Hi, Reality? Its getting cold...have you considered hibernating?

     The last few weeks have been a blur of class, papers, and exams, and now that yesterday marked by two-week countdown in Buenos Aires, I am desperately searching for the slow motion button.

Its a bitter-sweet feeling. When I arrived in Argentina there was a distinct difference between my life in the US and my life here. Buenos Aires as a city is the polar opposite of Walla Walla or Portland, English is not my primary language, I don't drive, I take the bus or subtes, and rarely can I see the sunset. But this world that was at first the foreign other is now the normal lived experience. I have friends, family, responsibilities, a routine, homework, and all the sentiments that come along with them. The label Argentinean friends that I used subconsciously when I first arrived has completely dissolved and they are just like any other, people who have impacted my life and who I will never forget. Despite our geographical differences, I plan to keep in touch.

Barrio Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires

    My host family also has become genuinely my family. Don't get me wrong in any way, shape, or form, I love my family in the US, but during my time in Buenos Aires I have felt 100% like part of the Caillon family. Also, I realize that I never did elaborate much on the people who I interact with on a daily basis. In two sentences, I live with a host mother, two siblings who are both 24, and a grandmother who came to Argentina from Poland in 1948. I live in an apartment a block away from any bus I need to take, a major subte stop, a grocery store, the store to buy minutes for my phone, and a spiffy gym. 

Recent random updates/adventures/ tidbits:

-I have become addicted to something that was once illegal in Argentina...the Tango. With a lack of sports in my life here in Buenos Aires, the Tango has become my latest challenge that I have set out to tackle. An underground milonga (Tango bar) called La Viruta has become my go to place. While most students who study abroad in Buenos Aires head for the boliches or dance clubs (we're talking reggetone/cumbia/America's Top 40 songs) on a Friday night, you can find me at La Viruta. 29 pesos covers any and all dance classes that you take for the night which could mean that at 7:00pm on a Saturday you walk in for a Milonga (faster version of the Tango) class, at 9:00pm you jump into a Rock class, and at 10:30 you can join me in a Tango class followed by open dance often to live music, all for U$S 7. There are classes of all levels. At the moment I am hanging out with the intermediates and am learning how to follow the different leads. Since the Argentinean Tango is completely improvised the man needs to mark his leads decisively and the woman then needs to know how to react.  A good partner can make any woman look like she has danced for ages and man is it fun...a not so practiced lead on the other hand looks something like trying to navigate a map in a town with no street signs.

-Last weekend Lena and I headed to Colonia and Punta del Este Uruguay. As it is winter, there were not too many people out and about, but we appeased our body's hunger for  Vitamin D as we walked along the beach/boardwalk and took in for the first time in a long time, fresh ocean air. After walking along the beach we headed to Casapueblo, a house/museum/hotel built along the water by Uruguayan artist Carlos Páez Vilaró and after treating our eyes to artistic bliss, we spoiled our taste buds with a cappuchinos on the deck above the water.

Casapueblo

Punta del Este

- Pick-up line of the month:

Young Argentinean: "Excuse me, do you have a dictionary?"

Young blue eyed girl from the US studying in Argentina for six months: "Um, no...??"

Young Argentinean: "Because you eyes have left me without words."

Guys, do with this one what you will...

T minus 9 days in Buenos Aires. Sleep is for the plane ride home, for now its time to aprovecha la vida! (Take advantage of what life has to offer!) 

Casapueblo

A Thrusday in the Life of Me.

     My phone twinkles its wind chime alarm and my hand hits it like a sledgehammer as I roll over and with blurry eyes attempt to make out the Spanish snooze button. Half an hour later it sounds again, then two minutes after that. I pull myself out of bed and trudge on into the kitchen, slip a piece of bread in the toaster, grab a yogurt out of the fridge and head back to my room to concoct a new combination of the same old clothes. I decide on something that probably involves boots and throw my notebooks, electronic dictionary, Guía T (bus map of Buenos Aires), phone, and wallet in by gray bag. I throw it over my shoulder as I grab my keys and head out the apartment door. I call the elevator and hit the timed switch for the hall light. The car jolts to a stop and I slide open the metal grate and the solid sliding door with a clatter, enter, and close them both behind me. For five floors I have no option but to inspect my appearance in the mirrors that cover all three solid walls of the elevator. Once again I slide open and close the doors, walk down the hall, insert and turn my flat golden key to the right, haul open the heavy door, and take a breath of the morning air of Buenos Aires. As I walk down the block to the right, I sift through the change in the key chain’s leather pouch until I find 1.25 worth of monedas. I stick the combination of metal in my right jean pocket and look up to see a glance of my number 29 bus jog down the street perpendicular to me. La *@#$ #@*$! As I near the corner, the smell of freshly baked media lunas (croissants but fluffier) over stimulates my olfactory senses, but my dreams of warm dough dissolve as I respond to Julian's (the doorman of the apartment building next to the bakery), "Hola Emi, ¿cómo andás?"

             I turn the corner and pass the huge random statue of Homer Simpson before crossing the street. I get to the end of the next block, wait for the light to change, cross Santa Fe Ave., turn to the left, and avoid any dog doo until I reach the bus stop. My arm fishes for my book in my bag and I continue the reading that I need to finish before my 10:00 class as I wait. and wait... and wait until the 29 decides to pick up some passengers. I dig out the coins from my pocket, step on to the bus, and tell the driver my faire. The bus lurches forward and I insert and reinsert the monedas into the ticket machine until swallows the coins and spits out a little piece of carbon paper. I move towards the back until an available handle, seat, or space against the handicap wall opens up. 35-40 minutes later I disembark and walk three blocks to a three-hour Spanish Language and Grammar course after which I cruise to the corner Parilla (Argentinean BBQ) where I order a quick, juicy, and hot off the grill Vacio Chico (steak sandwich). The Asador literally removes the meat from the grill, slices off what becomes the contents of my sandwich, and hugs it with a delicious roll.

            I walk 15 minutes to the Subte, which I ride for 20 minutes until it drops me off right in front of my apartment building. I enter the apartment, find my bed, and crash until I leave for a story writing workshop from 6-9 after which I hustle home, grab my tango shoes, and head to La Viruta, an underground dance hall for a lesson. And that concludes a Thursday in the life of Me.