Historical February 1998 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
There we were greeting the start of 1998 in a foreign place: Southern Hemisphere, South America, Argentina, Buenos Aires, shoe stores. Yes, the first wife and I just returned from a jaunt to South America (that’s Southo Americo in Spanish).
It was the first time we have been south of the equator and it was, all in all, an enjoyable experience.
We were good touristos!
First, to answer the question that I know is posed on your ever-quivering lips, YES, the water does go down the drain in a different direction. Before actually seeing this — scores of times, in fact — I was doubtful.
This idea of the direction of the drainage being determined by whether the water is north or south of the equator is a centuries old tale, one that predates the “discovery” of the New World.
It is, I always figured, scientifically comparable to the moon consisting of blue cheese. So I couldn’t wait to check into our hotel room, fill the sink with water, and pull the plug. Amazing. Even having seen it, many, many times (yes, I have photos). I’m baffled!
It beats the hell out of me why or how this happens, but it does. Up here the water goes counterclockwise down the drain and down there it goes down clockwise.
I mean, who even bothered to first note this? And how could anyone have even known this before there were clocks? And does it still work if the room only has digital clocks???
I felt a bit like Mr. Wizard — er, Senor Wizrado — repeatedly filling and emptying various water receptacles.
We stayed in two hotels (we also visited Santiago, Chile), each of which had a sink and a tub. And I visited numerous restrooms (banos) with sinks too. I’ll tell you, I spent more time watching water leave the room than a custodian at Sea World. Continually observing and hypothesizing throughout my travels, I felt a bit like Charles Darwin.
But now to the more important issue: globalization. That’s a fancy way of saying that the shopping malls are pretty much the same everywhere.
Each country has mall upon mall upon mall and each mall features a United Colors of Bennetton, J.C. Penney, Gap, Taco Bell, and so-on.
The background music is even the same. Heck, in Santiago the University of Chile at Santiago even wants to build a multimillion peso performing arts center twenty miles from town so that only their students can use it.
But what is most amazing is the communications network that exists among retailers. Well, to be fair I should say the communications network that exists among shoe stores.
I assume it is in place among other kinds of stores as well but don’t really know. Planning the trip was largely left to the first wife and she did her usual fine job. By the time we walked on the jet she had a map indicating the shoe stores that we would visit.
She also had arranged for us to visit a shoe factory in each country.
I had my books and ceegars. No sooner had we arrived in Buenos Aires and unpacked when we hurriedly went to the first shoe store, one in an open-air shopping mall called Florida. OK, we walk in the store and are treated; naturally, like any other customer.
Each store has -a few people who can speak halting English (which is superior to our stopping Spanish) and after some early miscommunications, we are directed to them.
In this case a young girl, mid-twenties, greets us.
She and the first wife begin to chat, and the salesgirl is quickly scurrying to bring out pair after pair after pair of shoes. I, having learned from experience, pull out the books I brought and begin to read. One of the real virtues of a vacation is to have long periods of uninterrupted reading time! Chapters later, the first wife has made a selection, actually several selections, and we go to the register where she gives the salesperson her weathered credit card.
The girl goes to the machine and enters the information.
A moment later her face lights up as if she has struck gold. Which, in a way, she has. “Senorita! Mio apologies,” she begins, “Pardona.
I did not know who you were. Por favor, please come with me. Vaminos!” At this, the first wife follows her, me too, into a back room, behind the register.
A key is pulled out from under the edge of the carpet and the salesgirl uses•it to unlock a door that is hidden behind a curtain.
She beckons us to follow her and we do. I’ve sort of been there, done that before, on other trips, so I figure I know what’s about to happen.
The first wife does too and can hardly contain her excitement.
We step in to a giant beautifully decorated room with a small pond in the middle, the walls filled with row upon row of shoes. Soft music is playing in the background.
I am immediately fascinated by the pond, approximately ten feet in diameter. “Are those real ducks?” I wonder and walk closer. What is happening becomes clear as the salesperson bows to the first wife and says, “I didn’t know who you were, Senorita.
This room, we call it el palaceo, is reserved for our executivo clients, el grande collectors de shoes!” Another salesperson appears and hands the first wife a glass of champagne and takes her to an easy chair.
I mumble something about needing to find a room to check the direction That the water goes down the drain and announce that I’ll be waiting outside, in the mall corridor, reading and smoking a ceegar or three.
There is far more to this journey, of course, including various mishaps with the camera, mostly initiated by me, but space precludes my sharing the details. Or even deheads. Let me simply say that we were given this sort of exalted treatment in a shoe store in Santiago as well. There, though, the back room did not have a pond.
The first wife was disappointed, I think, but I actually preferred watching and listening to the entertainers.
All in all, we visited around a dozen shoe stores.
The shoe factory visits weren’t successful because they didn’t carry any shoes that weren’t already in the stores. Nonetheless, the first wife was a gracious customer, buying a pair of shoes in each factory just to support the cause.
In general, she calls the trip a success. Enough shoes were purchased that they were shipped back in two large boxes rather than being carried in our pitifully small suitcases. We’ve not been home that long, so the first wife hasn’t begun to name them yet. Right now her quandary is whether to call the shoes Mr. and Mrs. or Senor and Senorita. Me, I’m still fascinated with watching the water go down the drain, counter-clockwise, and trying to figure out which end is up.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, February 1998.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1998_02.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
