She encountered, too, the lovely custom of making the purchaser a little gift after the transaction is over, and was delighted with it. So am I, for that matter; it is probably an uneconomic practice that results in higher-than-necessary prices, or profits lower than proper, or both, but it does not cost much and adds grace and warmth to life.
In the course of an afternoon's shopping it was necessary to stop for tea. By "tea" I do not mean a cup of lukewarm tannic acid solution with skimmed milk added; afternoon tea in Buenos Aires is somewhat simpler than a Thanksgiving dinner, but not much. The place to go is a confitería-which should not be translated as "confectionary shop." (Knowing little or no Spanish I often tried to struggle along through translating by cognates, as indicated above; this can lead to trouble. In a cocktail lounge in our hotel I saw a sign which seemed to me plainly to read: NO PROPAGATION PERMITTED IN THIS ROOM-which seemed to me a reasonable restriction, even in a broad-minded hotel. I learned later that it read: NO TIPPING. And it did not even mean that.)
A confitería is a combination soda fountain, cocktail bar, tea shop, and restaurant, usually with live music and other elegances. The best are as swank as the Stork Club; our favorite had the end of the room caged off and filled with dozens of song birds which sang along with the strolling musicians. Around four-thirty or five in the afternoon entire families gather in them, Papa has his highball, Mama has tea, the kids have sandwiches and cakes and malted milks and ice cream sodas or anything they wish. We have no institution for the entire family which compares in wide choice of hospitality, but it is high time we imitated it. We won't of course; the bluenoses would have fits-corrupting the young, and so on.
Ticky and I always picked ice cream sodas, French pastries, and fancy little sandwiches. I had always thought the soda fountain was "Made in U.S.A." and perhaps it was, but our neighbors can teach us some tricks, in particular the "Everlasting Soda" as we called it. The first time I ordered a soda I was fetched the usual large glass, but, while it was packed with ice cream, whipped cream, and crushed strawberries, it contained no bubbly water nor very much room for same. Instead the waiter put a quart seltzer bottle with squirt top down by it.
I was charged a very modest price for one ice cream soda, but it took me more than an hour to finish off the combination. I did not use all of the fizz bottle, of course, but whenever the glass ran a little low or a bit flat I gave it a transfusion. When it was over and we were looking regretfully at the quantities of sandwiches and pastries we had not been able to eat (even though we had made marked inroads), the waiter came along, noted that we had not eaten everything-and reduced our bill accordingly.
It cost us forty cents each.
Most of one morning was killed by a newspaper interview and a radio broadcast. I usually try to duck such chores, as my voice over the air sounds like a rusty saw and, as for news stories, I am leery of any copy that I do not proof myself. I was more anxious than I would be at home to avoid both of them as a foreigner's remarks are likely to be held against his nation, whereas if he waggles his jaw at home his boners reflect on no one but himself. I don't have a diplomat's special training in how to walk a tight rope and I certainly did not want to be an international incident, even a minor one.
I pointed out to the radio chap that I did not speak Spanish. No matter at all, he informed me; it was the government Servicio International, the Argentine equivalent of The Voice of America, beamed in shortwave in six languages. This made me more edgy than ever, so I protested that I had a very full schedule (which was a lie, unless you counted in confiterías); I did not have time to come to the studio.
Oh, they wouldn't think of asking me-a crew would come to the hotel with recording equipment. I gave up and scheduled both for the next morning. The reporter arrived first and could not speak English, which almost gave me an out, except that the red-headed Irish maid was in the room; she pinch hit and made an excellent interpreter. Presently Herman showed up and we were able to let the maid get back to her work.
Instead of translating one question Herman started to argue with the reporter. Presently he turned to me and protested, "He insists that I ask you how much money you make a year."
"Tell him I won't answer that one."
"I told him that that was a question no North American would answer, but he insists on its being put."
I thought about it. "Tell him I really don't know, that my business agent handles such things. Tell him that I am just a writer with no head for business."
"Okay."
The men from the broadcasting station showed up and started stringing wires around; the reporter closed his notebook and left. An outline had been prepared and most of the items were innocuous enough, things I could discuss without offending anyone. But it was strongly suggested, orally, that I really should finish up by saying something really nice about "Papá."
I did not want to say anything about President Perón, pro or con; a tourist who sticks his nose into politics is asking for trouble, for himself and for his country.
They did not twist my arm but it was very hard to refuse. I tried to think fast without much success-then suddenly remembered the sign we had seen all over town, the one about the kids; it was as non-political as apple pie, as non-controversial as being in favor of good roads and good weather, but it was a direct quotation from President Perón.
So we finished the broadcast with that, quoting it in both English and Spanish: "In the new Argentina the only privileged ones are the children." I said that was an ideal that appealed to all nations, and wiped my brow as the little red light went out.
In the evening paper I saw that I had stated that no atomic blast could destroy the Earth, which was fair enough; I believed it, it was consonant with our own national stand in the matter, and more or less what I had actually said. I saw also that Ticky and I planned to return home via the North Pole, which was a lovely notion, though not true, but it hurt nothing. Further down I discovered that I made so much money that I could not keep track of it but was satisfied as long as I always had money enough for beautiful cars, enough to take care of my mansion in Colorado, and enough always to travel where and how I pleased.
Well, I suppose I asked for it. Stated as ambitions rather than as accomplished facts it was not too far off the mark. My present car is getting a bit old and the house needs some repairs. It would be nice to have too much money.
I asked Herman about it the next day. "Oh, you wouldn't answer so he filled in what he needed." He frowned. "Things are different here. They should have sent a reporter who could speak English and who understood North Americans. Here one of the first questions a reporter always asks a man is, 'How much money do you make?' and the man being interviewed always gives a flat answer: 'I make such-and-such thousand pesos a year.' It is a polite question and a perfectly proper answer."
"Not in the States."
"I know. Although some of your Texans don't seem to mind."
"Well. . . Texans are a special case. They have their own rules, more like yours."
"Yes, but not quite. Just recently there was one in that hotel you are in. He wore one of those big hats and high-heeled boots and he was boasting about how he could paper his hotel room with thousand-dollar bills if he felt like it."
"Hmm . . . one or two too many San Martíns?"
"He may have been drinking but I don't think so. It was in the daytime and he called down to the desk and told them to send up thirty thousand pesos in change; he was buying some things for his wife. Then he got angry when they didn't do it."
I had no comment. Herman went on, "I've noticed that my guests from the States often mention proudly that they were poor boys. You said something like that yourself."
"Yes."
"I've learned that it is something that a North American is proud of. Here, if a man has become wealthy from poverty he tries to keep it quiet. An Argentino likes to boast, if he can, 'My father and my grandfather left me so much money that I can have everything I want
and never have to work.' "
At a later time I ran into a confirmation of this major difference in attitudes. I was at a social event with an Argentine minister of state who had once served his country in New York City. He was speaking to someone else but turned to me to have me confirm something he said, in that I was the only "Yankee" present. "I was telling so-and-so that my salary in the States was three thousand dollars a month and that that was a very good salary there. That's true, isn't it?"
I assured him that thirty-six thousand dollars a year, tax free, was a very good salary anywhere. He seemed very pleased.
To our regret the morning arrived when we went down to pay our bill. When we got back to our room it was dominated by an enormous bouquet of flowers; the card attached read: "Bon voyage, from your friend and guide in B.A.-Herman."
Herman took us down to the ship, got us smoothly through outgoing customs, loaded us aboard with advice as to tipping the dock porters, then took us back uptown. We had lunch with him rather solemnly and he took us back to the ship. Shortly the M.S. Ruys warped away from the dock and out, side bedecked with streamers and band music playing. I found my eyes filling with tears, something I had surely not expected to have happen at leaving "Papá" Perón's too-well-policed paradise. I looked at Ticky and found that she was having the same trouble. She looked at me and said, "We will come back, won't we? You weren't just kidding Herman?"
"You bet we will!"
V
The Good Little Country
The motor ship Ruys intimidated us at first. It was big and shiny and beautifully furnished and filled with well-dressed people all of whom seemed to know each other and who laughed among themselves and stared right through us. The officers wore gold braid and crisp white uniforms and answered questions politely in correct formal English but were obviously too busy for us to bother them with our trivial affairs. We found ourselves homesick for the good old raucous, comfortable Gulf Shipper.
But the beds were comfortable and our stateroom had a polished, spacious perfection. Our bathroom had both a shower and a full-sized bathtub and was roomier than many ashore. There were two wash basins and many mirrors and a large divan and two wardrobes and enough stowage space to put all the ten suitcases out of sight, as well as lots of drawers and shelf space.
Our cabin steward, Kwai Yau, had arranged Herman's mammoth gladiolus in a vase in front of triple mirrors on the dressing table, making the room cheerful as well as luxurious. Kwai Yau could give Jeeves pointers on how to take care of people, but we were yet to become acquainted with his virtues. We showered and changed and decided to face the outside world.
The Ruys is the flagship of the Dutch Royal Interocean Lines. "Royal" is a decoration awarded by the Queen in honor of the many ships of the line-more than half-lost in war service. The Ruys herself had a long and honorable war record but came through intact. She and her sisters now ply between South America and the Far East, via the Cape of Good Hope and Singapore. She is neither a passenger ship nor a freighter, but a cargo liner, which means that while she carries a great deal of cargo, more than the Gulf Shipper, she carries also hundreds of passengers of all three classes.
Such a ship carries only a hundred-odd first class passengers but it offers them greater luxury than do the fashionable giants of the North Atlantic run. In a cargo liner all first class rooms are outside rooms and they are usually bigger than those in a passenger liner. There is plenty of deck space for games and walking and sunning, the swimming pool is never too crowded, there is always room to sit down in the bar, one never has to rush to find a seat at the movies-whereas many so-called luxury ships are crowded as cattle cars.
Second class in a cargo liner is comfortable but not fancy. The less said about third class the better; the best you can hope for is that it be clean. In the Ruys it was clean; I have seen some that were filthy.
To our surprised relief the operating language of the Ruys was English. The officers were Dutch, the crew was Chinese. Dutch was spoken only by the officers in private; the passengers never heard it. The Chinese petty officers all spoke English and it was this which caused the Dutch officers to manage the ship in English, it being the only language in common with the crew. Most of the other Chinese spoke some English or Pidgin (Kwai Yau spoke excellent English, in which we were fortunate; some of the passengers could communicate with their room stewards only through the petty officers).
Nine tenths of the first class passengers spoke English; there were only a few who had only Spanish. Our days of struggling to make ourselves understood were practically over. There were more South Africans aboard than there were South Americans, and there were only a handful of others, such as Ticky and myself-a few from the Far East, from Australia, from Mauritius, and one other couple with United States citizenship but who lived in South America and kept rather much to themselves. We were the only residents of the States aboard.
It seemed rather lonely for a day or two. We crept out of our stateroom that first day, got lost-the Ruys is big enough for that, until you establish landmarks-finally found the bar and ascertained that our signatures would be honored on chits. The bar seemed gloomy as a monastery at first, impressive with carved wood and dark beams and brass. But the drinks contained authentic joy juice. When the dinner chimes sounded we were better able to face it.
The dining saloon was two decks high, with an open, railed well above it and a leaded sky light. It is entered by sweeping, curved stairways which call for music by Strauss and is a place with crisp linen and shining, superfluous silver. The Chief Steward asked our names in a hushed voice and ushered us in slow march to a table; the head steward and the assistant head steward seated us. About then I caught sight of Kwai Yau standing in the background; he caught my eye and grinned. I felt better.
We introduced ourselves and found that our four table mates were all from Buenos Aires-Señor and Señora Rubenstein, two unrelated señoritas. All but Señor Rubenstein spoke English; he spoke Spanish and French and we could struggle along a bit with him in a sorry mixture of both. The fact that we had just been visiting in their home town loosened things up a bit and we got rather chummy.
But we never did get the hang of South American table manners and remained intimidated by them as long as we sat at that table. I have no apology for our own national table manners; in my prejudiced opinion most of us conduct our self-stoking sensibly, neatly, and unobtrusively. I don't see why a soft-boiled egg must be eaten from the shell.
But have you ever seen a well-bred South American tackle a piece of fruit? It is an exhibition of surgical virtuosity which would take me a long time to learn, if ever. One of them will tackle an apple, an orange, or a banana with a fruit knife and a tiny fork, peel the fruit and demolish it without ever touching human skin to any part of it. Consider what this means with a banana, for example; under the rules you can't even help yourself with your thumb to get the peel started. "Untouched by human hands."
They cope with a melon in much the same aseptic way, instead of steadying it with the left hand the way we do and spooning it out.
Ticky and I admired these stunts but were scared off by them. We did not eat much fruit that stretch of the trip.
Montevideo lies less than a hundred and fifty miles down Río de la Plata from Buenos Aires; we were there in the morning. The estuary is about thirty miles wide at Buenos Aires; at Montevideo it is more than a hundred miles wide and is practically open ocean although technically still a river. It was here that the British chased the Graf Spee almost up onto the beach and fought a naval battle well inside the legal borders of Uruguay, for which they paid an indemnity and an apology with their tongues in their cheeks; the Graf was not a prize to let slip on a technicality.
The usual boarders swarmed into the ship before we were up. We arranged a tourist trip before we went to breakfast, as the schedule of the ship permitted but two days in Uruguay and there was no time for leisurely poking around. Señor Roitman, guide, interpreter, and host-by-tem
perament, agreed to have a car waiting for us and two others after breakfast.
The other two were an English lady (I use the word intentionally) and a shaggy young gentleman from the Canadian diplomatic service who had that careful carelessness in his appearance which characterizes the "top drawer." We found both of them extremely "veddy, veddy" at first. But I knew from other experience that the English are not actually unfriendly; they are merely shy, embarrassed, rather afraid of strangers. Ticky and I firmly ignored the chill they handed us and went on being friendly, informal, and talkative; it worked, as it almost always does. Almost all Englishmen are nice people individually, once you get past their guard, and they are quite willing to decide that you are a nice person, too-for a Yank, that is.
Montevideo is a large city, as big as Saint Louis. The first impression of it is its cleanliness. Underlying this surface impression is a standard of real sanitation as high as any in the world and higher than that of many of our own cities-Philadelphia, for example. You need not fear the water nor the food in Montevideo; they are clean.
The second impression is one in reverse: no policemen. This negative condition probably would not have impressed us had we come directly from home, since we don't see many policemen at home and the few that are seen are usually controlling traffic. But in most of Latin America a cop or a soldier (they are much the same thing there) is always staring down the back of your neck. They won't bother a gringo tourist ordinarily but they are always there, as ubiquitous, conspicuous, and depressing as a chaperone on a hay ride.
There probably are some policemen in Uruguay but I do not recall seeing a single one even though I looked for them. I don't think you could stir out a policeman in Montevideo even by parking in front of a fire plug.
I asked Señor Roitman about this and he got straight to the (Latin American) point. "Our President doesn't need any bodyguards." We were seated at the time in a sidewalk cafe; he glanced across the plaza and added, "In the afternoon when he finishes his day's work he comes out over there and walks across the plaza alone. He runs across you and you know each other, so you sit down right here with everybody else and you have café exprés together. Nobody takes any notice; it wouldn't be polite."
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