On Being Fat in Argentina

Compared to the United States, shopping for clothes in Argentina is a breeze. In fact, most of the time, I don't even have to leave my house. I'd like to attribute this phenomenon to an increase in the number of online clothing retailers doing business in Argentina or a team of fabulous personal shoppers who've got my style down to a T and do all the hard work for me. But the truth is that shopping here feels so effortless because I just don't bother—I'm not going to find something that fits anyway.

It's tremendously difficult for me to find stylish clothes that fit me here in Argentina. I am 5'7" (170 cm), and I wear a U.S. size 18/20 (ARG size 48/50) or XXL (ARG size 5). Even when I'm lucky enough to find a skirt or top in my size, it often looks more like something my grandmother would wear rather than a vibrant woman in her early thirties. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've seen my grandmother sporting more stylish duds than the dowdy get-ups recommended to me in some of the stores here.

Many shops try to skirt the size issue by offering clothing in the dreaded one-size fits all. I'm hear to tell you that it doesn't, and no amount of coaxing or cajoling on the part of the sales assistant is going to make a too-tight garment look good.

In the three years I've lived in Argentina, I have bought exactly three pieces of clothing here. And it hasn't been for lack of trying. I've never been a clotheshorse, but I can assure you that in my previous life, I purchased more than one item of clothing per year. Let's just say that it's a good thing I like accessories, or else I'd never spend a centavo in the stores here.

Sharon Haywood, director of AnyBody Argentina, a non-profit organization dedicated to changing negative cultural attitudes about women's bodies, related her Argentine shopping experiences in a recent article:

Last year when I was searching for a wedding dress, all I had to do was observe the saleswoman's reaction when she looked my way and I knew that I wasn't going to find anything. Almost always, I heard the same worn-out phrase, "We don't carry your size."¹

If I hadn't read Sharon's name in the article's byline, I would have sworn I'd written that statement myself. It mirrors exactly what I encountered last year when searching for a dress for my own wedding. The dismissive attitude of shopkeepers and saleswomen and lack of options transformed what should have been a fun, exciting shopping experience into a nightmare.

What's most disturbing to me is not necessarily that I have a hard time finding clothes that fit me, but that normal, healthy weight women can't find clothes that fit them either. According to a survey performed by AnyBody Argentina, about 65% of the Argentine women interviewed stated that they've had difficulty finding fashionable clothing in their size.²

Slaves to Image
According to a 2010 study by the International Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery, Argentina ranks among the top 25 countries in the world for the number of cosmetic procedures performed, with liposuction far and away the most frequently chosen procedure.³ In fact, many health insurance plans here provide coverage for one cosmetic surgery procedure per year.

While many Argentine women opt for plastic surgery in the quest for a more perfect body, thousands more succumb to eating disorders as they strive to meet a near-impossible standard of beauty. Figures on eating disorders in this country are scarce, but the most recent data from a poll conducted by Argentina's Association for the Fight Against Anorexia and Bulimia (ALUBA) indicated that 1 in 10 teenage girls between the ages of 14 and 18 suffer from an eating disorder. It's also estimated that the prevalence of eating disorders in Argentina is three times higher than in the United States.⁴

High rates of plastic surgery and eating disorders suggest that Argentine women feel extreme societal pressure to be thin and attractive, no matter what the cost.

Dr. Mabel Bello, executive director of ALUBA, frames the Argentine obsession with beauty in the following manner: "We are slaves to image. Appearances are more important than who a person is. We have to look a certain way, be a certain person. This is our cultural imperative."⁵

Ley de Talles // Size Law
Back in November, I bought a cardigan—one of the three pieces from the sacred trilogy of Argentine purchases—from a shop here in Necochea. It's owned by a stout, red-haired woman who obviously understands that the entire universe does not wear a size small. She stocks a variety of sizes [up to ARG size 9] in styles that I'd actually consider wearing. Sadly, her shop is an anomaly.

*     *     *     *     *

In December 2005, a Buenos Aires provincial law known as the Ley de Talles took effect, mandating that all clothing stores offer an assortment of sizes from 38 to 48 (U.S. 8 to 18). In addition, the law looks for the clothing industry to standardize sizes, as sizing here varies wildly from one brand to another. A similar law was passed by the City of Buenos Aires in late 2009. Shop owners who fail to comply with the law face fines of up to $10,000 pesos and closure, while clothing manufacturers and importers face fines ranging from $15,000 to $50,000 pesos.

Clothing manufacturers and shops have opposed the law since its inception, and given the lax enforcement of fines, the reality is that most within the clothing industry pay little heed to the Ley de Talles. In fact, compliance with the law is estimated at less than 25%.⁶

According to Haywood, noncompliance centers around three separate issues: heavy resistance from the industry; corruption in the form of bribes to inspectors; and the fact that Argentines have completely bought into the "cult of the body."⁷

Obesity in Argentina
Argentines are quick to point out the obesity problem in the U.S., but what may surprise you is that Argentina doesn't trail far behind.

According to the report World Health Statistics 2011 from the World Health Organization (WHO), 31% of women and 27.4% of men in Argentina aged 20 years or older qualify as obese [based on 2008 figures]. The rates of obesity in the United States for those aged 20 or older are higher, but not by much, coming in at 33.2% of American women and 30.2% of men [based on 2008 figures].⁸

It appears that despite Argentina's societal obsession with being thin and beautiful, its citizens are losing the war against obesity. Although the same can be said of the U.S., in the last couple of decades, retailers have begun to recognize the trend and have finally started to accommodate the ever-expanding American waistline by offering a broader range of sizes. But as previously discussed, the vast majority of Argentine businesses have turned a blind eye to the needs of larger and even average-sized customers.

Given such abysmal rates of compliance with the Ley de Talles, the situation for Argentine consumers appears rather grim. However, AnyBody has launched a campaign to recognize Argentine clothing brands and shops that respect the diversity of the female form. Retailers that strive for compliance with the Ley de Talles are rewarded with a decal that can be found in their display windows, allowing shoppers to easily identify women-friendly businesses.

The women of Argentina, and indeed, of the world, still have a long way to go on many fronts. In the meantime, while we're working on the bigger issues, is it too much to ask that retailers stock clothes that actually fit?

[Photo credit: HA! Designs]

Resources

¹ "Yes, We Carry Your Size," AnyBody
² "Yes, We Carry Your Size," AnyBody
³ ISAPS International Survey on Aesthetic/Cosmetic Procedures Performed in 2010, International Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery [PDF] 
⁴ Eating Disorders 101 Guide: A Summary of Issues, Statistics and Resources, Renfrew Center Foundation for Eating Disorders [Word doc] 
⁵ Battling the Beauty Myth in Argentina, AnyBody
⁶ Any-Body in Argentina: Seeking Size Law Compliance, Endangered Species Women
⁷ Battling the Beauty Myth in Argentina, AnyBody
⁸ World Health Statistics 2011, World Health Organization

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¿De Dónde Sos? | Where Are You From?

¿De dónde sos? Where are you from? Liz Caskey, a long-time resident of neighboring Chile, finds that this question touches a nerve, and she broached the topic over at the Eat Wine blog in this post. Much of what Liz wrote resonated with me, and her post sparked some interesting conversation with friends on Facebook.

"This question appears to be innocent and overly simple. Some consider it friendly. But imagine how you would feel if they asked you, after 11+ years where you live, the same thing every single day. A 'simple' question that comes even before saying hello, asking my name, or inquiring how I am doing."

Fortunately, given that I live in a small city and tend to frequent the same neighborhood businesses, I'm not subjected to this question on a daily basis. The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker man who owns the corner store already know I'm a yanqui – no news there. However, anytime I patronize a new business or travel outside my home turf, I'm barraged with the same litany of questions: Where are you from? Why did you move here? Do you like Argentina?

At the beginning, I used to make a game of it. When presented with the inevitable lead-off question, I would counter, "Well, where do you think I'm from?" The answers were generally quite varied and amusing and, interestingly, hardly ever included the United States. But after a while I grew tired of the exchange.

Now, don't get me wrong – I'm a talkative person. I have no qualms about chitchatting with strangers and indulging their curiosity. But you know, sometimes when I head to the grocery store for a bag of milk, I just want to buy said bag of milk and leave. I don't want to recount my life story or play a game of 20 Questions (and yes, I am bigger than a breadbox).

Nonetheless, I'm also keenly aware of the fact that, in some ways, I'm an unofficial ambassador of the United States. Unlike Buenos Aires, Bariloche or Iguazú, Necochea and the innumerable small towns of Argentina don't appear on the radar of most international travelers. For some Argentines, I will be the first American they will have ever met, and I'd much rather work to create positive impressions than reinforce old, worn-out stereotypes (e.g. Americans are cold) by brushing off their questions.

For some expats, style of dress, physical appearance and even the way they carry themselves clue people in that they're foreigners and prompt the dreaded "¿De dónde sos?" Chris from In Patagonia offered: "It's a question you just have to get used to, no way around it I don't think!…I think God can use our appearance to open doors of conversation and opportunity."

While I think Chris makes a good point, in my case, I don't feel as though appearance is the big giveaway. Instead, I find that the questions start flowing when I open my mouth. If I keep my talking to a bare minimum, I can sometimes get away without my accent being detected, but these instances are few and far between.

With all that said, it seems that foreigners have devised various approaches to dealing with this issue. Liz recommends the following tactic:

"Now, when I am asked the 'where are you from' question, I try to laugh. I see it as an opportunity to open somebody else's eyes. Instead of getting frustrated or defensive since there must be something wrong with my accent, I simply ask, 'sorry, you asked my name?'. I usually get a confused look first and then they get it – I am a person first and foremost."

Of course, I could always go the route of my friend Eli's father. Even though he and his wife have called Mar del Plata, Argentina their home for over 30 years, he still gets asked the question "Where are you from?", to which he jokingly replies, "I'm from *Tucumán."

[Twitter contact @sorrelmw touched on this same topic on her blog, where she featured this humorous music video. Click here if you can't view the embedded video.]

*Tucumán is a small province in Northwest Argentina and, needless to say, a far cry from Eli's dad's actual hometown of Buffalo, New York.

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A No-Go for a Cup of Joe

Set amidst the wide expanse of the Argentine pampa, the sleepy town of Juan N. Fernández – population 3,000 – lies just 50 miles (80 km) north of Necochea. Early this afternoon, on a blustery, chilly, autumn day, I piled into a bus with my fellow singers from the Coro Alta Mira to entertain some of the residents at an old folks' home in Fernández.

We arrived in town roughly 45 minutes before we were scheduled to perform, so we decided to grab a cup of joe at a nondescript coffee shop on the corner, not far from the plaza.

A small contingent from our group of 20 entered the café to investigate, with hopes of sitting down to a pleasant cup of steaming coffee to drive away the cold. The establishment's lone patron, a diminutive, quirky-looking man, sat at a table near the door, and the sound of our footsteps echoed through the otherwise empty coffee shop.

A young woman immediately approached us, and the leader of our group greeted her and stated our intention to order a round of coffees. With an unapologetic smile, the employee said, "Oh, sorry, but I just turned off the coffeemaker."

Allow me to make it clear that with our potential order of 20 cups of coffee, this small-town café stood to pull in more cash in half an hour than it probably makes in the entire day, yet the lazy server couldn't be bothered to turn the coffeemaker back on at a coffee shop.

Just an example of Argentine customer service and business savvy at its finest…

[Photo credit: Ballistik Coffee Boy]

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Notes on the Argentine Approach to Cooking

Argentine home cooks' approach to the country's food classics tends to reflect something of the national character: fly by the seat of your pants, make do with what you've got, and don't stray too far from what you know. The beauty of Argentine dishes lies in the fact that they deliver simple flavors and rarely demand pricey, obscure ingredients or kitchen gadgets for their successful preparation; however, those with perfectionist tendencies would do well to work up some culinary courage before tackling these recipes, as they're often plagued by a dearth of specific instructions. Here are some of my notes on the challenges of cooking estilo argentino.

1. The Recipes
One of the biggest problems with Argentine recipes is that they often don't exist in the first place. Tucked away in the mind of Daniel's great-aunt Rosa lies an absolute treasure trove of gastronomic knowledge. Without fail, her meals turn out flavorful, succulent, appetizing, [substitute your choice of adjective here]. Does she have any of this vast repository of recipes documented? Sadly, the answer is "no."

Should you be fortunate enough to encounter a written recipe, it's often lacking the most basic details (e.g. exact amounts, temperature, estimated cooking time). It's easy to get lost in the ambiguous directions and inexact measurements—puñados, pizcas and poquitos—doled out in heaping helpings in some of these recipes.

To avoid precision, Argentine cooks also love to list the amounts of key ingredients as "a gusto" (to taste). Salt and pepper to taste? OK, I can handle that. But when virtually every component of the recipe reads "add to taste," the collection of ingredients ceases to be a recipe.

Friends in my chorus actually teased me a bit the other day when I translated a well-written English-language recipe for dulce de leche brownies for them to Spanish. "It's so...detailed!" they exclaimed. Cue sigh.

2. The Measurements
Your average Argentine does not own measuring spoons, measuring cups or any other standardized measuring implements (nor does this fact keep him or her awake at night). I remember the look of wonderment on the faces of Daniel and his mom Hilda when I unpacked my set of gleaming stainless steel measuring cups and spoons and my Pyrex liquid measuring cup.

The other day I was researching recipes for vitel toné, a holiday favorite here in Argentina. One of the recipes I came across (by a noted Argentine chef, no less) called for half of a taza chica (small cup) of vinegar. How small, exactly, is this cup? Now, I recognize that using a "half of a small cup" instead of a standard 1/2-cup measurement won't spell the difference between life and death; however, in recipes requiring more exactitude, for example, baked goods, using sloppy measurements may lead to a less-than-desirable result.

Then, of course, there's the recipe I saw a while back that called for 17 teaspoons of sugar. I don't know about you, but I'll pull out my 1/3-cup measuring cup and call it a day. Hell, I'll even use a 1/3 of a "small cup" rather than count out 17 teaspoons.

True to her Italian roots, Hilda makes tallarines (tagliatelle) from scratch. The first time I watched her make the long strands of pasta, I commented to her that I'd like to jot down the recipe. She replied, "Oh, sure. You just use one egg per person and a handful of flour for every egg." Never mind the fact that my hand is about 50% larger than hers.

3. The Ovens
In the beginning, I used to ponder why hardly any Argentine recipes give an exact cooking temperature. I later discovered that when your oven offers three choices—yellow, orange, and red—achieving anything more precise than "medium heat" becomes a real challenge. I'd like to be able to blame this issue on the fact that my oven dates to the 1960s; however, a quick trip to the local appliance store confirmed that even brand spanking new ovens lack a thermostat/temperature control (unless, of course, you're prepared to shell out about $4,000 pesos [US $1,000] for the one oven in the store with a thermostat, which most people, myself included, are not).

Perhaps I'm a spoiled yanqui, but I really crave more precision than that provided by a needle bobbing between the "yellow zone" and the "red zone." The oven thermometer I purchased has helped me tremendously, but the process of regulating the oven temperature still gives me a headache, given that just a barely perceptible flick of the wrist makes the difference between undercooked blobs of dough and incinerated ones.

Let's get kitchen confidential. Share your culinary trials and tribulations in the comments.

[Photo credits: reiven and autumnsensation]

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What's In a Name?

Catalina, Katia, Katherine and even Katu. All of these names appear on the list approved by the Civil Registry of the Province of Buenos Aires. The name "Katie," however, is absent from the list and with good reason: virtually no one here seems to be able to pronounce it.

Although a bit frustrated, I am no longer surprised by the reaction I get from the vast majority of Argentines when I tell them my name. The scene, without fail, follows this script:

1) With a kiss on the cheek, I introduce myself to my new acquaintance. I watch as the official list of names unfurls in her mind; she scrolls through the familiar Argentine standards such as Ana, Florencia, Gabriela, Laura, María, Teresa.

2) After a moment or two – once her neurons return the "File not found" error message – she does a double take, and her face screws into an expression of puzzlement.

3) She asks me to repeat my name at least two more times, as she bends and contorts the English sounds to conform to her Spanish ear.

I've been on the receiving end of many odd looks and responses regarding my exceedingly common English name. For example, the 80-something seamstress who made my choral uniform exclaimed, "¡Qué nombre rarísimo, che!" ("Boy, what a strange name!") when I first met her, while a worker at the immigration office in Quequén recently rechristened me "Chicha" because he couldn't pronounce my name.

I frequently find myself feeling slightly embarrassed and apologetic as a result of my name, and I wonder if it would just be easier to adopt a more Spanish-friendly pronunciation or to simply change my name altogether. Occasionally, in one-off situations where I'll never meet the person again (for example, when reserving a table at a restaurant), I'll give my name as Kati (Kah-tee) to avoid the otherwise inevitable explanations and/or butchering of my moniker.

Other times, I feel a bit indignant and determined to teach people the right way to say those two syllables, no matter how many times I have to repeat myself. After all, a little old diphthong and an American 't' can't be that bad, can they?

Although I wouldn't exactly characterize Argentines as conformists, few people stray from established naming conventions. [Read more about rules for selecting a child's name in Argentina at yanqui mike's blog.] In my chorus, for example, seven out of the 20 women have a name that includes María: María Nelly, María Fernanda, María del Carmen, María Angélica, María Ester, María Teresa, and María Guadalupe.

Names that deviate from the official list prepared by each province must be submitted to the Registro Civil, along with a fee of $50 pesos, for approval. It seems that most parents are content to name their little one Facundo, Valentina, or Nicolás, and they later shake things up with one of the countless nicknames that exist here.

I applaud a bit of diversity and originality in names, and I'm proud of my own strange, yanqui name; however, some days, I admit that I just wish I were a María.

[Photo credit: p!o]

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A Tale of Red Tape

With my visa set to expire in just a few days, Daniel and I drove 1 1/2 hours to the immigration office in Mar del Plata last Monday to obtain an extension. Let the games begin.

[Welcome to your friendly neighborhood maximum security detention center immigration office.]

We arrive at Migraciones at 8:30am and find that virtually no one is in the office. We're called upon immediately, and I explain the purpose of my visit. The immigration employee tells me I must make photocopies of each and every page of my passport and then return to the office with the copies. Thankfully there's a kiosk on the corner, and we file down the stairs and out the building to complete our first task. We're back in 15 minutes or less, and we hand over the photocopies and take a seat.

The immigration office is bleaker than bleak. My eyes wander over the flimsy, black, molded plastic chairs and dingy white walls, while the fluorescent fixtures overhead cast a cold, harsh light over everyone and everything. In the middle of the wall hangs a faded portrait of Mother Theresa, since no Argentine public office can be without a figure of the Virgin or a saint of some sort.

After waiting for about 45 minutes or so, the immigration employee calls us up to the desk. He says there's a problem. With a great flourish, he produces a printout that lists my exits from and entries into the country. Although I have a stamp in my passport that clearly shows my last entry into Argentina, there is no record of it in the computer. The employee explains that he'll have to call Buenos Aires to get this sorted out, and he recommends that we take a walk for an hour or so in the meantime.

Fortunately, we do have an errand to run, so we head out and take a long walk down Avenida Independencia to our destination. With time to spare before the magic hour when my problem will be fixed, we stop at a sidewalk café for coffee and a medialuna, knowing full well that there's no real hurry to return.

We head back to Migraciones at 10:30am, and I'm trying to be optimistic. The office is bustling now, with a new face turning up every few minutes. We wade through the sea of people, and we manage to nab a place to sit. A few minutes later, the employee informs us that he's still waiting on an answer from Buenos Aires.

Over the course of the next two hours, we manage to make occasional eye contact with the employee, but he does nothing more than mumble for us to hang tight un segundito (a quick second) before turning away. Finally, after quite a few segunditos, he calls us up to the counter to tell us, with the gravest of expressions, that my situation is "very complicated," and he urges us to wait while he gathers reinforcements. He returns with another employee who informs me that I have unwittingly become a participant in what amounts to "an absolutely unheard-of situation." I assure you that these are the last words you want to hear while standing in a government office – anywhere.

Apparently, back in October when I visited Uruguay with Daniel and my parents, we returned to Argentina on some sort of ghost ship, or perhaps it was the Good Ship Lollipop. Either way, the boat I took from Colonia to Buenos Aires is nowhere to be found in the computer system. There is no record of that boat, and according to the system, none of the passengers that left Buenos Aires that morning returned to Argentina. As it turns out, not only is the Buquebus record MIA, but it seems that Migraciones has also misplaced my tarjeta de ingreso, a little piece of paper that serves as physical proof of one's entry into the country.

The second employee states that he is waiting for approval from Buenos Aires to manually enter my arrival data into the computer. He tells me not to worry; he assures me that everything will get straightened out – that it has to get straightened out. Just sit tight. I make an about-face and trudge to the back row of seats with Daniel.

A steady stream of Bolivians, a pack of Senegalese, a Russian couple, a young German woman, a pair of Asians, a smattering of Argentines and goodness knows how many other nationalities file past us as we await word from some pencil pusher in Capital Federal.

Bonus: there are no Colombian ex-convicts chatting me up this time 'round.

A family of Bolivians entertains a baby with spiky, jet-black hair using a toy in the shape of a silver banana, while a porteño tries to keep his rambunctious little girl occupied by pointing to a political poster plastered to the wall. The father tells us he took advantage of the fact that he was in Mar del Plata on vacation to come to Migraciones here instead of back home in the capital. He describes the immigration office in Buenos Aires as a "nightmare" with people "pissing themselves" as they wait in line. Fortunately, no one here is suffering from incontinence, and it it's all very orderly and civil, just slow as molasses (in January? No, make that July).

At one point I glance up at the portrait of Mother Theresa hanging to my right – even she looks bored. I ask her to help me; I'm not Catholic, but I figure it can't hurt. I then have a sudden revelation about the rationale for religious iconography in Argentine government offices.

With the office virtually empty, the doors about to close at 3pm and nothing yet resolved, the second employee beckons us over to deliver the news: my problem will have to be revisited tomorrow. He jots down our phone number and promises to call when he gets word from the powers that be.

Three days and 12 phone calls later (every single one initiated by us), the data finally shows up in the computer. We pop across the bridge to Quequén, and with the assistance of the immigration officer at the Prefectura Naval, I have everything taken care of in just 45 minutes. Well, four days and 45 minutes.

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One for the Ladies

Warning: If the word "tampon" makes you squeamish or offends your sensibilities in any way, I suggest you skip this post get over it.

Although Argentina is a Catholic country, attitudes toward sexuality have shifted, and many Argentines have developed a more liberal viewpoint on controversial topics like premarital sex, homosexuality, and nudity. However, it seems that certain topics pertaining to the realities of the human body remain taboo.

No one seems terribly bothered by the enormous poster around the corner that prominently features a woman's tanned backside (it's an advertisement for car batteries – go figure). I frequently pass newsstands and kiosks filled to the brim with men's magazines, with little to no attempt made to cover up "the goods." Birth control pills are available here without a prescription – simply ask and ye shall receive. 

Yet when I go to a pharmacy to purchase tampons (sinful, sinful!), they must be carefully wrapped in paper and taped up like some bizarre Christmas stocking stuffer and then placed in a plastic bag, lest someone see that I've bought a box of this downright scandalous feminine hygiene product. To make matters worse, if you happen to be in a pharmacy where they have everything stocked behind the counter, you're subjected to the horrified looks of other customers as you ask for your 20-count box of regulars. Dear God, she uses those things! I'm pretty sure I saw an older woman faint once right after I bought a box.

If you're visiting Argentina and are choosy about the products you use, I suggest you pack your own supply. There are only two brands of tampons available in Argentina – o.b. and Days – neither of which have applicators. There is a bright side to all of this though: if you use pads, you're in luck because pharmacies and supermarkets here have enough stock of those to last through to the next Ice Age.

P.S. It looks like the tampon situation is just as drastic in Chile.

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Driving in Argentina

When I was a kid, my dad was fanatical about seat belt use, and he always insisted that my sister and I buckle up. In fact, we were repeatedly told that the car simply wouldn't move until the aforementioned seat belts were fastened. Apparently this mindset stuck with me because I've always been very conscientious about using my seat belt and asking that others riding with me use theirs too, even if they weren't accustomed to wearing it.

Generally speaking, I'd like to say that I'm a reasonably safe and courteous driver. I will own up to having a bit of a lead foot, but overall I wouldn't classify myself as a menace to society when I'm on the road. Well, maybe if you're a groundhog, but that's a completely different story.

At the present moment, I'm relegated to the passenger seat because I don't know how to drive stick (it's very rare to find a car with automatic transmission in Argentina). I'm not exactly complaining; being chauffeured around town isn't so bad. I'm sure I'll get around to learning one of these days, but honestly, I'm not entirely convinced I want to drive here. Why? The answer is simple: the Argentines drive like lunatics.

Lane markers...merely a suggestion. Speed limit...what's that? Traffic lights...generally obeyed. Stop signs...almost non-existent, which results in a free-for-all at 4-way intersections. Seat belts...apparently they're meant for decoration because hardly anyone uses them. Yielding to pedestrians...maybe if it's an old lady with a cane, but even then, highly unlikely. Speed bumps...everywhere [very annoying!]. Road rage...amazingly, not so much.

I don't think my parents truly believed my description of how people drive here until they saw it with their own two eyes. Fortunately, things are a bit calmer here in Necochea than in Buenos Aires but not much.

Think I'm exaggerating? Here's an excerpt from the U.S. State Department's page on Argentina:

"Traffic accidents are the primary threat to life and limb in Argentina. Pedestrians and drivers should exercise caution. Drivers frequently ignore traffic laws and vehicles often travel at excessive speeds. The rate and toll of traffic accidents has been a topic of much media attention over the past year. The Institute of Road Safety and Education, a private Buenos Aires organization dedicated to transportation safety issues, reports that Argentina has the highest traffic mortality rate in South America per 100,000 inhabitants."

If you couple the devil-may-care attitude about driving safety along with the fact that a good number of cars on the road are poorly maintained and/or lacking advanced safety features such as airbags, it's no wonder that Argentina has such a high mortality rate when it comes to car accidents.

Still think you'd like to take a crack at driving in Argentina? If so, I suggest you read fellow blogger Taos Turner's attempt at finding some sanity while behind the wheel: 15 Rules for Stress-free Driving in Argentina.

Fortunately, Daniel's driving habits seem to buck the general trend, as he is a very cautious driver (in fact, I tease him for driving like an old man). I know I'm in good hands with him, but he's not the one I have to worry about - it's the rest of the crazies out there. Do you think I could somehow wear two seat belts?

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It's Time for a Small Rant

Over the past few months, my move to Argentina has invariably surfaced as a topic of conversation at family get-togethers, parties and the like. It doesn't take long before I'm asked, "Why are you moving there?" spoken with a level of disdain usually reserved for those moving somewhere like Bismarck, North Dakota. (My apologies to anyone from Bismarck. I'm sure it's a fine city.) While the response to the move has been generally positive and supportive, I've had to grin and bear both "advice" and criticism from some family members and acquaintances.

I don't expect everyone to agree with or understand my decision to live in Argentina. So you think I'm an idiot for leaving the U.S.? Fine - you're entitled to your opinion, but you should either a) keep it to yourself or b) have a sound argument to back it up. It really gets under my skin when people question my choices or comment negatively when in fact they know very little (or nothing) about Argentina, its culture, the people, or my motivations for moving there. I know I shouldn't let this sort of thing bother me, but I hate having to defend myself and the choices I've made.

It seems to me that if someone barely knows that Argentina is located in the southern hemisphere, thinks that Portuguese is the country's official language, or just met me five minutes beforehand (as in the case of one "advisor" at a party), then that person has little right to launch negative criticism at me. I'm certainly not an expert on Argentina, but I have traveled there four times and lived there for a four-month stretch. I've also had lengthy conversations with my Argentine boyfriend and his family about the realities of living in Argentina. I am not going into this blindly, so why am I being subjected to advice given in such a manner?

I stumbled upon this blog entry from Yanqui Mike, and I feel that his post is the perfect complement to mine. I would love to whip out a copy of his blog post the next time someone starts down that no-good path with me...but I'll refrain. Maybe.

Thank you to all of you who have been supportive and given me true, heartfelt advice. That will always be appreciated and welcomed. Read More......

Annoyed!

With my trip to Argentina just over a week away, the last thing I need is additional annoyances to crop up on me. Aside from the fact that the potential sale on my house fell through (which I dare say is far more than annoying), I was completely aggravated when I called the veterinarian's office to schedule the cats' appointment for their International Health Certificates, and I found out that the only vet at the practice who can do the exams will be on vacation.

Now, I don't expect people to arrange their vacations around my needs, but a phone call to let me know she would be away would have been nice. I'd been in contact with this same vet for about two months regarding the cats' travel exam, and I really think she dropped the ball on this and showed a lack of professionalism.

Cocoa and Ziggy are now scheduled to meet with a vet at a practice I'm not familiar with. I'm crossing my fingers that everything goes smoothly and the paperwork is completed accurately and on time!

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