Last Sunday in Cordoba. Kelsey, Josepha, Anna, and I took a bus to a little town called Jesus Maria, an hour outside the capital. When we got off the bus, it was kind of cold, and we walked around in the rain looking for the Jesuit estancia, Estancia X_____ (this is me forgetting the name of the estancia, not me nodding to gothic and old Russian literature). On the “outskirts” of town (“outskirts” because how big, I wonder, does a town have to be to have outskirts?), there was a (very small) river with farmish animals grazing along its banks, which were inclined and green. Across a rickety bridge, rising from the hill, was a giant crucifix the size of a really big crucifix. And mounted on this giant crucifix was… Can you guess it? It was Jesus. A giant Jesus. Rain streamed down Giant Jesus’s face like tears. There was no one else around, and it was a little eerie, like the beginning of a movie about exorcisms or the stigmata. Upon glimpsing the Jesus, we called upon our knowledge of The Official Rules of Wandering Around in a South American Country for guidance. Rule #219 states: “When wandering around in a South American country, you glimpse a ungodly-sized Jesus, go to it.” We go-ed. And as we trudged across the bridge—in the rain—toward Jesus, Estancia X_____ came into view, as did the gate in front of it, which was shut and locked. We immediately realized we’d been in violation of Rule #10: “Don’t forget siesta time.” Wiping rainwater off the wet sign, we read that Estancia X_____ would reopen at 15:00. It was 13:00.
Did I mention it was raining? As we swam back across the bridge toward town in search of somewhere sheltered to bide the time, Jo complained (justly) about the wetness of her flip-flopped feet. Anna coughed like a dying emphysema patient but didn’t complain (possibly because she’d lost her voice—she’d had a cold all weekend). Kelsey and I sang a Spanish version of Old McDonald Had A Farm. It started like this…
Senor Sanchez tenia un estancia
Ay ay ay ay ay
Y en esta estancia habia una vaca
Ay ay ay ay ay
… And stopped when cow was the only animal we could think of in Spanish.
Across the bridge, we came across a “bar” on a corner, which was a room barely big enough for a smattering of lawn furniture, a pool table, a TV with music videos playing, and a handful of old local men sitting around watching said music videos. We pulled two plastic tables together and ordered some pizza, milanesa, and beer (Rule #1: Drink the cerveza). Then, some children transpired and they and the old men went over to a table in the back to join the owners (a husband and wife) for a family-style asado. To numb the guilt we suddenly felt for intruding on this Sunday family time, we played a drinking game, which consisted of us taking turns around the table proposing toasts to our various traveling experiences and everyone drinking. For example:
“Here’s to Oktoberfest!” (the inspiration for our weekend trip to Cordoba, it’s the third largest Oktoberfest in the world, located in a town called Villa General Belgrano, which is about two hours outside the capital and home to a large German community because a lot of… Germans settled there after World War II).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to liter-sized beer steins!” (which we had to purchase prior to purchasing the beer at Oktoberfest in order to have something to put the beer in—BYO Beer Stein).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Hugh!” (as in Hefner, the name we gave to the proprietor of our favorite beer booth. Not only did he facially resemble his namesake, but he was also smooth and charming with the ladies, providing us with discounted and, later, free beer. I imagine it was funny watching us explain “playboy” to him in Spanish. We knew he grasped the concept when he promptly tipped his muffin-shaped chef’s hat and refilled our steins with a wink).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to mani!” (pronounced mah-NEE, it’s peanuts, which we’ve found you can pretty much get anywhere for free if you ask—and we do).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the Russian dancers!” (who performed on the Oktoberfest stage, inspiring a drinking game of their own—whenever one of them kicks, everybody drinks).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the Swing Kids!” (the Swiss jazz band that played the Glenn Miller song from the old Chips Ahoy! commercials twice).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to La Cumbrecita!” (which is the name of the “fairy tale” walking town that one of my students suggested we go see due to its fairytaleness and proximity to VGB, and not, as it turns out, a cutesy nickname for La Cumbre, which is the extreme sports town nowhere near VGB where we reserved a hostel—by the time we realized our mistake, everything in La Cumbrecita was booked—que lastima!).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to canceling three out of the four hostel reservations we made this weekend!” (in addition to the one in La Cumbre, our constantly changing plans made us cancel one in Cordoba when we thought we were going to be in a different town overnight, only to then decide we were going to stay in Cordoba after all and book a different hostel, which we all but stormed out of shortly after checking in when we realized that, rather than being in a bedroom, we were actually on the other side of, not a wall, but a screen, from the common room, where there was apparently a dance party happening when we were trying to sleep at 2am. It was so loud that when we called Nacho, a friend of a friend who lives in Cordoba, para pedir to sleep on his floor, we had to shout into the phone while plugging our non-phone-side ear with our finger).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to arguing with the guy at the fourth hostel!” (who tried to charge us 35 pesos per person though the rate we’d booked online was 25 pesos—we won).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to being those Americans!”
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Nacho!” (for going to sleep at a friend’s house to make room for us to sleep in his apartment).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Nacho Dos!” (Nacho’s friend named Nacho).
Everybody drinks. At this point, we ran out of beer. One of the owners (wife) noticed and said, “Las Chicas necesitan mas cerveza.” When she brought it to us, we asked her for some mani, which she also brought to us.
“Here’s to this place!” (come in, she said, I’ll give you, shelter from the storm…)
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to this weekend and changing every single plan we made!”
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Uruguay!” (where we went for two days in September to renew our visas, which must be done every 90 days by leaving the country—a trip that was also poorly planned, as in, our plan was “let’s go get a boat to Colonia del Sacramento and when we get there find a place to stay and something to do,” which worked fine in Colonia, where there are exactly four things to do—and we successfully did them all, which in retrospect perhaps gave us a cocky, blasé attitude toward the necessity of actually planning future trips).
Everybody drinks.
“While we’re on the topic of Uruguay, here’s to the bikes!” (which were lent to us by our hostel free of charge, except for a deposit, which was worth more than the bikes, which didn’t have brakes but did have broken seats and flat tires).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the bullfighting stadium!” (where we rode our bikes 5km along the Rio de la Plata, the widest river in the world and the 1-hour-Buquebus-boatride barrier between Uruguay and Buenos Aires. When we got to the stadium, which was of an estimated similar age and condition to our bikes, there was a barbed wire fence blocking us from the crumbling edifice. Not far from a gate, which we presumed locked, we spied a large hole in the fence, which we climbed through WITH our bikes so as to prevent them from being stolen. Some passersby saw us and warned us to be careful. “Why? Are we going to get arrested?” we asked. “No,” they said, “but the building might fall on your head.” What silly Americans we are for fearing breaking the rules—this is South America, after all, there are no rules—when there are large chunks of breaking concrete to fear. Well, the stadium didn’t collapse and bury us alive, and as we were heading back to the hole in the fence, a tour bus was stopped and unloading and someone came over and opened the gate).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the horses!” (which we rode on the beach next to the river).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the lighthouse!” (built inside the ruins of a 17th century convent in the historic quarter of the city).
Everybody drinks.
Those are just a few examples. You get the point.
Well, after lunch, the rain let up and we made it to the estancia, which had some Jesusy things and a room with a spoon collection. Before heading back to the capital, we picked up some local wine and alfajores (which Cordoba is famous for) as a thank you for Nacho, who we met up with briefly to bid farewell before heading to the omnibus terminal. Then we were just one overnight bus ride with a very loudly snoring man away from home.
I got dumped and robbed on Saturday. Then I went to see La Chihuahua de Beverly Hills, which was dubbed in Spanish and really, quite terribly, very awful.
I drew a picture:
Here’s to here!
Saaaaaaaaandy
P.S. Everybody drinks.
