The safari-style truck took three hours to trudge through the sand dunes.
We arrived at Cabo Polonio at midday, with the sun directly overhead. Surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic Ocean, the town seemed to have been plucked out of an ’80s foreign flick. Each building was constructed with old plywood and recycled lumber, using vibrant paintings to cover every blemish. Each dwelling had a name.
There were no power lines.
Running water was 40 miles away.
Not a single American product or advertisement was in sight.
Cabo Polonio exhibited a pure, raw culture: the fact that they will miss the newest episode of “Jersey Shore” is as strange a thought as math to a journalist.
The single bar in town was made out of plants — its owner a blind, bearded old man who waited on customers by candlelight. The fish served in the restaurants were caught and filleted within hours of dinner. The townspeople sifted through each other’s garbage daily — making treasure out of another person’s trash.
My arrival in Rosario, Argentina, was met with a different feeling. Unlike Cabo Polonio, a fantasy paradigm sustained by a tourist economy, Rosario has undoubtedly been tainted by the big, yellow arch and the orange swoosh.
However, it has not completely conformed. If Rosario were a person, it would be someone going through a midlife crisis.
Arriving to live with my host family introduced the first of cultural paradoxes. Dinner was genuine — decorated with homemade “tartas” and “carne lunas” (fried bread with cheese and meat). Frequent conversation reduced my self-assured American gulps to more modest and reasonably paced helpings.
Following the feast, I encountered an episode of “Family Guy” in the living room. The show was broadcast in English with Spanish subtitles.
I couldn’t believe Stewie Griffin followed me all the way to Argentina; I turned to my host brother Ezquiel in confusion.
“People love (“Family Guy” here), except it is difficult to translate the pop-culture references and many of the jokes, so there are often awkward moments,” he said.
My host-brother has an intriguing, grounded, Argentine mojo. After a month in Eugene at the Knight Law School and trips to New York and San Francisco, his bilingual proficiency enables him to talk in one language and laugh in another. I envy his ability to transcend the limits of his native tongue.
That night we went out to Berlin, a popular bar in town.
At first I was humbled by the Italian architecture, the heavily distilled Fernet liquor, and my grave inability to speak the native tongue. Trying to talk to a girl in broken grammar and caveman-like Spanish has a way of putting you in your place.
Then the English chorus started resounding from all directions.
The crowd, numbering around 300 people, was singing the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “By the Way.”
Right after was Incubus.
Then Beck.
And then the Black Eyed Peas.
My world became flat and small, altering the complexion my cross-cultural experience had exhibited.
Leaving the club didn’t do much to save me from this feeling.
Strolling down Cordoba Street is like walking through Valley River Center. On the left is Nike. On the right is Ross. McDonald’s is situated on the first floor of perhaps the most elegant building, with prices unaffordable for the majority of Argentines.
The youth venture up and down, window-shopping with mannerisms that could be compared to Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton. It appears that purchasing from American companies is a sort of status symbol.
“Kids today in Argentina pronounce some words without an accent to make them seem more American,” said Gaston Santhia, a communications specialist for Vision Media. “When I was a kid, we used to wait for ‘El Nino Dijos’ to bring us presents. After 1983, we started waiting for Santa Claus. Even places with indigenous roots such as Salta and Patagonia started to celebrate Christmas.”
Sunday in Rosario, there will be an “asado.” Friends and family will gather and cook meat on a parilla barbecue, talk about soccer and argue over politics. At night, the youth will take to the “discos” and dance to “cumbia” music. Newly formed couples will meet in the park the next day to drink “mate” and kiss each other as the sun sets over the Rio de Panama.
But the next day, more of their bands will write songs in English. More of their children will ask their parents for a Big Mac. More of their college students will purchase a knock-off iPod; more of their 15-year-olds will go to Walt Disney World for their birthday.
We are in a bold new world — shrinking in both size and identity — with Cabo Polonio quickly becoming nothing more than a tourist attraction.
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