The Relativity of 'un Rato': Telling Time, Argentine Style

Years ago in a Spanish culture class, I was first shown this famous Salvador Dalí painting, "La Persistencia de la Memoria" ("The Persistance of Memory"), or, as it is most commonly searched for on Google, the more literally titled, 'Melting Clocks Painting.' I was always intrigued by the work, and yet, found its significance evasive. 'Melting clocks...What could it possibly mean?,' I wondered, pensively stroking my chin.

What I realize now, is that I was asking the wrong question. The issue is not 'What?' or 'Why?', but rather, 'Where?'. Where does this painting take place? Because the truth, of which perhaps even Dalí himself was not aware, is that these are not just any clocks. They are Argentine clocks. (Slowly melting, perhaps, on the shores of Puerto Madryn.) 

Puerto Madryn, Argentina, or surrealist beach setting? Qué sé yo!

During my months living in Argentina, I have learned what I could never grasp in the classroom: the meaning of 'the relativity of time.' Finally, Dalí was speaking to me...

I think she's got it!

In the United States, melting clocks do not exist. 'How can time be an idea, something relative,' I often wondered, 'when it is rigid and fixed, absolute and unchangeable?' 7 o'clock means 7 o'clock. A little after 4 o'clock means 4:05, 4:15 and you're pushing it. 1 o'clock sharp? Like a razor. 9 o'clock on the dot? We're talking the end of a needle. Two minutes late and you're toast. Extra crispy. Indeed, one must faithfully abide by the Law of Time. Arrive late to a carpool? Thou shalt apologize profusely. Delayed to a meeting? Thou shalt beg forgiveness. Punctuality is valued and expected.  'Late' is a a four letter word, the eighth deadly sin.

Don't mess with Time!

Ok, yes, I'm exaggerating a little. But that's how I feel sometimes. Perhaps this is because I am not, you could say, the most punctual of people. In the U.S. I am constantly fighting the clock. And in this epic battle, Ali vs. Time, I am always the loser. Indeed, I have spent many years recognizing my dilatory nature as a point of weakness, a flaw to correct. This past New Year's I even resolved to address my shortcoming, in a well-intentioned but ultimately fruitless gesture to be more punctual. Conveniently, I left for Argentina shortly thereafter...

Turns out that, at least for the time being, I can toss my resolution in la basura. Imagine my utter joy when I arrived in Argentina, and discovered that everyone was just like me: always late! And that not only are they are habitually delayed, but that being late is perfectly acceptable, and at times even socially necessary! I currently live in a country where 'late' is not late, but right on time! 

I thought I was being metaphorical until I saw these in a store in Buenos Aires. 

'I'll be there at 9 y pico' a friend may tell me. 'Pico,' or 'a little bit' may range from 10 minutes, to an hour and a half. Wait 'cinco minutitos.' I was surprised to learn that not only are there 'little minutes' in Argentina, but that five of them can translate to half an hour. And if start times are unclear, then end times are completely unknowable. 'I'll stop by for 'un rato,' or 'a little bit,' could mean anything from 15 minutes to two hours. 'Un ratito,' which in theory is 'little rato,' provides essentially zero temporal information, and could range from 1 minute to an entire afternoon. It's all relative.

And it's wonderful. What is perhaps my greatest shortcoming in the United States has allowed me to adapt to life in Argentina, a country where time is fluid. A place where going with the flow is necessary if you have hopes of maintaining your sanity. A land where clocks melt like chocolate alfajores left out in the sweltering South American sun.

Rewind five months. During my first week in Bahía, a friend told me a group was to meet at 6 at a spot near my house to drink mate and eat some facturas (magically delicious Argentine pastries). Not wanting to be a huge loser and show up right at 6, I had decided it would be appropriate to get there fashionably late, at 6:15. Seemed reasonable enough. When I arrived though, no one was there. My master plan had backfired; I had got there too late. Too late. Ha.

About an hour later I wandered outside to take out the trash, and saw my friend strolling in, with a bag of facturas in one hand, and mate thermos in the other. "Che, Ali! Estás lista?" Could this be real? It was 7:22, one hour and 22 minutes behind schedule, and we were just now meeting. Even by my standards, this was unthinkable. And yet, it was totally okay. As I munched on my medialuna, surrounded by dilatory Argentines, I knew that I finally belonged.

Or perhaps, not quite. For the first time in my life, the tables had turned: I often found myself the first person to arrive. I had a 9 a.m. meeting with all of the 20 international students living with me in the university housing. At 9:07 I ran out of my house, extremely flustered, and peered into the houses whether the others live. No sign of life. Oh god. I was late. The meeting had begun and everyone was there. Mild panic setting in, I sprinted to the English building several blocks away where the meeting was to be held, and burst into the room. It was 9:11 a.m. The room, aside from my director and her assistant, was empty. 

Although I am not the timeliest yanqui there ever was, I am realizing that I am nevertheless bound unconsciously to the Clock of my homeland. I have internalized the notion that I must adapt to Time, and not, alternatively, Time must adapt to me. My friend Carla captured this fundamental cultural difference when she recounted our first encounter to our soccer team: "My first memory of Ali is of her approaching the bus stop, sprinting down the street while scarfing down an apple." This is an image which is not uncommon in the United States, but which in Argentina, categorizes you as very strange, if not freakish. Indeed, there are two things wrong with this picture, as viewed in Argentina:

1) Running on the street. You could say that we take the expression 'running late' very literally. In the U.S., arriving exhausted, flushed and/or sweaty is preferable to showing up late, and it is therefore not uncommon to run to one's destination in order to avoid a major stink eye, or a dreaded tardy. During college, I could always count on seeing at least several students after the bell had rung, heavily breathing as they sprinted frantically to class.

In Argentina, no one runs on the street. Except for me, that is. Sometimes people scream when I run by, seemingly under the impression that I am going to rob them. Clearly this aberrant behavior is not conducive to my assimilation to Argentine culture, and I am therefore making a determined effort to suppress my urge to book it down the street when I notice that I'm late.

2) Eating on the move. In the United States people eat while they're walking, while they're running, while they're driving. En route is primo snack time. I was raised amidst a culture where coffee is synonymous with drive-thrus and to-go mugs, where 'food trucks' are all the rage, and where people eat yogurt called 'Go-Gurt'. It is normal to be in a hurry, and if scarfing down yogurt out of a disposable plastic tube, or devouring a hot dog on stick saves time, then great!

In Argentina however, things are not so rushed. Eating is as much about energizing the body as it is about enjoying one's comida, socializing, and spending times with friends and family. 'To-go' cups are antithetical to the notion of drinking coffee, and it is therefore no surprise that there are only a handful of Starbucks in Buenos Aires, and not a single one in Bahía Blanca. Perhaps that explains why people stare at me as if I were a gorilla escaped from the zoo when I eat a banana on my way to work.

Despite these tendencies, I am adapting to the Argentine Clock. I can now arrive to a party 40 minutes 'late' without a single pang of guilt. I can walk to a meeting in the city center without checking my watch ever 7 seconds. I am making an effort to enjoy my apples in the privacy of my home, though I will not lie, I have not yet been able to fully make this cultural transition.

Besides learning that time is in fact relative, and that I am not fatally flawed, I am finding that Time can be my amigo. That when schedules and meeting times are a little more flexible, that when I am not running down the street, I can stop and enjoy the smell of medialunas wafting lazily from a bakery. I can enjoy a mate gathering for hours on end without worrying about what comes next. Life is not to be rushed, but rather savored. And while the probable effect this will have upon my punctuality upon my return to the U.S. is quite alarming, I am enjoying this new rhythm, embracing this new perception of time which stalls and accelerates, expands and contracts; which gives true meaning to the expression 'making time,' and creates space for the joys in life that transcend the clock.