Voluntary Exiles
Argentina's old world charm, finding freedom abroad and other Sunday musings...
“Where liberty is, there is my country.”
~ Benjamin Franklin
Joel Bowman, with today’s Note From the End of the World: Buenos Aires, Argentina...
Explore. Experience. Express.
Such has been our unofficial family motto since we can recall, guiding our vagabond troop on annual migrations and spiriting us to distant climes around the world.
Our family of three has been living out of carry-on suitcases these past four months. Long have we roamed, from sleepy coastal towns in our native Australia to frenetic megatropolises in Southeast Asia... death-defying tuk tuk rides through bustling Bangkok traffic to lazy afternoons cruising Ha Long Bay... gas station beef jerky stops in Arkansas to Siesta Beach sundowners in Sarasota...and plenty in between.
Needless to say, it was one heckuva ride! (We hope you enjoyed our meandering musings along the way...)
As you might imagine, it was no small pleasure to finally unpack. Indeed, the simple act of pulling on a different shirt inspired a welling of joy and emotion, to say nothing of opening a brand new pack of socks!
And now, with 8 countries... 6 US states... and ~20,000 miles of planes, trains and automobiles in our rearview mirror, we settle into our familiar, quotidian routine, relishing the time to think, to reflect.
Life on the road is so “in the moment,” we barely have time for such modest luxuries as a complete thought. Every new town, every strange dish, every gurgling language and cultural quirk and arresting vista brings forth such a cascade of novelty, we are often overwhelmed. Each evening our head hits the pillow, befuddled by strange stimuli, bemused by discordant reveries and discombobulated by peculiar perspectives we had never before considered, much less assimilated into our evolving worldview.
Back in our apartment... with our books... our records... our comfy reading chair, we repose. There is a certain quiet. A pause. At last, we can... exhale.
A Life of Dignity
As something of a voluntary exile, the first question one reflects on when settling back into life in a “foreign” country is, “Why here?” The obvious corollary – why not there? – is seldom far behind. After all, to our compatriots, Argentina must appear just as counterintuitive as, say, Albania... or Algeria... or Angola... to say nothing of the rest of the alphabet.
Why the Paris of the South, then, and not the Buenos Aires of the North? One has to be somewhere, of course. But why anywhere in particular? We are by no means the first itinerant head-scratcher to ponder the “geographical conundrum.”
When the American author, Henry Miller, moved to Paris in the 1930s, he was already 40 years old. Miller said he made the move so that he could regain a “life of dignity.” Compared to his hometown of New York City, la Ville Lumière was (at that time) cheap and afforded the artist a kind of freedom that had somehow eluded him back home.
Miller spent a decade in the French capital, during which time he wrote prolifically and enjoyed la bonne vie. When he eventually returned to the States, he penned “The Air-conditioned Nightmare,” an account of his impression of life in a country he could no longer understand or appreciate. To him, it seemed sterile and pointless. Absurd, even.
Wrote Miller of his experience:
In a few months I was down south at the home of an old friend. I spent a good part of the Summer there, then returned to New York. My father was still alive. I visited him regularly at his home in Brooklyn, talked about the old days in New York (the '80s and 90's), met the neighbors, listened to the radio (always that damned "Information Please!"), discussed the nature of the prostate gland, the peculiarities of the bladder, the New Deal which was still new to me and rather goofy and meaningless. "That Roosevelt!" I can hear the neighbors saying, as if they were saying "That Hitler!"
A great change had come over America, no doubt about that. There were greater ones coming, I felt certain. We were only witnessing the prelude to something unimaginable. Everything was cock-eyed, and getting more so. Maybe we would end up on all fours, gibbering like baboons. Something disastrous was in store - everybody felt it. Yes, America had changed. The lack of resilience, the feeling of hopelessness, the resignation, the skepticism, the defeatism - I could scarcely believe my ears at first. And over it all that fatuous veneer of optimism - only now decidedly cracked.
What Miller perhaps recognized was a “system” of which he was no longer a part. Abroad, he was liberated from the norms and expectations of mere existence at home. Shifting status symbols... arbitrary social standards... pointless political posturing... the proverbial rat race; all that belonged to another world, baggage on a train he had long since alighted.
For Miller, it was not simply the dark and foreboding future he perceived but, as Henry Thoreau put it a century and a half earlier, the way by which “most men tend to lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.”
Old World Charm
Each man will define a “life of dignity” after his own fashion and, with a stroke of good fortune and a little imagination, discover a place where he can pursue his own happiness. Here in Buenos Aires, we have found such a place... at least, for now.
Sure, the economy is a shambles... the politics a mess... and the peso (still) among the fastest inflating currencies on the planet. (Although, as regular readers know, that’s all in flux, even as we type these words to you this very morning.)
Still, there’s plenty more to life than the ongoing disaster of the public realm. In fact, one might argue it’s the private realm that really matters in the here and now.
Part of this city’s charm lies in the “backwardness” of the place. There are no televisions blaring out in restaurants. No smartphone screens at the kitchen table. And nobody goes to dinner before 9pm (tourists excepted). Indeed, it is not uncommon to see a young family enter a restaurant at 10 or 11 o’clock on a “school night.”
On which point, families almost always dine together. Big families, too. Italian style. With lots of gesticulations and enthusiastic crosstalk. In most places, there is no such thing as a “kids menu.” Children eat what their parents eat. Or not.
When in the many parks and plazas that perforate the city, all children know that, if they are lost, they need only find and inform the closest adult who, knowing the drill, places the child on their shoulders and claps loudly. Surrounding adults then do the same until, in concentric circles, the commotion emanates until the relevant parent realizes they are missing a kiddo. No Child Protective Services necessary. Just honest, reliable community.
Besides all that, there is a designated “friends day,” which the Argentines take very seriously. Amigos call each other, with unreserved affection, “gordo” (fatty), “loco” (crazy) and “pela” (baldy). Nobody gets “offended” or whines about it. Men embrace one another heartily, offering a kiss on the cheek, then dance the dark and brooding tango with the prettiest lady in the room.
An older, worthier generation still wears hats. And ties on a Sunday. Adults still read physical books in cafes. Often big, thick tomes, with nary a vampire or wizard to be found among the dog-eared pages. The term “woke” is simply something you did before you got out of bed and, as Oscar Wilde once proclaimed, a gentleman seldom goes back to sleep on the same day he woke up.
Oh, and it’s Ground Zero for what we’ve been calling the “Greatest Political Experiment of Our Time.” More about which, in your archived Notes, below...
And now for your Notes From the End of the Week…
What do you reckon, dear reader...?
Where is your Shangri-La, your happy place, where you feel at liberty to pursue your own life of dignity? Feel free to comment, below…
Meanwhile, we are off to enjoy another of Argentina’s great traditions: the Sunday asado. Lo de Jesús is a classic parrilla located on a leafy, cobblestoned street in the historic Palermo barrio. The steaks are juicy and thick cut and the fried potatoes à la provençale are our not to be missed. Also, bonarda. Did we mention the bonarda?
Whatever you’re up to this weekend, we hope you find time to explore…experience…and express.
Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind, please feel free to share our humble publication with anyone you think might enjoy the message of free markets…free minds…and free people.
We’re awfully close to something of a subscriber landmark for these Notes. Your act may well tip us over the top, as they say.
Stay tuned for more Notes From the End of the World…
Cheers,
Joel Bowman
P.S. Special thanks as always to our dear Notes members, whose generous support kindles our creative fires down here at the End of the World.
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As you feed us more insights about the grand experiment being conducted in that western down under, it becomes ever more apparent that, as Judy mentions below, we no longer have the cultural awareness to reconstitute anything like it here in the U.S.. To even try to imagine a collective awareness of the importance of our children, to the extent that a nameless faceless crowd would instinctively do the right thing and then simply go about their day, seems utterly astonishing to these jaded eyes.
And yet, the speed at which the economic metamorphosis has occurred in your world shows that if people are feeling "secure in their personal effects" it could happen anywhere...no matter how hopeless it looked to Mr. Miller in the 40's.
Maybe it isn't over yet. With Mr. Kennedy being given air now, and serious attention given to our children concerning dangers very few of us knew anything about until literally Friday last, perhaps a new kind of energy will grip parents who were, up to this very moment, feeling hopeless about theirs and their children's futures.
Is the universe throwing us a bone?
Hemingway had Italy; Lake Maggiore is superlatively beautiful. He had Paris, Spain, Africa, Key West, Cuba and was a traveler.
I always looked for a quiet place; I liked Latin America since my time in Peace Corps, Honduras. The David Galland accounts of Cafayate were intriguing.
I am ensconced in Venice, Fl … Satisfied. Calm in my house; comfortable in my chair, surrounded by a semblance of nature.
It is a very good place for my grandson who goes to Venice High. We have Friday Night Lights big time. It was quite satisfying sitting in the stands thinking that a Time Machine sent me back to 1960. It was a joyful moment.
Time squelches the travel bug, that and the realization “There is nothing new under the sun.”
And, we can travel the easy way, through you.