How the reality didn’t match the dream when we moved our kids to Argentina
My kids were pleading for some form of overpriced airport food, as we sat at Gate D7 awaiting our flight, however I couldn’t be bothered. I was too busy getting in some last minute day dreaming.
I read a book called The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton in the lead up to our trip. In the book, de Botton devotes a whole section on the anticipation of travelling, and the bliss that is often found in the planning, the reading of guidebooks, or looking at photos of famous landmarks and imagining yourself wandering amongst them.
We’d been anticipating our trip to Argentina for well over a year, and it has indeed been blissful. I spent many hours imagining us becoming locals, waving to our neighbours in bohemian Palermo, reading La Nación while sipping coffee at a sunny cafe, or playing baseball at the local parque after an afternoon asado.
The Art of Travel goes on to talk about how the real experience of travelling sometimes does not measure up with the anticipation. There are some things that you just don’t think about when imagining a glorious trip ahead, like arguing with a taxi driver who’s tried to rip you off, or sitting on a bus without air conditioning with your slowly melting family. I’d been thinking about this for some time as well, and as we sat in Miami listening to the people chatting in Spanish all around us, I almost did not want to get on the plane. I didn’t want the anticipation and the bliss to end. I also knew that hopping on the plane meant we were one step closer to our whole trip being over, however that was just me being a bit glass-half-full.
My spell was broken by an announcement that flight 907 to Buenos Aires was boarding.
Buenos Aires, Argentina. Capital of the second largest country in South America by size, it is often referred to as the Paris of South America due to its similar architecture and the way the city is arranged around grand boulevards. Paris did not come to mind as I watched the neighbourhoods pass by from a taxi on the way to our new home in the part of the city called Palermo: Flores, Caballito, Chacabuco Park, Villa Crespo. We had decided to make Palermo our home for two months after consulting with a number of people we knew who had either lived in BsAs (as Buenos Aires is referred to in short) or had spent significant time there. It’s interesting how people with some sort of connection to a place come out of the woodwork when the news that you’re going to be there makes it’s way out into the world. Monica, the owner of our little 5-room flat on Calle Gral M Soler 5161 — 5161 Soler to us — was waiting for us.
Monica is a solidly built Porteño whom we think lives around the corner from us, though we cannot be entirely sure as we’ve never actually had a conversation with her. She speaks only Spanish, and so rapidly that I can usually only pick up one word in 10. Upon arrival she handed us a couple of oversized bronze keys that looked like they could be for a dungeon somewhere which we perhaps missed in the Airbnb listing, and gave us a password for the wifi. I attempted to ask her where we should go shopping for groceries, and she responded by telling us not to bother with Carrefour and to go to the Chinese instead. I followed up by asking about getting a SIM card, and she wrote down an address for something called Movie Star. This wisdom in hand, she departed.
Leafy Palermo is populated largely by hipsters. It is full of trendy cafes, food that is gluten free, coffee roasters, a sizeable number of cervesa artesenal (craft beer) joints, and the holy grail, a coffee roaster / craft beer joint. There’s plenty of graffiti, and you can take a step toward fulfilling the wildest dream of every person who’s never actually lived in a trailer by getting your haircut in one and paying $30 for the privelege.
It has everything the hip, young, and trendy could want, especially those with plenty of disposable income to use buying ice cream bars shaped like The Incredible Hulk from one of the artisanal helado (ice cream) shops. We’ll fit right in.
While hipsters form the largest element of the population, they are followed closely in number by dogs. That said, Palermo shares commonalities with the trendy neighbourhood in any big city — Fitzroy in Melbourne, Brooklyn in New York City —only it’s got more dog poop. Many of our neighbours are dogs, one of whom causes general pandemonium when other dogs happen by. There also never ceases to be a good deal of howling coming from all directions when an ambulance goes by, which happens once or twice a day.
Needing to focus on kitting out our new home with some basic food and other important things, we focused day 1 in Palermo on shopping. Not being sure about Monica’s Chinese recommendation, we shopped instead at a place called Disco, which on this afternoon was only occupied by old women buying avocados and tomatoes. Regardless, I love shopping in other countries, and wondering over all the new and odd products that one doesn’t see at home. The boys found the idea of bagged milk fascinating, while Katie and I found the extensive selection of cheap wine far more interesting.
We awoke on Day 2, ready to do it all again. Katie and I were eager to explore more of our new neighbourhood, and to find somewhere to shop other than Disco.
“Exploring?” both boys asked. “Why can’t we actually go somewhere, or just stay here? Just walking around is boring.” Katie and I thought this absurd — what else would we do after just moving to a new place? We dragged the boys out for another walk, but not without a further comment from Henry, which stung: “I’m regretting this trip already,” he said.
The grumbling did not subside much. We took a slight detour to the Botanic Gardens which are located nearby. This did provide some respite, however it was short lived. We walked through the section devoted to Australia, and the huge gum trees of all varieties sparked nostalgia amongst us all, as we imagined ourselves back home bush walking on a summer day.
That night before bed, I chatted with the boys about how they were doing. It was obvious they weren’t adjusting very well.
“I don’t want to be in South America for four months,” Oscar said, staring at the ceiling.
“Why?” I asked.
“It makes me feel uncomfortable.” This started a long discussion with he and Henry about what we’d be doing in BsAs for the next two months. It was then that I realised that I hadn’t completely shared with them what our new lifestyle would look like, which could understandably make one uncomfortable. More importantly, I realised that I wasn’t entirely sure how we were going to fill our days and thus what our new lifestyle would be in the first place.
I did have a day dreamy version of how we’d live in BsAs, something I’d been thinking about as part of the long months of anticipation. I thought that we’d spend part of our day walking the wonderful avenues and getting to know the city, afterward picking up something nice and fresh from our new amigo Juan at the local shop to cook for dinner. This would be followed by a bit of happy home schooling, and then some quiet time reading and writing until dinner. Spanish classes would of course be included, along with some form of exercise to keep us all fit.
It was clear to me at this point, and probably should have been sooner, that 10 and 12 year old boys don’t find much joy in daily trips to the supermarket and could probably think of nothing they’d like to do less. Walking around with no destination in mind and an afternoon curled up with a good book would fall a close second and third on a list of meh activities. Spending extensive time with Mom and Dad would round out the top four and on a good day could compete for one of the top spots, meaning ultimately that we were failing completely.
“What can we do to make things better, more comfortable?” I asked them. Realising my folly, I was grasping for straws.
“Can you hold my hand more when we go walking?” Oscar asked, which made me almost melt. “It’s busy, noisy, and there’s too much dog poop,” he said, grimly.
“Absolutely,” I said, giving him a hug. “Henry, any requests that would make you feel better?”
“Leave me at home when you go out,” he sneered.
“Nope. Anything else?” He didn’t have any other bright sparks, so I left things at that. I hoped that our frank discussion could set things in a better direction, however was not confident. The next morning, my fears were confirmed.
Day 3 started with Henry refusing to leave the house.
We tried to remain positive, constructively encouraging and convincing him that we wouldn’t be gone long, the weather was good, walking was good for him, etc., however this tact failed completely. “I’m not going,” he said defiantly, firmly.
“You are, and it is not an option,” Katie told him. Our patience in having to cajole and pander each time we needed to leave the house was gone.
“I’m not!” he yelled and escaped to his room after throwing his toothbrush in the bathroom. I stifled a cringe at seeing his toothbrush on the bathroom floor, and quickly moved on to inform him that we’d be leaving the house every day, and that he needed to get used to it. At that he yelled something incomprehensible and slammed his bedroom door so hard the stained glass panel above the door almost broke.
“I don’t want to be here!” he shouted. “I want to go back to the US!”
At that point, I couldn’t help but agree with him. Our final week in the US had been an orgy of donuts, local breweries, great dinners, and riding go-karts, not to mention a completely unnecessary (yet somewhat enjoyable) pedicure.
It had been great, but it wasn’t real. It was vacation. This was real life.
And so far we were failing at our new life. The anticipation was most definitely over.
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