My son was a biter. He often used to bite poor Jocelyn.
When she was bitten by a dog in the park today, I was kind of hoping it would be like being bitten by Ronan. Someone would cry. Someone would go for a timeout and then say sorry.
Not so. I called my pediatrician just to be sure. Even I was chatting to her, I found myself trying to talk her round...subtly suggest that surely this could all be resolved with a nice bowl of hot soup.
She told me I would have to track down the dog, and insure it was vaccinated against rabies. I've heard rumors that the series of shots for bite victims is pretty rough. I was feeling pretty queasy at the idea.
Jocelyn was busy being very brave.
My nanny was being a tad clueless, and commenting about how dangerous it is to be bitten by a dog that doesn't have its rabies shots.
I was contemplating strangling my nanny.
She'd been bitten in the park. Nobody was quite sure why, or what happened. I wasn't very sure I'd be able to find this dog. I wasn't very sure that a dog that spends its afternoon hanging out in the local park would have its shots up to date.
When we got to the park, and our nanny pointed out the cabin in the middle of the park where the dog had emerged, i was even less sure that someone lived there. had no idea if they would open the door to me, admit to having a dog, or produce the documentation I requested.
Jocelyn started to get shaky when we got to the park. I took her in to the play area to wait while I went to the hut to investigate.
From there, things started to look up. The folks in the cabin in the park answered, produced their dogs and their documentation. Jocelyn positively id'ed the pugnacious pooch, and was rewarded with popcorn. I stopped sweating over the notion of dragging Jocelyn off for a series of painful rabies shots, and treated myself to a celebratory diet coke.
my pediatrician (who I'd called on her private cellphone by the way), called me up and offered to swing by and write me up a prescription tonight (Friday night) or tomorrow morning (yup, Saturday a.m.). Antibiotics to guard against infection from the bite were recommended.
Nobody got up in arms and started demanding the dog be put down.
Nobody had to spend hours sitting in a waiting room.
She charged me under $20.00.
The antiobiotics can be had without a prescription.
Cheap.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Boys will be Boys
Spring is sprung, and I've been spending time weeding my garden. The other day I was horribly stung by a nettle that had sprung up among the daisies.
Brian, rather than leaping forward to trounce the offending plant, lovingly dug it out of the earth and transplanted it to a pot, while regaling me with tales of nettle wars. Apparently, when he was a boy at school, the kids would harvest nettles and use them to flay eachother as part of their playground fun.
As it turns out, we stumbled across another wonder of nature corrupted by the proclivities of little boys just days later.
FIRE GRUBS. These creepy-looking 3 or 4 inch long wood eaters produce a powerful acid to help them digest the dense hardwood, QUEBRACHO, which is popular for barbecues here in Argentina. And I'm told, kids like to gather them to use as corrosive missiles to fire at one another in the playground 'round these parts.
ick.
Kind of makes my daughter's obsession with All Things Princessey seem less annoying.
Brian, rather than leaping forward to trounce the offending plant, lovingly dug it out of the earth and transplanted it to a pot, while regaling me with tales of nettle wars. Apparently, when he was a boy at school, the kids would harvest nettles and use them to flay eachother as part of their playground fun.
As it turns out, we stumbled across another wonder of nature corrupted by the proclivities of little boys just days later.
FIRE GRUBS. These creepy-looking 3 or 4 inch long wood eaters produce a powerful acid to help them digest the dense hardwood, QUEBRACHO, which is popular for barbecues here in Argentina. And I'm told, kids like to gather them to use as corrosive missiles to fire at one another in the playground 'round these parts.
ick.
Kind of makes my daughter's obsession with All Things Princessey seem less annoying.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Care Packages from Home
I have three bags of jumbo marshmallows in my pantry, plus a HUGE jar of Bick's pickles, already down about 1/3 after only 24 hours. To me, a Bick's pickle is the only real dill pickle in the world.
Oh, and my friends Anya and Leos are here to visit for a couple of weeks, too. The two of them lugged the monster jar of pickles down here at our request, plus a few other items so heavy I am embarrassed to name them here.
It has started me thinking about stuff I miss from Canada... of even from Brazil. Mangos for breakfast. Alaskan King Crab legs.
There are some cherished traditions I would like to pass on to my kids that are difficult to replicate in this environment. Toasting marshmallows over a campfire in the woods -- or even S'mores! Argentina lacks graham crackers, marshmallows...and, as incredible as this sounds, I have been unable to find chocolate chips!
For a North-American, it boggles the mind. Almost no peanut butter, but there are two aisles at the grocery store dedicated to dulce de leche.
So now, I am faced with the perennial conflict of the expat. To horde my treasures, or to wallow in gluttonous overindulgence? ...or there is, I suppose, a third option, which is to start issuing invitations to more friends and family from back home.
...For those of you planning a trip south, we could really use some packets of pectin, chocolate chips and some licorice.
Oh, and we're getting dangerously low on Bick's.
Oh, and my friends Anya and Leos are here to visit for a couple of weeks, too. The two of them lugged the monster jar of pickles down here at our request, plus a few other items so heavy I am embarrassed to name them here.
It has started me thinking about stuff I miss from Canada... of even from Brazil. Mangos for breakfast. Alaskan King Crab legs.
There are some cherished traditions I would like to pass on to my kids that are difficult to replicate in this environment. Toasting marshmallows over a campfire in the woods -- or even S'mores! Argentina lacks graham crackers, marshmallows...and, as incredible as this sounds, I have been unable to find chocolate chips!
For a North-American, it boggles the mind. Almost no peanut butter, but there are two aisles at the grocery store dedicated to dulce de leche.
So now, I am faced with the perennial conflict of the expat. To horde my treasures, or to wallow in gluttonous overindulgence? ...or there is, I suppose, a third option, which is to start issuing invitations to more friends and family from back home.
...For those of you planning a trip south, we could really use some packets of pectin, chocolate chips and some licorice.
Oh, and we're getting dangerously low on Bick's.
Monday, April 14, 2008
What Are we Doing Here, Exactly?
We have recently celebrated a year in Buenos Aires, so this is a good time to be contemplating that sort of question, I suppose.
A couple of days ago, my friend Dolores called to ask me whether I would be willing to participate in the making of a documentary about expats choosing to move to Buenos Aires. Of course I said I'd love to. I met Dolores almost a year ago, sitting in a local cafe with my two kids. She overheard us chatting in English and stopped by our table to pass me on the names of local doctors, dentists, etc.
Thanks for reaching out, Dolores.
Anyways, I got to thinking about how one would answer the question "Why would you choose to leave everything behind and move to a new country?" The answer is a tough one to articulate.
I find myself at a similar loss for words when trying to explain to my 5 year old why I would want to read books. How could I not want to read books? Everything in the world is available to me in books...I feel the same way about jumping on the opportunity to travel. How could I not want to?
I suppose a reasonable response that that would be...well, you could plan vacations to all the places you want to see. But it just isn't the same, is it?
I suppose that a person who craves the nurturing of societal roots can no more understand my craving to be a nomad than I can understand what compels another person to want to jump out of a plane with a little bit of parachute silk strapped to their back.
It has just always been that way for me. I would feel myself grow flushed with envy/awe when I encountered the child of nomadic parents, and listened to their tales of the places that they'd lived.
Every place I visit, I fall in love with, to some degree (with the notable exceptions of Las Vegas, and Orlando). I find myself feeling drawn to stick around and get to know it, then do a little reconnaissance to see what else might be in the general vicinity. Then hopping on a train or in a car to explore further afield, culminating in a change of venue, where the cycle can start over.
Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I married a man with the same compulsion.
A couple of days ago, my friend Dolores called to ask me whether I would be willing to participate in the making of a documentary about expats choosing to move to Buenos Aires. Of course I said I'd love to. I met Dolores almost a year ago, sitting in a local cafe with my two kids. She overheard us chatting in English and stopped by our table to pass me on the names of local doctors, dentists, etc.
Thanks for reaching out, Dolores.
Anyways, I got to thinking about how one would answer the question "Why would you choose to leave everything behind and move to a new country?" The answer is a tough one to articulate.
I find myself at a similar loss for words when trying to explain to my 5 year old why I would want to read books. How could I not want to read books? Everything in the world is available to me in books...I feel the same way about jumping on the opportunity to travel. How could I not want to?
I suppose a reasonable response that that would be...well, you could plan vacations to all the places you want to see. But it just isn't the same, is it?
I suppose that a person who craves the nurturing of societal roots can no more understand my craving to be a nomad than I can understand what compels another person to want to jump out of a plane with a little bit of parachute silk strapped to their back.
It has just always been that way for me. I would feel myself grow flushed with envy/awe when I encountered the child of nomadic parents, and listened to their tales of the places that they'd lived.
Every place I visit, I fall in love with, to some degree (with the notable exceptions of Las Vegas, and Orlando). I find myself feeling drawn to stick around and get to know it, then do a little reconnaissance to see what else might be in the general vicinity. Then hopping on a train or in a car to explore further afield, culminating in a change of venue, where the cycle can start over.
Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I married a man with the same compulsion.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Best Mexican Ever
Ok, twice last week I went to a little local mexican joint on Libertador in La Lucila, about 3 blocks from my house. I can´t tell you the name of it. It just says restaurante mexicana out front. Inside the walls are painted brightly, and the waitresses wear embroidered mexican blouses.
And it is the best mexican food I have ever tasted. Not in Buenos Aires...anywhere. And I´ve chowed down on enough mexican and tex-mex to sink a ship in my lifetime. I love it so much I am willing to accept almost any pale, watery substitute. Taco Bell is my favourite fast food joint, and I´ll even stoop to eating movie nachos with the neon orange cheezy sauce.
Anyways, back to the fabu restaurant.
They make their own corn and flour tortillas-
They serve a mouthwatering selection of savoury stews, fragrant and delicately spiced, folded into delicate and diminutive tortilla wrappers
They have a broad assortment of homemade salsas ranging from mildly picante to inferno
They have about thirty tequilas on the menu served in icey little shot glasses
...and they don't go around ruining perfectly good margaritas by putting sugar on the rims.
i am a happy girl.
And it is the best mexican food I have ever tasted. Not in Buenos Aires...anywhere. And I´ve chowed down on enough mexican and tex-mex to sink a ship in my lifetime. I love it so much I am willing to accept almost any pale, watery substitute. Taco Bell is my favourite fast food joint, and I´ll even stoop to eating movie nachos with the neon orange cheezy sauce.
Anyways, back to the fabu restaurant.
They make their own corn and flour tortillas-
They serve a mouthwatering selection of savoury stews, fragrant and delicately spiced, folded into delicate and diminutive tortilla wrappers
They have a broad assortment of homemade salsas ranging from mildly picante to inferno
They have about thirty tequilas on the menu served in icey little shot glasses
...and they don't go around ruining perfectly good margaritas by putting sugar on the rims.
i am a happy girl.
Monday, February 11, 2008
It´s the Little Things
People are always asking me what it is I love so much about Buenos Aires. It´s kind of hard for me to answer conclusively. A collection of little pleasures that sum up over the days and months, none of which means much of anything when considered individually.
One of my absolute favourite sights, when lounging in cafe society here in Buenos Aires, is the pristinely clad waiters, bearing their silver trays laden with piping hot coffee and fresh pastries as they weave through traffic on the busy streets, off to deliver an afternoon pick-me-up to one of their neighbors-in-commerce.
They wear long white aprons - the kind you generally only see in the upscale restaurants back where I´m from, and their trays are usually laden with real linens and china. No Tim Horton´s cardboard racks of paper cups. It kind of harkens back to a different time, for me. One that probably only ever existed in my imagination.
Decadent.
And speaking of decadent, I did something for the first time yesterday that felt decadent in the extreme. I ordered gelati for home-delivery online from http://www.freddo.com.ar.
A 1 kilo tub, half bitter chocolate, half vanilla. It came in a special styrofoam tub, packed in dry ice, and was accompanied by a little pack of waffle cones.
But we didn´t need the cones. Bri and I were introducing the kids to a long-standing family tradition from our university days - Warm brownies made from a mix, and gourmet ice cream at the end of a weekend of debauchery. Of course, our debauchery these days mostly takes the form of puttering in the garden, rearranging the garden furniture into a fort, or lounging over coffee and a Sunday paper.
I am pleased to report that brownies and ice cream just as spectacular sober. Thank goodness I purchased a home that falls inside Freddo´s delivery area...though it was not one of my purchase criteria at the time I was house-hunting. If ever I should move, to another neighborhood I´ll be sure to consult the Freddo delivery coverage map before calling on a realestate agent.
One of my absolute favourite sights, when lounging in cafe society here in Buenos Aires, is the pristinely clad waiters, bearing their silver trays laden with piping hot coffee and fresh pastries as they weave through traffic on the busy streets, off to deliver an afternoon pick-me-up to one of their neighbors-in-commerce.
They wear long white aprons - the kind you generally only see in the upscale restaurants back where I´m from, and their trays are usually laden with real linens and china. No Tim Horton´s cardboard racks of paper cups. It kind of harkens back to a different time, for me. One that probably only ever existed in my imagination.
Decadent.
And speaking of decadent, I did something for the first time yesterday that felt decadent in the extreme. I ordered gelati for home-delivery online from http://www.freddo.com.ar.
A 1 kilo tub, half bitter chocolate, half vanilla. It came in a special styrofoam tub, packed in dry ice, and was accompanied by a little pack of waffle cones.
But we didn´t need the cones. Bri and I were introducing the kids to a long-standing family tradition from our university days - Warm brownies made from a mix, and gourmet ice cream at the end of a weekend of debauchery. Of course, our debauchery these days mostly takes the form of puttering in the garden, rearranging the garden furniture into a fort, or lounging over coffee and a Sunday paper.
I am pleased to report that brownies and ice cream just as spectacular sober. Thank goodness I purchased a home that falls inside Freddo´s delivery area...though it was not one of my purchase criteria at the time I was house-hunting. If ever I should move, to another neighborhood I´ll be sure to consult the Freddo delivery coverage map before calling on a realestate agent.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Argentinian Toll Booths
Ok, so my husband, who LOVES to drive, convinced me we should take a car and drive the 12 hours to Mendoza, to my brother´s house for Christmas. any of you who has ever been trapped in a car that I was driving is probably in the grips of a hideous flashback at the very thought of having to endure 12 hours of that kind of torture.
...anyways. I´ll make this quick. As a bad driver, I must admit to having a slightly guilty conscience when I drive. If I hear a horn honking, I automatically assume I have just run a red light, or run down an old lady with a walker.
So there we are, approaching the first of about 75 tollbooths, and I am trying vainly to interpret the quite simple markers that indicate which lane I should choose. Ok, so I cut across about 7 lanes, to get to the right one for me: open, no need for exact change. As I am waiting in line, I notice that there is a cacophany of honking building all around me.
Is Bri glaring accusingly at me, or is that my guilty conscience rearing its ugly head? We continue to creep forward. it's the holidays, so the line is a mile long. As I pull up to the booth, arm outstretched with a 2 peso note the honking is reaching a fever pitch, and...a most extraordinary thing happens. The attendant waves me through, refusing to take my money.
Apparently we had reached the tipping point. The attendants, responding to crowd pressure, had decided to stop holding up the flow and just opened up the floodgates. Go on through. have a nice day. sorry to have held up your travels.
...anyways. I´ll make this quick. As a bad driver, I must admit to having a slightly guilty conscience when I drive. If I hear a horn honking, I automatically assume I have just run a red light, or run down an old lady with a walker.
So there we are, approaching the first of about 75 tollbooths, and I am trying vainly to interpret the quite simple markers that indicate which lane I should choose. Ok, so I cut across about 7 lanes, to get to the right one for me: open, no need for exact change. As I am waiting in line, I notice that there is a cacophany of honking building all around me.
Is Bri glaring accusingly at me, or is that my guilty conscience rearing its ugly head? We continue to creep forward. it's the holidays, so the line is a mile long. As I pull up to the booth, arm outstretched with a 2 peso note the honking is reaching a fever pitch, and...a most extraordinary thing happens. The attendant waves me through, refusing to take my money.
Apparently we had reached the tipping point. The attendants, responding to crowd pressure, had decided to stop holding up the flow and just opened up the floodgates. Go on through. have a nice day. sorry to have held up your travels.
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