En Route to Buenos Aires, Argentina
It took me about a week to metabolize the homesickness. I kept gazing at Keith. Mundane things felt like Valentine’s Day. I was so happy to be home.
But there was sadness too.
Shortly after I returned home from New Zealand, my father succumbed to prostate cancer. Within a few weeks of my return, he checked into the hospital and never checked out, his body wearing the battle scars of chemotherapy and radiation. Less than eight months shy of their fortieth wedding anniversary, my mother had to say good-bye to the man she’d always loved. I loved my father, and he was greatly responsible for the good odds I have of happiness in my own marriage. I listened to a lot of his songs about love before Keith and I left for South America.
If you’ve ever lost a parent to old age or a serious illness, you had time to process through the loss before your mom or dad departed. It’s hard to wear blinders and act as if things are okay—you know the days are numbered. What makes the difference is how you choose to spend the time that remains. Losing a parent and a hero brings all your other relationships into focus.
I felt focused on Keith as we sat on the plane headed to Buenos Aires with our hands entwined. It was Christmas Eve, and the nighttime quiet somehow translated into the same restful feeling I get the night before Christmas every year. He gently caressed my hand over and over as I looked down at his wedding band and thought about the inscription, My Love, My Life, My Rock.
The words are a bit faded now but not the sentiment. Keith had worn that ring nearly thirty-three hundred times. His touch was a reminder of his love for me that won’t fade with time. I know my name is etched on every square inch of his heart.
As he sat by my side, his long legs were crammed against the reclined seat in front of him. I knew he was uncomfortable, but he didn’t say a thing about it. I love that man—not a complainer, just a companion who’s more concerned about stroking my hand.
As I settled more into that truth, with four hours to go before we landed, I started thinking about the couples we’d meet, especially the women. I don’t typically buy into stereotypes, but Latinas are rightly known, I think, for their fieriness. Probably only American women can rival them. And as a fiercely confident and independent woman, I was most excited to see how two accomplished women had managed to create happy marriages in the midst of all that fire. I was also looking forward to spending some much deserved alone time with Keith.
When I traveled by myself before this leg of the journey, I always prayed the same prayer for traveling mercies. I felt completely safe in the hands of God. With Keith by my side, I was even more at ease. Comfort in double measure. That’s a truth I always strive to see in my marriage: that God’s care protects me, that my husband’s love comforts me. As you know, I’ve hit a few bumps and have faced some lingering troubles from my past. But no matter the bumps or dips we encounter, I challenge myself to approach everything without anxiety or worry. My heart is safe with my husband. Our love is being carried safely on the wings of angels to the earth below.
Keith and I sat in a chic restaurant covered in a pure white motif with abstract art lining the walls. An acoustic band sprinkled Beatles classics in between their traditional Argentine music, and I felt as though God was prompting me to pick up right where I left off in New Zealand. And to be honest with you, it had been a couple months and much had happened since I returned to the States. Without this gentle reminder, I’d have had no idea where to begin.
But there it was, as clear as day. As Keith and I enjoyed a glass of Malbec wine, the indigenous red wine of Argentina, I picked up on a conversation at the next table. Keith calls this “ear hustling,” but in all fairness, the table was incredibly close to ours. So close I thought the gentleman was going to accidentally eat off my plate.
I tried to put on my best tunnel vision and focus on Keith. But I couldn’t shake the fact that the man right next to me was an American with a Midwestern accent. How we intersected at this restaurant off the beaten path was beyond me. Instead of trying to have one conversation with Keith and “ear hustle” the other, I decided to introduce myself in earnest and listen in. It wasn’t hard to do—Gary’s face was two feet away from mine.
Gary, an engineer, had lived in South America for fifteen years. He’d fallen in love with Deana, a Venezuelan he met while working in her country. They’d married thirteen years earlier and had recently moved to Buenos Aires to escape the crime overtaking their previous home, Caracas.
What drew me into their conversation wasn’t knowledge that they were a happy couple or even some sort of wise words on relationships. It was their language barrier. His first language was English and her first, second, and third languages were Spanish. When they first met, they could barely speak to each other, but each could perceive what the other was saying. Thirteen years later, Gary’s Spanish is much better, but Deana’s English is minimal, at best.
With a language barrier, it’s not necessarily what you’re saying that matters, I guess. It’s the respect in the words being spoken. I don’t think Deana and Gary disregarded good communication; it’s just that two people can speak two completely different languages and still understand each other if they speak out of love, respect, and patience (lots of patience).
With this very first interaction in South America, I felt as though God were tapping me on the shoulder. This is where you pick up from. In an instant, it was as if no time had elapsed between New Zealand and then.
Just like every interview in my search, one good friend introduced me to another great friend, and so on, until I found just the right couple. For my time in South America, I started with one of my dearest friends, Zie Zie, whom I met in the hotel industry. In that business, you are always two degrees of separation from anyone in the world.
So I called Zie, who immediately e-mailed a simple introduction to her friend:
Fawn—meet Jacqueline. She took a chance on me way back in the days . . . and got me into Starwood.
Jacqueline—meet Fawn. She is one of my most inspiring friends. And one that pushes me to do just a little bit more.
And from that simple introduction, a friendship was born. Jacqueline went to the Happy Wives Club website, read its purpose, and immediately signed up. She then sent me a note that read, “I went to your blog and spent some time reading up. I love what you are doing!”
Jacqueline wanted to help me on my quest, too, and had two couples in mind. Interestingly enough, both wives were doctors. Every time she heard one of the women, Silvina, talk about her husband, it was with such love, admiration, and respect. This always struck a chord with Jacqueline because she knew Silvina was one of the top plastic surgeons in the world. Her patients regularly flew in for Botox injections and a menu of cosmetic surgeries that all end in -plasty. Silvina was a strong and successful woman, but when she spoke of her husband, her tone would soften and she’d spend much time doting over him.
Jacqueline knew of another doctor, Estrellita, just northeast of Buenos Aires in Montevideo, Uruguay. Estrellita was one of the semi-adoptive parents of Jacqueline’s close friend Carina.
Because we were arriving on Christmas Eve, just days before most leave on their standard (yes, standard) four-week holiday, I’d need to be creative with the scheduling. We’d be traveling to Buenos Aires first, but my interview in Montevideo would come before my interview in Argentina. So like nomads, we left the majority of our clothes and travel items in the hotel in Buenos Aires and hopped a flight to Montevideo, where we were met at the airport by Estrellita’s wonderful husband, Mario. It seemed as soon as we’d buckled our seat belts, we were taking them off to deplane. It was a thirty-minute flight, and just like that I was forced to see how much my Spanish immersion classes had taught me. I stood directly in front of Mario, collected myself, and plunged.
“Hola! Cómo está usted?” I said. Deep down I was hoping he’d sprinkle his words with some English and I could sprinkle mine with Spanish. We’d find a middle ground.
“Hello, Fouwon. Hello, Keet.” Close enough! He practiced pronouncing Keith and Fawn over and over as he loaded our luggage into the car. I assured him we didn’t have names that were equivalent to any sounds in the Spanish language, so he could call us whatever he liked.
As soon as we’d settled into the car, I said, “Your English is much better than I expected. Estrellita told me you guys didn’t speak much English, so I was prepared to speak Spanish.” (I could act more confident about my Spanish-speaking abilities since I didn’t have to actually speak it.)
“Thank you so much, Mario, for taking the time to come get us,” Keith repeated for the second or third time. I don’t think he even realized how many times he’d said, “Thank you” since Mario picked us up. But when you’ve been born and raised in the City of Angels, where many act anything but angelic, this sort of hospitality is to be cherished. And Keith was just beginning to get a taste of what I’d experienced throughout my journey.
“Did you see the river plate when you were flying over?” Mario proudly asked. I wondered if he had practiced this beforehand.
“River plate?” Keith and I echoed in unison.
“The river plate when you were coming in. The river plate down below.”
The Río de la Plata, or in English, River Plate, is a body of water so large you could mistake it for the ocean. Other than its brownish color caused by the confluence of the Uruguay and Paraná rivers, this funnel-shaped indentation on the southeastern coast of South America measures between a mile at its most narrow point to more than 140 miles at its mouth.
“Buenos Aires has no beaches,” Mario said as we drove along the Montevideo coastline. It’s funny how most people I’ve met give the overview of their homeland as a point of pride and affection. Uruguay is a little more than sixty-eight thousand square miles in area, and most of its population live in forty-eight square miles of land.
Mario drove us through the beautiful neighborhoods near the water. “This is where the wealthy live.” Judging by the grandiose homes and the number of large embassies in the area, I’d gathered as much. He assured us we’d also see the more modest side of the city but thought we’d start where we were. Although it was summer, the beaches were a bit overcast, so there weren’t many playing or lying in the sand. But the brown water, Mario told us, doesn’t keep locals away from the beach. If they want blue waters, they can simply drive down the coast.
After a quick stop at our hotel to check in and to put away our bags, Mario drove us into the city. As we rode through the tree-lined streets, with corner cafés everywhere you turn, I couldn’t help but notice the varying influences on the architecture. A little bit French, a tad Spanish. The French-styled castles, once home to aristocratic families, have been turned into foreign diplomatic offices and museums. The eclectic architectural styles can mostly be detected in Ciudad Vieja (“Old City”) where the convergence of old and new meet at a symbolic entrance known as the Puerta de la Ciudadela (“Gate to the Citadel”). It is one of the few remaining parts of the wall that surrounded the citadel that was torn down in 1829.
If I had a better grasp of architecture, I’d be able to easily tell the difference between which side of the Puerta was the old city and which was the new. At one end stands the peculiar Palacio Salvo, which has the kind of iconic look that makes for good postcards. Finished in 1928, this edifice stands 328 feet tall (if you include the 16-foot antenna) and acts as the center of the city. This neo-Gothic building with a limestone facade dominates the Montevideo skyline, was once the tallest building in South America, and stands at the gateway to Avenida 18 de Julio, Montevideo’s principal street that was designed to commemorate the date of Uruguay’s independence.
In front of the Palacio rests Uruguay’s main plaza and its most recognized tourist location, the Plaza Independencia. The plaza is rounded by a horsetrack-shaped road and has thirty-three palm trees representing thirty-three patriots who led the crusade for the country’s independence. In the middle, a fifty-five-foot statue of General José Artigas, whom Mario referred to several times as “the equivalent of your George Washington,” stands austerely.
After driving us around the square, Mario turned down some small streets and pointed. “That is where you will eat. Panini is where you should have lunch. The pasta is the best!”
He and Estrellita would return to pick us up from the hotel at 6:00 p.m. “Go to Panini!” he again instructed when dropping us off in the center of the pedestrian hub of an area filled with sidewalk vendors selling antiques, painters selling their artwork, and artists sketching nearby landscapes and people. There was a large fountain and grass surrounding it with a sign that said, “No pise el cesped.” That sentence in itself should have told me my Spanish needed some brushup, as I was pretty certain it said, “Don’t pisé on the grass,” rather than the far more appropriate phrase of “Do not tread on the grass.”
After a bit of looking around, we headed a block or two back toward the Puerta de la Ciudadela, en route to Panini. Although we weren’t that hungry, we didn’t want to be rude and tell Mario we hadn’t taken his suggestion.
The moment we walked through the door, we felt as though we’d been transported to an upscale Italy. Stout mahogany tables set with delicate stemware and cream-colored cloth napkins were flanked by leather chairs with plush orange pillows. The atmosphere was completely relaxing and sophisticated at the same time. And all around, waiters were doing what Italian restaurants ought to be doing—lowering reservoirs of pasta and gargantuan plates of lasagna on every table with a diner. It’s said that you eat with your eyes first, and just being there had a good chance of making us hungry. If the look of the food didn’t do it, the aromatic homemade bread would. It was intoxicating.
The lasagna on a nearby plate caught our attention, so that’s what Keith ordered.
“La especialidad de la casa, por favor,” I told the waiter, indicating I wanted the house specialty. My Spanish was coming back to me much faster than Keith’s.
“Ese plato es muy grande,” she replied. (“That dish is very large.” I guess she took one look of my small frame and figured I couldn’t handle it.)
When the lasagna arrived to the table, “grande” undersold its herculean size! It was a family-style type of dish. They should have said on the menu, “para 6 personas”—that it served six. Instead it was just me, Keith, and our two bellies that were only semi-hungry. Within the first bite, it was by far the best lasagna we’d ever tasted.
An hour and one forklift later, we were able to waddle out of the restaurant and continue meandering through the streets. For a reason I still don’t understand, I decided to go to the Old City that day in shoes not suitable for walking on cobblestone streets. Wedge heels can be comfortable for an entire day’s worth of walking . . . on flat surfaces. But I could feel myself about to take a tumble any moment. Plus I was feeling so lasagna laden. We decided to return to the hotel early and get ready for our dinner with Estrellita and Mario. Hopefully some walking would get us hungry in time.