There's a Kind of Hush
Oh dear. Argentina's bubble really burst yesterday in a penalty shoot out with Germany. It really is about winning, taking part isn't the important thing! Maybe it is in Ukraine or somewhere that doesn't expect to do well in football but in Argentina it is part of the weft of their being and they are wounded. For someone who has never been interested in taking part OR winning, it is all very strange. I have been assured by Marisol in England that the place is as just as football crazy as here, she suggests that being an outsider makes it seem more so. My sense in England though is that we never entirely believe that our team will actually win anything. So when England loses, there is a sense of inevitability about it even among hard core fans. Still, I am no expert; it's taken me forty years to show the slightest interest.
My English neighbour came down yesterday and we sat with popcorn and juice and watched the match on cable tv. Of course, we are girls and our commentary would have driven any man insane, but for each other we are probably perfect football company. One of her students had been trying to explain the offside rule to her and we had an earnest discussion about that and decided it was a bit stupid. If I had a fiver for every time a guy has tried to explain offside to me - OK women too, Paddie and Sarah! - I could probably fly to Germany and buy a ticket for the next match. I think I understand it now but still maintain that it is a bit stupid. I wondered when the shorts had got so long and we moaned about that for a while. Julie-Anne had a good foot massage to ease the tension of her morning on the phone. We were both looking at the screen when the goals were scored at least. When the extra time was over, we strained to understand the commentary and work out what would happen next. I had read on the BBC website that FIFA had stopped one of the barbarous practices that used to decide a draw but was not sure if it was the golden goal or the penalty shoot-out. We soon found out which. I think England went out on one of these last time. The first to miss was my favourite cutie on the Argentine team, very sad but he can come to me for consolation if he needs it! The second to miss was the one who looks a bit like my uncle Archie and seems quite out of place on that dark latin team. A fight broke out on the pitch and again we strained to work out why. The anger seemed to be directed at one of the officials but I haven't been to the BBC website to find out what that was all about. So we nibbled on the last husks of popcorn until all that was left was the bits that hurt your teeth, then Julie-Anne went home.
After the match, I was at a bit of a loose end, having spoken to my estate agent and found that our meeting was postponed until Monday because the vendor's lawyer had taken the day off to watch the match. So I put on my trainers and went for a walk in town. Along Chacabuco/Maipu, down Diagonal Norte to the Obelisk, it was quiet and moody. A surprising number of shops and businesses seemed to have opened up, but heads were hung low and still shaking slowly in disbelief. Men sat in cafe windows looking dejected, some still staring open-mouthed at a blank tv screen where the unthinkable had been played out before them. A lot of the flags seemed to have gone from car windows but probably one person in three was wearing either football strip or some item of blue and white striped clothing. They had all been watching the match, confident that their team was unbeatable, and they all looked wounded now.
Down at the Obelisk, which is the popular centre of the city rather like Trafalgar Square in London, there was a pathetic scene. The police were there, lined up in their riot gear; clearly they had planned ahead for the parties just getting bigger with every win. Somebody in the commissariat is probably busy right now cancelling a lot of over-time for 9th July. All they had to watch over though was a dozen or so forlorn fans in their Argentina strips, with blue and white scarves which should have been held high in jubilation hanging limply at their sides. I had to wonder why they were still there - the fans or the police for that matter - but maybe they just were too stunned to form an alternative plan. The police were probably damn well going to stay and get their over-time as they had no doubt had to miss the match to earn it. I don't suppose many had the stomach to watch it on video when they finally did go home.
Along Avenida 9 Julio - incidentally the 9th of July is yet another national day for Argentina and the possible confluence of that and the World Cup final had promised great things - the traffic was starting to get going again, though for a Friday afternoon it was remarkably fluid. Normally all 26 lanes (well roughly, drivers here are not quite sure what those white lines on the tarmac are for exactly) are chock solid at this time. The forty-foot inflatable footballer who has been standing proud between the towers of the Pan Americana Hotel had already gone. How on earth they had disposed of him so quickly is anyone's guess. I looked up to see if they had just cut the painter and let him float away to be somebody else's problem but if that was the case, he had already made his escape. I imagined he was laid out flat somewhere being packed away for 2010.
By the time I got to Av. Santa Fe, things seemed more normal: maybe because this is one of the main shopping drags in Bs As and so a magnet for the people whose interest in Argentina's football prowess is less strong. I had a bit of a mooch but soon came to the conclusion I was in no mood even for window shopping, so I headed down Talcahuano to where Julie-Anne had said there was a Disco supermarket that sold bacon. We had been talking about bacon sandwiches during the match and so this seemed the obvious thing to do! I loaded up on luxurious things that are not available in my local supermarkets - jalapenos, olive paste, real mustard, herbs, goat cheese etc - but could not find any bacon. I had left my mobile phone at home so I could not call Julie-Anne to ask where the bacon was hiding and ended up paying a small fortune for all the stuff I hadn't gone in for. A small fortune here is about what I spend in a weekly shop in Sainsbury's but you soon get used to thinking that the peso is equivalent to the pound, even though the exchange is about 5-1. Still, at least when I get my sudden hunger pangs there is a better chance that I will go to the kitchen and find something I actually want to eat.
So, this afternoon it is the England quarter final with Portugal. I'm not honestly sure what to hope for! Will I have to lay low for a while if they win? Already I decided not to go dancing last night as a gesture of sympathy. Of course I wondered how many of the guys would have the desire to be out there but people know here that you can dance away heartache, so maybe I missed a good night. If England go through to the next stage after turning in such lacklustre performances ealier in the tournament, we expats will probably have to take a bit of flak. My knowledge of football - well any sport really - is limited in the extreme. Still, I do recognise skulking when I see it and the business of holding the ball at the back of the pitch and passing it slowly back and forth while the other team bounce around at the other end waiting for some action reminded me so much of me and Caroline hiding in the 'deep field' during rounders matches at school, looking up occasionally from our chats and even once attempting to catch a ball that was coming straight at me (arms open wide, eyes scrunched closed, stepping gingerly backwards out of the way - of course I missed it). We shall see.
Hhhmmmm, I wonder if David Owen's playing today...!
If England win and you hear nothing for a while, do contact the Embassy!
My English neighbour came down yesterday and we sat with popcorn and juice and watched the match on cable tv. Of course, we are girls and our commentary would have driven any man insane, but for each other we are probably perfect football company. One of her students had been trying to explain the offside rule to her and we had an earnest discussion about that and decided it was a bit stupid. If I had a fiver for every time a guy has tried to explain offside to me - OK women too, Paddie and Sarah! - I could probably fly to Germany and buy a ticket for the next match. I think I understand it now but still maintain that it is a bit stupid. I wondered when the shorts had got so long and we moaned about that for a while. Julie-Anne had a good foot massage to ease the tension of her morning on the phone. We were both looking at the screen when the goals were scored at least. When the extra time was over, we strained to understand the commentary and work out what would happen next. I had read on the BBC website that FIFA had stopped one of the barbarous practices that used to decide a draw but was not sure if it was the golden goal or the penalty shoot-out. We soon found out which. I think England went out on one of these last time. The first to miss was my favourite cutie on the Argentine team, very sad but he can come to me for consolation if he needs it! The second to miss was the one who looks a bit like my uncle Archie and seems quite out of place on that dark latin team. A fight broke out on the pitch and again we strained to work out why. The anger seemed to be directed at one of the officials but I haven't been to the BBC website to find out what that was all about. So we nibbled on the last husks of popcorn until all that was left was the bits that hurt your teeth, then Julie-Anne went home.
After the match, I was at a bit of a loose end, having spoken to my estate agent and found that our meeting was postponed until Monday because the vendor's lawyer had taken the day off to watch the match. So I put on my trainers and went for a walk in town. Along Chacabuco/Maipu, down Diagonal Norte to the Obelisk, it was quiet and moody. A surprising number of shops and businesses seemed to have opened up, but heads were hung low and still shaking slowly in disbelief. Men sat in cafe windows looking dejected, some still staring open-mouthed at a blank tv screen where the unthinkable had been played out before them. A lot of the flags seemed to have gone from car windows but probably one person in three was wearing either football strip or some item of blue and white striped clothing. They had all been watching the match, confident that their team was unbeatable, and they all looked wounded now.
Down at the Obelisk, which is the popular centre of the city rather like Trafalgar Square in London, there was a pathetic scene. The police were there, lined up in their riot gear; clearly they had planned ahead for the parties just getting bigger with every win. Somebody in the commissariat is probably busy right now cancelling a lot of over-time for 9th July. All they had to watch over though was a dozen or so forlorn fans in their Argentina strips, with blue and white scarves which should have been held high in jubilation hanging limply at their sides. I had to wonder why they were still there - the fans or the police for that matter - but maybe they just were too stunned to form an alternative plan. The police were probably damn well going to stay and get their over-time as they had no doubt had to miss the match to earn it. I don't suppose many had the stomach to watch it on video when they finally did go home.
Along Avenida 9 Julio - incidentally the 9th of July is yet another national day for Argentina and the possible confluence of that and the World Cup final had promised great things - the traffic was starting to get going again, though for a Friday afternoon it was remarkably fluid. Normally all 26 lanes (well roughly, drivers here are not quite sure what those white lines on the tarmac are for exactly) are chock solid at this time. The forty-foot inflatable footballer who has been standing proud between the towers of the Pan Americana Hotel had already gone. How on earth they had disposed of him so quickly is anyone's guess. I looked up to see if they had just cut the painter and let him float away to be somebody else's problem but if that was the case, he had already made his escape. I imagined he was laid out flat somewhere being packed away for 2010.
By the time I got to Av. Santa Fe, things seemed more normal: maybe because this is one of the main shopping drags in Bs As and so a magnet for the people whose interest in Argentina's football prowess is less strong. I had a bit of a mooch but soon came to the conclusion I was in no mood even for window shopping, so I headed down Talcahuano to where Julie-Anne had said there was a Disco supermarket that sold bacon. We had been talking about bacon sandwiches during the match and so this seemed the obvious thing to do! I loaded up on luxurious things that are not available in my local supermarkets - jalapenos, olive paste, real mustard, herbs, goat cheese etc - but could not find any bacon. I had left my mobile phone at home so I could not call Julie-Anne to ask where the bacon was hiding and ended up paying a small fortune for all the stuff I hadn't gone in for. A small fortune here is about what I spend in a weekly shop in Sainsbury's but you soon get used to thinking that the peso is equivalent to the pound, even though the exchange is about 5-1. Still, at least when I get my sudden hunger pangs there is a better chance that I will go to the kitchen and find something I actually want to eat.
So, this afternoon it is the England quarter final with Portugal. I'm not honestly sure what to hope for! Will I have to lay low for a while if they win? Already I decided not to go dancing last night as a gesture of sympathy. Of course I wondered how many of the guys would have the desire to be out there but people know here that you can dance away heartache, so maybe I missed a good night. If England go through to the next stage after turning in such lacklustre performances ealier in the tournament, we expats will probably have to take a bit of flak. My knowledge of football - well any sport really - is limited in the extreme. Still, I do recognise skulking when I see it and the business of holding the ball at the back of the pitch and passing it slowly back and forth while the other team bounce around at the other end waiting for some action reminded me so much of me and Caroline hiding in the 'deep field' during rounders matches at school, looking up occasionally from our chats and even once attempting to catch a ball that was coming straight at me (arms open wide, eyes scrunched closed, stepping gingerly backwards out of the way - of course I missed it). We shall see.
Hhhmmmm, I wonder if David Owen's playing today...!
If England win and you hear nothing for a while, do contact the Embassy!
posted by Rachel in Buenos Aires at 9:53 am
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