El Mundo es un Pañuelo

     There is nothing like waking up blurry-eyed from the dreamlike state of a good book to find yourself surrounded by even more books in the renovated theater of El Ateneo. 

El Ateneo

    I wandered in on a lazy Sunday and lucked out with a leather chair on the third floor balcony overlooking rows and rows of books and the cafe that rests on the center stage. I opened Water for the Elephants and left the world of Buenos Aires for a magical two hours as I delved into the circus. Eventually, the novel came to an end and I wandered the rows of books as my sleepiness burned off. I have been trying to make a Bucket List for my time here so I browsed a slim book on Buenos Aires taking note of the famous cafes and tango bars. So far some tasks on the list include attending a Polo Match, cheering emotionally at a soccer game, and learning how to tango. The latter is a bit iffy, it seems that most people, me included, come here with idea that everyone in Argentina knows how to tango; I think I have met two people from here who have actually semi mastered the dance steps. 

     Before drifting home I ended up buying a Spanish Spanish dictionary, I figure I will learn more words that way? Hopefully? As far as the improvement of my Castellano goes, I feel like I have hit a bit of a plateau. I have learned a lot of the everyday slang and the colloquial phrases and apart from the game of Pictionary we played yesterday with the guys, the pages in my vocabulary notebook have not been filling up as rapidly as I would like. However, now that classes have actually commenced, the unfamiliar words have started to trickle in; I have no doubt that the flooding will begin momentarily. 

     With my fellow students from the US gone on grand adventures to the unknown for the long weekend, I walked home expecting a relaxing (which was starting to turn into boring) evening, when I got a message from Jazmín asking if I wanted to come over for dinner. Within ten minutes I was on the bus headed to her homey apartment for some delicious Milanesa (breaded meat) followed by a pajama party sleepover, which included some scrumpcious chocolate pudding and the highly recommended Argentinean movie Nueve Reinas.

Pajama Party

   Monday meant class and after a delicious breakfast, and lunch, made once again by chef Jazmín, I was off to European Art History which I am afraid to say was rather dull. The professor was as animated as the two dimensional prehistoric stick figures he was lecturing about. The literature concentration that I am enrolled in allows room for two other classes in any field, and I have ended up with art history and Argentinian History. The History professor is a kick, he lectures without notes and meanders with a focus that often leads to insightful tangents. Today as he moved from behind his desk to then sit on it, he enlightened us on the time that he did the same in front of 80 students and it toppled over and laid him on his back, his legs sticking straight up in the air and his dress pants scrunched by gravity revealing his sock covered ankles.

Yesterday I sat captivated by another professor in my Argentinean Literature class. He is an author of sorts, and guided us through poems after giving us dating advice while in Argentina which included for the girls, that we not break any Argentinean hearts, and for the boys not to get theirs broken. I am not usually one who jumps in joy for poesy, but the way he toured the lines was great fun. First off he read through the poem, then asked that we, a group of foreigners from abroad programs from around the globe, ask him the definition of any and all words we did not know, the picture translation of which he then drew on the chalk board. Turns out he is quite the artist. His images erased the fuzzy world that my mind had created and introduced a completely new paradigm.

     Also, I nearly left out one of the best parts of that class. Before reading through the texts, and just before he started talking about the modernization of Buenos Aires and how in a big city there is an element of anonymity because one can walk the streets and not run into anyone familiar etc., in walks Jack Casey, a friend from my first year at Boston College. I hadn't seen him since I ran into him in the dinning hall when I visited last spring. I sat still in my chair for a second as my mind processed what exactly was going on. Jack and I had History and Spanish together freshmen year, and now, a year and a half later in another hemisphere we would be colleagues once again. 

Small world. Or, as they say here: el mundo es un pañuelo.

(the world is a handkerchief).

They have rain in Buenos Aires.

     I have been asked a lot recently if they have this or that in Buenos Aires and for the most part all my responses have been yes. It reminds me quite a bit of the multiple people who I met in Boston who, after discovering that I was from OrYgon, asked me if we used covered wagons and if we had electricity. My response was that on Tuesdays and Thursdays I rode my pig to school, the other days we "carpooled" in the covered wagon. I haven't seen too many covered wagons, but they do have a brilliantly laid out public transportation and one heck of a lot of traffic, which they call transito. It's is actually pretty bad depending on the time of day, and when taking the bus sometimes it makes more sense just to get off and walk. The Subte or Subway here is quick and efficient and often packed like sardines, but keep a hand on your bag and it is the fastest mode of transportation around the city. Apart from the occasional being packed like a fish, the Subte can also be sweltering hot. A few days ago I walked outside after class and was pelted by cold air now that the weather is changing, walked across the street and down the stairs of the D line. I left the darkness of the night and was completely engulfed by the light of the underground, I felt as if every step brought be closer to Inferno as a wind tunnel of heat pulsed out of the Subte. Lucky for me, my house is only two stops away.

Random picture that I didn´t write about in this blog. St. Patrick´s Day, which they have only been celebrating here for six years, was out of control, so Sarah, fom the program, and I decided to duck into a "calmer" bar and chat with some Spaniards we met. I had forgotten what Spanish without all the slang and accent really sounds like, it was actually quite refreshing to hear.

     

     I have not yet been asked if they have rain, but I can confirm by looking out the window behind me as I sit in the living room sipping coffee, that they do indeed have this phenomenon called rain. They treat it differently here than in Portland, and for all you web footed Oregonians out there, you may have also been surprised, as I was today, by how many people use umbrellas here. At home when I look out the window (I don't know why I even bother to look) and see that once again it is raining, I grab my Northface shell and walk out the door. I did that today and no doubt marked myself as someone not from here as I continued calmly in the misty rain while my fellow commuters walked briskly under the shelter of their umbrellas. It does make a lot more sense to give in and buy an umbrella...we will see how long my Oregon pride lasts.

    Speaking of Oregon pride, one of my favorite bands, Pink Martini came to Buenos Aires last Saturday to play in the Fall Music Festival at the Buenos Aires Lawn Tennis Club and of course I had to go. Kevin Johansen, who was actually born in Alaska but has lived here for most of his life opened for them and got the crowd warmed up. Once again, like at La Bomba de Tiempo it was hard not to move, and I have decided that Argentineans like to dance; they like to dance and are always looking for a good time. Actually, I don't think that they even have to look, or even try, they can just naturally postpone stress and planning, and can relax and let loose. That is the general feeling I get anyway.

Kevin Johansen

     Lena, who is also from Alaska, graciously tagged along and got a good laugh out of me singing along to every song they played. We had arrived early and were in general seating, so by the time Pink Martini started playing we were located dead center about five people away from the stage. I think China Forbes must have thought I was some crazy fan of theirs because a.) we definitely, at multiple points in the show, watched each other sing, and b.) most of their songs are in different languages so I probably looked hideous as I tried to pronounce Turkish, French, Japanese, etc. Also, I have now decided, after reflecting on all the concerts I have been to, that it is worth it to either pay for the good seats up close, or if general seating is an option, go for it and get there early. The concert experience isn't even comparable when you can see the performer's eyes and the expressions on their faces without needing a pair of hawkeyed binoculars. The concert was a great taste of home, I felt like I was in my living room, but instead of preparing to sit down and relax with some wine and cheese by the fireplace, my night was just starting.

Pink Martini

    We exited the concert having no idea how to get to our next destination. Typical. We had options of a train bus combination, the bus, or a taxi. We settled on the latter which took us directly to the birthday gathering of Julian, one of the Villa Gesell crew. We enjoyed ourselves as we chatted with all of his friends. It eventually turned into more of me and Lena sitting on a bench at the table while the semi circle of friends focused intently on every word that left our mouths as we answered their questions about the US, how we liked Argentina, where we were living, how one can acquire a visa to study at Berklee College of Music, etc. Eventually after everyone had left, the eight of us who had gone camping to Gualeguaychu, headed out of the city to Alan's country home. It was so nice to escape the craziness of this jungle of cement and actually be able to fall asleep to the frog orchestra at night and wake up to the birds in the morning.  We played some quality four on four soccer, or as they say here, and I think makes so much more sense because you actually do use your feet, futbol. The team I was on lost, but the mosquitoes once again kept me distracted from the defeat, I have a few more bites to show off. 

    Great company, fantastic food, open country, and moving music made for yet again, a fantastic weekend in la Argentina.

Time to Rally for La Bomba de Tiempo

         Before this last Monday I had ever gone out on the first day of the week, especially with a looming 7:45am class the next morning, but La Bomba de Tiempo aka "The Time Bomb" was well worth it. Exhausted from a day full of classes, (I am in the process of trying out about 15 classes to then choose two, it was to choose four but as you will see, that plan has also changed) the last thing I wanted to do was get thrown around in a mosh pit while my ear drums took a beating at a drum concert, in fact I was about to lie down for a nap when I got the text to rally. And rally I did.

     I met up with Lena and two other girls from the study abroad program outside of the old rehabbed factory and as we waited in line at least 10 street vendors approached us hoping to sell us brownies, although these were not mom's ordinary homemade brownies if you catch my drift. We entered, and since it is not common to arrive anywhere on time, we walked a few rows from the front. Have you ever gone to a concert and midway through thought, "man I feel bad for the people all squished in the crowd near the front who are getting thrown back and forth like blueberries in a blender?" Yeah, that was us. It was like trying to stay upright on a boat on the high seas after someone had hit the fast forward button... if that makes any sense. It was crazy until we managed to break through the thin layer of people in front of us and hold on to the metal fence that prohibited us from climbing onstage and dancing with the maestro. From the front row we left the craziness behind us as we got an untainted view of the sixteen dancing musicians. It was hard to stop moving, not because of the sea of people, but because the music had taken over, it was wild. So wild that I came home from class the next day and crashed for 4 hours.

La Bomba de Tiempo

     Speaking of class, and yes, I am studying abroad, it has been an adventure. I am in the middle of working down a list of 20 courses that I have chosen that are at 4 different Universities between 7 different buildings spread out all over the city. Originally I was supposed to choose three or four, but today I jumped ship and switched to the Literature concentration organized by my program (IFSA Butler)which leaves me with room for one or two other classes after the set schedule of Argentinean Literature and Fiction writing. With that said, I still have absolutely no idea what I am taking... once again, I am practicing the art of living day by day. Yesterday I went to an Art and Design class at the Catholic University of Argentina, (UCA) which went from 7:45am to 1:00pm with two ten minute breaks in between. It was a first year course and after the first break we were instructed to make a collage to turn in within the hour. Earlier that morning I had trouble finding the room number because I had to search for the department in one of the three buildings at UCA in order to find the room, and walked in more than a few minutes late. It had not been my intention of arrive tardy on the first day of class, but my attempt at a sly entry did give students time to study me up and down enough that on the break while I was searching for yogurt in the cafeteria, one of them approached me and we started chatting. Her name has escaped me but she too was an exchange student, from Colombia, and boy had I forgotten what Spanish without the crazy Argentinean accent nor the overuse of slang sounded like. 
     We returned to class to find an assignment written on the board: we had the next hour to create a collage that represented ourselves. We looked at each other with puzzled faces as all the other students began rummaging in their bags for newspapers, magazines, scissors, glue, and the specified sized paper. How on earth did they know to bring that to the first day of class? And what better way to make friends than to sit on the floor surrounded by scraps of paper while you ask if you can't borrow scissors, or glue, or a magazine? The fact that I had absolutely no material was an instant ice breaker and a group of four of us sat and chatted while we handed around the scissors. At the end of the hour we turned the attempts at art in and were released for another break before the technical part of the class started. We returned to find the definitions of basic shapes and drawing terms such as line, plane, volume, etc. written on the board and my eyes instantly glazed over, I had no idea how I would stand another hour and a half of this and I couldn't imagine coming to this class everyweek. I really enjoy art and anything creative, but I decided then and there that this wasn't going to cut it, so I tried to figure out how I could possible duck out early and make it to another class that I had planned to miss, without being rude. I wrote a note and passed it to my Colombian friend, she had no idea. And then, lo and behold the cage door creaked open: the professor stopped to pass out some packets, it was then or never. I grabbed my stuff, attempted to quietly say thank you and that I had to go. All she said was, "Chau, chau," and I was off. I felt like zebra that had just escaped from the zoo and was on its way to a grammar class.

   On top of those individual class experiences, the next two weeks are filled with IFSA's mandatory grammar classes. Our professor Darío, however, makes it well worth it. His Italian fluctuation in tone as he uses his hands to speak keeps us well engaged, and he often strays from the lesson plan, which we all, he included, think is rather pavo, direct translation: turkey, colloquial translation: something silly/worthless. Despite the repetitive worksheets, classes are comprised more of us asking him questions about the Argentinean culture and colloquial phrases or terms and him correcting and explaining his alterations to our Spanish as we speak. The sun brings another one of those classes with it when it rises tomorrow.

Eduardo Catalano's Floralis Generica

Other eventful experiences this past week:

   I had decided to give up Dulce de Leche  and Alfajores for Lent. I wouldn't say that I am very religious, nor Catholic, but I usually like to take the challenge and stick with it... but this year's commitment fell to shambles, rapidly. My collapse wasn't out of a lack of ability but an excess of stupidity. How could I go live in another country for six months and deprive myself of two delicacies/parts of the culture that do not exist in the United States? Pure ludicrous. That foolishness ended when Jazmín, the Argentinean who I met on that crazy crazy day at the Perito Moreno Glacier, and I met up for coffee at a little cafe called, "Como en Casa." The moment I walked in I knew it was game over, it was like the Papa Haydns of Buenos Aires. Chocolate cake with Dulce de Leche, chocolate mousse, lemon tart, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. There was no way I was going to refuse delicious desserts, especially if we were going to each order one and swap.

     The cakes were divine, as was the coffee, and we talked for a good two and a half hours. I felt like I was sitting down with someone I had known my entire life, not someone who I had only just met a few weeks before. After witnessing my chaotic adventure at Perito Moreno and hearing about my spontaneous weekend in Gualeguaychu, she was intrigued with my lack of organization. We plan to go adventuring soon, perhaps to Tigre, a delta north of Buenos Aires.

   

    After coffee I headed home to change and meet up once again with two of the guys from Villa Gesell. We decided on billiards for the evening and ended up playing five games. Out of those five games, Lena and Javier managed to win one. All of those games that my cousins and I used to play at the ranch until the pool table turned into western art display must have paid off. Either that, or I probably shouldn't forget that Allan is a very good pool player. Every time that he pointed to the exact spot that I needed to hit, the ball went in, ever time.

     I think bowling might be up next on the competitive agenda...

Ganadores.

    Also, my crazy life in Buenos Aires has left me in a bit of a self absorbed bubble. Happy Aniversary Mom and Dad! 23 years and going strong. Oh and Grandma, Feliz Cumpleaños!!!! I send my love from Argentina. 

"Oh Norah Jones...it seems that the tides have changed"

After one heck of a Saturday, the soothing music of Norah Jones seeped out of a lazy corner restaurant in the little town of Gualeguaychu and initiated a new wave of optimism. 

     Our bus left BsAs at 9:15 pm Friday evening and was scheduled to arrive in Gualeguaychu, a small Argentinian city three hours North of Buenos Aires around 1 am. Known for its Carnaval celebrations, this was the busiest weekend of the year for Gualeguay. So busy that all the hotels and hostels had been fully booked months in advance and any email responses we received suggested that we were crazy for even asking if they had space. That left camping as our only option, so Friday before we left the busy city we hunted down a nice little green tent for two. Until Friday, all of our bus journeys had gone smoothly. About an hour before our destination the bus encountered "mechanical problems" and we were forced to wait for a replacement. Somewhere between that bus stop in the middle of nowhere and Gualeguaychu, I lost/misplaced/got robbed of my phone. It was in my pocket when I fell asleep but was nowhere to be found when we got into the van that was going to take us to the yet to be determined place to stay. There we were, fresh off the replacement bus, tent in hand, waiting in line for a taxi that we had no idea what we would tell was our destination during the busiest weekend of the year. Always an adventure when traveling with Emily and Lena. I look at the situation as our attempt to embrace the Argentinian culture of not being able to plan ahead as planning is not an option in most cases. For example, I register for classes at the University of Buenos Aires tomorrow and the class schedule is still MIA.

     Turns out we weren't the only ones without a set plan, there was a whole van of us at least. The coordinator, who looked completely un-phased by the fact that it was three in the morning, told us that our only option was Camping Municipal which meant that we would not have access to a pool...pity. At that point, a pool was the last thing on my mind. He suggested that we call to make sure there was space, and that is when I realized that my phone was not where I had left it. I ran back to the terminal but the bus was gone, I checked the bathroom where the two women who sell toilet paper were passed out asleep, no luck. I hustled to the bus company's window and the man gave me a phone number to call but it was really was more like my phone's makeshift death certificate and I accepted then and there that it was gone. It had served a great month and a half, that loyal black brick that had yet to run out of its precious pre-paid minutes. Tomorrow I hope to find its replacement. If I am not careful I might start to challenge my mom's record of most phones lost/damaged. Here in Argentina we hang dry clothes, so the dryer is not a threat, however, toilets, washing machines, and water bottles, remain looming hazards. 

     From the back seat of the white van, we had to tell the driver at least four times where we were headed, and every time he asked, I lost confidence that the campsite even existed. With four out of ten left in the van, we reached the campsite, and lucky for us, they had space. We handed over 20 pesos each, an equivalence of $10 total to stay the night, and were instructed to follow Marcos, whose tight black shirt with the word "Security" printed on the front made him the campsite's trusty security guard. He may not have known a lick about defense, but he put a full effort in helping us set up our tent. As loud music pumped out of various car stereos at 4:15 in the morning, we hit they hay, or in this case, the ground. Sleep, if any, didn't last long and at ten in the morning the boys in the tent next to us decided to blast their stereo with songs of the ever repetitive regetone. We had planned to meet up and camp with our friends from Buenos Aires who we met in Villa Gesell later that evening, but since we hadn't heard anything from them, and there was no hope for sleep, we decided to pack up camp and head to the public beach. This plan lasted two minutes, per usual, as it was quickly interrupted by the boys in the tent next door who were either intrigued that we were packing up so soon, or our accents in Spanish when we replied that we didn't have a lighter because we didn't smoke gave us away as foreigners.

      In no way am I suggesting that being discovered as an extranjero, or foreigner, is a bad situation to be in. Sure, if you walk down a dark street in bright colors and your tourist hat and white cotton socks midway up your calf as you speak loudly in English with camera in hand and your passport or wallet imprinted in your back pocket, that identification as extranjero may not lead to a favorable series of events. However, for the most part, being from another place opens up a lot of opportunities to get to know Argentinians as they are just as curious about our culture as I am of theirs: fascinated. In fact, the guys from Villa Gesell love to make fun of me as my eyes light up every time I discover something new and captivating. Apparently, I have a very expressive face at times. Anyway, the boys in the tent next door were from Cordoba, a region North of BsAs that is known for its distinct accent and its consumption of the very herby beer-like Italian drink called Fernet. I tried it, managed to swallow it, survived it, but prefer other delicious Argentine consumables.

The Cordobezes wasted no time and invited us to join them for Asado, delicious meat cooked on the parilla, or barbeque. With still no word from the Villa Gesell crowd we sat down at the picnic table and talked culture, politics, history, and other topics.  I am not one who understands politics in general and I thought that of the US was confusing, until of course I tried to understand the political scene of this South American country. From what I understand, Peronismo that evolved during the presidency of Juan Perón is a confusing term that actually functions/functioned as a general word for opposing parties. Peronismo of the left and the right weren't exactly chums, but they both supported Peron, therefore there exist Peronistos of the left and right. Some say it still exists, others feel that the air has changed into Kirchonismo with the party of the current president Cristina Kirchner who ran on a ticket with Julio Cobos, a Vice President of the oposing party and with whom she is now not on speaking terms because he supports the soy bean growing countryside and opposes her desire to increase taxes. Woah, long sentence. A few last notes, Cristina is the wife of Néstor Kirchner who was president in 2003, and who passed away last year. Her approval rating plummeted when she raised taxes for the farmers, spiked after her husband died, and now, well, October means election time and I think there are a lot of people who are more than happy to say bye bye. Also, forget two political parties, Argentina has more than 5. 

     Back to food. The juicy meat was accompanied by a delicious tomato salad, French bread, and ugh, Fernet. After a filling meal and a lack of sleep, my ideal plan would have been to lay out at the public beach along the calm river and relax in the sun, ha! Sweet dreams. The boys had two extra tickets to a private beach that looked like it was straight out of an MTV Spring Break show. Crowds covered the sand in front of a stage playing once again, regetone, teenagers hid the sand on the beach itself and either splashed nonstop in the river while consuming large plastic bottles of wine, or jumped in all directions subsequently spilling said wine all over the place. Here they would call it a grand joda or fiesta, we might call it, well, an alliteration with the second word being "show." After about an hour, Lena and I decided that it wasn't for us and walked back to the campsite, grabbed our stuff, and jumped on the bus headed into el centro without any idea where we would get off.  "Oh look, there is a restaurant with outdoor seating, let's get off here." Great plan except the restaurant was not serving food. The owner guided us in the direction of an air-conditioned gas station with sandwiches, alfajores, and Gatorade: the perfect mix when I was as hungry and thirsty as I was. We sat there for a while as collected ourselves a bit and decided we should probably find internet to fill out the travel form that we were supposed to already have filled out and to let my parents know that I was still alive since I no longer had a phone. Also, side note number...I can't keep track: In most cases, if someone finds a phone they will keep it for themselves. In some cases, they will search the phone for the perfect personal number to call and demand ransom for the phone's owner whose name etc. they most likely do not know. So, if you happen to get a call, ask a few questions before you enter Superman mode. 

      On the way to find an Internet cafe, we got a text from the boys from Buenos Aires, they were on their way. The Internet we found was extremely cheap. The bakery we ran into had delicious and more than reasonably priced desserts. We passed the restaurant with the calming music of Norah Jones with sweets of Dulce de Leche in hand, and a new found energy; the tides had indeed changed.

          

      The rest of the weekend was a grand joda, in this case not a grand mess, but a great time. Lena and I experienced Carnaval celebrations, I don't think I have ever seen so many nearly naked men and women dancing around with feathers and glitter ect. Basically all it was was a long street with stadium seating on both sides and a parade that went down the middle. It was like the Portland Rose parade with bleachers and less clothing. Also, if you ever go to Gualeguaychu for Carnaval (and maybe this applies to all Carnaval celebrations) get your tickets early and pay the extra money to be down closer to the action. It is worth the dough because when you are sitting way up near the last row because everything else was sold out, it is rather disengaging.  

Carnaval

You get sprayed with foam or silly string if you are not wearing some form of Carnaval decor

Up close and personal

            We made it back to the new campsite that the boys with the car had found, which was at least half and hour out of town, around two thirty, then ate sandwiches in the dark with everyone and crashed. The next day was beach time, relaxing beach time with Mate instead of Fernet. There were eight of us this time so we used two mates instead of one, one straight and bitter and the other induced with sugar. To put some names to these "Boys from Buenos Aires," the original three are Juan Manuel, who recently graduated school with a degree in physical education, Javier, the oldest at 23 who works for the family business, and Alan, who goes by Pollo and takes classes at the University of Buenos Aires in economics and business. On Carnaval weekend Juan Manuel's girlfriend joined us as well as two from the boys' grade school days who have been dating for some time: Juan and Flor.

            We had a day full of the warm, refreshing, and shallow river water, also known as plenty of time to roast and turn into sundried tomatoes. Oops. Later that evening we had hamburgers on the parilla which Javier prepared for us all. It is customary here that the men do the barbequeing while the women prepare the salads. I remember the feast we had in Villa Gesell when the three boys cooked for 17 people. That is something that I really cherish about the Argentinian culture, it is communal. They share mate, eat Asado (meat) together, drink together; they make a point to include everyone and anyone, even if they have just met you. Estadounidenses are known to be cold and standoffish and I can see why, for the most part we all keep to ourselves and our social groups, we have our lists of invitees and we stick to them. Most of the time, here in Argentina the boundaries blur and that brick wall between individuals comes tumbling down. Take for example the proper greeting here, trade in the firm handshake and look in the eye for a cheek to cheek kiss on the face. This applies to all interactions, even if you are meeting someone for the first time, kiss on the cheek, female to male, kiss on the cheek, male to male kiss on the cheek. It doesn't matter who you are, you kiss.

Mate on the beach

  To wrap up this long tale, we ate hamburgers and talked, then walked to the beach, nearly couldn't pay attention to where we were walking because the stars were too distracting. We made a campfire and enjoyed some refreshments and even managed to sneak some hours of sleep in before having to catch a van to the bus terminal at 6:30 am. The night before, Lena and I had signed up for the ride into town and the group working  with the company said that they would keep an eye out for us the next morning...all we encountered that morning were crickets and disheveled people returning from Carnaval. Since being here I have come to accept that one way or another things just work out, and sure enough two boys who were signed up for the same van walked up a little confused as to where they were supposed to be, and lucky for us, one of their friends who was up the road called them and said that the van was waiting around the corner. We loaded our stuff and bounced in our seats as the van avoided potholes lit up by the third immaculate sunrise I have seen this trip. 

Lena + Carnaval

Buenos Aires week two...at this point is it almost week three

For a country full of such skinny people, Argentina has two of the world's widest. The widest avenue, el Avenida 9 de Julio which is an adventure to cross, and Rio del Plata, the river that separates Argentina and Uruguay and takes an hour and a half to traverse by boat.

On Sunday I ventured across the famous avenue in hopes of finding the San Telmo antique market. After emerging from the depths of the Subway aka Subte, I knew that I had a fifty percent chance to choosing the correct direction but of course I ended up walking the wrong way until I overheard the girl a few steps in front of me ask an older woman if she was headed in the direction of los artesanos. I stopped to listen as we both discovered that we were indeed headed in the opposite direction so we turned ourselves around and were off.

Turns out, she too was a tourist, but a tourist within her own country. She was from Patagonia and en route to the antique/artisan market to meet up with a friend who is studying here in BsAs. Her name was Mari Jo, a shorter version of her full name. Her head full of curly Greek locks complemented her petite frame of the Argentinian and her conversation made the walk on the uneven pavement enjoyable as we talked about the beautiful landscapes of Patagonia and my home state of Oregon.

We reached the shaded market finally after starting to feel the effects of the blazing sun when her friend called her. They coordinated where to meet and I looked around to see which path of old collectibles caught my eye, when she invited me join them. We walked from booth to booth trying on old pairs of glasses, listening to a radio from 1920 that still manages to function, and seeing our eyes widen in the reflection of antique mirrors as we attempted to distinguish the different pieces of vintage jewelry. We turned the corner after a booth full of glass bottles that have now been replaced by plastic, and other "unnecessary junk", emphasis on the J as we say in our family, to find (finally!) an older couple dancing the tango in the middle of the intersection. It is a seductive dance filled with passion, which despite the cooking sun and the sweat dripping down the dancer's faces did not lose its integrity. As long as you have two, it all works out.

After getting our fill of romance, we ended up perusing the works of the artisans on the streets which stretched for miles until we found a cafe for lunch. I originally thought that I only had until 2:30 to eat since I was going to join some locals in their usual game of Sunday afternoon Ultimate Frisbee, but I of course am still adjusting to the 24 hour clock which actually meant to tell me that I had until 4:30. We enjoyed a hamburger and charlabamos or chatted for quite a while. I remember at one point asking myself how the heck I managed to randomly get myself a lunch date with two Argentinean girls my age and speak only in Spanish about life, love, school, food..it was dreamlike. On the subject of food, I must say I quite enjoy the food here. While I am still trying to figure out how the Argentineans party all night long, I am also studying how on earth the girls are so skinny when there are so many delicious and accessible while not so healthy foods. There is no way one can eat doughy empanadas filled with delicious cheese and meat, toast with Dulce de Leche, (a cooked condensed milk to a caramel consistency which is spread on everything), and alfajores, (imagine two scrumptious cookies with Dulce de Leche in between them and then covered in all kinds of chocolate) and still be stick thin. I guess they just have the self control that I lack and refrain from eating them? I am thinking that gym membership will be in order, especially with at the piropos or catcalls one gets when out running. Piropos are common here, most girls have gotten used to the honks and catcalls while walking down the street. Hacha, the grandmother of the family I live with asked me today if I liked piropos. My instant response was no, but then she asked me why not and explained that at her ripe age of 89 she no longer gets piropos. For her, to get them is quite a compliment. I guess she makes sense.

I have been here a little over a week now and have yet to describe my family or what the heck I have been up to. It's all quite simple really, I have been sitting in different rooms for the past week from 9am to 7:30pm in orientation sometimes with eyes wide open in fascination and other times loosing focus on the speaker because I am trying to keep them open. Coffee has become a good friend and it is not uncommon to see people getting an afternoon coffee. This coffee is not to go, that would be a disgrace (in my humble opinion) and would instantly identify you as someone from the United States. Also, side note number 375: it is wise to avoid using the term "American" while, well, anytime you are outside the US and in the Americas. The Argentineans, like everyone else who lives in North and South America, are also Americans, so it is better to say Estadounidense which would translate to something like "Unitedstatesian" if that makes any sense.

Now back to coffee. Coffee, like Mate, is something that is not, for the most part, rushed. One can find coffee to go, but generally speaking, in order to get the caffeine fix without the mateine of Mate, it also requires some socializing. Last week, Amber, a friend who spent last semester in Nicaragua and who also avoids speaking English until absolutely necessary, and I discovered a little cafe tucked in the side of an apartment building. We quickly got to know the owner who now greets us by name as we enter for our afternoon fix. He doesn't even have to ask what we would like, he knows that I like coffee with milk while she runs off of a Cortada, which looks like it is basically a shot of coffee.

The US Embassy gave a presentation yesterday. I don't think they scared us too much. Basically they said to be aware of our surroundings, not to fall for the mustard on the bag/coat trick, and not to land ourselves in jail because they can't do anything about it. The mustard trick is still going strong after 10 plus years. This is how it works, let's say you are a backpacker and you have just stepped of the bus or plane (can you say target?), you are loaded down with your big backpacking backpack on your back and a smaller one on your front in which you have most likely put you passport, money, computer, ect. As you walk by, someone squirts mustard, mayonnaise, pickle juice, something foul, on the back of the big backpack without you noticing and then points it out to you and tries to help you wipe it off. You are concerned about the smell and the fact that this liquid is urgent enough that a complete stranger is wiping it off of you, so you take your small backpack off in order to take the big one off and check the liquid scene, but oh wait, you just put down that small backpack with EVERYTHING in it on the ground, might as well say happy trails to it now, because it is about to be gone. Unless of course you are the extremely lucky Canadian we met who made a big enough commotion that the conman dropped her bag and ran. Moral of the story, be aware, always.

My eyes are drooping and I might as well sleep before I leave for Carnaval celebrations in the little city of Gualeguaychu. Also, the mosquitos are attempting to add some additions to the 30+ bites I already have. I swear my blood must be made of Dulce de Leche...

Until next time.

My first manifestación, and since the people of BsAs are very politically active, I am bound to see more.