Unanswered sneezes

Why sneezes can’t pass without comment, as other involuntary expulsions of air manage to do, is beyond me. But I habitually observe the niceties even though I’ve never been comfortable with them.

I was raised to say, “God bless you” but since I doubt God has anything to do with sneezes or their remedies, I don’t say it anymore. For a while I would say “Gezundheit!” a puzzling invocation of German (a British friend took me to task for that once). Since marrying an Argentinian, I’ve been saying, “Salud!” though it’s not always understood by English speakers. I like it because you can say, “Dinero!” and, “Amor!” for the second and third sneezes respectively.

In trying to invent a suitable sneeze pleasantry I came up with one so universally offensive that from now on if you sneeze and I don’t say anything, it’s because I’m refraining from saying “Sneezus Christ!”

Mendoza and Maipú

My trips to Argentina have been usually confined to the city of Córdoba and its environs. I’ve wanted to see a little more of the country and so we took a side trip to Mendoza, the city at the heart of Argentina’s wine country.

A city seal is diplayed in lights in a plaza at night.
Plaza Independencia is lit up at night.
A tree grows out of a deep open ditch on a city street.
Shade trees grow out of the deep irrigation ditches.

Mendoza is a little smaller than Córdoba and without the big universities the population isn’t quite as youthful. It doesn’t have the elegant churches that you practically trip over in Córdoba. Mendoza does have rather deep open stone-lined gutters—more like trenches—along both sides of each street; you really have to watch where you step so you don’t fall in. The arid region has an extensive irrigation system that supports its agriculture and at first I assumed these ditches were a relic of this old system. I realized later that they are still being used for agriculture: Mendoza’s famously shady streets are lined with London plane trees which grow at orderly intervals out of the ditches.

Students on a field trip gather at a plaza fountain.
Students gather at the fountain in Plaza Independencia.

In addition to shade trees, Mendoza’s centro (downtown) is filled with tidy plazas, including the massive Plaza Independencia and the spectacularly tiled Plaza España. West of downtown is Parque General San Martín, a massive Central Park-like place we wandered around in common cold-induced stupor during our second day in the city. The park has some quiet sunny meadows which, when you’re sick and checked out of your hotel room and have eleven hours to wait for your flight out of town, are excellent for time-wasting naps.

A women rides a bicycle on a tree-lined country road.
We road our bikes along Calle Urquiza in Maipú.

But while still healthy on our first day in Mendoza, we took a city bus just out of town to Maipú, home to a number of wineries and olive oil factories. In Maipú you can rent a bicycle and tour the various bodegas (wine cellars). The terrain is very flat and the town even has a ciclovia (bicycle lane) through the main part of town. South of town the ciclovia disappeared but the scenery was delightful: a shady rural road that passed by vineyards and olive groves. The irrigation ditches flowed with water. We rode out to the edge of town (about 12 kilometers) to Laur, an olivicola (olive plantation and factory).

The museum displayed antique olive presses.

A tour of the facilities included a visit to the trees, the factory, and a museum with a collection of antique presses. The tour was in Spanish, but the guide spoke very clearly so I was able to practice listening. With great concentration I can understand Spanish well enough; my main challenge was tuning out a small group of Americans in which one of the women was providing an English translation.

A shallow pit marks a vacant space among a row of olive trees.
The rows of olive trees were just starting to bud.

I learned that olive trees live for a thousand years but these lazy plants only produce olives for about four hundred years. Each tree produces about twelve liters of oil each year. If I had to guess I’d say that Lore and I go through no more than two to three liters per year, earning us a small minority share of one dusty green olive tree on a farm like this somewhere.

A row of barrels marked with different labels of wine at a vineyard.
Wine barrels with the bodega’s different labels were lined up outside.

After sampling some finger foods prepared with the house aceite de oliva (olive oil), we crossed the street to Carinae, the neighboring constellation-themed winery. We found a couple of Americans from the olive oil tour ready to begin a tasting. The guide spoke excellent English; more impressive was her command of wine jargon which is like its own little dialect.

Before we began the tasting, the guide asked us where we were from, a classic tour guide ice-breaker I have come to dislike and have discarded from own professional methods. It’s never a simple answer with us, Lore is from Córdoba and I am from New York but I prefer to just say that we live in Iowa whereas Lore prefers to relate our respective origins.

One of the American women said, “But you are not from Iowa. I can tell you are from New York.” Back home I make a regular practice of ignoring as many of my compatriots as is practical, and I would have been pleased to continue that routine 9,000 miles away from home. But the guide was surprised and intrigued and wondered how the lady had known that even though I had barely said anything. I didn’t comment (and didn’t care to, though I later suggested to Lore it probably was because I was wearing a rain jacket in the desert—”New Yorkers always come prepared,” an amusement park clown in Florida told my raincoat-clad family while making small talk with us on another vacation twenty years ago). The American lady, who was from San Diego, and had probably seen slicker-wearing New Yorkers jostling their way across her own rainless homeland, added that I probably stood out in Iowa too. I replied that I didn’t think so. This lady was the second person I’ve met on a trip abroad who was both from San Diego and intent on needless gum-flapping (the other was a blowhard in a London bed-and-breakfast about ten years ago who informed me about post-September 11 conditions in New York City).

Stacks of wine barrels in a cool, dark, concrete room.
The bodega had an above-ground wine cellar.

Anyway, we tasted a couple of Malbecs, a Torrontés, a Cabernet Sauvignon, and a Syrah. I’m not a discerning wine-drinker; they were all very good. The guide then took us on a short tour of the bodega, switching to Spanish for my educational benefit since the Americans skipped the tour. They label each bottle by using a little hand-operated machine.

We wound up the afternoon with a pleasant ride back to the bike rental. The sky was still overcast and cool but the sun came out enough to make the shady country road appealing.

Charlie y la fábrica de chocolate

What to do when “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” is checked out of the library? Borrow the Spanish translation. I read it so many times when I was a kid that the Spanish was no obstacle to me understanding the story.

I was really curious how “square candies that look round,” Roald Dahl’s clever play on words, would be translated. I never understood it when I was a kid (the candies “look ’round” the room to see who comes in the door). In the translation they are caramelos cuadrados que se vuelven en redondo, which means “square candies that turn round” in the sense of both “turning around” and “becoming round.” Which is very clever itself: it preserves the pun while not deviating from the narrative. I’ll have to reread the English to check if the candies physically turn when they look around, but I’m pretty sure just their eyes look ’round the room.

By the way Oompa-Loompa in Spanish is… Oompa-Loompa. In the translation they are African pygmies as they were in the politically-incorrect original English edition. I noticed the translator rhymed the Oompa-Loompa chants in Spanish. Does that mean she took some liberties with the lyrics? Translating a book must be about preserving the author’s intent as well as finding the right words. It seems like a tremendous burden on the translator, who could easily change the meaning of the text by doing it badly.