Virtue Signaling from the End of the World (Part 2 of 4)
In the company we keep, we see ourselves reflected.
Read Part 1 here. No, you don’t have to read the footnotes, but I think they are fun.
Day 151
The red flags started the next day, my first full day in Ushuaia. I woke up eager to explore the city and check some tourist items off my list. I researched activities on my phone while sprawled on a couch in the common area that doubled as the Antarctica’s lobby. There, the Italian found me and suggested we book the same boat tour. I agreed – while solo travel can be lonely at times, there are almost always other travelers looking for company. We booked the tour for the afternoon, and in the spirit of friendship I invited him to join me on a visit to Ushuaia’s history museum, located in a now-defunct prison.
For the first half of the 20th century, Ushuaia served as an Argentine prison colony. The first prisoners arrived in 1896 and were given the unfortunate task of building the prison in which they would be confined. The museum’s main exhibit told the story of the prisoners and the city; the exhibits were set up in claustrophobic cells, no more than 7’ square. I wandered from cell to cell learning of the prisoners’ hellish circumstances, and how the city grew and changed around them. One cell told the story of how, in the 1930’s, several political prisoners had escaped into the cold of winter and found asylum in Chile. It was fascinating.
There were two smaller exhibits. One told the history of the native Yahgan people from time immemorial, to their early interactions with European and Argentine colonizers, to their community in the present day. Probably, this museum would be criticized by your average woke netizen for insufficiently centering the Yahgan perspective in the primary exhibit.[1] The other small exhibit was of local art, each cell showcasing a different artist.
The Italian was dismissive of the museum. He didn’t appreciate the history, or the culture, or the art. I didn’t appreciate his negativity. Was it the best curated museum in the world? Was the art something you might find hanging in the Met? Of course not! But I did not understand how someone could travel all this way, from the rural town in northern Italy from which he hailed all the way to the tip of South America, and not find wonder. This wasn’t quite a red flag, perhaps yellow, though it was enough to annoy me. And given the option between spending time with someone even slightly annoying or being alone, I preferred solitude. Unfortunately, I had already paid for the boat tour. I would have to put up with the Italian’s uncouth tastes for a little while longer yet.
We walked a mile to the pier and, with an hour to kill, sat down in a nice restaurant for lunch. I ordered tea, he ordered a beer. He was bloviating about Italian politics, in particular, how he felt the people from the large cities looked down on those from the countryside. It was entertaining to listen to a political rant about some place other than the United States.
But then he started telling me his thoughts about American politics. It was the standard kind of “both parties are bad” talking points you hear.[2] Before I could get into the particulars of why his “both sides” argument was flawed, a curveball: he asked me if I thought that the Bush Administration was responsible for 9/11. Red Flag #1. People don’t normally bring up “9/11 was an inside job” unless they believe it. I rebutted firmly, and dismissively, that the idea was absurd. With conspiracy theorists, it’s mostly useless to get into a drawn out argument, advice that later I would fail to heed. This time, I made clear to the Italian that I would not entertain the idea, and he dropped the subject. I shifted the conversation to our impending boat ride. Despite the red flag, I felt safe about the Italian accompanying me on the boat. Plus, logistically, there was no easy way to ditch him.
The boat departed about 3:30 pm, heading south and east. The tour was full even in the offseason; there were over 100 passengers on board. Underway, I stood on the upper deck for as long as I could bear the freezing wind. The air was crisp. The sun was low in the sky. It was already golden hour. Snowy mountains were visible in every direction as the southern extent of the Andes disappeared into the sea. We circuited a small island populated by a solitary lighthouse and hundreds of seals and penguins.[3]
It was almost 5:00. The sun was comfortably behind the mountains but had not yet set. In the twilight, two humpback whales breached within 150 feet of the boat. At least half of all the passengers took out their phones to attempt to capture the moment. To the east, the full moon rose, its light reflected in the icy black water. To the west, a rainbow sky outlined the Andes. I watched the jagged horizon turn to yellow, to orange, to red, to black. To describe the sky as beautiful would be insufficient.
Photo: Boat tour of the Beagle Channel, looking northwest toward Ushuaia and the Andes Mountains
In all the time on the boat, the Italian was a model travel companion. Helpful with any language difficulties, respectful of my space and independence, and cracking jokes. He really could be funny. He wanted to go out for dinner. I had no plans, so I agreed. This was a mistake.
Dinner started out fine. The Italian had chosen a white tablecloth seafood restaurant. He told me how Ushuaia was known for its seafood, in particular the black hake caught right offshore. Intrigued, I ordered a black hake dish. He was right – it was exquisite. But the dinner was ruined about halfway through our second bottle of wine when he leaned across the table and, out of nowhere, stage whispered, “I wonder if everyone in the restaurant thinks we are a couple of f----ts.” Red Flag #2. I paused for a moment in surprise at both the slur and his thought. Why would people default to assume two men eating dinner were gay? I collected myself and told him that that word is a slur, and that he should not use it. He was a non-native English speaker, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he didn’t know? He said he was joking, and he patted my arm. I did not like his touch. We joke different in Italy, he said, and you Americans are so sensitive. I reiterated that he should not say it, and he nodded, placatingly. But I was not convinced that he understood.
The conversation was deteriorating quickly. The Italian had gotten louder and courser with the alcohol. He liked to swear, and he especially liked the word “fuck.” On its own, swearing didn’t bother me. “Fuck” is my favorite swear, and on the shortlist of my favorite words, period. It is versatile as fuck, fucking fun to say, and its many derivatives are useful as a motherfucker. But still, there is a time and place. English is not a subtle language; nearly everyone understands it, at least a bit. I could see other diners’ heads turning to look at the Italian as he swore loudly and frequently. Red Flag #3. I was embarrassed to be associated with him. Yet, I did not consider leaving the dinner. I did not want to be rude. We opened another bottle of wine.
Next, he turned the conversation to his sexual exploits, and how beautiful the women had been at the club the previous night. Drunk, ignoring the previous red flags out of perverse curiosity and a desire for a drinking companion, I engaged. These were low stakes – it was not like there was going to be a record of the conversation to hold me to account! For a time, it was fun. Most men are at least a little bit sexist, probably myself included if I am being honest, and I am accustomed to conversations like this sometimes crossing the line of respectability. But at some point, I can’t remember when, the details lost to the drink, the way the Italian talked about women crossed the line. No, not crossed. Obliterated. His sexism went far beyond the generic, predictable sexism of your average man. He was aggressive, dehumanizing, objectifying, misogynistic. Red Flag #4. This was the moment I decided I wanted no more of his company. I could hear the social justice warriors, the ones who had prevailed their opinions upon me through hours of dialogue, my friends, urging me to say something. But I didn’t. The situation was delicate. Was arguing winnable? Or would I just piss him off? After all, we were staying in the same room. He was erratic, and drunk. If I upset him, how might he react?
The walk back to the Antarctica was uncomfortable for me, while the Italian was having a grand old time. He was getting very chummy, getting inside my personal space, touching my shoulder, and clapping me on the back. I am from Seattle, a place with Scandinavian cultural mores that highly respect other’s physical space. But other Italians I had met had also been close talkers, so maybe this was normal? Was this a red flag or was I being overly judgmental of his culture? In any case, there was a disturbing pattern to his behavior, and I wanted out before the next red flag appeared, whatever it may be.
[1] Social justice warriors are almost always annoying, but usually correct. And the fact that they are usually correct only makes them more annoying!
[2] I have heard versions of this argument my entire life. It frustrates me to no end. How someone can equivocate between America’s two parties is beyond me. They are both bad, don’t get me wrong. I wrote a whole book about how to destroy the two-party system and create a multiparty democracy! But they are bad in different ways. One is a center-left coalition that communicates in the language of corporatized social justice platitudes while doing little to change the material conditions of the working people it purports to represent. The other is, frankly, as of this publication in December 2024, dominated by an openly fascist leader dedicated to the corrupt enrichment of himself and his billionaire backers at the cost of a livable biosphere, any semblance of the rule of law, and the very idea of representative democracy. But, as Walter Shoback put it in The Big Lebowski, at least it’s an ethos. Honestly, I have more respect for the fascists than for the people who believe they are enlightened for having what they think is a non-partisan position.
[3] The penguins might not have been penguins. I later learned from an Argentine woman vacationing at the Antarctica that penguins don’t come to the channel in June. She told me that I had instead seen a different kind of black and white bird. While I know the internet could confirm or deny this, I prefer to believe that I had seen a waddle (as opposed to a raft) of penguins hundreds strong.