Thanksgiving Memories

Today is Thanksgiving.

I sit here on the couch, wrapped up in a lovely Paw Patrol blanket bestowed upon me by my lovely Little Bonus One, sipping a small cup of coffee.  I can only have small amounts of caffeine since this year I'm pregnant. I've got the laptop in my lap. My husband, sitting to my left, is playing a game of South Park on his phone. My Older Little One sits to my right playing Forza on the Xbox.  From my seat, I can look outside through the blinds on the door and see that it is overcast.  It's raining right now and will rain all day, making it a nice, chilly, fall day.  Luckily, it is not a heavy rain, but since it will rain all day, we are projected to get several inches of rain.

Because today is Thanksgiving, this year I thankfully do not have to work at all this week. I am very blessed to have accepted a new teaching position for this academic year and have my accustomed vacation time.  It's pretty awesome.

This time last year, I had to work Thanksgiving and Black Friday.  Dexter, my Bonus Little One, had the worst ear infection of his life. His fever had spiked to 104 degrees during the night, making sleep impossible.  Jake was sick and had it coming out both ends. I couldn't stay home and nurse either of them during the day, although I had been running between bedrooms every night that week.  We didn't even get a turkey that day, which is fine. I think I made Thanksgiving rice for both of them to eat while sick for Thanksgiving 2016.  Despite the crappy situation, it was certainly memorable. I was thankful that both of them began to feel better later on that day.

Thanksgiving with my parents and family has always been memorable, though.

As is the case with most Americans, unless your family is indigenous to the area, my family immigrated here during the 1900s.  Each one of my grandparents came from a different country. They brought their own country's traditions with them and integrated them into their new American lives here.

One memory that sticks out for me is when my paternal grandmother, or Abuelita as I liked to call her, came here in the late 1960s. She lived here for 20+ years without really speaking any English, save "Hello" and "Wrong Number", but she still managed an attempt at making her version of Thanksgiving dinner. The last Dinner she made for us was in November 1990, right before she had a series of strokes that eventually ended her life.  I was seven years old. I remember that we all went to her house in KCMO.

I don't remember her house looking that nice when I was a kid.

It was cold that day. My mom and I sat in the living room with Papá Giovanni and Tía Anita and my Tia Maggi. She had Papi and Tio Giuseppe help her take the turkey out of the oven.  One thing I remember about the spread was that there was white rice, beans, salad, spaghetti con pesto, and a purple turkey.

As I mentioned before, my grandmother may not have spoken English, nor understood the reasoning behind the American obsession with celebrating certain holidays with gusto, but she was still going to try!  Her preferred type of meat would have been chicken or what I like to call "Shoe Leather Steak" which my father still prefers to consume to this day.  Still, she cooked the turkey to the specifications laid out by my mom, albeit one little detail. The reason it was purple was that she had basted it with red wine.

If anyone knows anything about basting poultry, you know you don't baste it with RED wine. White wine is best.  My mother recalled that she had requested a slice of turkey breast since Mom doesn't like dark meat or anything but the breast.  However, my mom did not realize a woman so steeped in her own Ecuadorean culture was not going to let a little Americana dictate WHAT kind of cut she wanted. Rather, she was going to give the best parts of the bird to her sons which in this case, was going to be the breast.  Mom said she sat there, miffed because her request had fallen on deaf ears. It wasn't until my mom recounted the story for me recently that I had to explain that it didn't matter what my mom wanted. Men in Latino cultured are placed above the woman's wants and needs in many households.  Even if the breast if purple, it was going to be given to the men in the family.

Another Thanksgiving about ten years after my grandmother had passed away, my sister Sandy came from Illinois for a visit.  She practically made the entire Feast from scratch and by herself. Mom contributed the green bean casserole.  Papi set up the table, which had been borrowed from Mom's coworker.  The table was an old card table that sagged in the middle by itself.

Mom said that we needed to use the fine cutlery and the wedding china that she had received as a gift from their wedding in 1982.  I set the table with the dishes and silverware. Sandy had me mash and cream the potatoes while she made and dressed the bird with homemade stuffing.  (Sandy, by the way, is an excellent cook.)

Mom said that we were going to have Thanksgiving Dinner at 2 p.m.  Since it was just going to be the four of us, Sandy, myself and my parents, we really weren't going to be doing anything special nor having other people come over.  Mom didn't even hop into the shower until 1:45.  One thing about my mom is that she takes FOREVER to do things.

Once the food was ready, Sandy, my dad and I place the items on the table. The table began to wobble and sag even more from the weight of the platters and casserole dishes.

Two o'clock rolls around and of course, my mom is STILL in the shower. 2:15 comes around and mom hasn't even left the bathroom.  2:30 arrives and my dad is pissed.

"Fuck this!  I'm HONGRY!" and with that, my father rips a leg off the bird and begins gnawing on it.
Sandy and I look at each other and dig into the meal and start eating when all of a sudden, my mom finally comes down the hall wearing a nice dress.

"ugh!  That is NOT FAIR! I said to be ready by 2 o'clock and you're already eating without me!" exclaimed my mother.

"What do you want us to do?!  You said 2:00 and now eets 2:45!!!  I'm hongry, dammit!" shouted my father in response.

My mom pouted and shook her fists at us for not waiting for her.  She sat and grumbled throughout the entire meal and still couldn't understand why we didn't wait for her, even though she was 45 minutes late and we were starving.

Eventually, I would spend Thanksgiving dinner with my high school friend Misty and her family since after that disastrous card table incident, my parents would then go to "Old Country Buffet" for any major holiday dinner. 

We would still see the Plaza Lighting Ceremony, which is one of the most beautiful light displays for the holidays that I have ever seen.

Photo from KansasCity.com

The last time I went to see the Plaza Lighting Ceremony was Thanksgiving 2003, the one before I moved to Florida in 2004.  My friend Misty, her cousins Chris and Shawn, piled in my car after dinner to go see the Lights.  However, everyone and their brother had the same idea, so we were stuck in traffic for about 2 hours.  We never ended up seeing the Lights because Shawn kept complaining that he had to pee. We were on our way back to Misty's house when some jerk in an old Suburban with high beams kept flashing his lights in my rear-view mirror.  Annoyed with the fact that I was being blinded, I shook my fist at the driver behind me.  Well...that upset him to no end and he ended up following us all over Mission Hills, KS.  Being totally freaked out, we were about to call the cops when I ran through a stop sign.  Perhaps it was a divine moment, but a cop was sitting in the dark at the intersection and pulled me over. I explained what had happened to the police officer.  She inquired as to why we hadn't called the cops.  I explained, "We were just about to when you flashed your lights at us!  My friend in the backseat also has to pee really, really badly."  Shawn kept repeating, "I have to pee!!!" in the backseat over and over again.  The cop lady was really nice about it and let me off with a warning.  Meanwhile, the jerks behind us slowly drove past us and gave us the Bird and then drove off quickly.

Saint Augustine, Florida is about 30 minutes from where I live in Jacksonville. The first Thanksgiving I spent here was in 2004 without my family. It was strange, but also exciting to be "on my own".  It was the first time I had ever had "Sweet Potato Soufflé".  It was AWESOME!  Later on, I spent the evening wandering around St. Augustine's version of the Plaza Lights, "Nights of Lights".   Of course, I'm still partial to the Plaza Lights, but Nights of Lights is truly beautiful.  Anything stationary is dripping with lightbulbs, albeit plain white ones.

View from the Marina - Photo from VisitStAugustine.com

Thanksgiving 2009 was AWFUL!  We spent it with an aunt who LOVES to be immersed in the American culture, being that she had married an American man. Unfortunately, she did not have one iota of Turkey baking sense. She had stuck a 16 lb. frozen turkey in the oven at 220 degrees only two hours before dinner was supposed to start. The turkey was also stuffed with the following ingredients: ground beef, cubed ham from Sav-A-Lot that was had pink dye running from it, and canned peas.  Apparently, that stuffing was the bomb diggity.  Just remembering it now just makes me want to barf.  I remember that GC was about 2 years old and had been toddling about her house.  Tia had invited one of her nephews that was studying in South Carolina to drive down for the holiday, so he was excited to try his first American Thanksgiving.  When I arrived at her house, she was sitting in her massage chair and had exclaimed in Spanish, "Ay Renata!  Estoy super felíz que estás!  Por favor, ayudame con el pavo porque no sé como cocinarlo."

When I opened the oven door, a frozen turkey greeted my presence. I asked Tia how long she had baked the turkey for. She had mentioned she had only placed it frozen two hours before in the oven. When I looked at the temperature she had the oven set at, I noticed it only read 215 degrees.  Under my breath, I remember telling GC's dad, "Oh holy hell...this is going to be a horrible meal".  Her heart was in it, but not her skills.

The following year, in 2010, was one of the last times that I made the turkey for my ex's family. His family, being Dominican, didn't really buy into the whole Turkey dinner thing. They preferred roast pork with beans and rice and salad. Being that I also did NOT want a repeat of what had happened the year before, I was determined to make all the food myself.  I woke up at 4 a.m. to prepare the brine for the turkey.  I made stuffing, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes with gravy.  I also prepared the ingredients for what I was going to baste the turkey in as well as stuff the turkey for its time in the oven.  I made rosemary garlic butter, wine basting sauce, and chopped apples, oranges, lemons, garlic bulbs, onions and shoved them inside the bird.  I baked the bird for about 6 hours, basting every so often to make sure the turkey remained juicy.

Once everything was ready, I told the family that dinner was ready.  They ate everything but the stuffing.  Tia's American husband/ex-husband, Tom, walked up to me and said in his Southern drawl, "Hey Rey-nata!  That was the best damn turkey I've ever had in my life!" Even my ex, who told me he hated turkey, said that he actually enjoyed the meal and that it was probably some of the best turkey he had ever had.

Anyways...still, Thanksgiving has always been memorable...

This year, we plan on going to a friends house for dinner tonight and then come home. The weather may keep us inside, but I am going to get my stuffing this year! Baby Luca demands it!!!

Hopefully next year, I can go home for another Thanksgiving with all three of my kids and it will be fun and memorable.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

The Argentine Adventures - June 2015: Parte Trois

As I was saying in the second installment of this story, I hopped on the bus around 12 noon. I was scheduled to arrive in Bahía Blanca by 9 p.m. which would have allowed me to take a shower and then eat dinner with my friends.

The bus broke down 20 minutes later.

I had fallen into a deep sleep when all of a sudden, I felt the bus lurch from side to side. I woke up to hear the driver say in Spanish that the bus had broken down and that we all needed to get off the bus while they figured out what was going on.

All the passengers stood at the side of the road while the drivers opened hatches and hoods and lids to this place and that place to figure out why the bus had broken down.

I must have looked like Death Warmed Over because the baggage handler took one look at me and said, "Vos ves super mal!" (You look awful!)

I chuckled, because I am sure I had bags and black circles under my eyes and my hair was already most certainly greasy. I'm pretty sure I smelled a little bad too.

After about two hours on the side of the road, the drivers announced to all of the passengers that the bus was not going to run anymore and that we would all be placed on another bus that was on its way.

I remember thinking to myself, "Seriously?! This is the kind of luck that I have!  I'm supposed to be in Bahía Blanca by 9 p.m. tonight! Now I won't get there until near midnight!"

I sent my friend, Ale, a WhatsApp message indicating that I would be running late because we were broken down on the side of the road.

She sent me a message saying 'Welcome to Argentina!".

The baggage handler went over to the baggage hatch and began taking all the luggage out.  I grabbed my two heavy suitcases and dragged them through the tall, green grass towards the new bus we were supposed to get on.

I walked over to the new baggage handler and showed him my suitcases.  I explained I had run out of money at the airport and that I didn't have any money to tip him.  He waved me off and told me not to worry about it.

I walked over to the ticket handler for the new bus and asked if seating was assigned on this bus.

"Nah! Ni en pedo!" (No! Don't even worry about it!) he said.

I walked up to the top level of the new bus, found a seat towards the back and promptly sat down and fell asleep again.

This new bus had a few more scheduled stops than the previous bus, which annoyed me a little. However, I was still grateful that this new bus was able to pick up new passengers and that I would still get to my intended destination, albeit a few hours later than I had wanted.

Each time the bus stopped, I awoke to find new passengers arrive or that former passengers left. Pretty much most people left me alone to sleep, which I was incredibly grateful for, since by that point I had not had a good night's sleep on the plane and was pretty much a zombie.

Sometime in the afternoon, near tea time (5 p.m.) one of the baggage handlers announced to the passengers that we would all play a game for those wanting to participate.  He handed out bingo cards to those who wished to play. I grabbed my bingo card and grabbed a pen from my purse and began to play.

The winning prize was a bottle of white wine.  I decided that because I was going to my friend Ale's house and that because it was her little brother's birthday, I would win that bottle of wine!

I kept praying, "Dear God, please! I want that bottle of wine!"

God answered my prayers because literally five minutes later, I won the bottle!  I don't remember the winning streak, but I raised my hand and shouted "BINGO!!!".  The baggage handler walked up the aisle and checked my card.  "Tenemos una ganadora!  Cuál es tu nombre?"   (We have a winner!  What's your name?)  he asked.

"Soy Renata," I announced to the rest of the passengers.

"Le presentamos Renata desde...?" (We present to you all, Renata, from...?) he asked.

"Soy de los EEUU!" (I'm from the U.S.)  I announced.

Cool, he said. We have a foreigner on the bus!  Un aplauso para Renata!

After I won my prize, I stayed awake, because since everyone now knew that I was American, they would have pounced on the chance to chat or rob me or both.

Around 8 or 9 p.m., we had a scheduled stop at a little town about an hour or two from Bahía Blanca.  Honestly, it would have taken less time were the bus ride a direct ride from Ezeiza to Bahía Blanca, but alas...there were stops to make, people to get on and off the bus, etc.

Of course, when I first boarded the bus, I asked if there were assigned seats just in case I would have sat in someone's seat. I was told not to worry about it. Alas, the last scheduled stop we made before arriving in Bahía Blanca, more people boarded the bus, and wouldn't you know it?  I was in someone's assigned seat.

She walked up the aisle and looked at me.

"Estás en mi asiento," she sternly told me.  (You're in my spot.)

I apologized and explained that they had told me not to worry about it, that I would gladly move or she could choose another seat as there were plenty of seats around us.  I didn't anticipate any extra guests boarding the bus as we already backing out of our parking spot at the terminal and the next destination was my final destination.

She told me not to worry about it, but promptly sat down in the empty seat next to mine. I must have looked really exhausted by this point. She made some small talk with me for about 20 minutes, but because I was tired, I didn't really want to chat.

She also noticed that I had an accent because she asked where I was from.

"The U.S.," I mentioned.

"You know, you ought to be careful and not travel by yourself here in Argentina. You could get robbed, " she informed me.

Ok, so yes, I am an American, but because my father is Ecuadorian and has taught me not to trust anyone anywhere. I have my eyes peeled everywhere and I am also pretty aware of my surroundings.

I thanked her for her concern and mentioned that I had already been robbed at gunpoint in Costa Rica in 2006, but that I had had no money to give to the perpetrator and obviously lived to tell the tale.

Her eyes got big and she gasped.

I told her that I ended up okay and that since then, I kept a keen eye on things.

She nodded and then began to listen to music on her phone.

I also proceeded to place my headphones in my ears and listened to my music.

I checked my phone various times to see the time. I read a few books on my phone.  I looked out of the window from my seat into the inky black darkness of the night to check for any signs of city life. Once in awhile, we would pass by a poorly lit gas station or a ranch in the countryside, but for the most part, it was a cold darkness.  I saw the stars in the sky and marveled at how beautiful they looked, since they were a different star system south of the equator.

At around 11:30 p.m., I saw a faint glow indicating city life.  I checked on Apple Maps if were were getting closer to Bahía Blanca, and saw that we were indeed getting to the city limits.

I let out a sigh of relief and thanked God for getting me to Bahía Blanca.

We slowly chugged through town towards the bus station. I continued to look out my window and was elated to see things that looked familiar to me. You know that feeling when you've arrived to a familiar place and it feels like "home"?  That's the feeling I get each time I go to Bahía Blanca, even after so many years of visiting.

The bus began to slow down more, indicating that we were getting to the bus station. We finally pulled into the terminal lane. I looked out the window to see if my friends were there, but I didn't see them.

I pulled my phone out and dialed my friend's number.

"Hey! I just got in!" I said once she answered.

"Ren! I am so sorry. We are in the car. We waited and waited and we just left the bus station. We are turning around right now!" said Ale.

I hung up and put the phone back in my pocket.  I got up from my seat and excused myself from my new seatmate and wished her a happy journey.

I walked down the aisle, went down the stairs and walked off the bus towards the station's baggage handler. He grabbed my suitcase and asked me for money. I told him that I didn't have any and apologized, but that I had spent all my money at the airport.  He waved me off and I grabbed my suitcases and walked inside.  My friend Ale came running in through the door with her husband, Pablo.

I have never been so excited to see anyone in my entire life!  I hugged both of them and apologized profusely for being late.

"Ren! Don't worry about it! We were only having a party for Javi," Ale mentioned.

Being that it was her brother Javier's birthday that night, my tardiness couldn't have come at a worse time because they were going to cut the cake and everything earlier.

I apologized again.

"I don't think he minds. He is in the car waiting for you," Ale said.

I remember thinking to myself - I have nasty hair and teeth. I don't want to look like that!

He obviously didn't care because as I approached Ale and Pablo's car, he burst out of the backseat and gave me such a large hug.

"Renny!  Me alegro que estés acá!  Te quiero mucho!" exclaimed Javi. He helped Pablo put my suitcases in the trunk and we all piled in the car, with Ale and Pablo sitting up front and Javi and I in the backseat.

Several times on the ride back to Ale's house, Javi reached out and grabbed my hand happily.
"Me alegro que estés acá, Reni!" like five times.

In the car ride over, Ale mentioned a Venezuelan guy I had gone on several dates with when she was in Jacksonville earlier that year in February 2015.

Javier immediately turned to me and being jealous, asked "Who is this Venezolano that you're talking about?"

It's someone I went on a few dates with, but he totally dropped off the face of the earth one day and then reappeared with some other chick. And then he called me a few weeks afterwards and wanted to date me again.  I told him to go eff himself, I explained.

Everyone in the car laughed, and then Javi asked me when I was planning on moving to Argentina.

"Whenever you like!" I mentioned, jokingly.

We arrived at their house around midnight and everyone came out the front door.

Reni! Que buenos que viniste! Te extrañaba mucho! etc.

We all sat down. I ate some empanadas while I told my story about my debacle in getting to Bahía Blanca.  I drank a rum and coke while everyone laughed.

By 1 a.m., I apologized again and said I was tired and wanted to take a shower and go to sleep.

And that folks, is a story of how I cannot get to places logically. There is always some sort of adventure involved.  Truth be told, if I were to get somewhere normally, I would wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.

Why can't trips begin and end on a "normal" note?  What is "normal" anyways?

As Jake would say, "Normal is a setting on the washer".

It's good to be quirky and have fun getting places...they make for good stories. :D

Las Aventuras del Señor Sandwiche

"¿Quieres un sandwich?" pregunta Papi.

Los sándwiches son los alimentos más favoritos de mi padre.

Para decirles la verdad, mi padre se pone contento comiendo cualquier cosa que le sirven. Mi padre es un hombre sencillo.  Casi todos los hombres son sencillos. Mi Papi está completamente contento alimentarse con uno, dos, o tres sándwiches cuando le da las ganas.  Lo más sencillo, lo mejor para él.

Mi padre tuvo una niñez pobre en Ecuador. Mi Abuelita trató de mantenerlos lo mejor posible para alimentar sus tres varones.  Entonces, sí mi papá no está comiendo un sandwich, él está comiendo tallarines, o arroz con atún, judías verdes, guisantes y salsa italiana, o quizás otra favorita, una lata de sopa de Campbell's.  Su favorito es "TOMATE" de Campbell's, lo cual que me da asco.

Cuando yo estuve en el Kinder (Jardín), yo recuerdo cuando se iba temprano a buscarme de la escuela, como las 3 p.m..  Nosotros fuimos a casa, y él siempre me preparaba una taza de cereal, o usando el abrelatas, una lata de de sopa de tomate...o otra favorita que le gustaba, sopa de crema de champiñones, o mi favorito, caldo de pollo con tallarines.  Ahora cuando pienso en la memoria de comer la crema de champiñones, tambien me da asco. Ahora, como adulta, la tolero, pero no me gustaba la sopa porque no llevaba sabor cuando yo era niña.  Que clase de niño quiere alimentarse con sopa?  Por supuesto no fui yo!  Una vez, yo fingía una alergia a la sopa cuando tuve que ir a la emergencia. jajaja.

Otra vez, hace unos años atras, cuando fui a la casa de mis padres a visitarlos, llevé mi chiquitingo, Gianqui.  GC tenía 4 o 5 años.  Fuimos a ver mis padres para Navidad. Gianqui es un niño muy particular con la comida, pero gracias a Dios, ahora se come mejor y prueba las comidas nuevas y diferentes.

"Giancarlo, quieres un sandwich?  Quieres sopa, la sopa de tomate de Campbell's?" gritó mi Papi.

"No gracias, Abuelo" dijo Gianqui, quien tenía un donut metido en la boca.

Mientras estuve visitando mis padres, yo trataba de preparar una cena riquísima y saludable. Pero... mi papá siempre se quejaba que al prender el horno, se calentaba demasiada la casa. "Estás calentando mucha la casa! Abre la ventana!" se grita desde su cuarto, donde se acuesta en la cama, mirando películas italianas o telenovelas brasileñas. Pero tampoco importaba sí la casa estaba demasiada calurosa...cuando la comida estaba lista para comer, Papi vino enseguida y se come la mitad de la cena.  Siempre... JAJA!

Cada vez que nos fuimos a visitar nuestros familiares en lugares lejos, Mom empacaba una cajita y Papi siempre llevaba sus fiambres que siempre eran bologna, Salami, Mayonesa, y queso americano que siempre tuvo un sabor asqueroso.   En los lugares de descanso al lado de la carretera, fuimos a usar el baño y comimos nuestras meriendas.

"Mmmm...pero que RICO!" mi papá siempre exclamaba. Luego, se comió el sándwich entero en menos de 5 segundos y cualquier otra cosa que encontraba en la cajita. Eso significaba si yo traté de guardar comida para mas tarde, ya fue consumido con felicidad por mi Papi.

En septiembre de 2002, mi papá tuvo que viajar con mi tío a la Florida, dónde vivía mi tía-abuela, Zoraida.  Lamentablemente, ella falleció el día anterior de la boda de una prima.  Mi prima tuvo su boda, pero el funeral fue otros días después y mi Tío y Papi viajaban juntos a Orlando, manejando en el carro para el velorio de mi Tía Abuela.

Para llegar a Orlando desde el noroeste (porque el estado de Kansas se queda al noroeste de la Florida unas cuantas horas), tienes que tomar una carretera llamada "Florida Turnpike", lo cual que tiene varios peajes y paradas. Este vía desde el I-75 empieza cerca de la ciudad de Ocala en la salida de "Wildwood".

Los dos fueron a echar gasolina y usar el baño, comprar meriendas, etc.  Por supuesto, mi papá encontró su merienda favorita, unos sandwiches. Anduvo al mostrado y pidió un sándwich, lleno de fiambres, quesos y otras cosas que Papi nunca compra desde el supermercado porque él es tan tacaño con su tiempo y a veces, con su dinero cuando está relacionado con la comida.  Mi tío y él compartieron un sandwich and fueron a Orlando.  Cuando volvieron desde Orlando, pararon en la misma tienda de sandwiches y compraron un montón de sándwiches y fueron felices hacia Kansas.

Cuando regresaron al Estado de Girasoles (Kansas es llamado así en inglés), mi papá contó la historia total a mi mamá sobre "un lugar lindo de sándwiches!" cerca a Ocala.

"Mamita!  Tienen los mejores sándwiches del mundo! Puedes pedir todo lo que tú quieras y lo ponen en el sandwich," exclamó mi papá.  "La proxima vez que iremos a Orlando, te llevaré, okay?"

Los ojos de mi mamá abrieron con delicia cuando mi papá describía todos los tipos de fiambres, panes, y condimentos que pudieras poner en tu sandwich de maravillo. Tambien los podrian calentar el sándwich en el horno por unos minutitos!

La boca de mi padre salivaba cuando describía los sandwiches. Mi mamá dice que ella misma se considera una experta de comida, incluyendo los sandwiches (en realidad, no la es de ningún tipo). "Yo...soy una gourmet!"

Aparentemente, este lugar era lo mejor de lo mejor de lo mejor, según mi papá!

Para Semana Santa 2003, mis padres decidieron que íbamos en familia, con mi hermana Ana y sus hijos, a Orlando para visitar los parientes extendidos que tenemos allí. También, íbamos reunir con mis otras hermanas que se iban a visitar.

Durante todo el viaje entre Kansas City hacia Ocala, mi papá no paraba de hablar de estos sandwichitos. Imaginate que el viaje entre las dos ciudades toma unas 14 horas. Cada hora, no paraba de hablar del quiosco.

"Todos los fiambres que puedes imaginar, mamita!" Papi exclamó con sus felicidad.

"Oh! Que lindo! No puedo esperar!" Dijo Mom.

Había un punto durante el manejo que mi mamá estaba escuchando mi papá repetirse por la centésima vez sobre los sandwiches cuando ella le interrumpió.

"Esto no tiene nada que ver con Subway, si?"  preguntaba Mom.

Mi padre, con las manos en el volante, le dio vuelta a mi madre, con una mirada de sorpresa.

"Que carajo es Subway?" preguntó Papi.

Yo le dije, "es un lugar donde compres sandwiches, Papi. Recuerdas cuando fuimos a ver a Sandy y compramos unos allí?"

"Oh...aja aja...no, este no es el mismo lugar" - Dijo Papi con certeza.

Continuabamos a manejar a la Florida, y el mapa indicaba que estuvimos cerca de nuestra destinación de Wildwood.  Había construcción en todos lados de la ruta y mi papá se había perdido la salida.

La próxima salida era unas 7 millas.

"Ni lo puedo creer, Mario!" dijo mi mamá, con unos puños en el aire.  "Perdiste la salida!  Quiero ese sandwich!"

En realidad, era un error completamente inocente. Cualquiera que no estaba familiar con el área pudo hacer el mismo error. Después de manejar 14 millas extras, llegamos a la salida.  Papi dijo que el quiosco estaba cerca de una gasolinera, que también significaba que íbamos echar gasolina, y luego, entrar el restaurante para almorzar.

Haciendo una derecha a una gasolinera Sunoco, estacionamos el carro y adivina que...¿qué letrero nos saludó?

SUBWAY.

Por supuesto, yo pensaba que era una escena y escándalo lo más cómicos!  Estuve en el fondo del auto riéndome hasta que lloré.  Pero la reacción de mi mamá...sin palabras y sin precio!

Cambiando diferentes colores de rojo, rosado y morado, y con sudor apareciendo en la frente, mi mamá estaba por explotar.

"ME ESTÁS JODIENDO, MARIO??????!!!!!!" Gritó mi mamá.  "MANEJAMOS TODA ESTA DISTANCIA POR MALDITO SUBWAY???!!!!!!!"

Papi estaba sin palabras porque él no sabía que había hecho él mismo.  "Yo no sabía!" Dijo él.  "Es una tienda de sandwiches. Me encantan los sandwiches!"

Con eso, mi mamá nos dio una mirada de asesina.  Mi papá la miraba con una mirada de cachorro, y yo riendo de carcajadas por detrás.  Ella abrió la puerta del carro, salió, y cerró la puerta de golpe.

"TENGO HAMBRE, CARAJO y ni siquiera quiero comer en MALDITO SUBWAY! No lo puedo creer...NO LO PUEDO CREER!" gritaba Mom.  "Manejamos toda esta distancia por MALDITO SUBWAY! No voy a comer en Subway, Renny.  Voy a comer en el otro lugar. Ven conmigo."

El "otro lugar" era un lugar que preparaba comida estilo sureño de los EEUU.  Comida tipica del sur de los EEUU es comida demasiada frita y hervida pero con un sabor bueno y rico y llena de grasa y azucar. No sé como describirlo mejor que eso.  Recomiendo que haga una visita al sur de los EEUU y que prueba la comida de acá sí nunca lo ha hecho.

Miré a mi padre, quien se sintió pena por no haber sabido que el restaurante era Subway y no un quiosco de sandwiches cubanos.  Mi papá encogió sus hombros, qué más iba hacer?  Yo, por lo menos, no quería comer comida country ni tampoco quería estar cerca de Mom con toda la furia que tenía, pero tampoco quería que mi papá estaría solo.  Me dió pena verlo asi.

"Voy con Papi," dije yo.

"Ok!  Tengo hambre..." dijo Papi, y con eso, caminé con mi Papi adentro.

Papi y yo fuimos al mostrador donde había los fiambres, quesos, panes y condimentos. Papi indica a la chica que quería en su sandwich. "Quiero esto, esto y esto!".

Mom, por el otro lado, estaba sentada sola en un cubículo comiendo budín de carne con salsa de ketchup,  puré de papas con salsa de carne y judías verdes preparados con tocino.  La mirada que ella daba a Papi era uno para matar.  Ella lo ignoraba totalmente y cuando vino la camarera, Mom procedió a quejar que el budín estaba frío, tenía mal sabor y contó la historia de decepción de nuestro camino a Subway.

La camarera paraba con el carafe de café y ni sabía que decir menos, "Dejame calentar su comida en el microondas."

"No, gracias. Estoy bien. Solo quería quejar e informarle," dijo Mom.  Con eso, la camarera llenó el vaso de café y se fue.

Papi y yo sentamos juntos y Mom sentó a través de la mesa mientras miraba furiosamente a Papi.  Él no se daba cuenta mientras comía su sándwich con felicidad.

"Porque estás tan enojada, Mamita?" preguntó Papi, mientras comía con la boca llena.

Mom, con sus labios casi apretados, y otra mirada loca, chisporroteo, "Mario! No puedo creer que manejamos TODA. ESTA. DISTANCIA. POR. MALDITO. SUBWAY!!!!!  Tenemos uno en Mission!"

Yo todavía estuve riendo de carcajadas.

"Tú, callate la boca!" me dijo Mom, con su cara todavía colorada. Sacudió el puño en mi cara.

Paré de reir de mi mamá.  "Por lo menos es comida, Mom. Porqué estás tan enojada?" la pregunté.

"Claro! Solamente es un sandwich!" dijo Papi.

"Uds. dos son TERRIBLES!  Ni voy a seguir hablándoles," dijo Mom.

Con eso, paró de la mesa, dejando los restantes del budín de carne y puré, que ya estaban fríos.  "Ni las papás salieron bien.  Sé que era ese polvo de mierda que le llaman 'puré de papas'!"

Mom se fue al baño.  Papi y yo terminamos de comer nuestros sandwiches.

"Yo no sé porqué estaba tan enojada.  Solamente es un sándwich," dijo Papi con confusión.

"No te preocupes, Papi. En unas horas se lo va a olvidar. Come su sándwich," y pusé mi cabeza en su hombro.

Papi terminó de comer el sandwich, y seguimos nuestro camino a Orlando. Pero antes que íbamos, Papi compró dos sandwiches mas para llevar.

Que puedo decir?  Papi es Señor Sandwich!

The Argentine Adventures: June 2015, parte deux

As I was saying in my previous post, Argentina Adventures: June 2015, Ana and I had just had some cortaditos.

We drove to Ana's work and it's nice and quiet there. We are there for a few hours while she does her work, and while there, I chose to begin knitting a scarf for the impending Argentine winter.

We end up leaving to head to the airport around 12 pm. My flight isn't until 4 pm, but I like to be early. We end up being stuck in traffic as there is construction around Miami.

While in transit, I ended up getting a phone call from a phone number that used to belong to one of my best friends.  There was a guy on the other end who asked me who I was and why I was calling. I apologized and mentioned that I had called thinking that it was my friend's phone number.

The guy mentioned that it was no problem, but to inform my friend that bill collectors or someone had been calling and leaving messages. I assured him I would pass along the information.

Then five minutes later, I get a text saying this:

I think I replied thanked him, but I have since deleted the message. But I thought it was pretty funny.

 I finally get to the airport around 1 pm. I get to Avianca's counter after waiting in line for about 20 minutes and they ask me, in Spanish, "Did you weigh your luggage?"  Fuiste a pesar sus maletas?

I looked at this woman with a funny look on my face. "Qué?" I asked her.

She points over my shoulder to an area well away from the counter and indicates that this is the place that I need to go to before I even THINK about checking in for my flight. I lug my two heavy suitcases over to this other area where there is another long line to weigh my luggage.

The attendant grabs my luggage, winks at me and asks where I'm going.

Of course, I'm not sure if he's doing this to be friendly or if he is flirting, or both.

"Me voy para Buenos Aires"

He places one of my suitcases on the scale and since it's in metric, it reads 22 kg. I got excited about it and thought it was 23 lbs.

"Fantastico! Solo pesa 23 libras!" I exclaimed. (Fabulous! It only weighs 23 pounds)

"Señorita, pesa casi 50 libras..." the man informed me.

Oh...bueno...no sé que hacer entonces. (I'm not sure what to do then).

Luckily, they were able to allow me onto the plane since I was barely just under the weight limit, which was perfect since I didn't have any extra money to pay since I wasn't going to be getting paid.

I go through security without any issues, which was a Godsend since I'm constantly being stopped for one reason, or another - that's another story here.

My flight was going to be going from Miami to Lima, Perú, then a short layover about an hour with an overnight flight to Buenos Aires, arriving early in the morning.

We take off and everything is fabulous during the flight and the arrival to the airport in Lima.

In Lima, I had to deplane and then go through another round of security with the airport attendants asking me where I was coming from and where I was heading.

I got through security yet again in Lima and proceed to wait for my subsequent flight, which was only about an hour wait.

Boarding the plane was around 10 pm.  I get on the plane, and as I am about to sit down, I notice the most attractive male flight attendant I have EVER seen in my life. I wish I had taken a picture of him or at least gotten his name because I could have been the mother of his children.

But then again, I don't do long distance, and especially not between countries.

I sit in my seat. The ladies to the right of me had indigenous feature, with darker skin and black hair.  They spoke Spanish with a slight accent. I'm not sure if they were Peruvian or Bolivian or Argentine, but they were headed that way. The ladies across from me on the aisle were Argentines based off their clothing, wearing skinny jeans, and platform sneakers and they all had long hair.

We do the usual, go through all the modes of what is necessary for beginning part of a flight, go through instructions, we all take a seat, pack our stuff, etc.

About 30 minutes into the flight, they announce that they will begin serving drinks and snacks.  Lo and behold, the Adonis of a Flight Attendant comes with his cart down my aisle and is asking everyone what they want to drink.

He asks the ladies across from me what they want. He asks the ladies next to me what they want. They all tell him what they want to drink.

He turns to me, "Señorita, que le puedo servir para tomar?"

My throat was so dry that I barely could eke out a whisper, "Agua".

"Perdoname?" he asked.

I tried to clear my throat, "Agua", I whispered again.

"Señorita, perdoname, ne le escucho" he said again.

I looked at him straight in the eyes, and said, a little more clearly this time, "Agua, por favor".

He sighed, and said, "Perdoname, señorita, es que no le puedo escuchar porque sus ojos son tan lindos...y Ud. tiene una sonrisa tan hermosa."

My mouth dropped open and my eyes opened wide in surprise.

The ladies sitting next to me snickered and giggled.

He poured me a small glass of water, which I quickly downed. I immediately requested another.

"Me podrías dar un poco mas agua, por favor?" I asked.

He sighed again and then began to serenade me, singing some song about my eyes and how beautiful I was. I sat and giggled, because honestly, what else was I going to do?

The Argentine girls sitting across from me were not happy and I could hear them talking to each other asking why the flight attendant thought I was pretty.  Jerks.  The ladies next to me leaned over and mentioned I should take advantage since he was pretty handsome.

Tall, perfect tan and brownish-green eyes. I wish I had gotten his name. I almost gave him my number to Whatsapp me, since all of Latin America has WA. Oh well....

I spent the rest of the flight half awake since I intended on sleeping on the bus all the way to Bahía so that I would be rested for my arrival to Bahía, which would be later on in the evening the following day.

Our flight arrived in Buenos Aires at 4 A.M.. Got my luggage. Went through Customs and did my spiel, paid for a ride to the Manuel Tienda León station in Buenos Aires so that they could drop me off at the bus station.
Since they had already served two meals on the plane, I figured I was good to go once I got to Buenos Aires.

Turns out, I was wrong.

I finally got out of Customs and found a seat with my two large suitcases and began to knit.  Several people observed me in my knitting reverie. One woman commented, "Vos tejés muy rara!" (You knit strangely).  I thanked her for her observations, while she continued to stare at me and my "strange" knitting.

About 8 a.m., I began to feel a little hungry, so I went to the only cheap place I could think of, McDonald's.

It is good to note here that McDonald's in each country is VERY different from what it's like in the U.S..  For breakfast in the U.S., you can order a Sausage McMuffin with hash browns and a coffee for like $3 or $4, I think.  In Argentina, you can order a small sandwich, and when I say small, I'm talking something that resembles two bread-like pieces with a teeny-tiny slice of meat and cheese between it with just coffee. Let me tell you, that coffee is like SPEED. Even if you put five packets of sugar in it, it's still strong.

I'm not sure about you, but I am a big girl. I have to have a big breakfast or else I turn into a monster on some people.  What I described is not a big breakfast and it was super expensive. Like the equivalent of $5. I ate my meager rations, drank my coffee that was like speed, having spent almost all my available Pesos Argentinos on my sandwich, which would totally screw me later for a meal on the bus. But read on!

Finally, the time came for me to get on the shuttle to the bus station around 10 am.  I waited in traffic for about an hour and got the bus station in time for me to catch my bus, but I was able to wait for about 45 minutes before my bus arrived. Since I usually took the bus at night when it was bustling, the bus station during the day was unnaturally quiet. I sat there while these two ugly dudes stared at me. Even though I wasn't looking at them directly, I could tell they were staring at me and my colorful luggage.

I get to my bus platform, shaking with the caffeine coursing through my veins, where the jerks there announced that I had too much luggage and that I would have to pay an extra fee, which honestly would have been like $5 pesos, which is the equivalent of 25 cents or so, in current exchange rates.

Since I had spent all my available pesos on the sandwich at the airport, I could only offer them a $20 US bill.  That was way more money than they had probably ever seen in their life...Now that I look back, I could kick myself. I should have just found the exchange booth at the airport  and exchanged some money, but they weren't open at 4 a.m..

Le sigh...

I gave the man a $20 bill and got on the bus...where I promptly sat down and fell asleep.  About 20 minutes into my ride, guess what happens?

The bus breaks down...

Stay tuned for the third installment.

Memories of Sir Sandwich, Parte Deux

So, I wasn't intending on writing this post at all, but after my last post, my mom told me a story about my dad and sandwiches.

I think I may have mentioned that my dad grew up poor in Ecuador and that sandwiches are some of his favorite snack or rather, in his case, a meal.

It's funny, or ironic, how a habitual action while preparing food can trigger a memory.

My parents were in the kitchen together a few weeks ago.

My mother sitting at the table, drinking a cup of her ever favorite coffee, Iguaçu, taking her myriad of prescriptions and my father at the counter, making a sandwich. My father was rattling about with a small spatula knife, trying to get the last bits of mustard from a jar so he could spread it on his sandwich.

Mom said that he stopped what he was doing, turned around and told my mom the following story:

As a kid, my father would be invited to other kids' birthday parties.  At the party, there would be cake, of course. Along with cake, there would be finger foods, sandwiches being one of them.

Not sure if they looked like this, but this looks yummy. 

According to how my father described these sandwiches, he probably thought at the tender age of 10 that these were the bomb diggity!

He described small sandwiches with mortadela, cheese and mustard, among many other kinds of condiments. My father grabbed a sandwich and finished that sandwich and went to get a second, when he was brushed away by some old bat.

"No, no! No puedes comer el sándwich porque necesitamos guardar los otros para los demás!" said a woman to him (You can't eat the sandwich because we need to save the rest for everyone else).

Not only was my father a growing boy, and obviously hungry, but more than likely that may have been the only thing he would have eaten that day.  Though my father and my uncle grew up poor, my grandmother had a knack for making her children look fabulous with her dressmaking skills.

My father is on the left.

Apparently, my father thought that mustard was something fancy because my father, at 10 years old, WORKED a long time and SAVED his money to be able to purchase a little jar of mustard for his mother.

He then presented it to my grandmother, "Aquí, mamita. Esto es para tí. Ahora podemos comer los sándwiches como los ricos." (Here, Mommy. This is for you. Now we can eat sandwiches like the rich people.)

you get the idea

My mom told me this story and I began to sob. I had an image of my father presenting my grandmother with his treasured mustard that he worked for at TEN YEARS OLD.  My son is nine, and while he is very loving towards me, he wouldn't work THAT hard. My father, even to this day, is a hard worker and I wish there was a way that I could let him retire.

Perhaps when that happens, I could present him with a jar of mustard, with a bow on top.

I think my father would get the message.

The Adventure of Sir Sandwich

"You wanna a sandwich?" asks my father.

Sandwiches are my father's "go to" fix anytime he is hungry.

The fact is, my father is content eating whatever is served in front of him.  My father is simple. Most men are simple. My father is perfectly happy to snack on a sandwich whenever he feels like eating. The more simple, the better it is for him. My father grew up poor in Ecuador.  My grandmother would scrape together what she could to feed her three hungry boys.  So, if my father is not eating a sandwich, he either eats pasta or rice with tuna, green beans, peas and Italian dressing, or another favorite, Campbell's soup. His favorite is Campbell's Tomato Soup.

When I was in Kindergarten, I remember when he would pick me up from school early. We'd go home and he would fix me either a bowl of cereal or grind open a can of tomato soup..or Cream of Mushroom soup, or my personal favorite, Chicken Noodle. I shudder thinking of how clammy Cream of Mushroom soup would be. Barf.

I can eat cream of mushroom soup NOW as a grown up, but I think I despised it as a child because I couldn't stand the flavorless taste of the soup. As a child though, what kid wants to eat that? Certainly not me. I once feigned an "allergy" to soup in the E.R., but that will be another story.

Another time, I went home to visit with my older boy. GC was four or five at the time. We went home for Christmas.  GC was a very picky little boy though now he is willing to eat whatever kind of food.

"Giancarlo, you wanna sandwich? You want soup? Campbell's Tomato Soup?" my father would shout-ask.

"No thank you, Abuelo" and GC would go on his merry way.  I would try to make some elaborate dinner in the over or on the stove, but my father's complaint was "You're making the house too hot!". But anytime I'd make that elaborate dinner, he'd eat half of it anyways...  Mmmm, hmmm...

Anytime we would travel to visit obscure relatives in far away states, Mom would pack a cooler and Papi would have his lunch meat which mainly consisted of Bologna, Cotto Salami, Mayo and nasty American cheese slices. At rest areas, we'd stop to pee and then after using the bathroom, we'd eat our snacks.

"Oh, dis is SOOO good!" my father would exclaim in delight.  He would then proceed to inhale the entire sandwich and anything else that he found in the cooler. Which meant if I was saving something special, it was consumed with glee.

Back in September 2002, my father ended up going on a road trip alone with my Tio (Uncle) to Florida, where my great aunt lived. She unfortunately had passed away the day before my cousin's wedding.  The wedding went on as planned, but the funeral was held a few days later.

My uncle and dad drove all the way from Kansas City to Orlando for the funeral. To get to Orlando from the northwest, you'd normally take the Florida Turnpike.  The beginning of the turnpike starts near Ocala off of I-75, or the "Wildwood" exit.

My father and uncle stop there to gas up and use the restroom, get snacks, etc.  One such snack my father finds at this "obscure" gas station are some sandwiches. He goes to the counter and orders one, piled high with meats and all sorts of extra stuff that my father normally would never buy at the store because it would take too long for him to chop, slice or just too expensive for him to buy for his sandwiches. Both he and my uncle share this sandwich and continue on their way to Orlando. On their return trip, my father yet again stops at the sandwich shop, gets SEVERAL sandwiches for him and my uncle to snack on while in the car and they continue on their somewhat merry way back to Kansas.

Upon their return to the Sunflower State, Papi proceeded to tell my mom about this "nice place een Ocala!"

"Dey have de BEST SANDWICHES!  You can get whatever you want on them!" my father exclaimed.  "The next time we go to Orlando, we go dere. Okay?"

My mom's eyes got real big as my father described these delectable meats, types of bread and condiments you could get on this sandwich.  They would even TOAST it for you!

My dad's mouth watered as he described these sandwiches.  If there's anything my mom considers herself another expert on, it's how to eat a good sandwich.  "I, " she says with a stately pause, "am a gourmand!"

(Yeah. We'll see about that. That's another story.)

Apparently, this place was the bomb diggity, according to my dad!

For Spring Break 2003, my parents decided we would do a family trip to Orlando to visit our extended relatives and meet up with my other sisters while there.

The entire way from Kansas City to Ocala, all my father did except talk about these awesome sandwiches.

"All the meat you want, mamita!" my father exclaimed excitedly.

"Oh, how nice!  I can't wait!" my mom would exclaim in delight.

At one point on the drive down, my mom was listening to my dad repeat himself for the 327th time about these sandwiches, when she interrupted him.

"This isn't Subway, is it?" Mom asked.

My father with his hands on the wheels, turned in my mom's direction with a quizzical look.

"Subway? Wha's dat place?" Papi asked.

"It's a place where you get sandwiches, Papi." I told him.  "Remember, we went to Sandy's once and got sandwiches there?"

Oh, yeah, yeah! Uh huh, uh huh.  I remember. No, that's not this place.

We continued driving south on I-75 and finally cross into Florida.  The map indicated that we were still quite a ways from the exit we needed, about two more hours to go. We continued driving until we get to the Wildwood area and discover there is construction EVERYWHERE.  So much so that my father missed the exit.

The next exit was 7 miles down the road.

"I can't believe it!" my mom stated, with her fists clenched. "You missed the exit, Mario! I want that sandwich!"

It really was an easy mistake. Anybody not familiar with the area would have done the same. After backtracking 14 miles, we finally got to the exit.  Papi said it was near a gas station, which meant we would fill up our tank and then go into the restaurant to eat.

Making a right turn into the Sunoco gas station, we pull into a parking space and wouldn't you know what sign greeted us?

SUBWAY.

I, of course, thought it was funny and couldn't help but laugh in the back seat until I cried.  My mother's reaction though was priceless.

Turning shades of red and sweat beginning to bead on her forehead, I could tell my mom was about to explode.

"Are you FUCKING SHITTING ME, MARIO?!!!!!" my mom shouted. "We drove ALL THIS FUCKING WAY FOR FUCKING SUBWAY?!!!!!"

Totally bewildered, my father looked at my mother.

"I deedn't know!" he said. "It was a sandwich place. I like sandwiches!"

With that, my mom looked at both of us, my father with his puppy dog look and at me totally laughing my head off in the back seat, opened the door to the car.  She got out and slammed the door.

She stamped her foot and shook her fists in rage.

"I'm HUNGRY, DAMMIT!  and I don't want FUCKING SUBWAY! I can't believe it! I can't believe," Mom muttered to herself, "we drive all this way for FUCKING SUBWAY! I'm not eating Subway, Renny. I'm going to eat at this other place.  Come with me!"

This other place, I can't even remember the name of it, but for name's sake, I'll just call it the "Country Kitchen" which essentially had any kind of soul food home cooking you want from the South.

I looked at my dad, who felt terrible for not having noticed, but then he shrugged his shoulders.  I was kind of torn. I really didn't want to eat country home cooking, but I didn't want my dad to feel alone. "I'm going with Papi".

"Well, ees okay. I hongry..." and with that, we walked inside.

Papi and I go to the counter and my dad points to the ingredients to the lady behind the counter, "I want dis! and dis and dis".

Mom, on the other hand, was sitting by herself in a booth eating meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans.  The look she gave my father was one of Death.  She totally ignored him and when her waitress came by, my mom proceeded to complain about how her meatloaf was cold, how it sucked and how she was totally deceived by my dad into thinking there was a really awesome Mom and Pop sandwich place at this exit.

The waitress just stood there with her coffee and didn't know what to say, except, "Let me warm that food back up for you."

"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to let you know!" mom said. With that, the waitress filled up my mom's coffee and left.

Papi and I sat across from Mom at the booth as she glowered at my dad. Totally unperturbed by my mom's anger, he just sat there and happily ate his sandwich.

"Why you so angry, Mamita?" asked my dad, in between bites, with his mouth full.

My mom, with tight lips, and a wild look, sputtered, "Mario! I can't believe...we drove ALL. THIS.WAY for FUCKING SUBWAY. We have one in Mission!"

I couldn't help but continue to laugh at this whole debacle.

"Shut up, you!" Mom said to me, with her face still red. She shook her fist at me.

I stopped giggling at my mom.  "Is it really a big deal that it's Subway, Mom?" I asked. "It's food."

"Yeah! It's just a sandwich!" my dad said.

"You two are terrible. I can't believe this. I'm not talking to you guys anymore," my mom said.

With that, she left the remnants of cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  "The potatoes weren't even that good. I bet it was that powder crap they use for "mashed potatoes!"

Mom went off to the bathroom.  Papi and I sat there eating our sandwiches.

"I still don't know why she so angry. It's just a sandwich," said Papi confusedly.

"She'll get over it, Papi. Don't worry. Just eat your sandwich" I said, laying my head on his shoulder.

With that, my father finished his meal and we all continued on our Not-So-Merry way to Orlando. But before we left the Subway, my dad ended up getting two more sandwiches to go.

What can I say, my father is Sir Sandwich.

Walking through the "Gates"

My title today has nothing to do with Heaven.

Unless, that is, you enjoy eating BBQ and you've found your perfect American BBQ joint and can consider calling it Heaven.

This adage is true for me each time I go home and visit my parents in Kansas City. I believe that Kansas City is one of the best places in the U.S. to get BBQ.  I say this unabashedly. I really have enjoyed the BBQ I have gotten from holes in the wall in Kansas City more than most places I have been to or lived in.  I've had BBQ all over the South, mostly in Florida and in Georgia.  Once in Memphis and another time in Maryland.

There is a fight amongst large cities in the United States over which has the best barbecue. Of course, most Kansas Citians Carnivores, both native and expat, will tell you that Kansas City has the best BBQ in the United States.  Other cities, such as Memphis, New Orleans, Atlanta, etc. will also say THEY have the best BBQ in the world. While their styles of barbecue may be delicious, as well as their sauces, I've been to so many different places in the world that serve BBQ and the only other place that I've been to that can top KC meats is any place in Argentina.

I will tell why I think Kansas City Style BBQ is better than any you've had elsewhere. In fact, I can tell you several reasons why along with a little history.

1) History

Once upon a time, more specifically, the Time of the Wild Wild West,  in the Land of the Midwest, there was a dot upon the plains called the "City of Kansas". First, it was actually a town, but then it grew into a cute little city. This city was situated at the confluence of the Kansas and Missouri Rivers.

Most "fast" transport before the invention of the railroads was done by wagon teams or by river steamboats.  Kansas City was quite important because of the two main rivers that flowed through.  The Kansas River was important because it would branch out from the western parts of the state of Kansas into the Missouri River.  The Missouri River was also very important because it started in the Rockies and meandered it's way southeast through the Midwest all the way to Saint Louis, the "Gateway to the West", and into the Mighty Mississippi.

Let's go a little backwards here.

You ride your raft or barge with your livestock - chickens, horses, pigs, sheep, cows, etc. up the Mississippi from New Orleans, let's say.  You hit Saint Louis. You want to go out west to Kansas City.  You make a left turn from the Mississippi into the Missouri River, against all currents.  After a few days or weeks, you've finally arrived in Kansas City, Missouri.

What's funny is that Kansas City originated in Missouri, but it's named after the Kansas River in Kansas.  There is also a Kansas City, Kansas. For those not familiar with the area, they think it's all different. For municipal purposes, it is. But in reality, it's all one big city, just in different states. All with the same name.

Ok, back to the Rivers...

Kansas City is important to American History because it was the final stopping point for all trails and roads and some rivers before heading West. With the Oregon, Santa Fe and California Trails setting out from Kansas City, there was a need to transport livestock out West.  Also, with the westward expansion of the railroad, Kansas City was the also one of the final stopping grounds before getting to Santa Fe or Denver, etc.

2) Selection of Meats

Here enters The Kansas City Stockyards and Live Stock Exchange, right off of the railroad, in the West Bottoms.  The West Bottoms is an area of Kansas City located right along the state line and also right off of the confluence of both the Kansas and Missouri Rivers.  It is a low-lying area prone to floods when the rivers overflow.

This was a place where livestock owners and buyers could haggle with each other for a good deal on livestock.  Before hand, farmers who needed livestock or who wanted to sell live stock would have needed to stop the actual train or wait until the next tiny stop to see who would be interested in purchasing their livestock or otherwise buying said livestock for their own farms.

The result before the Stockyards came into existence was pretty crappy. Farmers that were expecting big bucks for that prize hog they spent years fattening up could have gotten them a paltry sum.  The KC Live Stock Exchange prevented farmers from getting gypped.  The Stock Exchange also enabled others to see what kinds of livestock was available to them for better prices for their farms.

The end result was fantastic - farmers were happy and could take their mules, horses and oxen home or otherwise fill their pockets with some nice, loose change.

Other's were able to fill their bellies...

Many restaurants in the area began to experiment with the consumption of the different types of livestock.  There was turkey. There was chicken. There was beef. There was pork. There was lamb.  I am pretty sure there was waterfowl, too.

Anything with four legs or wings or fins that walked and swam the earth has made it to the barbecue pits of Kansas City.

3) Sauce

Kansas City Style BBQ has a distinct flavor of sauce.  It is mostly a molasses-based sauce, but it also takes on the flavor of the meats.

Every single BBQ place I have been to in Kansas City uses wood to smoke their meats.  The end result is something delectable...yum...

Hickory is best.

(Sigh)

My Favorite Restaurant

The last few times I've gone home to Kansas City, I never leave home without stopping at Gates BBQ.

I usually go with my uncle and my dad, but this last time I went home, I didn't go with my uncle as I was going home to say my fond farewell of the celebration of his life.

The day after the funeral, we went with my four Vallazza sisters, Ana Maria, Lourdes, Rossana and my parents and my son and nephew to Gates.

Gates is a Kansas City staple. In its glory days, it had way more locations, but I guess not everyone likes Gates. Other popular Kansas City BBQ places are Fiorella Jack Stack and hands down, Arthur Bryant's, but my favorite place is Gates.

Jake, being a Michigander who had never been inside Kansas City limits, described his first moments walking Through the Gates...

"All senses are enticed in their own way. The sweet smoky smell of the air greets your olfactory senses. The sight of happy faces busily working behind the counter as they bombard your ears with interrogative declarations of "you want beef on bun?!""

Screaming is more like it.

I guess I never noticed because I'm a Kansas City native. I walk in to familiar faces, scents and tastes.

They literally scream at you as you walk into the door, "HI!!!! KIN I H'EP YEW?!!!" If you're not quick to order, they ask, or scream, at you, "YEW WAN BEEF ON BUN? PO'K ON BUN?! CHIKIN ON BUN?! WHATCHU WANT, HONEY?!!!!"

As you order, you pick up a tray, and go down the line as if you were in a cafeteria. Once you get your food, you then go and find a seat.

Once you sit down, your mouth is seriously watering from all the goodness on your plate. I normally order either beef or pork on bun.  It's smoked meat of your kind, with the sauce of your choice and piled high with pickles and the biggest fries of your life.  Jake described the fries as 2x4's. For the record, they're just ordinary thick cut steak fries.

Jake described his experience thus,

"After you get your food and you sit down, your olfactory senses are intensified by the plate of food you carry to your table.  In his case, he had a beef on bun.  Hickory smoked brisket, with Gates Spicy BBQ sauce, pickles, and the thickest steak fries of your life.

After you eat your meal, you need a dolly to get you out of there. You literally fall into a food coma just from all the meat and carbs that you've just consumed.

Thank the Lord my dad was driving. Otherwise I would have fallen asleep at the wheel.

I can't wait to go back home to walk through the Gates.

The Argentine Adventures : June 2015

Do you ever wonder the "what if...?"

I sure do!

Towards the end of May this year (2015) , I kept thinking, "I really want to go to Argentina this year."  I didn't have a chance to go last year as I was unemployed from teaching.  Funny to think about it, but I'm unemployed YET AGAIN from teaching.

Anyways...I digress.

I wanted to go to Argentina this year. As you've read from my other posts, "I Heart Argentina". Yep. I sure do.

The problem with this year's trip wasn't the lack of time. I MAKE time for things I want to do. Nor was it really the lack of money. Since getting an elementary teaching job last year, I had managed to save some cash and pay off some bills, which was FANTASTIC!  My problem was that since it was close to the end of the school year for me, and this school happens to run only on annual contracts, I didn't want to put a trip on my credit card without a way to pay it off JUST IN CASE I managed to NOT get a renewal on my contract.

I decided I was going to be financially savvy for once and wait.

HA!

Yeah. Right.

I looked at flights on Kayak and Skyscanner. There was one flight, round trip from Miami to Ezeiza International (Argentina's main international airport) for $590!  I can't even fly home DOMESTICALLY to Kansas City for $590!  I passed on that one because there was a lay over somewhere in Bolivia and I don't want to be by myself in Bolivia, especially when I don't really know the country.

I kept looking and looking. Several friends in Argentina kept asking, "When are you coming to visit?"  I continued to tell them, "I need to wait until I get confirmation about my teaching contract for next year".

Well, the principal took her sweet time to inform me that I was not having my contract renewed. She told me during post-planning that it wasn't being renewed. I had to pack up my classroom and make 7 trips home and back to drop off my stuff. In fact, there were only two teachers whose contracts were not renewed, including my own. I find that a personal vendetta. I don't think the principal liked me. That's okay. She had this idea that the students would be fluent in Spanish by the end of the year.

 Well...let me tell you...I've been teaching for 8 years. There is no way that over 500 students will be fluent in Spanish when they've only had 30 minutes of instruction a day (give or take about 10 minutes because they need time to settle down, or I need to travel to their classrooms since there's some ridiculous "law" that students from Kindergarten to 2nd grade are not allowed to climb the stairs in school).  30 minutes a day for one week. Some weeks were cut short due to testing or to holidays cutting into the week. Then, I wouldn't see them again for another 5 or 6 weeks, depending on the grade level. Some classes I only saw a total of 6 weeks out of the year.

I'm sorry, but I hate to break it to you - unless you are living in a foreign country where you are thrust into the environment or even if I were speaking only in Spanish the entire time in class, there is no way that someone is going to learn how to speak Spanish with such unrealistic time allowances and constraints.  Bitch, please...Whatever...ONWARD to bigger and better things, baby!

So I bought my ticket anyways.

I'm headstrong and very impractical at times. Especially when it has to do with travel. If I have an opportunity to travel and I haven't met my credit limit, I buy myself a ticket!

I was set to travel June 14-June 29th.

After booking my airfare, which turned out to be $1054 US, including tax, I realized, I should have booked it a day later and returned a day later because it would be an actual pay day the 15th and the 30th. On top of that, I bought the ticket pretty much last minute because I was so antsy about going.

I asked my cousin if I could park my car at her apartment in Miami for two weeks and she said absolutely!

My trip turned out to be a very interesting mix of events, so to say.

I left Jacksonville for Miami on Friday afternoon. Ran a series of errands. Met with a few people. On the way there, I was so excited because I was going to listen to my music in my car.  Stopped off at Starbucks. Ordered a Venti Soy Chai at 8:30 p.m. and drank the entire thing in less than an hour. Got to Miami later than I expected, at around 10 p.m..

My cars speakers sounded as if there were marbles rolling around in them.  They also had that staticky quality about them. Not cool.

Ana told me, 'Park in the visitors spot when you get here".  I arrived and there were none available. So I parked in the closest available spot. I even had a Resident Raccoon greet me upon my arrival!  He was foraging for food in the dumpsters.

I told Ana what I had done and she said, "Well, I've never seen them tow anyone, but you should be fine."

We stayed up late, talked all night and went to sleep at around 2 a.m..

I slept for about an hour or two. I was paranoid that someone might see the suitcases hanging out in my back seat, break my windows and want to take them!  I kept waking up, looking out the window. Nothing appeared amiss. I saw the Renmobile, just hanging out expectantly waiting for our next adventure. I went back to bed, stalked some people on Facebook. Tried to sleep. Kept tossing and turning. Couldn't sleep.

Finally, 7 a.m. rolls around. I decided that I needed to take a shower and get my travel clothes ready. I also saw a visitors spot open and decided I was going to park my car in that spot.

I grabbed my keys, went outside, down the apartment stairs, out to my car and lo and behold...this is what I was greeted with...

Seriously?!  Are you seriously kidding me right now?

There was a tag on my window that said prompt removal of the boot would occur when I called and gave the company $89 either in cash or credit. Begrudgingly, I run back up to my cousin's apartment, grab my phone, go back outside, take a picture and call the number. I may have woke up the individual on the other side of the phone line.

"Hello?" That groggy voice that people make when they first arise from slumber.

"Yeah, hi. Good morning. I just came out to my car and I see this sticker on my window and a boot on my tire. I'm going out of the country today and I need to move my car. Can someone please help me remove this?" I asked.

"That will be $89 including tax," said the male voice on the other line. "I'll be there in 10 minutes."

"Is there any way we can reduce the price?  I just lost my job this week and money is kind of tight," I asked.  I mean, I also had dollars in cash that I needed to exchange on my way to Argentina so that I'd have some money to spend when I got there, like for food and stuff.

"Yeah..." said the man reluctantly. "I'll see what I can do. I might be able to drop it."

The man arrived within five minutes and took the boot off the car.

"That'll be $89."

Um...I was told that it could be less. I explained my sob story again to the dude.  He was willing to drop it to $59.  Thirty dollars isn't a bad discount. At least I got to save some money. I'm willing to admit the fact that I parked in a wrong spot. I'm okay with paying for my transgressions.

I told him that I had a credit card and he shook his head. "I forgot my credit card reader".

I rolled my eyes and said that I would have to go back and get the little cash I had left inside. I raced up the stairs again, opened the door, stomped around cursing my luck, found the cash and then raced outside again.

I handed the man sixty bucks and told him to keep the change.  He went on his merry way and I quickly moved my car to a visitors spot before another boot was immediately slapped on my car.

All of this occurred before 7:30 in the morning.   As you see above, I did put it on social media.

Hee hee.

By this time, with all the noise I was making cursing out loud and slamming doors, Ana was already awake.

"Renny...what happened?" She asked as she rubbed her eyes open.

I told her what had happened

"Ay Dios mio!" She exclaimed. I had no idea they would do that, she said.

Let's go ahead and get going to my job, she said.

We take showers, get dressed, and get going to her job, which is in downtown Miami, neak Brickell.  On the way there, we stop off at this Cuban café of sorts, where they have pastelitos and cortaditos.  For those of you who don't know, cortaditos are small little cups of Cuban coffee.  They're more like espresso, but with NOS infused in them.  You want energy?  You drink a cortadito.

Just right for Barbie!

Most Cubans, about 98% of them, will drink cortaditos with milk and sugar. I love coffee and I especially love drinking "café con leche".  However, in the last few years, I have developed a serious intestinal aversion to milk. I cannot consume milk, cream or ice cream without having major intestinal issues, a.k.a GAS. Though I can eat cheese without a problem, for some strange reason. Hmmm...I don't know. Weird

Ana and I each get a cortadito and I totally forgot to tell them to not put milk in it. I eat my pastelito and drink my NOS coffee and immediately, I feel like I am flying into outer space.

Actually, flying into outer space is a total lie, but I sure felt like it the way my pulse was raging.

...to be continued...see part two coming soon!

I Heart Argentina....parte tres

I'm back for yet another installment of "I Heart Argentina....parte tres".  I'm your host, Vallazza-Raptor.

Though it's been almost two years since I've been back to Argentina, I remember many of its attributes quite fondly.  (sigh...)

I forgot what number I was on in my last installment, but for times sake, I'll just continue with the #7.

7) Los Boliches
Los Boliches are what Argentines call their night clubs.  I've only been to a few, but that's all I need to know. They also call their clubs "el disco" but I prefer "Los Boliches".  The night life in Argentina doesn't get started until 2 a.m. or after.  It saddens me that the U.S. is missing out on this type of nightlife because last call is usually at 1:30 a.m. in a place like Jacksonville.  It's no wonder that most other people think American's are boring...we don't get the party started.  Latinos, however, could party all the way until the sunrise!  I know this for a fact because I did it many times in Costa Rica and in Argentina, but I also had the dubious pleasure of accompanying someone until the wee morning hours of daylight in a small beach town in Argentina called "Monte Hermoso".

As I was saying, while the club doesn't open until 2 a.m., but the real fun doesn't start until 3 or 4 in the morning.  That's when the club starts hopping. You're there, packed with numerous amounts of people, almost to the point of claustrophobia, dancing...sweating...getting into close quarters with people you didn't know existed until five seconds ago. It's marvelous, really.

I went to several places in Bahía Blanca, Argentina, as well as the surrounding cities in December 2012.  My friends took me to Monte Hermoso, a nice little beach town that has the fame of being the only city in Argentina where the beach has both a sunrise and sunset on the water. It's really a beautiful little town.  In any case, they took me to a place called "El Pelícano" (The Pelican) at 1 a.m. and my friend, her husband and I all danced with one another until the place closed.  However, I did end the night dancing with a beautiful man who ended up whisking me away to another club down the street until the sun rose...it was a great night...or morning...  I shall call him Señor J.  We ended up dancing all night, through the morning until he dropped me off at my friends beach house at 9 a.m..  We made out passionately like teenagers...it was pretty nice. ;) Not sure I want a repeat with him, but like I've mentioned before, I don't allow just ANYONE to make it past first base with me unless there's potential.

In the boliches, you dance to whatever music is popular in Argentina, which is typically cumbia villera, or whatever Argentine rock band is popular. There are some even American Top 40 hits that they play on the airwaves in Argentina.  I quite enjoy cumbia of any sort, but I think cumbia villera now has a soft spot in my heart as well. My dad hates it. He prefers cumbia colombiana.  What can I say? I like accordeon/bandoneon music and I'm nerdy that way.

The last time I went to Argentina in July 2013, I went to a Cuban boliche.  Though I'm not Cuban, I do and have associated more with Cubans than I have my own background. Perhaps it's because my sister has been married to a Cuban for the last 24 years or so. I like Cuban food and I like their style of dancing to salsa and merengue.  In any case, I heard about my fellow compadres having a Cuban restaurant in Argentina and that they played salsa, so naturally I had to go sample the food and dance to the music.

I felt like a celebrity once I arrived!

I requested a few merengues from the DJ. The lady stared at me, and asked, "De dónde eres?" (Where are you from, using the "tú"form.) I smiled and said I was from Florida.  She immediately announced to the guys behind the bar that I was from Miami and that I had come to dance for the night.  I was instantly plied with free mojitos and all the merengue and salsa I wanted, because when "you're from 'Miami', you're instantly Cuban"...Although I'm not Cuban and I'm actually from or live in Jacksonville. I lacked no dance partners at all that night.  It was nice because I could dance without having to worry about being pawed upon.  I just went to dance, and dance I did!  I closed the restaurant down there as well at 6 a.m..  Truly a wonderful experience.

This is not to say that I am a party animal either in the States. I just simply like to dance. I enjoy music. I enjoy meeting people. I don't like close quarters. I sometimes get social anxiety if I feel there's too many people someplace.

If you go to Argentina, I recommend going at least once to the disco/boliche.  They can be pretty fun. Though take some TP.  The toilet paper is thin or sometimes non-existent in the bathrooms at the boliches.

I went with my friend's brother and his friends once and since I was the "Yanqui" I was also instant celebrity and given free drinks.  The bartender thought I was pretty, but I was not interested. But he still kept the drinks coming!  We stayed out until 7 a.m. that night. :)

8) El acento.
Oh, my goodness...the first time I ever heard any Argentine speak was through the speakers in my dad's Oldsmobile station wagon. I was 4 and listening to my father's recordings of tango as we drove around Kansas City.  I noticed they spoke Spanish differently than what I was used to hearing.  I had actually heard tangos for years, but never really noticed their accent until then. I asked my dad, "Porque hablan diferente?"  Why do they speak funny?

"Porque son argentinos," he replied.

At four years old, I had no idea what Argentines were, nor that there was a country named Argentina.  All I knew was that I liked the way they sang and that their tango was sexy.  Of course, I didn't know what "sexy" meant either, but now as an adult, I recognize that I was turned on by Argentines from a very early age.

Fast forward to my early college years, beginning in 2001.

I was beginning to have more of an interest in my Hispanic backgrounds.  I was taking a class called "Introduction to Latin America" at Johnson County Community College.  I remember there being this beautiful man in my class that I liked staring at.  I would get embarrassed whenever he caught me staring at him.  Whenever he opened his mouth, he spoke English with the most beautiful accent. I finally brought up the courage to ask him where he was from one day before class as we waited out in the hallway.

"I am from Argentina," he said, with his beautiful accent emerging from that beautiful mouth.

I got shivers down my spine...and into my core...goosebumps emerged.

True, in 1996, I had seen "Evita" in the theatre as Madonna sang and danced her way onto the streets of Buenos Aires.  There had been a kerfuffle amongst Argentines against the idea that Madonna was going to be playing one of their more revered historical characters.  Having Madonna portray Eva Perón was like saying that Steppenwolf would be playing Mariachi music at the presidential inauguration for Clinton. I even did a report on Evita in 10th grade where I got a 100%. Woot woot.

Anyways...I digress...Back to the hot Argentine in my class...

When he spoke Spanish in class, I about melted.  I had never heard anyone use "Vos" for "you".  I had only grown up with "tú" or "Usted".  As well as, "sos" for "you are" instead of "eres".  It was all so mysterious. It was then that I discovered that not all Spanish speakers speak the same Spanish. I knew there were slight differences because my mom speaks Mexican Spanish and my dad Ecuadorean, but I never thought about the even bigger differences between the continents or even regions within one's country.  I was only 18, so I didn't know.

I hungered to find more of these people!

For the above mentioned class, I elected to do a report on the tango. Who knew better information about the tango than my dad?!  My grandfather knew a lot as he had lived with uncles in Buenos Aires in the 1920s. But my grandfather had passed away in 1997, so I couldn't ask him.

Papi had all sorts of tango songs which I promptly downloaded.  I had grown up listening to many of the old tangos that were played on the airwaves in Buenos Aires back in the 1930s.  Singers such as Carlos Gardel, Julio Sosa, Argentino Ledesma, etc...I knew a lot of those songs. Their accents and the lyrics made me melt!  There's even a movie that is one of my favorites called "Tango, no me dejes nunca".  I have watched that movie so many times over and over again. I love the music, dancing and the script. Beautiful.

One time, I was out with The Girlies - Toaster Oven and Squeak Rodriguez, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a very handsome man. He asked me to dance. So we did and I discovered that he was from Argentina because he winked at me and said, "Qué hermosa sos!".

I about died...

"Stop it! My underwear is melting!" I exclaimed.  I told him that I loved his accent.  He continued to say that I was beautiful.  Alas...I was in a relationship at that time, so I wouldn't have done anything further but dance with him, but his accent was divine and dreamy.

The same thing can be said when I actually go to Argentina. I actually enjoy sitting in the café listening to the people talk with one another. It's like "People Watching" but more of "Listening".  I love doing it.

"Hola ché!  Cómo andas?" they say with sing-song quality.

"Bien, mi amor. Cuándo venís a la Argentina?" (Fine, my love. When are you coming to Argentina?) they'll ask.

"Cuándo vos quieras" (Whenever you want)

I developed a mini crush on some of the men in Argentina when I go visit simply because of the way they speak. One male friend in particular knows this and will just speak to me while I develop goosebumps on arms. He is such a tease...jerk... lol.

I've always said that I may end up with an Argentine just because I love the way they speak. Who knows if that will still be true?

9) La Plata
The name "Argentina" is actually derived from the Latin word, argentum, meaning "Silver".  On the periodic table of elements, it has a symbol of "Ag".  Silver is one of the most important metals in the world. In any case, the country Argentina got its name because of the myth and subsequent discovery of the mountains being made of silver.  In fact, the most important river in Argentine economy, "Rio de la Plata", was thus named because when Argentina was first discovered by European discoverers, it looked like a ribbon of silver running through the countryside.  I personally dislike the English translation of the river, 'River Plate'.  I think of actual fine-bone China plates, not "plate" as in "silver plate".  I prefer "Silver River".

Whatever...

The point I'm trying to make without having to digress through numerous historical facts is that Argentina's silver trade is lovely.

The first time I went to Argentina, I purchased a pair of simple silver hoop earrings.  Alas, I lost one in the back seat of a car only last fall.  The owner of the car found the earring, but has declined to return it to me unless I go back out and date him again.  To which I say, "poo", cause that jazz isn't happening ever again.  He was so boring...I digress yet again.

The silver is so abundant in Argentina. The silver smiths have done some tremendous work on their jewelry. I love all the pieces that I've garnered from the jewelry shops there, though I still want my earring back...

GRRR....

I'll just have to travel to Argentina once more to get another pair. :)

Just think!  My friends will have fun with that fact. I'll get to go back and visit my fellow Argentines again soon. :)