Transport, Translation, and Tourists

Ending a balmy night at an outdoor café; white tablecloths and red wine. We’re finishing our asado and Malbec; but in Mendoza, Argentina, that goes without saying. Enter two middle-aged Argentinean men and one tiny chocolate poodle.

Because we must have our steak and eat it too, our supper was forgotten, plates with lingering halos of meat juices cleared. My husband’s attention had completely shifted to the pup, a trembling mound of curls poking between chair and table legs, a compelling contrast to the robust, spirited men she accompanied. Did I mention we have this often embarrassing but always entertaining goal of meeting a dog each day of our extended travels? It’s sort of an exchange program to make up for leaving our standard poodle at home without her “parents.” But its masters don’t speak English. And the two of us don’t speak Spanish.

Argentineans are friendly. They spend copious amounts of time relaxing; in the afternoon, late at night, in cafes. They enjoy their food, enjoy conversation, and are willing to surrender their silverware and sausages to engage with most anyone, even us. Surrender they did—we trudge through the basics, first greeting the dog, perro. We have one too! Su nombre es Lucy. Don’t we all love dogs? Beyond that, it is quickly determined that my husband’s strengths lie in technology, numbers, and enjoying a good steak. Linguistics? Not so much.

But they are determined to continue the conversation; join our table; buy us espresso.

I’m up for the challenge, tiny yellow dictionary in hand. We talk travels, comings and goings; relational statuses, families and food. Work? Sure. We can talk about that. I work in la colección de mode; “fashion library.” Close enough, they get the picture.

Lots of gestures ensue as they describe to us what industry they are in. Sweeping hand motions. Avión. Airplane. America—sur. The South—Kentucky! De transporte; transport. Caballo. Horse. Horse? Swirling confusion and excitement, dictionary pages flying.

I’ve got it! They are in logistics—transportation. They bring horses from Argentina to compete in the Kentucky Derby. Really? Really.

Cheers, cheers! Another round for everyone!

Just the next day, I’m crumpling in tears at Mendoza’s bus terminal, last night’s victory giving me misguided confidence in conversation. An assumption between AM and PM had mistakenly led us to purchase two tickets to Iguazu Falls—a trip that would confine us to our economy class seats for 36 hours. And that was just one way.

Paranoia keeps me from eating much of anything while on any mode of public transport. Irony aside, how could I possibly find myself near starving in the land of abundant red meat? Language barriers were superficially masked by kindness, generosity, and a comparatively cheap cost of living, but mistakes could be awkward; borderline dangerous.

With no choice left but to dejectedly shove our bus tickets in my purse and huff out of the station, my husband tagged behind, trying to hastily “remedy the situation.” Smart phone in hand, he spoke quickly.

“Guess what they have in Mendoza? A WAL*MART. That’s where we’re going to go. We can take the local bus; it’ll be fun. We’ll buy some snacks, take the 36 hour ride, then find you a nice steak when we get to Iguazu.”

Sucker that I am, he managed to stop my tears with the words “fun,” “snacks,” and “steak.” He took charge and we were soon on a public bus, bumping and jostling our way to the familiar American superstore.

But somehow, so quickly we forgot what poor bus passengers we are. The vehicle soon emptied, no destination in sight. We reached the end of the line, a dusty neighborhood of makeshift houses some distance from the city. It was dusk, and the driver motioned for us to disembark.

Our ignorance burst forward—lost, silly Americans trying to find what? An imported chain store? A small boy popped over our seats. Speaking fluent English, he ushered us off the bus and back in the opposite direction—abandoning the snack mission in favor of getting back to the city before dark. He apologized to the bus driver on our behalf as we thanked him profusely.

Back to where we started: the Mendoza bus station. Then back to the hostel. The next day, we’d be in the middle of Argentina, on a bus, looking out the windows at the cows that could be on my plate, the vines full of grapes that could fill my glass. Couldn’t we just stay in Mendoza? Find the nice men from the restaurant again, their dog? Surely they had hospitable housewives who prepared pots of humble stews, grills filled with meat, hell, a trash can-turned-remedial cooking vessel and a bag of charcoal?

But no. We would go see the waterfall, ride the 36 hour bus; the 72 hour bus. There would be no perros on the bus. He knew that, right?

After an anxious night of sleep, it was decided a taxi would take us to Walmart, pacifying me with some supplies for our journey.

96 hours later, we’d hiked and rafted under the magnificent Iguazu Falls, met a entrepreneurial woman with an artisanal yarn shop, picked fruits from a giant avocado tree, cooked at a hostel with an outdoor kitchen, and eaten two nice steaks, our dirty elbows sinking back into white tablecloths drinking wine cheaper than water.

We were invincible again, language barriers superficially masked by kindness, paranoia subsiding into a protein-induced nap time.

+++

Why a bus, you ask? Why not a train, an airplane? Buses are the travel method of choice in South America and are quite unlike the systems North Americans are accustomed to. The bus runs like a train—inexpensive long trips with infrequent stops, vehicles equipped with restrooms, cabin service, even complimentary beverages, new-release movies, and the business or first class (available for a nominal upgrade fee) seats recline horizontally for a surprisingly comfortable night’s sleep. Trains and airplanes are few and far between, and costly. For reasonable prices and reliable service, try the companies Andesmar, Flechabus, or Via Bariloche.

Film and the Farmers' Market

Any outsider can blithely say that the film industry is the machine that runs Los Angeles, but the heart of the city is in its markets. Will a film school parking garage really put a damper on Sunday’s Hollywood Farmers' Market?

As a downtown resident with a borderline obsession with humanely raised meat (going as far as taking butchery classes), barely-legal raw milk, and piles of fresh, organic berries, the market is an oasis. A fifteen minute train ride from Pershing Square (where neighboring grocers are limited to a grossly overpriced yet indispensible Ralph’s and a half dozen Famima franchises) will take me to the Hollywood and Vine Metro Station, just two blocks away from the best of California’s local foods.

But what about those who aren’t just looking for persimmons, truffles, or free-range bison? Tuesday’s data from the Bureau of Labor Statistics show Los Angeles currently has an 11.7% jobless rate (a number that nearly doubles in the outlying agricultural areas where market produce is grown). Dozens of stalls reliably offer cheap staples like bags of citrus, potatoes, and greens to healthfully feed those with lower incomes. Vendors even accept food stamps, EBT cards, WIC and Senior FMNP.

Changing the location or restricting the size of the market has wider impact than just limiting the varieties of heirloom tomatoes or fresh flowers for sale. Taking away space for vendors at the large Hollywood market drastically reduces income for the small farmers, which in turn reduces their abilities to sell at smaller markets. The Huffington Post reported, “With the loss of that income, 7 other smaller farmers' markets in low income areas like Watts, Crenshaw, South Central, Echo Park, East Hollywood and Atwater Village that are supported by the Hollywood Farmers' Market could also be forced to close.” Limiting reasonably-priced fresh food to struggling families only exacerbates their struggles, as well as delivering them directly into the hands of fast food chains and convenience stores.

As for the film students? How about staying up late to catch that extra movie on Saturday night—and then stop by the market for some fresh snacks on the way to the labs. I hear they give some great deals at closing time.

underachieving overachiever

"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

at seven thirty-three pm four weeks into leading a group of fifteen, the alarm system in our thirteen-story apartment building squaked, causing residents of the 147 units to congregate on the corner of ninth street.

two years, six months, and one day married to my husband (six foot three, 190, thirty years old), i (five foot eight, shoe size nine-and-a-half) my role, TBD. forty hours a week, six thousand audiovisuals in the library three blocks from home, checking out 9, nine, 9 1/2 to nineteen- to twenty-two-year olds to take home for one week, beep, beep. come home, make dinner. carrots- purple, white, orange, oven at 425. five pounds of free hamburger from the butcher on third; four cuts of beef- short rib, shoulder, ribeye, brisket. run three seven and a half minute miles five days a week, curl two eight pound barbells.


"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

twenty-six hours earlier, four and a half cups of flour, one and one quarter cups sugar, two sticks of butter, two cups milk, baking power, soda, yeast, cinnamon. six pm, oven at 375. smash and roll dough with twenty-inch rolling pin. spin, slice, smash into three pans, twenty-two cinnamon rolls. shove into oven, sticky sugars seeping. take five, twirl, sit, chat with new friend (third day of new job, five years married, new pet lizard-four days ago). smoke.

smoke?

five minutes in the oven, peek. syrupy cinnamon drips onto foil barrier. vent on, windows open.

(fifty-two hours, four cups of tea, one double latte, three pears, four strips of bacon, two eggs, one- no, two ninety-percent chocolate bars, zero glasses of wine. four dog walks, one episode of dr. phil. one year, ten pound weight gain, pant size four.)

the house fills with smoke as our guests taper in,

"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

men in suits, strollers with babies, leashes with tiny dogs sprint out.

no more baking on wednesdays, maybe? my husband nudges. forced smile and bitten lips, i tug black striped socks out of the couch (three), take 45 minute lunch break at the grocery store buying strawberries and apples ($1.25and 88 cents a pound), two and a half pound block of sharp cheddar, one liter of iced tea.

seven forty-five pm, back inside. stifled coughs and fans running, guests gum gooey, under baked cinnamon rolls graciously.

"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

my fate is determined; to find freedom in restraint, stimulation in creativity, calmness in a consistent companion.

but no baking on wednesdays.

food and shelter

Admittedly, I have a masochistic streak.
But that does depend on your perspective.
After ten days in Belgium thoroughly documenting my husband's consumption of (arguably) the best beers in the world, I said it aloud.
"I don't drink beer."
Sure, I'll take a deep sniff; occasionally let a drop touch my tongue. But in the land of malty libations, the sense of deprivation was unavoidable.
Yesterday, lunch was crisp, curly lettuce with ground lamb, homemade goat cheese, fragrant mint leaves, red wine vinegar and olive oil. A perfectly juicy Valencia orange.
For dinner, baked pork tenderloin stuffed with fresh thyme, sweet black cherries, garlic and onions; wrapped in greasy bacon.
Piles of kale or buttery leeks topped with a rich, golden poached egg or a smug avocado at 7am, followed by a second breakfast of that Greek yogurt. You know, the irresistible kind that costs a couple-a dollars per container. Top it with wild blueberries or a square of superdark chocolate and then drink a mug of green tea.
Is my diet enjoyable and healthful, or merely the product of too many well-being articles?
This week, I read “Steak with Butter-Are we OK with this?” and “Rendering Bacon Fat for Increased Flexibility.”
Is it tasty and satiating? HELL yes.
So, why do I leer at my husband's plate of pizza and pint of porter with a weight of deprivation? Why do I hear tales of raw foodests and feel pangs of carnivorous consumption guilt?
“Your deal,” I mutter, slouching over my bitter glass of wine and shuffling the deck of sticky, creased cards.
My husband is absorbed in the encyclopedia of a beer menu.
We play cards and drink.
That’s what we do right now.
Biding our time is what it feels like. Are we too old to backpack across Europe, South America, the Midwest? My adversity to beer is possibly confining us to this place in life. Should we be having babies? Giving our parents grandchildren? Deciding between cloth diapers and convenience? I don’t drink beer, don’t eat bread. Should this limit or devalue our statures in life?

Honesty, like a dagger.

I drink my wine, eat my steak. Lift weights, quit running. Walk always. Keep walking. Play on the swings. Twirl in lacy skirts, collapse in the grass. Eat strawberry ice cream on park benches.
“I’m a bit of a masochist,” I hear myself say, sitting in the cozy beer bar in Bruges, under the gaze of the superstar food writers, connoisseur husband, the ceramic garden gnome.
I drink my wine, sometimes shitty. Eat the sausage I made myself, the local butcher familiar with my orders of hog casings. Go to In ‘n’ Out for lettuce-wrapped beef after an hour of kickboxing nothing to look better in that swimsuit I never wear. Make time to be “creative,” make art, type words.
Read this:
“Live as free men, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil.”
Feel guilt. Feel free.
Eat the chocolate, drink the wine.
Document the beers and vicariously eat the waffles, snickerdoodles PB&Js.
Am I inflicting harm, or prolonging a life of questionable validity?
Am I a masochist?
Yes.
But I love it.
I choose hedonism, education, travel, feeding my community.
Is that self-serving or self-deprecating?

the lover and the fighter.

I love shopping for meat.

And I especially love shopping for meat with my husband.

We plan entire Saturdays around breweries and butcher shops. The ideal scenario fills him with enough beer to be happy and agreeable, blinding swiping the credit card for mildly unreasonable meat purchases.

It is mid-afternoon and he is warm and fuzzy. We walk up to a butcher counter— perhaps tucked into the back of an unassuming neighborhood shop, multi-stall market, or gourmet chain. He looks over to me. “Let’s get a nice steak for dinner-- a really nice steak.”

My face scrunches critically. I become nervous. Why do we deserve a really nice steak anyway? Did we work that hard to drink those beers? Are we pretentious urbanites who have justthatmuch disposable income? Or perhaps we are just ignorant. Then, a wave of insecurity floods, showing the unflattering slump in my shoulders. Anyone can ask for a really nice steak. It’s the eater who knows better that asks for specialties and deals, for the expert’s advice. “Let’s see what they recommend.”

What I need is complexity; something with a challenge. If given an option too straight-forward, I’ll be bored after a few bites, a few moments. Give me something with bite and good flavor; I’ll come back for more. So for better or worse, if we’re buying a steak, our decision frequently lands on the most expensive, a Porterhouse. He can let the tender filet melt in his mouth while I nibble on the New York Strip, slicing it thin, eating half for dinner and carefully saving the rest to top a salad the next day. (Did I mention he hates leftovers?)

See, balance is key. I feel confident that if we purchased a whole cow, not one bit would go to waste. I’d present him with pristine plates of succulent steaks while braising tougher bits in my red ceramic soup pot for me to eat for days, weeks. If we both craved the same cuts, everyone loses, especially the poor cow. This way, we’re not conflicting, but complimentary.

I’m willing to go out of my way to be frugal and resourceful; he’s more about quality and time management. But you’d better believe that if I grind bits of scraps, carefully season them, and stuff them into plump sausages, he’ll sure as hell eat them. And enjoy them too. (Dammit.) But you know what? Sometimes, there’s nothing better than a foolproof, finely marbled filet.

dad's sprouts

Brussels sprouts will likely never be the food of choice for a 4-year old, but my introduction to the sulfurous miniature cabbages was less than ideal. Learning to cook in communal houses filled with blue-collar hippie dudes, my dad's early go-to recipes consisted mainly of hearty soups prepared in restaurant-sized pots. These methods translated to our family of three with occasional success, as leftover chili can be acceptably resurrected as nachos, chili dogs, or stuffed potatoes, especially when layered with shredded cheese. But the day he came home with a bushel of bargain Brussels spouts, mom and I were rightly wary. It wasn't so much the resulting bowl of murky green soup that we were served for dinner, but the oozing plastic tubs of the stuff that filled the freezer for far too long that still haunts me.

In the twenty-five-or-so years since his infamous lumpy concoction, he has refined his culinary skills and now manages to whip up the vegetable that turned my stomach into something nearly gourmet-- though the quantity is still impressive!

Dad's Brussels sprouts

As many Brussels sprouts as you can get your hands on, for the cheapest price you can find; up to an including negotiating with your produce provider
Several slices of bacon
A few shallots
Balsamic vinegar
Sea salt and fresh pepper

Meticulously rinse, trim, and half (or quarter, depending on how much patience mom has with you hogging the kitchen) each sprout and boil until tender but not falling apart. Drain and set aside.

In the biggest cast iron pan you have (but not the one you left on the campsite at the top of the mountain), fry bacon until crisp and aromatic enough to lure the cats to your ankles. Remove and drain, sampling as much as necessary, just to ensure it is top-notch. Crumble and set aside for later.

Thinly slice a pile of shallots and soften in the bacon grease, periodically shaking the pan like the chefs on TV. Add the Brussels spouts and cook until they're, you know, done. But not too done. Season with salt and pepper and finish with balsamic. Toss in the bacon at the last minute.

Oh, and make it your own.

a meat journey and the beer trek.

Coercion and manipulation are the surest signs of love, as long as they are thinly veiled as "encouragement." After nudging the man to write about his affinity for expensive, esoteric craft beers, I've realized that no matter how I spin it, my motives for trying to get him to write an incomplete sentence and snap a quick bottle picture "to share his genius with the world" are not pure. Instead, they are not at all unlike buying him a book for his birthday with the hope that he will suddenly devour stacks of novels and spout philosophical quotes in casual conversations.

But beer is his passion, his escape; his vehicle by which to explore the country and the world while relaxing after a long day's work. The experiences of going to out of the way pubs and hole in the wall liquor stores have not escaped me even though I am deprived of the actual tasting of the beers, as an unfortunate wheat-and-nut allergy has left me to be a stout-sniffer and branding criticizer. I will, however, take a bit of credit for pressing him to peek into every bar we pass and make late-night runs to party stores even though his obsession is slowly creeping out of his beer fridge and into my sewing area; soon it will encroach upon my art corner and meat storage unit.

What's a beer teetotaler to do whilst supporting an expanding hobby with a high alcohol content? Make small talk with the over-eager college boy gulping happy hour hefeweizen ("It's OK honey, I'm sure he was gay...") while her man waxes on about last year's bourbon barrel-aged bottles with bartenders? Or perhaps make note of the details in the markets we've entered? I have eyed the extra-long counter piled exclusively with red plastic cups next to the imposing touch-screen virtual bartender on the UCSB campus uneasily, thinking of 19-year old sorority girls with poor judgment; daydreamed of the visionary Highland Park 7/11 employee who makes his mark selling $25 bottles of last year's Christmas ales next to the ubiquitous rotating hot dog stand to the sound of mariachi music; and chatted and shuffled to distract cashiers at gourmet stores from questioning sales of unlabeled 12-ounces while quickly shoving them into brown paper bags. All in the name of encouragement. And meat.

See, we have a whole schtick going-- and neither of us can bear to deprive the other of our respective passions for brews and burgers. Supportive we are of weekend trips to breweries and butcher shops, of gifting each other with beer- and bacon-of-the-month club memberships, and of running like hell to burn off the calories. But where will the line be drawn? Will we keep playing this coy game until one of us decides to really pursue our sidetracks as something gainful? Can I turn a blind eye if he decides our refrigerator would live a better life as a mega-sized kegorator because I'll jump on the opportunity to turn his gadget nook into a pen for plump pink pig?