OCTOBER 05: Santa Rosa Smile
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Pondering perfidy in Argentina
“Por placer, sin duda o miedo,” she said. For pleasure, without doubt or fear.
And we drank.
The saccharine liquid that slid down my throat was nearly identical in hue to her mesmerizing, coffee-colored eyes. Strands of dark, shoulder-length hair danced across her face as she spoke, having a highly disruptive effect on my Spanish—a distraction second only to her ample and particularly well-arranged cleavage, which was staring up at me, daring me to steal a single adolescent glance.
Bombas de leche, I giggled to myself, like a teenage boy with only a gland for a brain. Crass, but not entirely unfair. Fernanda, a rare nth generation descendant of the indigenous people here, could have passed for 24. She was actually a 33-year-old mother of two. I never would have known it had we not just spent the past three hours marveling at our remarkably similar paths through radically different geographies. Although I had a serious girlfriend, I was otherwise unattached—one of the main reasons I was able to make this trek halfway around the world. I stole a quick, furtive glance toward the noisy crowd that packed the Argentine bar at four in the morning. It was then that she asked me how I felt about infidelity. Outside, the snow continued to fall.
It started on Saturday, and didn’t stop until Wednesday. After weeks of warm, dry weather in what appeared to be yet another premature end to the South American ski season, the long-awaited storm arrived in the final hour, just as my flight from Buenos Aires touched down at the northern edge of Patagonia. Driving wearily into the European-inspired town of San Carlos de Bariloche, the cold rain was pounding, making it difficult to navigate in fading light.
I went immediately to an Internet café to put out the word: “Pouring like absolute mad here. Cold too, must be dumping up high. Get here. Do whatever it takes.” Then I crossed the street through the torrential downpour, against a tide of tourists scrambling for shelter in the town’s famous Chocolaterias. And that’s when it happened.
A Santa Rosa smile starts at the corners of the mouth, really nothing more than a tremor at first. Then, quickly and quietly, it prostitutes itself to nearby parts of your face. “…Hola. Si, tu. Claro! Who else would I be talking to? Listen, why don’t you try this? Solomente un poco? You’ll like it, I promise. Prometo. Really, it’ll make you feel good. Yeah, that’s it. Si. You liked that, no? Go ahead, otra vez. As much as you like. Yeah that’s bueno, bueno…”
And suddenly, like the first tongue of flame in a well-built campfire, it takes hold of some inner kindling and ignites. I was soaked to the bone by the time we ducked inside La Vizcacha for a $12 feast. Yet, wearing nothing more than t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, I was still laughing like a lunatic when the empanadas arrived.
Infidelity is a familiar subject to most people. If you’re able to turn the fideliscope on yourself, you may discover that you embrace the activity on a regular basis. Because being unfaithful doesn’t just apply to the relationship with your significant other, it applies to the relationship with yourself. And you, you are a skier. You live to ski deep powder, catch big air, send big lines. It’s your purpose; it’s why you’re here. You don’t belong in that office surrounded by conference calls and Krispy Kremes. You belong here, where it’s been snowing for three days, burying the Andes with two feet of frosting, followed by another foot of powdered sugar. Here, where the people live for pleasure, without doubt or fear. The office? That’s infidelity. And self-deception. Of course, as with money, power, and titles, when ample and particularly well-arranged cleavage is placed in front of you, decisions become harder to make.
Thoughts sufficiently scrambled by my musings and my view; it took me an embarrassingly long time to answer the question at hand. “I suppose that depends on who you’re cheating, doesn’t it?” I said, still pondering that other life of mine, so many worlds away.
Sometimes the Santa Rosa smile is merely a grin. “Si,” she said with a wink, “es la verdad. Es la verdad.” And we drank.
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