Euros Ate My Dollars

OK, I am a total liar. This is why you don’t write about a trip a year after it happened. We did crash immediately upon arriving at our hostel, BUT…not for good. We napped and then rallied. Why?

Steak.

You should know two things:

1. Argentina is known for having excellent steak.
2. My husband loves many things, but especially, and in this order: the “specialty” food item of any place, the weirdest food on the menu (leading to an ongoing and unfortunate battle with Bangkok belly in Thailand), meat.

In fact, most of our trip-planning conversations leading up to our departure went something like this:

Brittany: Oh, I got a good recommendation for a steak restaurant in Buenos Aires.
Ben: AWESOME. Let’s go there.
Brittany: OK. Also, there’s a good market every Sunday in this neighborhood.
Ben: Cool. But do they have steak?
Brittany: Not sure. Oh and we should definitely [insert long and thoughtful list of fun stuff to do in Argentina].
Ben: …also STEAK.

So from the moment we stepped foot on Argentinian soil, Ben was counting down the seconds until we would eat at the renowned Parrilla La Cabrera. It was a day #1 priority. So although it would take an act of God to extract Ben from bed at home, and despite our overnight flight and all-day trek through BA, Ben set our alarm for 10:30pm that night to head out for a post-nap dinner.

We’d read that Argentinians eat late and that lines at La Cabrera can be long, but we figured showing up at 11:00 pm would ensure us a quick table.

Wrong. Upon our arrival (it was just a short walk from our hostel), we were informed that it would be at least an hour’s wait. However, to temper the inevitable inconvenience, La Cabrera sets out a tub of sweet white wine and champagne on ice on their stoop for all to enjoy while they wait. Restaurateurs take note: this is definitely a practice one should import.

OK, we’ll wait with wine!

As a quasi-tourist attraction, much of the waitstaff at La Cabrera speaks English, so the experience is easy. Once they called our name, we quickly found ourselves at a small table in the corner, and with surprising speed, had a bottle of red wine and an appetizer in front of us. Ben ordered the meat and a salad for the table, emphasizing that he wanted the steak cooked “medium rare,” or whatever the Spanish equivalent of that is.

The steak soon arrived on a wooden cutting board and I didn’t even have time to snap a picture before Ben attacked. You think I’m kidding:

I yelped and made him stop so I could take a photo. This was the best I got:

And this is where things sort of fell apart for Ben. The steak was overdone, and he spent a large portion of the meal bemoaning the fact that they would ruin such a nice cut of meat by overcooking it. Unfortunately, it was a trend in Argentina: they overcook their steaks (well, “overcook” by our standards). We ended up having only one steak in Argentina that was perfectly cooked and that was at the home of a cowboy in the countryside and only because, with the assistance of their live-in translator and guide, Ben emphasized the need for the cow to still be bleeding when he consumed it.

Bottom line: I thought La Cabrera was DELICIOUS. Ben was disappointed. While it’s not cheap, the prices are much less expensive than the nicest restaurants in our hometown. The wine was good, the bread was delicious, but learn an accurate Spanish translation of “medium rare” before you go.

Despite getting lost at 3am in a strange city on the way back to our hostel (a bit scary, that), we eventually made our way into bed for good. I’m not lying this time.

One day, my husband Ben decided to go to law school. Then he decided he didn’t want to be a lawyer so he got a job instead.* The point of this saga being: Ben had a two and a half week period between end-of-law-school and start-of-new-job and I had as many vacation days, so in July 2011, we found ourselves in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

It was the first time we’d traveled internationally since THE BIG TRIP (excepting a honeymoon at a Mexican resort, which doesn’t really count) and within two hours of landing in Buenos Aires we realized two things:

1. We are rusty, and
2. OH YEAH this is what I lived and felt for 8 months and oh my god I’ve missed it.

You see, being a “good” traveler takes practice. You need to develop a rhythm, a comfort with your surroundings, a general knowledge of how to do the essentials: get lodging, food, money. Ben and I had a rhythm on our Big Trip. It wasn’t ever spoken, but we got comfortable landing in a foreign place and knowing pretty well how to get sh*t done.

But we lost that rhythm. So when we took the overnight flight to BA from Miami, negotiated a taxi into the city from the airport and found ourselves standing in a nice but modest hostel in the Palermo neighborhood, we stood there blinking at each other. What now?

First order of business: money. Can’t buy food without money and we’re hungry. Where’s the bank? Ask the hostel proprietor. Between his broken English/our broken Spanish get a pretty good idea of bank location. Start walking. Get lost. Turn around. So hungry. Is that a bank? I don’t know. Definitely not a bank. Keep walking. Is that a bank? Yes! How do we get money? Our card won’t work in this ATM. We have to talk to people? Why is that security guard staring at me? OK, I think he’s laughing at us. Do we wait in line here? What’s the exchange rate? Do you know how to ask for that in Spanish?

…Surprisingly, we did eventually get money AND specifically requested small bills, as we’d read that in Argentina no one will cash large ones. Ben was proud of that maneuver.

We stopped in a small, busy cafe in the same neighborhood as our hostel (the only lodging we’d booked prior to the trip). The neighborhood, Palermo, has a hip but comfortable vibe. Boutiques and bars and art galleries cluster together amongst narrow, old homes. There were a lot of young folks, but it was quiet at night on the side streets. Very European.

I ordered the one sandwich I could reasonably translate off the chalkboard menu above the counter, and we sat down at a bistro table to try and formulate a plan for the day.

The problem with Palermo is that it isn’t close to the metro (subte in BA). It’s very accessible to the busline, but as any seasoned traveler will attest, while metros are relatively easy to navigate, public bus systems are very difficult for newbies. And, after traveling so far and long, we didn’t have the energy to figure it out. So, after lunch, we hiked about a mile to the closest subte to ride to the city center.

We managed to exit the subte near Plaza de Mayo. It was the first of many plazas we would encounter on this trip — it seems that any city in South America, no matter how small, has a plaza. If there’s three straw huts on a Bolivian mountain where the llamas outnumber the humans, they build a friggin’ “plaza.”

BA’s Plaza de Mayo is the city’s political center. This is mostly because it’s home to the Casa Rosada, the Argentine presidential mansion and office. What’s awesome is that “Casa Rosada” = “Pink House” which I think we can all agree is objectively better than our version of the same building, the White House. How dull.

Well, you think this is awesome until you realize that the reason it’s pink is because it was originally painted with a mixture including ox blood. Not awesome. But then it becomes awesome again at night when neon pink spotlights shine on the building making you and your husband, who’ve become really lost, mistake it for a casino that you resolve to come back and find the next day.

And now, A Play, in Three Acts:

Setting: The lawn in front of Casa Rosada
Cast: Unnamed hero
Circumstance: The first attempted activity of hero’s trip to Argentina

Fin.

I knew I only had a few good hours left in Ben, so I forced him to his feet so I could at least see a bit more of the city before he crashed for good. He’s a sleeper, that one.

There are several other important buildings in Plaza de Mayo, but I can’t remember them. There was a beautiful cathedral at the opposite end of the square from the Casa Rosada, but I only remember thinking (for the dozenth time in BA), “this could be in Rome.”

Given that I hadn’t researched too much about the city prior to arriving (surprise!), my single-minded mission for the day became to walk around until our legs were too exhausted to keep walking. I’ll ruin the ending for you now to say that I was successful in my mission, much to Ben’s chagrin.

As we started our death march through Buenos Aires, we rounded around the back of Plaza de Maya to discover a building with a sign in Spanish out front that we couldn’t read, and a long line of people waiting to get in the door. We decided to stand in this line to see what would happen. We were whisked through a metal detector (which strangely did not deter us) and found ourselves inside.

We later discovered it was some sort of museum built in 2010 for the bicentennial of Argentina’s independence. At the time, we knew it was an exhibit of some sort in which all the signage exceeded Ben’s Spanish 201 abilities. However, this anecdote should be a revealing peak into the way Ben and I travel: we have no idea what we’re doing. And we are sheep.

BA is not a particularly beautiful city. It’s not un-beautiful, and it has lovely buildings and squares, but like any major and historical metropolis, it’s dirty and rough around the edges. We discovered this as we moseyed through city blocks for (what felt like) hours. Eventually, we landed in Puerto Madero, a waterfront neighborhood and BA’s historical port. It was easy to tell this area of the city, once a decaying warehouse district, has been reclaimed by yuppies. There are factories-turned-luxury condominiums, high rises, expensive waterfront restaurants. We stopped at cafe to rest our legs and ordered our first South American cafes con leche.

Puerto Madero

We took a final walk on the other side of the port, along the Buenos Aires Ecological Reserve. While it was too late to go into the reserve, we enjoyed strolling along the water, watching the roadside parrillos pop up to serve their standard Argentine steaks.

So many mayonnaises at the roadside steak stand!

I hadn’t slept in 36 hours; my leg muscles were screaming. Given my pitiful condition, BA’s legendary nightlife would have to wait. I knew Ben felt the same way when I suggested finding our way back to the hostel and he ran off towards a bus stop with a kind of energy I hadn’t seen from him all day. Well, the phrase running “toward the bus stop” gives the impression that the journey back to our hostel was easy. It was not. It was an hour and a half not-easy. When we (finally) found a bus stop, we had to determine if the stop was on the correct route and running in the right direction and which bus number went to Palermo and at which stop to disembark. It was a long process, and only successful thanks to the kindness of English-speaking strangers and a complete lack of pride on our part.

I don’t even remember how I managed to stumble from bus to bed, but I do remember curling up next to Ben (we’d splurged on our own room), and falling asleep to the happy chatter of young backpackers in the common area starting their night. I cursed their stamina before passing out until noon the following day. Ta da!

* If you ever need 1/3 of a lawyer, email us!

It’s strange, our preoccupation with round numbers. I mean, 20 years of marriage is no more of an accomplishment than 19. The 76th anniversary of the founding of an institution is as impressive as the 75th. But, for a culture that’s surprisingly lacking in any formal rites of passage, I guess we use these opportunities to celebrate and reflect.

I turned 30 recently. And, yes, I know, rationally, that it’s just another day, another year. But, still. I’m nostalgic.

At first, I wanted to record my reflections carefully, in a thoughtful essay that I could look back on, 30 years from now, and realize both how wise I was and how much I had to learn. But my brain isn’t working that way. Maybe it’s because I’m old.

So, here we go: 30 things on my 30th.

1. On the morning of my 30th birthday, I plucked three gray hairs from the top of my head.
2. Here’s the thing that no one tells you: your 20s are hard. Maybe I’d always painted my 20s with these broad brushstrokes of assumed awesomeness. A fulfilling, moderately influential job in a big city would fall into my lap after graduation. I’d have money to spare, would travel with friends, own an amazing wardrobe. I’d get a master’s or doctorate or both. Somehow I’d exude a confidence I’d never been able to harness before in life. None of this happened. Or at least not the way I imagined it would.
3. Your 20s end up being all about defining who you are and what you want from life. You are forced to define yourself outside of your parents, outside of school and grades. For someone who pinned her self worth on her grade point average, this was hard for me. Am I doing it right? Would I get an A in life?
4. I fell in love eight years ago. The kind of love that you want to believe is real, but always doubt, until you meet that person. The floodgates open and you’re swept out to sea, the current holds onto you until suddenly there’s no land in sight and you realize, too late, that your life will never be the same.
5. I am a different person at 30 than I was at 20.
6. Lately, I don’t get carded as often. This makes me happy and sad.
7. I traveled in my 20s. A lot, comparatively. I quit my job and country-hopped for eight months. I’ve traveled to a new place every year since, too. I think about these trips every day. They impact the decisions I make, change the way I perceive the world and my place in it, and help me define what’s important.
8. For my birthday, Ben surprised me with a piano. He is the best giver of gifts — somehow he picks out the one thing you never knew you always wanted.
9. I never thought about marriage, really. If you asked me when I was 20 if I’d get married, I probably would have shrugged. It was never something by which I wanted to define my life. Even when I was in a serious relationship, I would contend that the title of "marriage" was not important. But, somehow, my marriage has become the best thing I’ve ever done. Also, I used to dislike people that said stuff like that last sentence. 
10. In high school and college, I was the quiet girl. I never spoke up in class, never expressed strong opinions publicly. Now, I never hesitate to tell people what I think. Ben would say, to a fault. I think maybe in my 30s I’ll land somewhere the middle. Even still, I regret being that quiet girl. I wish I’d embraced my passion sooner. 
11. I think there are things in life that never change. I hate cake, but love coffee cake, and it’s always been that way. 
12. Yesterday, Ben said to me: "You realize that we get 80 years of life, if we’re lucky. Maybe 100." It was a moment of clarity. Think about it: 100. Years. That is nothing. Why do I waste moments on silly anxieties? Is it possible to quit my job and go live at the beach? Will you, my family and friends, come with me?
13. A few days after our birthdays (Ben’s is two days after mine), we were going over to my mom’s house for a celebratory dinner. Instead, standing in her backyard, was a surprise gathering of our closest friends and family. I haven’t had a surprise party since the third grade.
14. When I saw my family and friends standing in my mom’s backyard yelling "surprise!" I was awash with the warmth of knowing that, no matter what nagging doubts pester my mind, I have friends and family that care enough about me to decorate a backyard with lights and flowers, cater a dinner with my favorite food and drinks, sing happy birthday to me and light sparklers when the sun goes down. Life will never be all that bad.
15. Should we get a dog? Most days, I keep thinking that I want one, but some days it seems like far too much trouble.
16. I had one of the best meals of my life on my 30th birthday. Ben took me to Mamma Zu, a local restaurant that we love. It’s the kind of place where you have to stand in a crowded bar for a good 45 minutes to get a table, but you can grab a bottle of wine from the wooden racks and drink it out of old jelly jars while you wait. The waiters are rushed, the exterior is ramshackle, the tables are too close together, the flatware is thrifted, and the food is melt-in-your-mouth died-and-gone-to-heaven is-this-real-life delicious.
17. I often think that I didn’t meet my potential — whatever that means — by not going to graduate school. I was one of the "smart kids" in school, after all, wasn’t I? Was I meant for academia? But, then, I know that if I’d gone to grad school, it would have been only to fulfill some measure of success as defined by other people. Still, it bugs me.
18. Also, my present from Ben, the piano, had a giant pink bow on top. I’ve always wanted a present with a giant bow.
19. On my 30th birthday, my family came over to my house while I was at work and hung streamers throughout. I had to rip my way through them to get inside the door. They know me.
20. After Ben and I took our 8 month round-the-world trip, we made the decision to build a life in our hometown. This decision was influenced by a new appreciation for the place where we grew up, the realization that being near family is important, and a strong, stubborn urge to never have the course or location of our life be determined by a job. We still battle the urge to pick up and move to a bigger city.
21. For his 30th birthday, I gave Ben a commissioned piece of art — a pop realism piece featuring an original Nintendo controller. He flipped out, in a good way.
22. How did an English major end up as a web designer?
23. I notice, slightly, that my body is aging. Scars take longer to heal. I need a stronger contacts prescription. I have the hint of a wrinkle between my eyes.
24. I hope I’m able to remember what’s important to me as I get older. I don’t want a lot. I like my small brick rancher. If I have a larger house, I have to fill it with stuff. Stuff that breaks. Stuff that I have to clean. Stuff that distracts me from having fun, spending time with family and friends, and causes me unnecessary worry. I can already tell it’s easy to fall into the lap of wild consumerism when you have a little bit of extra income. Please make note, future Brittany: put that money into your retirement account! Take a trip! Donate it to charity! You do not need more clothes or a dedicated formal living room.
25. I still care too much about what people think about me. But, I care a lot less than I did at 20. Hopefully this is something that will fade even more in my 30s.
26. Every year, I realize how dumb I was the previous year. Does this happen forever?
27. I’ve enjoyed establishing lasting relationships with my siblings as adults. We’re now more than sisters and brother. We’re friends.
28. It’s so easy to assume that there is one "right" path for us. It’s easy to want to believe that one of the options we’re presented with is the correct one. That we are, in a sense, predestined. All we have to do is find this path. I know this isn’t true. We’re all guessing and hoping and flying by the seat of our pants. The belief that there is only one right path is the source of much regret and anxiety. But, it’s a hard assumption to eradicate from your brain.
29. If I ever had to imagine when I was 20 what my life would be like at 30, I think my vision would be a whole lot different than it is today. This is a good thing.
30. On the drive home from work on my 30th birthday, I saw two rainbows.

…and forgive me for that self-indulgent diatribe. It happens when you’re old. I’ll restrain myself from now on.

I miss writing. I was an English major, after all, and over the course of my education I became so adept at cranking out ten page papers that I didn’t realize that the ability to communicate on paper (or screen) is a cultivated skill. Something to be appreciated and nurtured. And when I graduated, all that time for writing fell victim to the demands of real life.

And then we started this blog. It took me a while to get going. Eight months of traveling meant eight months that I could practice my writing. And I think I got better. Maybe? I tried. And then I stopped again. And now it’s three years later.

The point is: I want to write more. I need an outlet. I was originally convinced that I’d need to start a brand-spanking-new blog because this was our travel blog for people who want travel stories and information, but hey, I still remember the admin password and it’s my blog so I’ll write what I want.

This is not a new year’s resolution. I’m not one of those people that’s all “I hate new year’s resolutions” because I don’t and I make them. Last year, I resolved to be able to do the splits by the year’s end. Still can’t do the splits. This is more of a I-think-this-will-make-me-happy-and-a-better-person-so-let’s-try-to-make-this-a-part-of-my-life thing. I’ve been trying to keep a bedside journal, but came to the quick realization that writing by hand is slow and makes my hand hurt. #firstworldproblems

I’m not going to set any tangible goals like “I’ll do this once a week!” because this is not a resolution and I know that will end in failure. BUT I am putting this out there, in a public forum, for people to read or not read, which might make me feel a certain amount of accountability.

I guess we do need to blog about our adventures this summer through Argentina and Bolivia, so maybe that’s a good place to start. We’ll see.

“I need a vacation, please.” I demanded for the hundredth time that week.

“Mmm, yeah, that’d be fun.” Ben replied, distractedly.

“NO, you don’t understand.” I grabbed his shoulders and pivoted him away from the TV until he faced me squarely, our noses nearly touching. “Take. Me. On. Vacation.”

Maybe it’s because we haven’t gone much of anywhere all winter. Maybe it was the hint of crazy in my eyes. But somehow, a few weekends ago, I found myself whisked away to Charleston, S.C., for a long weekend.

Ben and I are born-and-bred Richmond, Virginians. As the former capital of the Confederate States, you’d think that Richmond would fiercely identify with its Southern heritage and everything that goes along with that title. And we do. Woo boy, do we ever. But truth be told, Richmond is a land divided. Flanked on one side by the small southern-traditional towns of Southeastern Virginia, and on the other by the D.C.-sprawl of bustling Northern Virginia, we’re torn between our Confederate heritage and our proximity to those damn Yankees that have been creeping their way down to warmer climates ever since the unfortunate conclusion to the War between the States.

But there’s no getting around it in South Carolina: you are in The American South. The rootin’-tootin’, chicken-fryin’, Bible-thumpin’ South. To wit: South Carolinians still spark debates over whether or not to fly a Confederate flag over the capitol building. South Carolina: the answer is no.

Any place where you can revel in balmy temperatures, thick, slow accents and loads of butter is a fine vacation to me.

Charleston has preserved its historic glory more than any place I’ve ever been, despite becoming a tourist hub. Once you step into the famous “below Broad” neighborhood, you are whisked away to the antebellum South: sitting on your porch swing, wearing a corset and sipping your mint juleps. We were walking through the historic district (the second-largest historic district in the world behind Rome!), when I stopped suddenly.

“It’s so..it’s so…quiet.” I said, incredulously. Not even the faint hum of traffic pierced the humid, honeysuckle-scented air.

Of course Ben didn’t respond. He was too distracted. By what, you ask? By this:

Yep. Someone actually lives there. And in the house beside it that’s just as huge and gorgeous. And in the one beside THAT that’s even more huge and gorgeous. And on and on it goes.

Of course, we did a little more than wander around the historic district and take carriage rides while in the heart of the Lowcountry. Okay, we did a lot more. And, let me tell you, it was DELICIOUS.

Oh, sweet, sweet, heavenly Charleston, how I long for thy tasty morsels.

Please, let me take you on a culinary tour of Charleston as I revel in the delicious memories. I’ll be brief.

Cornbread with honey and butter.
Shrimp po’boy.
Basket of pecan fried chicken.
Mac’n'cheese.
Fried okra.
Sweet potato pancakes (best pancakes OF MY LIFE. Get thee to Joseph’s, friend.)
Shrimp and grits.
Grits grits grits.
Fried green tomatoes.
Bacon bacon bacon.
Stuffed french toast.
…
STOP. I must end lest I drool on my keyboard.

In the midst of this shameless weekend-long gluttonfest, while shopping in the open-air market near the waterfront, we ran across a copy of the famed Charleston Receipts for sale at one of the stands.

This ain’t no ordinary cookbook, y’all. This is the original Charleston Junior League cookbook, and the oldest of its kind in print.

It wasn’t until the six-hour car ride home that I got a chance to take a peak inside, and, wow, was I ever in for a treat.

I opened the book up to find an entire chapter devoted to grits (also known as hominy, and apparently, grist):

Please note the line of Gullah that precedes each chapter. Gullah is creole language still spoken by many descendants of slaves in the region. From what I understand, it’s the language that evolved from the combination of English and African dialects. In case you can’t read it:

“Man w’en ‘e hongry, ‘e teck sum egg or cheese an’ ting an’ eat till e’ full. But ‘ooman boun’ fuh meck wuck an’ trouble. ‘E duh cook!”

Translation? “When a man is hungry, he takes some eggs or cheese and things and eats until he is full, but a woman is bound to make work and trouble. She cooks!”

Duh.

WHY is there a whole chapter on grits? How many ways could you possible cook grits, you ask?

Boiled, baked, pressure cooked, fried… and when I turned the page, I discovered, amongst even more grits recipes, a recipe for “Hominy Surprise!”

Please note how all of the women identify themselves by their husband’s name. She’s Mrs. Louis T. Parker! And a proper married girl.

I then flipped to the “game” section. This is the only cookbook I own with a chapter called “Game” that includes yummy recipes like this:

You can tell this book is from a different era. Excuse me? Brush with fat? What fat? Do they sell that at Kroger? How should I preheat my oven? Gravy? Where’s the recipe for the gravy?

It is also the only cookbook I own that gives me instruction on how to properly cook various wild meats. Squirrels, for instance, don’t need to soak, and skinning can wait until cooking.

Possum on the other hand needs to be cleaned as soon as possible after shooting, and hung for 48 hours. Who knew?

I was at first extremely confused by the first ingredient necessary for cooter soup: cooters? preferably female?

What. The. Hell.

I was even more disturbed by the first instruction: “Kill cooter by chopping off its head.”

It wasn’t until I turned to this page:

That I understand that cooter=terrapin=turtle. Ha!

And, finally, who can leave South Carolina without a large dose of…

Alas, we returned to Richmond with heavy hearts and heavier bellies. Here, I don’t keep vats of bacon fat in my cupboard or skin freshly-caught game. Yet.

If you’ve wandered by our site in recent weeks, you’ve probably noticed a strange “sticky” post and a picture of a weird koala-mermaid gracing our homepage. I’ll explain.

A few months ago, the Australian tourism office announced they were conducting a worldwide job search for an “Island Caretaker.” This person would live on the Great Barrier Reef islands for six months, keeping a blog and making videos to promote the islands.

After three people independently emailed me the link to the job, and after I learned that another three people had emailed Ben about it, I became convinced that this was fate. I mean, HELLO? The job involved traveling, sitting on beautiful beaches, and BLOGGING. If you’re not convinced we are the best candidates for such a job, please refer to: this entire website.

We took a risk and applied together, as a couple, rather than as individuals, thinking that our quirky interaction might add a funny element to the video, and might set us apart from the crowd. It could’ve also been what disqualified us, but we’ll never know. We didn’t get the job. BIG MISTAKE, QUEENSLAND. BIG MISTAKE.

So our dreams of making $100,000 for six months of lying on a beach were squelched, and we’re back to the annoying and archaic concept of actually earning our money. Blech.

For your viewing pleasure, I present our audition video. If I post this, I don’t want to hear any, “WTF, of COURSE you didn’t make it, that video is STUPID and terrible and you’re the DUMBEST people alive,” okay? We didn’t make it. No rubbing salt in the wound. Instead, once you watch this video, please comment with: “WOW, Australia really messed up by not hiring you! You’re HILARIOUS. And really attractive! And super smart to boot!”

K? Good.

PS: Shout out to my sister Lindsay for filming us! She was quite patient dealing with our demand for dozens of takes of each shot. Another shout out goes to Allison for her awesome artistic skillz.