Honestly, most days I feel pretty smug about being in Argentina; sifting through the news to discover another moronic thing Bush has done to fuck over the USA, and how Britney has escalated into a new level of insanity, shaving her head, dying her crotch hair, whatever. Could I really be missing that much? Likely, no. That is, until the third Thursday of November, the day we Americans like to call Thanksgiving.
It’s hot out. There are no turkeys to devour, let alone American Indians to consider ravaging. And while my loved ones gather round the table to state what they’re grateful for, for the first time, I am not there to engorge myself with them. Instead, and perhaps partially to distract ourselves from our despondency, Jacey and I host a rather bizarre Thanksgiving dinner of our own. Out of 16 guests, mostly the Americans bring traditional dishes (potatoes, green beans, corn). Naturally, the Argentines show up late, and we end up feasting on roasted chicken and some sort of angel cake concoction.
I suppose that no matter where you go, you have to accept that you will lose something. And you hope that in the motion, what you gain is more important. I just wish I had some pecan pie for reassurance.
More photos on the way.
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