"Are You Americans?"

Day 2, Sunday, December 22, 1996

We went to Galerías Pacífico on Av. Florida in the morning. It's a modern shopping mall in a beautiful European style building. Inside, underneath a dome-shaped ceiling covered with neo-classical frescos, there was a big Christmas tree decorated with lights. The bottom level of the mall had a number of cafés and fast food restaurants. Ringing the center on the first floor were cosmetic outfits like Clinic and Lancôme. It looked every bit like an upscale American shopping mall. We had a late breakfast at a café downstairs, and it set us back $10 each. The place was not exactly affordable. I doubted that the average Porteño (people of the port of Buenos Aires) can afford this place. There were a lot of people around, but I didn't see many going out with shopping bags, like the mad American shoppers before Christmas. I saw people taking pictures in front of the Christmas tree, and I saw people taking pictures outside the building. I wondered if this was a showcase mall frequented by tourists a lot. I wondered if Galerías Pacífico was like those Fifth Avenue stores beyond the reach of the average person. I had been surprised at how modern and cosmopolitan Buenos Aires was, but I also had the feeling that we were in the capital seeing the best of the best.

Since no museums were open on Sundays, we didn't even try. Museums were not exactly what we were after on this trip, either. We took the subway, called the Subte, to Avenida Independencia and walked to Plaza Dorrego, which according to LP showcases local singers and dancers on alternate Saturday evenings. But this was Sunday afternoon, and the small plaza was filled with stalls. A great variety of crafts, wares, and antiques were sold here. A little to my surprise, there were also a lot of tourists here. Somehow we had hit a small tourist trap. An area inside the crowded market was set aside. A couple in costumes that seemed very appropriate for Tango were taking a fiesta. I walked around the market a couple of times, but it didn't seem hopeful that a show would start any time soon. We took the Subte to Retiro, the central railway station, and took a train to Tigre, a popular weekend destination for Porteños, especially on a hot day like this.

A young couple came over and pointed to the seats facing us. We motioned that they were welcome to sit there. The man asked, "Are you Americans?"

"Yes."

"We are Français," he said in English, but substituded Français for French.

I was exceedingly impressive by his guess. Of all my travels, there had not been one person who correctly guessed that I am American. Granted that I do not exactly fit the description of a typical American to most people, few had guessed correctly on the first try that I am Chinese, either. Their first guess is usually Japanese, which is a very reasonable one, given the probability distribution of nationalities on the tourist trail. I don't know how this Frenchman knew. I don't know what gave it away. Did he overhear us and determined that we spoke American English? Later we did learn that he had studied in Florida for a while. We talked a bit. His English was fluent. He gave us some good information like where to take the number 101 bus from Retiro to Recoleta that we planned to visit later on. He worked in Marketing at Dannon, and the couple had been in Argentina for three months. During the conversation, he referred to the LP guide without even asking whether we had the book. I was again very impressed that he had correctly assumed it, and I volunteered to confirm that we indeed carried the LP. They got off at some stop to go to a friend's vacation house. We rode to the end of the line - Tigre.

We were checking out a local map on the wall when a friendly old gentleman tried his English on us. He only knew some words, but we understood him quite well. He asked us whether we were studying in Argentina. We replied that we were only visiting as tourists. He asked if we were Japanese.

"Americans," we replied.

A very surprised and puzzled look appeared on his face. "No ...," he said in disbelief, "... oriente."

We figured we had no fighting chance here for further explanation. We are also indeed Asians, so we gave the answer he was looking for - Chinese.

"Ah," he nodded and smiled. "You speak very good English."

Now it's our turn to be somewhat puzzled. "We are Americans," we reminded him. Remember?

With a friendly smile he wished us a good stay and bid us goodbye. I don't know if he ever believed that we could indeed be Americans. Maybe he thought we were pulling his legs. I had indeed met Americans who pretended to be Canadians when traveling, fearing anti-American sentiments abroad.

"Where are you from?" may be a very simple question for most people, but it's a complicated one for me. What exactly does one mean by "Where are you from?" Does he mean where I was born, where I grew up, what my nationality is, where I trace my ancestry to, where I consider to be my home, where I lived in the last five years, where I claim legal residence, or where I had lunch last? I can imagine someone who was born in Holland, grew up in France, is an American national, traces his ancestry to China, consider New Jersey to be his home, lived in Boston for the last five years, claims legal residence in New York, and had lunch in Atlanta. Yes, I am making this up, but from a composite of only two real people. Perhaps for many, whatever "Where are you from?" means, the answer is Springfield. But every time I am asked this question, I have to guess what people really mean, and decide what answer I should give. Nothing more than traveling reminds me more of the complexity of this seemingly simple question, and drives the point home. At a more fundamental level, it is a question of identity that every immigrant has to struggle with. Am I Chinese, or am I American? Am I neither, or am I both? Not everyone accepts that I am American, but am I Chinese enough to be tolerant of such denial? This innocent question of "Where are you from?" is a vexing one at the receiver's end only because it tickles at far deeper and more serious issues.

In a foreign country, given the language barrier, people rarely ask anything more complicated than "Where are you from?" and never anything precise like "What's your nationality?" They might ask, "What country?" but they usually prompt me, "Japanese? Korean?" To the question, "What country?" it's very clear. We always answered Estados Unidos. To the question, "Where are you from?" we answered Boston or New York or simply America. We felt pretty strongly that we were from America whatever it meant. However, to the most frequently asked question, "Japanese? Korean?" we were in a somewhat of a quandary. Do they mean nationality or do they mean ethnicity? Probably in most people's mind, the two are one. But American is not an ethnicity. For the first week or so on our trip, we answered "American" to all variety of queries about where we were from. We grew tired of the raised eyebrows very quickly. The language barrier prevented us from any further elaboration. So for the rest of the trip, we mostly answered "Chinese", satisfying the curiosity of the friendly soul, and sending him on his way.

One of these days I am going to freak someone out by saying that I am from planet Earth. Damn it, be precise what you mean. I don't want to guess what you are asking.

The rest of the day was hot and without any identity crisis. Tigre seemed to be quite touristy. Lining the docks were a number of sightseeing boats going to the many small rivers on the delta of Río de la Plata and to Uruguay. There were a lot of tourists around but they were mostly local tourists. We managed to find a boat to see the rivers that would leave in about 45 minutes. The river water was of a cream coffee color, but apparently it's clean enough that many people swim in it. Along the river banks were many vacation houses with people sunbathing and picnicking on the front lawns. Motor boats and small water taxies zipped by once in a while. Aside from the impressive and possibly German style Yacht Club building and the sunbathers, there weren't a whole lot to see on the boat ride. Our trip was fairly short, leaving us with plenty of time for the train ride back to Buenos Aires.

I hope it's common knowledge that the body distance and greeting rituals of different cultures differ a great deal, and that the South Americans allow shorter body distance and more frequent body contact. There were a group of young people near us on the train. Four or five of them who were getting off bid goodbye to the four or five staying. Farewell involved few verbal expressions, but everyone leaving kissed goodbye with everyone staying. Dictated by the laws of permutation, as the train approached the station, there was now a profusion of bodies moving about, pecks on the cheek, and amplified kissing sound. However different Argentina may be from the U.S., I felt so little cultural shock that the word "shock" was undeserving and that something like people kissing goodbye, a small curiosity to some, is worth mentioning here.

Back at Retiro, we found the number 101 bus to Recoleta without any problem. The parks in the Recoleta area near the walled cemetery were a happening place. A lot of young people were around, sitting on the grass, watching a variety of performances. Ed told me that a few of them were also discreetly taking trips of another kind. The scene can be somewhat compared to a weekend afternoon at Washington Sq. in New York, but it resemble far more the city parks of many European cities on a warm summer afternoon, so the feel was distinctly European. Ed and I walked about soaking up the relaxed atmosphere, while sampling some excellent gelate (light ice cream) - the best outside of Italy.

Finding the 101 bus back to Retiro was a bit more troublesome, since the bus came on a one-way. We looked for it for a while without much success. So I gathered my thoughts, scrapped together whatever bits and pieces of Spanish I know, and asked the gentleman at a newspaper stand. By now, I was able to say something complicated like, "Sir, can you tell me where the number 101 bus to Retiro is?" and make myself understood. The trouble was that I couldn't understand very much of the reply. I made out that the bus stop was right before the intersection, with the help of his hand gestures. Yet we couldn't find it. I asked a young couple walking by. Again, I didn't understand very much of the reply, but they gestured us to follow them. The sign for the bus stop turned out to be a small metal plate on a lamp post. They switched to English when they heard Ed and I speaking in English. I was quite pleasantly surprised. I had made the pessimistic assumption that it would be extremely difficult to find anyone speaking English here, but time and again, I would find my assumption wrong, as time and again, we would be helped by people like this couple.

For dinner, we went to a parrilla restaurant at Ed's recommendation. It's a fairly fancy place across the street from Sheraton. I would imagine that they get a fair number of foreigners. A table of Germans and a table of Japanese sat not far from us. Per capita, the Argentineans consume the largest amount of beef in the world. They treat it very seriously. Our menu had a diagram explaining the various parts of a cow and showed pictures of the raw steaks. The slab of beef I got was an inch thick. It was trimmed cleanly without a sliver of fat or ligament or the like. Even though it was cooked well-done, the meat was tender and juicy throughout. I may not have eaten very many steaks at very many places, but this was honestly the best steak I had ever had. Ed and I had in general not made many serious mistakes ordering in restaurants on this trip despite the language barrier. We sailed through wine ordering with proper etiquette. However, my ordering the other "drink" was a funny and somewhat embarrassing episode. Under juices, I picked lemon, thinking that it's a lemonade, but instead got a tiny cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice. I didn't know what to do with it.