WHY DOES IT FEEL SO GOOD TO BE AN IMPERIALIST?
Answer: Because you get to live here.
Being the insensitive type that I am, I may have posted some things in this blog that shed a less than charitable light on Argentina's obsession with the Falklands. I'd like to point out that I wrote all those things before I got invited to spend a little time last night over at the British embassy here in Buenos Aires.
The tiny shred of decency left to me prevents me from describing the wild party we had on Argentina's big day of mourning, but I will say it was a good time had by all (except the riot police out front protecting the building). The house is beautiful, and apparently the most secure building in the entire country. I imagine that our embassy is more secure, or at least uglier, but the fact was recounted to me with such pride, that I'll simply have to agree.
I didn't really see any security guards, but walking through the house I was always nervous that some SAS types might jump out and mistake me for some kind of SPECTRE goon. The house is full of antiques and fine art, but what really jumped out at me were all the pictures of the Queen. I suppose I would have expected a little variety, but they were all pictures of the reigning monarch. There is one spot I noticed where I could see at least four pictures of Her Majesty (three paintings and a coronation photograph). The picture that confronts you going up the main stairs of a slightly larger than life Queen Elizabeth II is particularly impressive.
ASIDE: How much of the Queen's time is taken up by having her portraits painted ad nauseam for all the embassies around the world? Judging by this place, it's probably a lot. It's good to stay busy.
When I got the invitation I couldn't say no. Not just because it was the most cruelly ironic way to have a good time, but because I'd finally have the chance to see up close something that I'd only read about in books: blue-blooded English people. It was certainly a good time, but things have come a long way from the Bertie Wooster days.
Dramatization: Your correspondent enjoying a postprandial Turkish at the Embassy.
The girls certainly looked a bit thin, anyway. I think they must have been on some special diet. Maybe they'd all just been sick, as they seemed to be disappearing off to the bathroom and sniffling all night. Poor creatures; I wish them a speedy recovery.
All the Englishmen I met there seemed interested in telling me all about their "Gap Year," some kind of rite of passage for the young and upwardly mobile over in their country. All of them seemed to be traveling straight across the southern half of the planet: Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Fiji, New Zealand, Indonesia, Thailand, Goa, et cetera. Sounds like a nice way to pass the time, but my life is enough of a Gap Year already, so I'll stay in Buenos Aires for now.
Most of them seemed pretty surprised to discover that it was the worst day of the year to be English in Argentina, even though there was also a good splattering of Argentines at the party as well. To most of them, Buenos Aires was just one stop on their world party tours. The club going enthusiasts seemed to think that Buenos Aires is the best city in the world for that sort of thing, and a few had decided to extended their stays for a few weeks (just skip Patagonia or Bolivia). By and large, though, I didn't really get the impression from the ones who planned on staying that they knew what the holiday was about. Having found the most English-friendly party in town, I doubt they cared too much.
I wish I could provide some profound insight about how this most sacrilegious of parties is a perfect demonstration of the way money and first world privilege insulate people from reality. Unfortunately, I was just as separated from reality by the ambassador's wet bar as I was by money, privilege or federal riot police, so the story will just have to wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment