If an Argentine asks you to lunch, expect it to last for hours; friends gossip lightheartedly or vehemently debate the president or Borges over meats so succulent they need no seasoning. They nibble breads and culinary concoctions, sipping a never-ending cup of Malbec.
The meal ends with a treat—it truly does not matter what it is—covered in sticky sweet dulce de leche, a caramel made by slowly cooking milk with sugar until it turns golden, and the sound of whose name says more of its indulgent character than any other word could.
Perhaps after the meal an impromptu tango show will commence. The woman allows the man to take her in his arms in confianza, trust, as the music begins. The couple glides as one across the wooden floor; their eyes in an unbreakable lock, their chemistry so strong you almost feel like you should turn your face away, but you cannot help but continue to stare.
Suddenly, you remember that you are in a Catholic country. And it is currently the Lenten season. Expectedly, you may be quickly perplexed.
Much of what makes Argentina's culture so rich and alluring seems to directly conflict with the moral guidelines and prudence set forth by the Catholic Church. The decadent meals, leisurely schedules, and sultry tango dancing could easily be seen as, dare I say, downright sinful. However, the most interesting part of Argentine culture is neither the Catholic Church nor the decadence of the food and recreation. Rather, it is that these two interact in relative peace.
Catholicism has been a central thread connecting Argentinas history since Europeans came to the area in the sixteenth century. Soon after, Jesuits came to the area spreading faith and education as they established the Universidad Nacional de Cordoba in 1613. Catholicism continued to weave its way through Argentine culture as the focus of art and architectural projects, as well as a political force.
Catholicism maintains itself as an integral part of Argentina's culture and politics: the constitution demands a Catholic president, and both abortion and the death penalty are illegal in accordance with the Catholic belief that life is always sacred. A string of rosary beads dangles from nearly every bus's rear-view mirror, and it is not uncommon to see a people bless themselves after successfully crossing the street (which is, admittedly, a feat given that the drivers here seem to disregard every traffic safety rule).
Although remnants of a strong Catholic history persist, the Catholic religion has been largely pushed into the private realm of Argentine society. My host mother tells me that Masses are becoming more sparsely attended as the years go by because there is not an overbearing social pressure to attend. On February 25 I actually did not know that it was Ash Wednesday until I spoke to my mother in Boston; not one person I saw in Buenos Aires had a charcoal cross on his forehead.
In a class on religion and Argentine society I am taking at the Universidad de Buenos Aires, I recently learned that although 91 percent of Argentine Catholics place a great significance on Jesus Christ in their faith, only 38 percent place significance on priests in the Church. Seventy-four percent of Argentine Catholics believe the Church should put their efforts towards promoting human rights and helping the poor, while only 2.3 percent think the effort should be made to influence politics. Despite waning Mass attendance, Argentina is still Catholic, albeit more quietly.
That Catholicism is still a vital fiber in Argentina's culture among a sea of decadent bodily pleasures speaks to the fact that Argentina is a place where seeming opposites miraculously coincide. In a place where mate drinkers lounge in French-designed parks, where the name José Schwartz is not unlikely, and where glaciers meet rainforests, it seems only plausible that the Catholic Church coexists with its opposite.
Perhaps after the meal an impromptu tango show will commence. The woman allows the man to take her in his arms in confianza, trust, as the music begins. The couple glides as one across the wooden floor; their eyes in an unbreakable lock, their chemistry so strong you almost feel like you should turn your face away, but you cannot help but continue to stare.
Suddenly, you remember that you are in a Catholic country. And it is currently the Lenten season. Expectedly, you may be quickly perplexed.
Much of what makes Argentina's culture so rich and alluring seems to directly conflict with the moral guidelines and prudence set forth by the Catholic Church. The decadent meals, leisurely schedules, and sultry tango dancing could easily be seen as, dare I say, downright sinful. However, the most interesting part of Argentine culture is neither the Catholic Church nor the decadence of the food and recreation. Rather, it is that these two interact in relative peace.
Catholicism has been a central thread connecting Argentinas history since Europeans came to the area in the sixteenth century. Soon after, Jesuits came to the area spreading faith and education as they established the Universidad Nacional de Cordoba in 1613. Catholicism continued to weave its way through Argentine culture as the focus of art and architectural projects, as well as a political force.
Catholicism maintains itself as an integral part of Argentina's culture and politics: the constitution demands a Catholic president, and both abortion and the death penalty are illegal in accordance with the Catholic belief that life is always sacred. A string of rosary beads dangles from nearly every bus's rear-view mirror, and it is not uncommon to see a people bless themselves after successfully crossing the street (which is, admittedly, a feat given that the drivers here seem to disregard every traffic safety rule).
Although remnants of a strong Catholic history persist, the Catholic religion has been largely pushed into the private realm of Argentine society. My host mother tells me that Masses are becoming more sparsely attended as the years go by because there is not an overbearing social pressure to attend. On February 25 I actually did not know that it was Ash Wednesday until I spoke to my mother in Boston; not one person I saw in Buenos Aires had a charcoal cross on his forehead.
In a class on religion and Argentine society I am taking at the Universidad de Buenos Aires, I recently learned that although 91 percent of Argentine Catholics place a great significance on Jesus Christ in their faith, only 38 percent place significance on priests in the Church. Seventy-four percent of Argentine Catholics believe the Church should put their efforts towards promoting human rights and helping the poor, while only 2.3 percent think the effort should be made to influence politics. Despite waning Mass attendance, Argentina is still Catholic, albeit more quietly.
That Catholicism is still a vital fiber in Argentina's culture among a sea of decadent bodily pleasures speaks to the fact that Argentina is a place where seeming opposites miraculously coincide. In a place where mate drinkers lounge in French-designed parks, where the name José Schwartz is not unlikely, and where glaciers meet rainforests, it seems only plausible that the Catholic Church coexists with its opposite.
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