One in Every City

The title for today's entry refers to two things that I have found in pretty much every city I've visted and/or lived in; one good and one not-so-good. The first is the fantastic art museum we visted today in Nueva Cordoba; the latter is an obnoxious British man.

After setting no less than four alarms this morning, we finally managed to make it to breakfast. At last! Fresh cafe con leche (gratis) and some delicious pan put me in a better mood right from the start. I felt inspired to speak spanish todo de dia, which I did, mas o menos, without any major hang-ups. I sucessfully ordered food, gave directions to our surly cab driver and even inquired as to the price of some beautiful boots that I saw in a shop window. Even more impressive, I managed to leave the boot shop without buying them! At the end of the day, Pat complimented my Spanish, and I had to agree for once- I had a very good day and I think I learned a lot. My, how breakfast changes things!

Our destination for today was Nueva Cordoba, the other side of town. This area contains the Universidad de Nacional, several beautiful cathedrals, many many restaurants, cafes, heladarias, and a surplus of museums, high-rise apartments and the largest park in the city: Parque Sarimiento. Orginally, we thought to take a cab, but after our rigorous training in Buenos Aires, we felt sufficiently conditioned to walk the distance. After the midday bustle through Vieja Cordoba's many crowded shopping districts (bursting with carnicieras), we enjoyed the more leisurely pace and realatively wide open spaces of Nueva Cordoba. One of the first sights we encountered was the impressive facade of the Parroquia Sagrado Corazon de Jesus de los Capuchinos. You should all check out the plethora of pictures I took here in order to appreciate the quintessential gothic construction, complete with gargoyles. Another interesting element of this building was the one missing steeple, which was purposefully omitted to signify "human imperfection", or so claims my Lonely Planet.

After stopping for some compulsory empanadas (my new obession are Jamon y Queso, served warm) and kiwi gelato, we came upon the Museo Evita, one of several fine art museums in Cordoba. Making our way through four floors of Argentinian art, I feel that I learned so much about the history and psyche of this country. Most of the art was distinctly sorrowful, reflecting the dark and troubled history of the country. From graphic depictions of the hardships of the first colonists, to a deeply disturbing series called "Manos Anonimas" by Carlos Alonso which detailed the horrific history of military dissapearnces in Argentina from 1976 to the mid 80's, I really began to understand the darkness inherent in the Argentine psyche. And yet, the museum was housed in a flamboyantly French palatial estate, complete with dangling chandeliers, immaculate gardens and brightly painted walls. The contrast struck me as very indicative of the delicate balance between dark and bright, sorrow and joie de virve that I see all around me in Argentina.

We returned to our hostel (by cab, we aren't THAT well conditioned), where we cooked another delicious meal and retired to the terrazia to relax. Unfortunately, we were joined by one of the less savory fixtures of traveling abroad: a pretentious, obnoxious British man. Okay, to give the guy credit, he has moved around a bit, but the way he cut off all my sentences, insisted that South America was "dirty" and "disease-ridden" and attempted to enlighten us about the correctness of the new Arizona immigration policy, I can tell you very clearly: he is British at heart. After living in India, I became very wary of British travelers. In India, most of the British people I encountered maintained an unfounded colonial attitude about India- despite the fact that India has not been a British colony for nearly a century at this point. I was put off by their sense of entitlement, their insistence on belittling the host country, and their very obnoxious attempts to side with W. Bush. Since then, I tend to steer clear of British travelers, especially the older men, at all costs while abroad. I won't hold my breath, but I really, really hope that I will meet some more likeable British folk at some point down here. In the meantime, I plan to give Senor Britanica a wide berth, and maybe reconsider working at one of the many British-run language schools in Argentina.