. After the communal peace offering, in which one ancient, tiny woman offered me a kiss and “paz,” I decided to head home and rest.

I was glad not to have missed either of these ritual observances; the mass may seem a strange companion of the Day of the Nation celebration, but the counterbalance was fitting and comforting, even for the peripheral observer.

 

I Already Know You Well Enough

“I want to hold your hand.

“I want to kiss you.

“It’s alright because I know you well enough.

“I’ve listened to you talk. I found out what country you’re from. Did you study a lot in school? Did you come here alone? You look very pretty tonight.

“You’re from that place where everyone is blonde, right? I love your country. The people here aren’t like the people there. You are so much more liberal. There is not so much discrimination.

“What city are you from? Are there any foreign people, like, people from other countries, in your city?

“Here, there are neighborhoods where you shouldn’t go because people will look at your skin and equate you with money. In those places, the people are very poor, and they build houses made of scraps of corrugated metal. Sometimes the roofs collapse and kill people. Are there poor people in your city?

“Here, the families are very big. Have you noticed? People get married and start having children when they are very young. Young people are never virgins in Argentina!

“Also, husbands hit their wives. Not all of them. Not all the time. I wouldn’t, but I know couples. I have friends who hit their girlfriends and their wives. It’s common, but mostly in those poor neighborhoods.

“But really, it’s OK if I hold your hand. Sometimes people just need to enjoy a moment. They don’t need to talk any more. I know you well enough, and I don’t need to know anything else.

 

Making Empanadas and Defending Bush

On Saturday morning (well, it was noon, but after a Friday night of dancing until 6am, it felt like morning), I took the bus to a neighborhood just on the city outskirts to visit one my students, Anabella. She had invited me to come have lunch at her house and help make empanadas caseras (homemade). I wasn’t quite sure what else would be on the agenda, or what length of stay would be appropriate for this kind of invitation, so I left the rest of the afternoon free, just in case.

Anabella met me with her 10-year-old sister, and we walked a few blocks down a wide, scruffy-grassed avenue (complete with the indispensable soccer goal posts) to her apartment building. Greeting me at her home were her mother chopping a pile of onions and her frantic terrier defying gravity to leap up to my face.

I helped fork and fold the onions into a lump of raw carne picada (chopped beef). We added lightly cooked, chopped potatoes, and simmered the mix until the meat was cooked. Then we transferred everything to a shallow dish and spread hardboiled egg and chives over the top.

Chopped beef, onions, potatoes, egg and chives

All folded up and ready to go!

Time to fold, press, and twist. I think the final count was about 3 dozen.

Don't over-stuff the empanada or it won't fold!

Half went into the oven to bake, and the other half went into a frypan.

The fried empanadas came out crispy and perfect!

As we waited for our lunch to bake or fry as needed, the topic of politics surfaced. Anabella’s mother asked me who I think is going to win the Presidency. I said Barack Obama is likely to gain the support of people who are on the fence about their political favor. She nodded, and then she asked me quite naturally, “What do you think about what happened with the Twin Towers? Do you think they were a part of Bush’s plan for the United States to gain control over the world?”

“Um, do you mean, do I think Bush did it?”

“Yes, I do. I hate Bush. Here, everybody hates Bush, and we don’t believe anything he says. I think that he came into office with a plan to convince everyone that the US had to invade the Middle East to get the money and the oil or whatever. I think that the Twin Towers was a conspiracy, and he was behind it, for sure. Everything he says is a lie.”

She stood there nodding her head, squinting at me, and pursing her lips as if the strength of her conviction was all I needed to see to simply agree with her.

“No. That is simply not true. There is no way that it could be true.” She raised her eyebrows, but listened.

“The reasons for invading Iraq involved a lot of complicated politics and a lot of money—”

“Yes, and Iraq is such a terrible disaster! He has killed so many people! So many innocent families have died, and he doesn’t care! Bush just wants to go in and kill everybody that gets in his way so that the United States can rule everything. He is the Devil just like Hitler. He planned everything with the Twin Towers because he doesn’t care about people.”

“Okay, I do think that Bush lied and did not tell us the real reasons for invading Iraq, and the Twin Towers attacks and the fear of terrorism were useful excuses that he used. I think the reasons he gave to us were over-simplified and ridiculous. I disagree with a lot of what we have done in Iraq, and I hate that so many innocent people are dying. But Bush did not plan the attack on the Twin Towers. That is just not possibly true.”

She seemed to think about this speech, not entirely convinced, but unwilling to push the subject. The empanadas were almost ready, and Anabella’s father walked in the door, suspending the conversation until a little later when I was able to conclude on a more positive note. I explained to the family (we were now joined by Anabella’s brother and sister, as well) that I believe deeply that the US does a lot of good in many parts of the world that no one ever hears about. We make a lot of mistakes, and the press makes money off of reporting the scandals and tragedies, but we really do help many people in many countries, too. It makes me sad that these good things are never seen.

I tried to make this speech short and earnest so that I wouldn’t sound too preachy. I’m not sure if I changed anybody’s mind, but at least I think they listened and believed that I was sincere.

The rest of the afternoon was spent discussing travel, typical “regional” food in my country, and other “cultural exchange” types of topics. Anabella’s father is a geography buff, so he was excited to recognize the names of places I have visited in the US and Europe. And, of course, describing the Maryland Crab Fest is always a humorous endeavor (BTW, could someone please comment and tell me some ways I can describe Old Bay to people here?), but that is a story for another blog.

I also made it to a community Bingo game to raise money for the construction of Anabella’s church. Fun, rather long, and I didn’t win anything, but it felt somehow really comforting to sit there and tick off numbers along with an entire neighborhood of large, multi-generational families.