“So, what do you see?” asked the Australian student seated next to me. “We should almost be there now.” 

Slowly, I pulled down the plastic shade and leaned back into the seat. “Nothing. There’s nothing there.” 

I lived there for a year. I returned. I’ve been back for about a year now. For one full year, I’ve been chewing over the constantly evasive, “meaning of my experience.” What did I learn there? My conclusion is a cliché one, but it serves well for the purposes of elaboration: Patagonia is not just a place, but a state of mind; one that tells you to slow down. One that tells your muscles to relax. One that tells you to breathe not because you’ll die if you don’t, but because the air is nice.

The Patagonian state of mind is a reflective state of mind. I remember Patagonia best when I am reflective.

The Welsh also make their culture known through an annual festival called Eisteddfod that celebrated the crowning of the bard- in this case, the winner of a locally prestigious literary and music competition- through various Druid ceremonies accompanied by international and national perf ormers of dance, music, and poetry. Before then, I had never seen a druid before. My perceptions of history have told me that they died out long ago. I know I sounded infantile, but the question came out before I had a chance to check myself. “Is that a real druid?”  Another time we took ATVs to the beach where we found sea elephants and seals sunbathing. It was honestly better than a zoo because you saw everything up close. Sunbathe with the rest of them if you like. No rules this time, just your own sense of self-preservation that kept you from getting too close.

Speaking of no rules...

Nightclubs. 18 to enter. 21 to drink, regardless of what age you are. And the names were catchy, as nightclub names usually are. Brujas. Morena. Akropolis. Dimension Zero. El Zodiaco. Apocalipsis. They were hubs of teenage pop culture; as religiously frequented on Fridays and Saturdays as church was on Sundays. Here was my first taste of parental liberalism. I ask about curfews, ready for something strict, but not necessarily unreasonable. My host father’s answer: “Go on! Have fun. Seven. Eight. Whatever. Maybe a drink. Just don’t get drunk.”   One’s first experience would prove to be chaotic, but the schedule would soon settle into the mind as something nearly ritualistic. Meet at the friend’s house at midnight. If you had good contacts, you had a free pass. Get ready. Make up. High heels. Tight jeans. Short skirts. Jewelry. Jean jacket. The works. Drink coffee to make sure you actually make it through the night. At one, take a taxi to Establo, the popular alley bar. At three, migrate to Morenas- which by local law shouldn’t be in the downtown area even though it is. Stay until you feel like leaving. I usually leave before six or seven when they start playing uncharacteristic American music from the fifties as a subtle “get out” to anybody still there. Go to a cafe. Drink tea or hot chocolate. Take the taxi back home. Sleep till noon.

I wrote about it afterwards, the sensation still fresh in my memory: This universe was Argentine teen pop culture in all its forms, pure and unrestrained. People swerved around each other, holding their drinks high so as not to spill them, the neon glowing cups garishly standing out from the machine generated mist. Around me was a faint dimness pierced by the rapidly changing disco lights as I neared pulsing dance floor where I could literally feel the Cumbia beat getting into my bones. Close to the walls, school cliques kept to their respective groups- smoking, drinking, laughing, and shouting over the ever prevalent music. Over my light Primavera, I see one bunch of girls wearing the same style orange and blue jacket, a mark of the 5th year students from my school. The sight reminded me of Grease’s Pink Ladies. 

Now About This Culture Thing

Stripping down to the bare basics of everything, the concept of culture reduces itself to people and habit. Every other Sunday, I would wake up to the smell of an asado being prepared downstairs on the patio grill. It’s times like these when I simply skip breakfast altogether. Argentines are proud of their meat and methods of barbequing it. “On the grill, not on the fire.” My host dad told me as he rotated the sizzling shish kabobs. “You put out the fire and the heated metal is enough to cook the meat. Not like you Estadounidenses (Literally translated into “United Statetians” because Argentines are “Americans” too when you think about it) who roast on coals and make the meat black outside and undercooked inside.” I tell him its an acquired taste.  The pace of life is slow, but deliciously so. Siestas and weekend asados. A short walk to Mares ice cream shop. Picnics beside the Chubut river or a sunny day trip to touristy Puerto Madryn and its seaside and sidewalk cafes. Tea time in a Gaiman teahouse or going to the beach at Rawson. It always has something to do with people. People congregating. People talking lazily about the days events. People talking heatedly about politics. And at the center of everything would be a single cup of maté, the national Argentine tea pronounced “máh-teh.” They’re as proud of their tea as they are of their asados. 

The process is as methodical as a Japanese tea ceremony. Everyone takes it in one cup-usually quite ornate- in which the server puts in a liberal amount of loose tea leaves, sticks in a metal straw with a filter at the end, then pours in hot water from a not very ornate kettle. The server takes it first, sipping the strong brew through the straw. When finished, the cup is replenished with a fresh supply of hot water. The metal straw is wiped clean and is then passed to the person on the right. This drink and refill method is, of course, accompanied by copious amounts of conversation that always seem to last longer than the tea itself. Each person has his or her different methods of preparation and ways of taking the tea. At home, my classmates and I drank tea and coffee alone to wake ourselves up. In Argentina we drank tea to socialize and enjoy ourselves. These are the moments I remember best because they were “living in the moment” moments.

At the end of our year, my Australian friend and I joked about how everything significant in our experience happened over some type of drink. I went a step further and declared maté to be a philosophy in its own right. After all, it is a pillar in socio-cultural interaction. Readying myself to return to the States, logic concluded that it was impossible to take an entire culture with me. But a philosophy, yes. A philosophy is easy to carry and requires no extra fees for added weight. Maté is a way of dealing with friends and strangers; as warming as a greeting kiss on the cheek.  In a moment of clarity wherein I was contemplating why I had not been sent to Japan (my first choice on the exchange student application; Argentina was #2), I realized that there was an exact phonetic similarity between maté and the Japanese word for ‘wait‘, “Matte, matte!” The Argentine maté also said “wait,” but in its own way.

Wait. Come in and talk a while.

Wait. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

Wait. So what have you been doing lately?

Wait. Hello, it’s nice to meet you.

Question: What did you learn there?

Answer: I learned how to make tea.