Twenty-three minutes ago I beat both my high score and that of the single friend who ranked above me points-wise on "Scramble," a ridiculously addicting Facebook game application to which my mother dearest introduced me via an online "Scramble Challenge" one insignificant Sunday evening. The game consists of unscrambling letters given to you at random in either a 4x4 or 5x5 square. You are to spell as many words of at least three letters' length as you can in the given three-minute time period. More points given for words with more letters, and all the letters in the word have to be attached.
As if not addicting enough owing to the game's sheer nature (fans of Scrabble, Boggle, and those who find themselves infuriated upon finding the "Word Games" section of complementary magazines on airplanes already completed, in permanent ink, before getting a chance to attempt them for themselves, will relate), Facebook's application has an added feature which allows you to see the high scores of all your fellow Scramble-addicted Facebook friends. As your score updates in real time, so do notifications alerting you as to which of your friends' high scores you have recently surpassed. This cursed and genius feature fuels my competitive nature, and alas, I have had my eyes long set on surpassing David Kuperstein, king of my "Facebook Friends' Highest Scores" hierarchy,'s high score of 161 points, and resultantly vowed not to quit playing Scramble until I had secured that position for myself.. Needless to say, tonight when the last seconds of the three-minute time period evaporated and I found myself with a high score of 163, effectively placing me as new Alpha of the Facebook Scramble Hierarchy after a month of almost nightly sessions, I felt elated. Victorious. Unstoppable.
And then I reminded myself I was playing Scramble. The name itself is nerdy and ugly, and when I say it out loud to myself (try it. Scramble. Scrraaaamble), I feel my pride assume the size and form of one of those shrunken, dried-up worms that litter the sidewalk after a rainy day. I reminded myself that I have a week (ONE WEEK) left in Buenos Aires, and asked myself what I was doing (other than taking advantage of the unusually strong Internet connection) on my computer, isolated in the dark kitchen, wasting away three-minute chunks of time with an online word game.
I decided to resolve my disappointment in myself by walking to the corner kiosk to buy a chocolate bar.
Turns out that the corner kiosk was closed (it was only 11:45pm, what are things in this city doing closed at such an early hour?), so I walked six extra blocks to the 24-hour kiosk on a busier street corner. During the ten-minute escapade, I was whistled at by two men on a street corner, eyed down for an uncomfortably long time by a man on an ice cream delivery moped, and told in Spanish by a little 12-year-old punk at the kiosk that I was the most beautiful woman in the world and would I like him to accompany me home? Luckily, it's not too difficult to pull off the "foreigner who doesn't understand Spanish" look, which I utilized, hard, at that moment, but Dear Lord. It never stops. And I'll remind my reading audience that these compliments and whistles and creeper stares are never founded in anything. Tonight, I was three hours post salsa dancing lesson, hair still frizzy and body not yet cleaned of layers of then dried sweat, and in the act of voraciously stuffing a chocolate bar in my face, yet the catcalls persisted. Perhaps they knew that I was a recentlycrowned Scramble champion.
A part of me will probably miss the attention, as undesirable as its producers may be, upon returning to UCLA, land of the severely overpopulated gorgeous girl breed. But for now, it sends shudders up my spine and makes me want to regurgitate and spit into the face of the catcallers whatever food item I most recently masticated and swallowed.
Prior to embarking on this journey I envisioned, as many do, meeting the love of my life overseas and calling home to Mom and Dad at the last minute and informing them that I would actually not be coming home for Christmas, sorry, but I wouldn't mind so much if you still shipped to me abroad whatever presents you bought me, because I've fallen in love with a tall, dark and handsome Argentine man who speaks to me only in Spanish and I don't understand half of what he says but it doesn't matter because we have such a profound connection and incredible chemistry that words don't matter, but nevertheless he is trying to learn English via the Rosetta Stone audio program he bought because he is planning on proposing to me in a year's time, probably while I'm in the middle of my shift busing tables on the second level of a local restaurant, and wants to impress me and my family and the entire neighborhood who has followed him on his quest to find me in the very the restaurant where I am working with his recently learned, adorably accented and jumbled English. And so what if that last part was stolen from Love Actually? Movies, albeit embellished, are based on real-life experiences, right??? Please???
In reality, the love life I had pre-imagined has been a complete and total failure. While I have been on a handful of dates while in Argentina, none of them amount to the fantasy I had carefully planned out in my head before coming. Perhaps that is why they tell you precisely not to plan out your life before you live it.
But as I count down my days left in this city, and effectively find myself filled with mounting nostalgia as I bid farewell to every store vendor, park bench, and uneven patch of sidewalk I have become very well acquainted with in the last 5 and 1/2 months, I am almost grateful for not having to say one more difficult goodbye (although, in my fantasy, a "goodbye" was not in the picture...it ended with a white dress and Brazilian honeymoon). I will be boarding a plane to the southernmost city in the world in exactly 7 days and 3 hours, and although I am excited to spend two weeks exploring the Argentine and Chilean Patagonia, I have become so attached to Buenos Aires and the thought of leaving kills me. I cannot help but wonder about what the return home will be like. Anxiety is mounting, and I am expecting reverse culture shock to hit me hard. My thoughts are a jumbled mess. But perhaps for this very reason, my nightly Scramble training has not been a complete waste of time. If I have proven my ability to derive coherent 3-letter-plus words from mixes of random letters, I surely will be able to apply this to real life and find some semblance of balance and continuity in my world that is about to experience a massive jumbling. Right?
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
What my textbooks didn't teach me
I think sitting in cafes has defined a good 85% of my experience in Buenos Aires. Classes officially ended a week ago today, and although "complete joke" defined the grand majority, they were somewhat mentality stimulating, and that is a feeling for which my brain still yearns now that the semester is over. Alas, I park myself in street-side cafes with a Spanish book (Twilight--as equally unbearable in Spanish as in English, but good for learning vocabulary and how to be overly-descriptive about unimportant details), my grammar book whose pages and already-completed exercises I still pore over and review, or whatever random publicity flier happened to make its way into my hands during the walk to the cafe, be it for a gym membership or organic restaurant featuring whole wheat (shocker! in this city) products. Anything and everything I will take and study to widen my vocabulary. I will read a sentence from whatever reading material I have in hand, commit it to memory, repeat it in my head twice, say it out loud three times, and try not to let the inquisitive and confused looks of other cafe-frequenters, who surely take me for a crazy, get to me.
Instead of taking off for Machu Picchu or Rio de Janeiro like the majority of my friends once classes ended, I decided to leave myself three weeks in Buenos Aires to further explore the city and focus on developing my Spanish. The original goal was to isolate myself from any other English speakers and immerse myself as much as possible in Spanish in a last-hurrah effort to master the language, but alas, I have been unable to stay true to this goal. I have no problems whatsoever doing activities independently- I am perfectly content sitting on a bus by myself, allowing the words of the conversation of two nearby elderly women to filter into my thoughts and translate themselves with the assistance of my mental Spanish dictionary (which still has many pages a-missing), or spending a night out with a group of Argentine friends whose first language is not my own, but whose company I can enjoy, although it kills me that I can not keep up with their humor or wit. However, at the end of the day, I need just an hour to share and relate stories with at least one other English-speaker (not all my friends have taken off for Machu Picchu), so that we can laugh and exchange sympathy and wonder about all the crazy joys and curiosities of being foreigners in a country of seemingly endless idiosyncrasies and cultural obscurities. We usually elect to do this over a cup of cafe con leche, in whatever cute corner cafe caught the attention of one of us earlier in the day.
Regardless of my betrayal of my personal goal of complete Spanish immersion (impossible considering the quantity of English-learning Spanish-speakers who try to impress you with their knowledge of your language, and also irrational considering how much fun I would be forgoing and positive attention not getting from, oh say, groups of incredibly gorgeous Italian men, who seem to so naturally flock to my group of physically-endowed group of girlfriends from California and thus to me as well), I have noticed remarkable developments in my comprehension of the language. It occurred to me tonight, as I was eating dinner with my host family, just how many different forms of communication, beyond that learned in the classroom at UCLA, I have been exposed to since being here. This realization hit me as my two host-sisters broke out into argument at the table over the cause of Heath Ledger's death, over which they espoused differing ideas. I surprised myself in my ability to:
a.) identify, in accordance with their altered tones of voices and selection of vocabulary, that the dinner conversation was quickly turning away from peaceful, ordinary talk about movies featuring species of especially attractive actors, into a heated sisterly debate regarding whose reason for Heath Ledger's sudden death was correct, and accordingly who reigned the supreme knower-of-star-related-factoids and resultantly smarter progeny;
b.) adjust my previous state as contributor of awkward, attempt-at-comic-relief laughter into silent, non-partial observer as the friendly banter became less friendly and, at one point, slightly violent;
c.) recognize insults such as, "Oh, so you suddenly think you're the queen of E! Weekly" and, "Why can't you recognize a joke? Lighten up" and then downright, "You're such a bitch."
That's when my other roommate from the US and I decided to make ourselves look busy and began clearing the table.
Later, from inside my bedroom, I heard my host-mom assume the role of mediator and call the girls to the kitchen to discuss what had earlier unfolded at the dinner table. Of course, I tip-toed to my closed bedroom door and pressed my ear eagerly against it as so to better hear the business that was not mine to hear, and was able to distinguish the defense statements made by each of the girls in raised voices, laden with too many inappropriate words to transcribe in this here blog entry considering my viewing audience. Hey Grams and Gramps!
We never went over the chapter on "dinner table arguments" in Spanish 1-5 at UCLA. We also apparently skipped over the units on "effectively deflecting and avoiding flirtation tactics of unappealing men in bars," and "deciphering the muffled and mumbled dialogue of your host-sister's inarticulate boyfriend." Songs, store transactions, telling jokes, ordering off menus, discipline/punishment, and eavesdropping were also apparently left out of the curriculum. This makes me wonder what, in fact, we actually learned in class, because the aforementioned items collectively constitute a huge percentage of daily life and survival. It is amazing how good at Spanish I thought I was prior to coming to Argentina, and how quickly and abruptly my perception of my own knowledge was changed upon first taking seat in the airport terminal among a crowd of Argentines destined for Buenos Aires so many months ago. I was in for a rude awakening. I have learned a lot, but am left with an even farther way to go. The two weeks I have left in the city before embarking on a two-week trip to the Patagonian South and subsequent trip up the Atlantic coast of the country will prove nowhere sufficient to master the amount of language I desire. But I have found a preoccupation and passion for something that I plan on carrying with me for the rest of my academic (and life-long) career long after I return home from Buenos Aires, and one which leaves me with a very good reason for continuing frequenting those beloved sidewalk cafes.
Instead of taking off for Machu Picchu or Rio de Janeiro like the majority of my friends once classes ended, I decided to leave myself three weeks in Buenos Aires to further explore the city and focus on developing my Spanish. The original goal was to isolate myself from any other English speakers and immerse myself as much as possible in Spanish in a last-hurrah effort to master the language, but alas, I have been unable to stay true to this goal. I have no problems whatsoever doing activities independently- I am perfectly content sitting on a bus by myself, allowing the words of the conversation of two nearby elderly women to filter into my thoughts and translate themselves with the assistance of my mental Spanish dictionary (which still has many pages a-missing), or spending a night out with a group of Argentine friends whose first language is not my own, but whose company I can enjoy, although it kills me that I can not keep up with their humor or wit. However, at the end of the day, I need just an hour to share and relate stories with at least one other English-speaker (not all my friends have taken off for Machu Picchu), so that we can laugh and exchange sympathy and wonder about all the crazy joys and curiosities of being foreigners in a country of seemingly endless idiosyncrasies and cultural obscurities. We usually elect to do this over a cup of cafe con leche, in whatever cute corner cafe caught the attention of one of us earlier in the day.
Regardless of my betrayal of my personal goal of complete Spanish immersion (impossible considering the quantity of English-learning Spanish-speakers who try to impress you with their knowledge of your language, and also irrational considering how much fun I would be forgoing and positive attention not getting from, oh say, groups of incredibly gorgeous Italian men, who seem to so naturally flock to my group of physically-endowed group of girlfriends from California and thus to me as well), I have noticed remarkable developments in my comprehension of the language. It occurred to me tonight, as I was eating dinner with my host family, just how many different forms of communication, beyond that learned in the classroom at UCLA, I have been exposed to since being here. This realization hit me as my two host-sisters broke out into argument at the table over the cause of Heath Ledger's death, over which they espoused differing ideas. I surprised myself in my ability to:
a.) identify, in accordance with their altered tones of voices and selection of vocabulary, that the dinner conversation was quickly turning away from peaceful, ordinary talk about movies featuring species of especially attractive actors, into a heated sisterly debate regarding whose reason for Heath Ledger's sudden death was correct, and accordingly who reigned the supreme knower-of-star-related-factoids and resultantly smarter progeny;
b.) adjust my previous state as contributor of awkward, attempt-at-comic-relief laughter into silent, non-partial observer as the friendly banter became less friendly and, at one point, slightly violent;
c.) recognize insults such as, "Oh, so you suddenly think you're the queen of E! Weekly" and, "Why can't you recognize a joke? Lighten up" and then downright, "You're such a bitch."
That's when my other roommate from the US and I decided to make ourselves look busy and began clearing the table.
Later, from inside my bedroom, I heard my host-mom assume the role of mediator and call the girls to the kitchen to discuss what had earlier unfolded at the dinner table. Of course, I tip-toed to my closed bedroom door and pressed my ear eagerly against it as so to better hear the business that was not mine to hear, and was able to distinguish the defense statements made by each of the girls in raised voices, laden with too many inappropriate words to transcribe in this here blog entry considering my viewing audience. Hey Grams and Gramps!
We never went over the chapter on "dinner table arguments" in Spanish 1-5 at UCLA. We also apparently skipped over the units on "effectively deflecting and avoiding flirtation tactics of unappealing men in bars," and "deciphering the muffled and mumbled dialogue of your host-sister's inarticulate boyfriend." Songs, store transactions, telling jokes, ordering off menus, discipline/punishment, and eavesdropping were also apparently left out of the curriculum. This makes me wonder what, in fact, we actually learned in class, because the aforementioned items collectively constitute a huge percentage of daily life and survival. It is amazing how good at Spanish I thought I was prior to coming to Argentina, and how quickly and abruptly my perception of my own knowledge was changed upon first taking seat in the airport terminal among a crowd of Argentines destined for Buenos Aires so many months ago. I was in for a rude awakening. I have learned a lot, but am left with an even farther way to go. The two weeks I have left in the city before embarking on a two-week trip to the Patagonian South and subsequent trip up the Atlantic coast of the country will prove nowhere sufficient to master the amount of language I desire. But I have found a preoccupation and passion for something that I plan on carrying with me for the rest of my academic (and life-long) career long after I return home from Buenos Aires, and one which leaves me with a very good reason for continuing frequenting those beloved sidewalk cafes.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Lice update: I'm clean
Ok, I'm officially de-loused. At least for the time being. Just so those of you who read (if anyone even actually does read this thing, slash care about the sometimes too-intimate details of my personal life and in this case hygiene?) the previous post don't continue thinking that I'm running around Buenos Aires spreading my licey-ness and being all gross and stuff with critters and eggs in my hair. My host mom is a gift from the gods and spent nearly a half hour combing the little boogers from each individual strand. My comb, hair clips, etc. have undergone water boil therapy and are sterile and ready to be used once again. Bedding and towels have been changed, and all the clothes I have worn recently are awaiting their own hot water therapy as well. And pleasantly surprising, the killer cream I had to put in my hair has an agreeable aroma. Off to bed...on my clean and lice-egg-free pillow case!
Piojos..?!?!?!?
Sooo I have head lice. FML. And terrible lower-back pain, because my body suddenly decides to go loco on me since coming to Argentina and bless me with a monthly cycle that actually occurs way more frequently than on the month, and with accompanying cramps of off-the-scale pain that I had not experienced before switching hemispheres. I have my recently-purchased box of "Nervocalm" (obscure Argentine herbal muscle relaxers that I acquired at a health food store on the way to boarding my bus for Iguazu Falls, in preparation for the 12-hour trip that was to ensue) open and next to me in hopes of assuaging my pain, both physical and mental, because in addition to the cursed menstrual pain, I am now thinking with dread about what's currently going on at the microscopic level in my hair and scalp. Sorry if this blog is TMI ("Too Much Info" for those of you on the outskirts of the lingo of my generation); brace yourselves.
Acting upon my intuition this morning that something wasn't right with the quantity of itching and scratching I was inflicting upon my scalp, I decided to step into a random hair salon after my evening classes and ask the receptionists as charmingly as possible if someone might be available to sneak a peak at what I believed to be a louse-infested head. Luckily the salon was empty of other customers, because an embarrassing display of charades (had never before attempted to act out a louse) ensued before I could extract my dictionary from the depths of my backpack (which had turned into a forest of chocolate chip cookie crumbs after the plastic package I had just bought decided to turn over and empty itself unto my unorganized collection of hardly-utilized notebooks and daily planners. In case I haven't made myself clear, school here is a joke and there is only a very small need for daily planners considering the amount of responsibility I don't have.) Anyway, a middle-aged, slightly greasy-looking, gold-chain adorned man obliged, and after poking around with a comb in my hair for a bit (me, meanwhile, suppressing screams of pain...I have a fragile head), and a a mis-diagnosis that I was "probably just agitated from the recently-come heat," "lamented to tell me" that I did, indeed, have "piojos," and proceeded to show me a strand of my own precious head hair which, indeed, exhibited a firmly-attached, tiny little clearish-white louse egg. Repulsive. I have never had lice in my life, and thought I was in the clear after having already surpassed the age range where contagion is most common (among kids ages 3-10). I'm pretty sure it's from working in the orphanage. I should have taken as a sign one of the "moms" at the orphanage combing the lice-killing-cream-saturated-hair of one of the toddlers, to actually consider the advice I had been previously given about going to the orphanage with my hair covered with a preventative spray. But at the time I didn't think that the cost of funky-smelling hair would outweigh the benefit of not getting head lice. How mistaken I now realize I was.
Moving on. I went to the nearest Farmacity drugstore after the man at the hair salon wrote down the name of the shampoo and cream I needed to buy. The employee at the store obviously did not realize I had just received awful news and, resultantly, undergone severe psychological damage, because she was not in the least bit helpful or sympathetic toward my cause. Luckily, a kind, 20-something woman wearing overly-large headphones approached me (apparently my body language, as I stared at the millions of louse-killing hair products with Spanish instructions before my eyes, indicated confusion) and asked me if she might help me with something. I jumped on her offer and 10 minutes later I left Farmacity with the same products she had used as a kid to rid her own self of lice, and also with a box of tampons. Not an embarrassing combination of goods in the least. And of course the cashier was a young, attractive, potentially date-able male. I had my story all worked out in my head, should he inquire, as to why I was buying these specific goods. Luckily I was not the recipient of any awkward questions, because the story about my younger brother who had contracted head lice and my younger sister who had just started her period and was too embarrassed to buy tampons in public was not well-crafted anyway.
On the way home from Farmacity, I thought of nothing but all the little critters that were (and still are) probably making their homes in my hair, and the exponentially growing quantity of those gross little white eggs attached to the root of each strand. I nearly tripped on the uneven sidewalk in my transit home in efforts to avoid a man walking his especially evil-looking, probably lice-carrying dog, and later, once safely inside my apartment, was startled and angered again by another dog-related incident as I was ascending the staircase to my floor and the loudest bark ever echoed off the tile walls and caused my heartbeat to race up to 3x the normal average and for me to brace the cold wall for support, which I later realized had some mysterious cleaning substance on it which dirtied my white blouse...but considering I'm going to have to wash it for 20 minutes anyway in scalding hot water to kill all the little louse eggs, I guess it shouldn't matter. All the way home I was also debating whether or not to tell my host mom about my "condition," fearing that she would decide to either give me the boot or quarantine me in my room for the rest of my stay in Argentina. Ultimately decided to tell her, largely because the only suitable excuse I could think of for having to later ask her to change my sheets and towels and wash all my clothes in hot water would have been more embarrassing than the actual truth (was going to somehow relate it to current female issues...) Also, didn't think to consider that she has 5 daughters, and is probably an expert in the area of louse-removal.
Anyway, I'm currently waiting anxiously and hungrily for dinner to be served (seeing as it's currently 8:40pm, I probably have at least a good hour to go...again, my body will never adjust to the schedule here) so that Maria can be done with all the cooking and household chores and fulfill her promise to help me with the de-lousal process. I'm feeling a little calmer about the whole thing now (perhaps due to the Nervocalm), although I'll admit that I was freeeeaking out earlier. All my friends in Argentina get mugged or robbed, end up breaking their computers or water damaging their cameras, yet I get HEAD LICE. That's like, 1000 times worse than any other misfortune. BECAUSE CREATURES ARE MAKING THEIR BEDS IN MY HEAD!!! At least I'm learning some new vocabulary...? Updates to follow....
Acting upon my intuition this morning that something wasn't right with the quantity of itching and scratching I was inflicting upon my scalp, I decided to step into a random hair salon after my evening classes and ask the receptionists as charmingly as possible if someone might be available to sneak a peak at what I believed to be a louse-infested head. Luckily the salon was empty of other customers, because an embarrassing display of charades (had never before attempted to act out a louse) ensued before I could extract my dictionary from the depths of my backpack (which had turned into a forest of chocolate chip cookie crumbs after the plastic package I had just bought decided to turn over and empty itself unto my unorganized collection of hardly-utilized notebooks and daily planners. In case I haven't made myself clear, school here is a joke and there is only a very small need for daily planners considering the amount of responsibility I don't have.) Anyway, a middle-aged, slightly greasy-looking, gold-chain adorned man obliged, and after poking around with a comb in my hair for a bit (me, meanwhile, suppressing screams of pain...I have a fragile head), and a a mis-diagnosis that I was "probably just agitated from the recently-come heat," "lamented to tell me" that I did, indeed, have "piojos," and proceeded to show me a strand of my own precious head hair which, indeed, exhibited a firmly-attached, tiny little clearish-white louse egg. Repulsive. I have never had lice in my life, and thought I was in the clear after having already surpassed the age range where contagion is most common (among kids ages 3-10). I'm pretty sure it's from working in the orphanage. I should have taken as a sign one of the "moms" at the orphanage combing the lice-killing-cream-saturated-hair of one of the toddlers, to actually consider the advice I had been previously given about going to the orphanage with my hair covered with a preventative spray. But at the time I didn't think that the cost of funky-smelling hair would outweigh the benefit of not getting head lice. How mistaken I now realize I was.
Moving on. I went to the nearest Farmacity drugstore after the man at the hair salon wrote down the name of the shampoo and cream I needed to buy. The employee at the store obviously did not realize I had just received awful news and, resultantly, undergone severe psychological damage, because she was not in the least bit helpful or sympathetic toward my cause. Luckily, a kind, 20-something woman wearing overly-large headphones approached me (apparently my body language, as I stared at the millions of louse-killing hair products with Spanish instructions before my eyes, indicated confusion) and asked me if she might help me with something. I jumped on her offer and 10 minutes later I left Farmacity with the same products she had used as a kid to rid her own self of lice, and also with a box of tampons. Not an embarrassing combination of goods in the least. And of course the cashier was a young, attractive, potentially date-able male. I had my story all worked out in my head, should he inquire, as to why I was buying these specific goods. Luckily I was not the recipient of any awkward questions, because the story about my younger brother who had contracted head lice and my younger sister who had just started her period and was too embarrassed to buy tampons in public was not well-crafted anyway.
On the way home from Farmacity, I thought of nothing but all the little critters that were (and still are) probably making their homes in my hair, and the exponentially growing quantity of those gross little white eggs attached to the root of each strand. I nearly tripped on the uneven sidewalk in my transit home in efforts to avoid a man walking his especially evil-looking, probably lice-carrying dog, and later, once safely inside my apartment, was startled and angered again by another dog-related incident as I was ascending the staircase to my floor and the loudest bark ever echoed off the tile walls and caused my heartbeat to race up to 3x the normal average and for me to brace the cold wall for support, which I later realized had some mysterious cleaning substance on it which dirtied my white blouse...but considering I'm going to have to wash it for 20 minutes anyway in scalding hot water to kill all the little louse eggs, I guess it shouldn't matter. All the way home I was also debating whether or not to tell my host mom about my "condition," fearing that she would decide to either give me the boot or quarantine me in my room for the rest of my stay in Argentina. Ultimately decided to tell her, largely because the only suitable excuse I could think of for having to later ask her to change my sheets and towels and wash all my clothes in hot water would have been more embarrassing than the actual truth (was going to somehow relate it to current female issues...) Also, didn't think to consider that she has 5 daughters, and is probably an expert in the area of louse-removal.
Anyway, I'm currently waiting anxiously and hungrily for dinner to be served (seeing as it's currently 8:40pm, I probably have at least a good hour to go...again, my body will never adjust to the schedule here) so that Maria can be done with all the cooking and household chores and fulfill her promise to help me with the de-lousal process. I'm feeling a little calmer about the whole thing now (perhaps due to the Nervocalm), although I'll admit that I was freeeeaking out earlier. All my friends in Argentina get mugged or robbed, end up breaking their computers or water damaging their cameras, yet I get HEAD LICE. That's like, 1000 times worse than any other misfortune. BECAUSE CREATURES ARE MAKING THEIR BEDS IN MY HEAD!!! At least I'm learning some new vocabulary...? Updates to follow....
Sunday, October 11, 2009
I've been in Argentina too long when...
I've now been in Argentina for 3 months, 1 week, and 6 days. That's a long time. How do I know this? Because of the following:
1. I'm up writing this blog entry at 2:49am but don't think twice about it because I'm used to going to bed at 8am. In fact, I've begun to associate the first bird chirps of morning, a sound which should signal the start of a new day for a diurnal animal in any normal part of the world, with bedtime. This is due to the absurd nightlife here, to which I have yet to accustom myself. Empty dance floors greet you if you show up to a boliche (club) before 2am, and if you return home anytime before 5am, you are sure to be asked what was wrong with whatever club you went to.
2. I have come to consider monedas (coins) more valuable than gold, and guard them with my life. The mystery of the missing monedas has yet to be solved in Buenos Aires, but without them you can consider yourself stranded, as they are the only form of payment accepted in the complex network of collectivos (buses) that interconnects the entire city. Any Argentine knows that if asked for exact change by a store attendant, the correct answer is a shrug of the shoulders and a facial expression that implies "If only," meanwhile jingling in your pocket the coins you actually do have in your possession. I have on several occasions left tips at restaurants in the amount of 2-peso notes, when a tip 1/4 the value would have served just fine, but would have meant leaving behind a far-more-precious 50-centavo coin.
3. My hair is so long and dead at the ends that my own friends have mistaken me for an Argentine girl.
4. I have learned to effectively avoid the minefield of dog poop that is the streets of the city. In fact, I do a double-take if I see someone pick up their dog's fecal matter off the sidewalk with a plastic bag and dispose of it properly.
5. I fail to be surprised when I see men on the streets walking anywhere between 8 and 12+ dogs simultaneously, effectively maintaining untangled the individual leashes of each and avoiding what seems to be a recipe for a massive doggie brawl.
6. I take at least three forms of public transportation a day. Including, but not limited to: collectivo (bus), subte (subway), tren (train), buquebus (big cruise-like ship...but ok, only took this one time: to Uruguay and back), taxi (does this count? If shared with other friends, at least?), and micro (nicer bus for long trips to outlying provinces, often complete with fully-reclining beds, hot meals, and bottles of wine). I consider it completely unnecessary to own a car, and have forgotten completely how to drive one. I have considered the possibility of re-enrolling in drivers ed before tackling the 405 upon return to LA.
7. I no longer find it odd if I see freshly-poured, poorly-blockaded concrete on the sidewalks. I also forget about the risks posed by other sidewalk-related phenomena, including: construction ladders placed right smack in the middle of walking traffic; sparks falling from the 2nd and 3rd-story floors of buildings undergoing construction by operators of loud, electric metal tools; and loose tiles underfoot that threaten to fatally twist any unprepared ankle. Note: handicapped persons do not stand a chance in this city.
8. I suddenly think it is weird to wear flip flops and sandals, although I hail from a college campus in Southern California. On the other hand, I no longer find weird what I previously considered the biggest fashion faux pas of all: tennis shoes with jeans and a pea coat. I also think it weird to dress appropriately for the weather, and don't think twice about wearing pants and multiple, dull-colored layers on a day that clearly calls for springy, floral-print sun dresses. My legs feel extremely self-conscious when exposed to sun and beg me to cover them with pants or leggings should I commit the error of wearing anything less.
9. I have learned to contort my face in a look of utter disgust to effectively convey my shared hatred of "Cristina" any time a porteno makes mention of the current female president.
10. I am beginning to find attractive the hairstyles of the male youth that I previously considered appalling. Yes, this means that partial-mullets, solitary dreadlocks, and far-too-long-to-be-considered-sanitary rat-tails now turn me on. (Let's be clear: that's not to say that I ever considered rat tails of shorter length sanitary.)
11. There is a serious lack of vegetables in my diet. I have also given up any hope of integrating whole-wheat products into my daily carbohydrate intake (which also now far exceeds the recommended amount).
12. I observe a small group of kids my age from the US board the subway in costume (dressed as the Village People) with a look of surprise and almost disdain that matches the look of fellow onlookers (middle-aged, drably-dressed Argentine women) across the subway aisle from me, despite the fact that I spent 80% of my last summer in costume working at Bruin Woods (UCLA summer camp) where I considered it abnormal not to go anywhere armed with at least one sequined or rainbow-colored clothing item. (However, I then approach the kids and jealously ask them where they are going, and briefly consider re-working my plans for the night when they tell me they are headed to a pre-Halloween-costume-karaoke-party.) I begin to yearn for themed frat party debauchery, and scorn the Argentine youth for not having realized the beauty of such ridiculousness.
13. I am no longer surprised by the presence of, but rather expect to see, some combination of fried egg, ham, and cheese on food items that would not normally contain such a mix of ingredients, including lasagna and hamburgers. Also, I have given up completely on the time being of abstaining from consumption of red meat.
14. I am immune to the cat calls of 60-year-old+ men on the streets.
15. I have forgotten the pin number of my debit card, and do not remember where in my room I put my credit card. (Plastic payment not preferred here). I instead know how to identify fake money, and have learned to keep large bills folded and either carefully stored in either my boot or bra in anticipation of the ever-common street muggings.
16. "Che...boludo!" is my preferred greeting-of-choice. (= Hey you, stupid! But in a friendly sense.)
---
All this said, I will never be a true Argentine because I actually eat the little cookies that they bring you when you order coffee (and seriously consider stealing the untouched pastries left behind by occupants of nearby tables...oh wait, I've actually done that...cough, Lianna?), and I like to eat food instead of cigarettes for lunch.
As of even a month ago, I didn't think I would experience reverse culture shock upon return to the US, but I think it is a certain possibility after having lived for so long (and 2 months still remain!) in a land of so many locuras.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Hermosa Mendoza
Pretty plaza in the city of Mendoza, Argentina
Recently returned home from the province of Mendoza, where I spent 5 beautiful days with other kids from my program and half of UCLA (was the token foreigner travel-to-Mendoza weekend). I have now survived two more 16 hour+ bus rides. There exists a ladder of "bus luxury level" here in Argentina, and on the way to Mendoza, Kristin and I elected to travel via the top-rung option ("cama suite"), in which our seats reclined into full-bed position (they laid completely flat, I kid you not) and we were served food and wine of relative luxury. We foolishly opted to save money on the way back to BsAs from Mendoza, and in doing so traveled via the bottom-rung option. Let's just say that we afterward regretted not having coughed up the additional 25 US dollars it would have cost to save ourselves 16 hours of back pain and awful action/ninja combat movies that not even earplugs and eye masks would make go away. This is how we spent the much-awaited first day of spring, September 21st, in the southern hemisphere: completely imprisoned from 8am-11pm inside a bus, while the beautiful shining sun beckoned us from the other side of our scratched and blurry, single paned windows that did absolutely nothing for temperature control and made me regret having chosen to wear black fleece sweatpants. But this is the end of our trip...the beginning and middle are more exciting, I promise.
Readers Digest version:
We rode horses (I galloped! and didn't die!); went on a (bike!) wine tour; ate at a wannabe-Mediterranean food restaurant (hummus=disappointment), ate at a wannabe Mexican food restaurant (guacamole=disappointment...6 parts tomato to every 1 part avocado, really, Argentina?); met really cool friends from England; discovered 1/2 way into the trip that we shared the bathroom wall of our hostel room with the room next-door to us, and that this wall stopped about 5 inches short of the ceiling, such that the fortunate inhabitants of the room next-door had probably heard all of the goings-on in the bathroom of us 4 loud and crazy girls, including group bathing suit showers; went to a natural hot springs water park where we met a group of Argie high school students who taught us what was probably THE most complicated and impossible card game in the history of the world, and a very poor option considering translation challenges...although in hindsight perhaps it is the translation challenge that made it so impossible...but they gave us mate to drink (with sugar, of course, lest it be unbearably bitter!) and were very nice so we had fun, slash I'm pretty sure I could've gotten the Argentine novio I've been looking for in the form of a 16-year-old boy with dreadlocks and an all-too-eager, gap-toothed grin had I given him the time of day...); experienced first-hand the clash between "civility" and "barbarism" that we have been discussing in my literature class between the capital of Buenos Aires and the outlying provinces as we tried to board a bus back to our hostel from the water park and nearly died in the process, given that nearly 200 people were trying to get onto one bus and the concept of "We were standing at the front of the line so we get on first" doesn't seem to exist there...apparently since the bus backed up from where we were originally waiting, the people waiting 20 spots behind us were now the first in line, and we gringos deserved our spots at the very end of the line (Southwest Airlines' boarding system that I once considered anal-retentive and far too stringent I now look at as a miraculous work of God); enjoyed exploring the beautiful, tranquil town of Mendoza (if I could compare it to anywhere in CA, it would be Davis); and didn't even once fall into the irrigation ditches located on the sides of all the roads that are far too deep, wide, and unprotected to be legal anywhere in the US because, as Kristin suggested, someone's dog would probably fall in and break its leg and result in a huge and unnecessary lawsuit. Phew!
Reader's Digest Way-More-Fun Version (aka, Photos)
My horsie---his name currently slips my mind, and I feel super bad and guilty about it because he was so good to me and got me home alive, despite our guide's not having taught us anything about riding beforehand, nor having made us sign release waivers should we break an arm or lose a life. It's the Argentine way...
Yummy Middle Eastern food (note: hummus not worthy of occupying the foreground of the picture...eating hummus was our original motive for choosing to dine at this restaurant, and we felt let down, betrayed, and even a little bit angry that it did not taste as good as it looked on other guests' tables before we ordered. Mom: I am requesting that there be a huge container of hummus awaiting me when I return home...roasted red pepper flavor, please! And a box of Wheat Thins to go with it! Thanks.) Luckily, we very much enjoyed the tabule, pita bread, baklava, wine, etc. of our meal...
Confused faces: LA girls just wanting REAL Mexican food for once, or at least something with a little spice! Note: neither to be found anywhere in Argentina. Is it not an indication of poor Mexican-food-quality when the chicken enchiladas taste about the same as a beef burrito? Or when avocados are not the primary ingredient in guacamole? Hmmm. Mom: think you can infer the other dish I will be wanting when I get home...
Well ain't that sweet. One of the 5 main plazas in Mendoza.
Irrigation ditches that would be tooootally illegal in the US. Especially safe alongside the strip of bars and clubs in Mendoza, where drunken wanderers abound until the wee hours of morning.
Oh whatup, Andes?
Wine bike tour: No helmets, main roads, mild-heavy intoxication from wine and liqueur samples. Gooood idea.
Inside a beautiful bodega (winery). Like, as in, BODEGA BAY! get it? I never did!!!
The beautiful bottles aligning the shelves of a liqueur factory we toured. It's not pictured, but one of these bottles was absinthe, which I tried! (Did not result in me chopping off my ear, like van Gogh)
Kristin and me: glass number....3? 4? 8?
Chau for now!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Jajajaja (Hahahaha)
I feel more and more proficient in Spanish every day, a capacity which I usually measure by the amount of conversation I am able to understand at the dinner table with my host family each evening, and also by the number of times I don't snooze off in my literature classes due to lack of ability in understanding my professor's lectures, which are boring to begin with. I recently, however, discovered a new (and slightly disheartening?) indicator of language proficiency.
This came in the form of a stand-up comedy show, which I went to a few days ago with a couple girlfriends. These girls and I had met a comedian in our hostel in Bariloche, who coincidentally lives in our same neighborhood here in la capital, and so he sent us the info for one of his upcoming shows and suggested we check it out. I was a little apprehensive about going to the show at first, owing to a.) my fear that it would be pointless because we probably wouldn't be able to understand much anyway, and b.) that night, the little chocolates I had bought in Bariloche seemed to be beckoning me from inside their little red box in my room, along with an Argentine film I had just borrowed from the ISA office, along with my really cozy bed and comfy sweatpants...I'm truly an abuela at heart and the temptation to stay in at night is intensified by the freezing cold weather here that creeps in especially at night and will NOT GO AWAY! I used to think I could totally live in like Minnesota or some other freezing state for a while so I could experience an actual winter and white Christmases as portrayed in the movies, but I think seasonal affect disorder would be a serious problem for me, as would the impossibility of being able to wear flip flops for more than 300 days out of the year. But I digress.
We went to the show, which was in an adorable little theater in a cute plaza off the main street of the theater district here. There was a cluster of cute coffee shops, bars, theaters, and music venues in this plaza, which seemed almost magical with its labyrinth of cobblestone sidewalks and windy staircases and twinkly light-adorned trees. I stepped inside a cafe while awaiting the arrival of my two friends, Sarah and Helen, and was able to watch the depressing final of the Argentina-Paraguay futbol game before the start of the show.
(Not my photo...but to give you an idea of where we were...found on Google Images...)
(Again, not my photo...I tend to not ever have my camera with me...)
The show consisted of 25 comics who were allotted 3 minutes each of stage time. We had expected the show to be difficult to understand, but I'm not sure that we had thoroughly considered the fact that each of the comics would be talking at rates of incredible speed in order to fit in all their punchlines within the given short time period. Twenty seconds into the act of the first comedian, Sarah, Helen, and I exchanged identical glances from across our table with the same thought in mind: that we may have as well not been in Argentina for the past 2 1/2 months, or have learned any of the language before coming here, because it was as if we spoke not a word of Spanish. Luckily, that guy ended up being an exception to the rule and the remaining comics were easier to understand. Kind of.
I'm really glad that I ended up going to the show. It made me realize two things in reference to Spanish language ability: how far I've come, and how far I have left to go. I have a lot of vocabulary to learn. Especially and if I intend on going back to a stand-up show, it would probably be a good idea to brush up on sex and drug-themed vocab because such topics constituted (I think) a large portion of their acts. Also, while I realized before that conversation in the classroom and with my host family here is significantly altered with the non-native speaker in mind (significantly slowed, words higher than 5th grade vocab level eliminated), the show solidified this realization. Although I realize the progress I've made since being here, it made me feel like my three months will be in no way sufficient to meet my language proficiency goals. But I think I also have to bear in mind that my goals increase at a rate equal to that of my improvement...aka, there will always be more to learn.
Of the jokes I did catch and understand, it was a very cool realization that I understood them not just because of literal language translation, but because I understood the culture of Buenos Aires as well. Aka, even if I already spoke Spanish, the jokes would not have been funny without having lived here for a significant amount of time. One man joked about why in the heck would Santa Clause visit the southern hemisphere in the middle of summer, with his ridiculous heavy red suit and full beard that makes him look like one of the red candied apples covered with popcorn sold on the street corners here. Another man joked about the lack of monedas (coins) in the city, which is a problem and pain felt by all because coins are necessary to buy tickets to ride the collectivos (buses) that people depend on for transportation. No one knows why there is such a lack of coins---it's truly a mystery. People hoard them when they have them. If you buy something at a store that costs $7.60, store vendors will shave off the 60 cents so they don't have to give you 40 cents worth of precious coins. Many comics touched on the differences between the different neighborhoods here, each of which has its own distinctive personality, and the type of people that hail from each. Again, wouldn't have been funny without having explored many of them or having been familiar with the layout of the city and the different street names to which they referenced.
When I understood these jokes, I couldn't help smiling to myself and feeling kinda like a true porteno.
This came in the form of a stand-up comedy show, which I went to a few days ago with a couple girlfriends. These girls and I had met a comedian in our hostel in Bariloche, who coincidentally lives in our same neighborhood here in la capital, and so he sent us the info for one of his upcoming shows and suggested we check it out. I was a little apprehensive about going to the show at first, owing to a.) my fear that it would be pointless because we probably wouldn't be able to understand much anyway, and b.) that night, the little chocolates I had bought in Bariloche seemed to be beckoning me from inside their little red box in my room, along with an Argentine film I had just borrowed from the ISA office, along with my really cozy bed and comfy sweatpants...I'm truly an abuela at heart and the temptation to stay in at night is intensified by the freezing cold weather here that creeps in especially at night and will NOT GO AWAY! I used to think I could totally live in like Minnesota or some other freezing state for a while so I could experience an actual winter and white Christmases as portrayed in the movies, but I think seasonal affect disorder would be a serious problem for me, as would the impossibility of being able to wear flip flops for more than 300 days out of the year. But I digress.
We went to the show, which was in an adorable little theater in a cute plaza off the main street of the theater district here. There was a cluster of cute coffee shops, bars, theaters, and music venues in this plaza, which seemed almost magical with its labyrinth of cobblestone sidewalks and windy staircases and twinkly light-adorned trees. I stepped inside a cafe while awaiting the arrival of my two friends, Sarah and Helen, and was able to watch the depressing final of the Argentina-Paraguay futbol game before the start of the show.
(Not my photo...but to give you an idea of where we were...found on Google Images...)
(Again, not my photo...I tend to not ever have my camera with me...)
The show consisted of 25 comics who were allotted 3 minutes each of stage time. We had expected the show to be difficult to understand, but I'm not sure that we had thoroughly considered the fact that each of the comics would be talking at rates of incredible speed in order to fit in all their punchlines within the given short time period. Twenty seconds into the act of the first comedian, Sarah, Helen, and I exchanged identical glances from across our table with the same thought in mind: that we may have as well not been in Argentina for the past 2 1/2 months, or have learned any of the language before coming here, because it was as if we spoke not a word of Spanish. Luckily, that guy ended up being an exception to the rule and the remaining comics were easier to understand. Kind of.
I'm really glad that I ended up going to the show. It made me realize two things in reference to Spanish language ability: how far I've come, and how far I have left to go. I have a lot of vocabulary to learn. Especially and if I intend on going back to a stand-up show, it would probably be a good idea to brush up on sex and drug-themed vocab because such topics constituted (I think) a large portion of their acts. Also, while I realized before that conversation in the classroom and with my host family here is significantly altered with the non-native speaker in mind (significantly slowed, words higher than 5th grade vocab level eliminated), the show solidified this realization. Although I realize the progress I've made since being here, it made me feel like my three months will be in no way sufficient to meet my language proficiency goals. But I think I also have to bear in mind that my goals increase at a rate equal to that of my improvement...aka, there will always be more to learn.
Of the jokes I did catch and understand, it was a very cool realization that I understood them not just because of literal language translation, but because I understood the culture of Buenos Aires as well. Aka, even if I already spoke Spanish, the jokes would not have been funny without having lived here for a significant amount of time. One man joked about why in the heck would Santa Clause visit the southern hemisphere in the middle of summer, with his ridiculous heavy red suit and full beard that makes him look like one of the red candied apples covered with popcorn sold on the street corners here. Another man joked about the lack of monedas (coins) in the city, which is a problem and pain felt by all because coins are necessary to buy tickets to ride the collectivos (buses) that people depend on for transportation. No one knows why there is such a lack of coins---it's truly a mystery. People hoard them when they have them. If you buy something at a store that costs $7.60, store vendors will shave off the 60 cents so they don't have to give you 40 cents worth of precious coins. Many comics touched on the differences between the different neighborhoods here, each of which has its own distinctive personality, and the type of people that hail from each. Again, wouldn't have been funny without having explored many of them or having been familiar with the layout of the city and the different street names to which they referenced.
When I understood these jokes, I couldn't help smiling to myself and feeling kinda like a true porteno.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Skiing in the Andes, "School", Soccer, etc
Ahh, too much to write! When more than a week passes without writing, the very thought of writing and recounting experiences becomes overwhelming, such that I wait even longer while even more unwritten experiences accumulate and the cycle perpetuates....but I must face and conquer this obstacle, alas I'll give a brief (and probably very incongruent) synopsis of my past couple weeks "studying" in Argentina!
Starting with, my ski trip to Bariloche! I had been dying to take a long weekend off from city life to visit the popular town of Bariloche, located a short 20-hour bus ride southeast of the capital. After travel arrangements had been solidified, I wasted approximately 0 minutes in bragging annoyingly to my dad the ski fanatic that I would be spending the next few days skiing in the Andes, and that I sincerely hoped he was enjoying the 100 degree+ Sactown weather. I think karma came back to haunt me for the first couple days of the trip, as we faced a 4-hour bus ride delay (increasing trip duration from 20 to 24 hours) due to a teachers' strike that blocked traffic, and the first day of skiing was rather a day of sipping hot chocolate in the mid-mountain lodge due to the absolutely awful weather conditions. But luckily we were served cute little bottles of wine and champagne and also lots of chocolate on the bus (which was a very NICE bus...with seats that recline nearly into beds) to help pass the time, and they ended up showing movies that were a step above the usual awful and often Asian-themed action movie. During the delay, the 3 other girls from the US that I traveled with and I also made friends with the other passengers around us, so we got to practice lots of Spanish with our new friends from Mexico and BsAs! Even better, the second day of skiing turned out to be BEAUTIFUL.
Unlike the first day, in which clothing and equipment rental was a mess of confusion that took about 2 hours, and our ride up on the chairlift from the mountain base consisted of protecting ourselves from rain (yes, RAIN. It washed away all the snow at the bottom of the mountain. Oh, and I normally would have marveled at the beauty of rushing rivers flowing beneath us as we rode up on the chairlift, but it was not such a awe-inspiring sight when really thought about in the context of melting ski-able snow), the second day was gorgeous and allowed visibility of more than 30 feet, meaning that we got to look out across the vast expanses of snowy mountains and lakes all around us. It was like Lake Tahoe on steroids. I was happy :)
The process of waiting in line to get on chair lifts cannot go unmentioned. Argentines wait in line to get on chairlifts like they drive on the roads of BsAs, aka with no regard to personal space or traffic lanes. Every time I successfully made my way to the front of the line and safely onto the chairlift, I breathed a sigh of relief and admired the new scratches and bruises my skis and body had acquired in the process. Ok, so I'm exaggerating a little, but really, just a little. The snow at the top of the mountain was in pretty good condition, but the runs were short and the lines at the bottom exceedingly long. I am happy that I can now brag about having skied in the Andes, but the entire trip I kept thinking to myself how lucky I was to live in California with access to ski resorts and beautiful nature recluses of unmatched quality. I think the 2 of us girls traveling from California began to annoy the other 2 (who are from Ohio) with our constant and proud references to our beautiful state. "Omg, this beautiful view here in Bariloche looks exactly like this other beautiful view in this part of California...and that amazing mountain range is exactly like that other one in that other part of California! Omg our state is the best! We're the coolest!" I don't feel too bad though, the truth hurts. On another note, I will never again complain about having to make the 6-hour trip from LA to Mammoth after surviving a 24-hour bus ride!
Oh, and speaking of LA, one of the weirder parts of the trip: I met 2 UCLA professors at the ski resort! One each day! The first day, I was drinking coffee in the base lodge (after riding the chairlift down the mountain due to the whole no-snow-at-the-bottom thing) when a random middle-aged man approached me after having taken note of the UCLA sweatshirt I was wearing. He subsequently introduced me to one of his "ski buddies," a 75-ish-year-old looking man who is a professor in the Med school. The second day, my friend Elise and I were making small talk with an Argentine man on our chairlift, and after mentioning that I go to school in LA he asked me if it was UCLA...turns out he was an international economics professor in the 90s. We discussed the notorious terribly ugly architecture of Bunche Hall where he taught, a building where I happen to have about 50% of my classes. Such a small world! Made me very proud to be a Bruin :)
Pretty hike!
The town of Bariloche itself (about 30 minutes from the ski resort) was an adorable little Christmas town laden with streets upon streets of amazing chocolate confectionaries. I am far too embarrassed to publicly announce the amount of money I spent on the amazing substance. I did end up giving away a fraction of the chocolate bought as gifts, so I can't feel that guilty, right?
With the ISA program directors and the chocolate I gave them...they were very, very happy. (Photo creds: once again, K-Rum. She is a mom with her camera ever-ready in her hand.)
____
Since returning home from Bariloche, I have enjoyed a wealth of other wonderful activities, none of which has included the pages upon pages of reading for my 2 literature classes, which still remain untouched. Woops! But not feeling too guilty about it. They are absolutely awful, unbearable classes--i'm sure the actual material would be interesting if I could understand it, and also if our professor conducted the class in a way that was slightly more interesting than watching wet paint dry. Apparently it's her first year teaching, I'll give her that, but what I can't forgive is the grotesque manner in which she rolls her "R"s. I can't stand it. It sends chills up my spine and makes me wish that any words with the letter R could be obliterated from the works we read. It's so hard to remain engaged when any trail of academic thought becomes immediately interrupted by her pronunciation of one of these words. Rrrrrepulsive.
How we pass the time in lit class. (we had read a story that had something to do with rats...not sure what exactly.) (Photo creds: K-Rum)
I am, however, loving my Spanish grammar class, and am even happier with the Nutritional Education class I am taking with Argentine students. I could not be happier with my selection of the latter course, which I carefully chose with the thought in mind that people interested in education would be patient with my language handicap and willing to help me learn. The class meets from 8-11am on Tuesdays, and has approximately 15 students in it. I was they shy-deaf-mute-awkward kid in the corner the first couple hours of the first class, but have now become Facebook friends with a lot of the girls (sure sign of friendship) and have a tentative invitation for receiving a "night life tour" of Buenos Aires. I can pretty much follow what's going on in class, but am often caught off guard when the professors (2 elderly and very energetic and kind women) call on me to answer questions about random United States-related things which I usually respond with an answer along the lines of "Ummm" or "I don't understand" or "Yeah!" when the question was actually an open-ended one. But I actually kind of look forward to setting my alarm for 6:45am on the days of this class. Yay!
I have also joined the women's soccer team at the university. Female soccer hasn't quite taken off in popularity here in Argentina, and is considered a very masculine sport which might serve as explanation for the weird looks I often receive upon telling people that I play soccer. So the Argentine girls on the team are, well, learning, but they are all so sweet and I am happy to be getting exposure to even more Spanish and local culture, etc. We had a game yesterday and won 5-0 against University of Palermo--yeah! It felt soooo good to be on the field breathing in the smell of grass and sweaty socks on a sunny Saturday morning, and I felt right at home in my post out at left-mid. Still trying to figure out how to translate English field commands to Spanish ones...for example, I'm not sure if the literal translation of "man on" would come out quite correctly. The team is about an even split of US and Argentine players, and the games are a jumbled mess of Spanglish but it's so great and I love it! Was awesome also riding to the game in the car of one of the Argentine girls named Linda...sat in the front seat and chatted with her to and from the game (in Spanish!) and she ended up joining my friends Sarah and Nina and I for lunch, where more Spanish/Spanglish conversation ensued. (We ate at this American restaurant called Kansas, which has an Elephant Bar-esque ambiance, and where the prices are high but worth it...it is a mecca for US students homesick for familiar food. I got a spinach salad with surprisingly normal-tasting grilled chicken and blue cheese and candied walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette dressing ahhhhhhhh amazing!) Speaking of amazing restaurants, I also had the pleasure of eating at an all-you-can-eat vegetarian buffet with Davina and her mom who was recently visiting. It is a 25-peso-flat-rate absolute gem. Definitely will be returning. But perhaps with a little more self-control.
I ran a 10K this morning in a race sponsored by my university...was very fun! Am also really happy that I have found a great running location in Puerto Madero at the Ecological Reserve.....there are tons of trails cut through wilderness reminiscent of the American River...it's a weird fusion of 3 different worlds, as I take in the smells of river that remind me of home, yet run next to the ocean (which is actually the river, but so wide that it's without horizon, so I'm gonna call it an ocean) that reminds me of running on the beach in Santa Monica, yet am surrounded by the sounds of Spanish conversation of Argentines all around me. Like at UCLA, running and exercise has kept me sane here.
The ecological reserve...don't know who the random guy is...
One last thing and then I'm over and out. Went and saw Inglorious Basterds (Bastardos Sin Gloria, as called here) with a group of friends. SO GOOD, Quinten Tarantino. Was not, however, expecting half of the movie to be in German and French. Whereas this would have been accompanied by English subtitles in the US, they were Spanish here (obviously). So, on a night when I was expecting to turn off my brain and be entertained, I had to turn it back on to decipher and translate a somewhat-complex movie plot. But the good part is that I was able to do it! With a little help from Tara (whose Spanish is far superior to mine) sitting on my right.
Whooooo okay I'm officially getting arthritis and carpal tunnel syndrome. Sad that Argentina lost to Brazil in the world cup qualifying match but happy that my other blue-and-gold team prevailed victorious over San Diego State! Yeah Bruins!
Love to everyone.
Allison
Starting with, my ski trip to Bariloche! I had been dying to take a long weekend off from city life to visit the popular town of Bariloche, located a short 20-hour bus ride southeast of the capital. After travel arrangements had been solidified, I wasted approximately 0 minutes in bragging annoyingly to my dad the ski fanatic that I would be spending the next few days skiing in the Andes, and that I sincerely hoped he was enjoying the 100 degree+ Sactown weather. I think karma came back to haunt me for the first couple days of the trip, as we faced a 4-hour bus ride delay (increasing trip duration from 20 to 24 hours) due to a teachers' strike that blocked traffic, and the first day of skiing was rather a day of sipping hot chocolate in the mid-mountain lodge due to the absolutely awful weather conditions. But luckily we were served cute little bottles of wine and champagne and also lots of chocolate on the bus (which was a very NICE bus...with seats that recline nearly into beds) to help pass the time, and they ended up showing movies that were a step above the usual awful and often Asian-themed action movie. During the delay, the 3 other girls from the US that I traveled with and I also made friends with the other passengers around us, so we got to practice lots of Spanish with our new friends from Mexico and BsAs! Even better, the second day of skiing turned out to be BEAUTIFUL.
Unlike the first day, in which clothing and equipment rental was a mess of confusion that took about 2 hours, and our ride up on the chairlift from the mountain base consisted of protecting ourselves from rain (yes, RAIN. It washed away all the snow at the bottom of the mountain. Oh, and I normally would have marveled at the beauty of rushing rivers flowing beneath us as we rode up on the chairlift, but it was not such a awe-inspiring sight when really thought about in the context of melting ski-able snow), the second day was gorgeous and allowed visibility of more than 30 feet, meaning that we got to look out across the vast expanses of snowy mountains and lakes all around us. It was like Lake Tahoe on steroids. I was happy :)
The process of waiting in line to get on chair lifts cannot go unmentioned. Argentines wait in line to get on chairlifts like they drive on the roads of BsAs, aka with no regard to personal space or traffic lanes. Every time I successfully made my way to the front of the line and safely onto the chairlift, I breathed a sigh of relief and admired the new scratches and bruises my skis and body had acquired in the process. Ok, so I'm exaggerating a little, but really, just a little. The snow at the top of the mountain was in pretty good condition, but the runs were short and the lines at the bottom exceedingly long. I am happy that I can now brag about having skied in the Andes, but the entire trip I kept thinking to myself how lucky I was to live in California with access to ski resorts and beautiful nature recluses of unmatched quality. I think the 2 of us girls traveling from California began to annoy the other 2 (who are from Ohio) with our constant and proud references to our beautiful state. "Omg, this beautiful view here in Bariloche looks exactly like this other beautiful view in this part of California...and that amazing mountain range is exactly like that other one in that other part of California! Omg our state is the best! We're the coolest!" I don't feel too bad though, the truth hurts. On another note, I will never again complain about having to make the 6-hour trip from LA to Mammoth after surviving a 24-hour bus ride!
Oh, and speaking of LA, one of the weirder parts of the trip: I met 2 UCLA professors at the ski resort! One each day! The first day, I was drinking coffee in the base lodge (after riding the chairlift down the mountain due to the whole no-snow-at-the-bottom thing) when a random middle-aged man approached me after having taken note of the UCLA sweatshirt I was wearing. He subsequently introduced me to one of his "ski buddies," a 75-ish-year-old looking man who is a professor in the Med school. The second day, my friend Elise and I were making small talk with an Argentine man on our chairlift, and after mentioning that I go to school in LA he asked me if it was UCLA...turns out he was an international economics professor in the 90s. We discussed the notorious terribly ugly architecture of Bunche Hall where he taught, a building where I happen to have about 50% of my classes. Such a small world! Made me very proud to be a Bruin :)
Pretty hike!
The town of Bariloche itself (about 30 minutes from the ski resort) was an adorable little Christmas town laden with streets upon streets of amazing chocolate confectionaries. I am far too embarrassed to publicly announce the amount of money I spent on the amazing substance. I did end up giving away a fraction of the chocolate bought as gifts, so I can't feel that guilty, right?
With the ISA program directors and the chocolate I gave them...they were very, very happy. (Photo creds: once again, K-Rum. She is a mom with her camera ever-ready in her hand.)
____
Since returning home from Bariloche, I have enjoyed a wealth of other wonderful activities, none of which has included the pages upon pages of reading for my 2 literature classes, which still remain untouched. Woops! But not feeling too guilty about it. They are absolutely awful, unbearable classes--i'm sure the actual material would be interesting if I could understand it, and also if our professor conducted the class in a way that was slightly more interesting than watching wet paint dry. Apparently it's her first year teaching, I'll give her that, but what I can't forgive is the grotesque manner in which she rolls her "R"s. I can't stand it. It sends chills up my spine and makes me wish that any words with the letter R could be obliterated from the works we read. It's so hard to remain engaged when any trail of academic thought becomes immediately interrupted by her pronunciation of one of these words. Rrrrrepulsive.
How we pass the time in lit class. (we had read a story that had something to do with rats...not sure what exactly.) (Photo creds: K-Rum)
I am, however, loving my Spanish grammar class, and am even happier with the Nutritional Education class I am taking with Argentine students. I could not be happier with my selection of the latter course, which I carefully chose with the thought in mind that people interested in education would be patient with my language handicap and willing to help me learn. The class meets from 8-11am on Tuesdays, and has approximately 15 students in it. I was they shy-deaf-mute-awkward kid in the corner the first couple hours of the first class, but have now become Facebook friends with a lot of the girls (sure sign of friendship) and have a tentative invitation for receiving a "night life tour" of Buenos Aires. I can pretty much follow what's going on in class, but am often caught off guard when the professors (2 elderly and very energetic and kind women) call on me to answer questions about random United States-related things which I usually respond with an answer along the lines of "Ummm" or "I don't understand" or "Yeah!" when the question was actually an open-ended one. But I actually kind of look forward to setting my alarm for 6:45am on the days of this class. Yay!
I have also joined the women's soccer team at the university. Female soccer hasn't quite taken off in popularity here in Argentina, and is considered a very masculine sport which might serve as explanation for the weird looks I often receive upon telling people that I play soccer. So the Argentine girls on the team are, well, learning, but they are all so sweet and I am happy to be getting exposure to even more Spanish and local culture, etc. We had a game yesterday and won 5-0 against University of Palermo--yeah! It felt soooo good to be on the field breathing in the smell of grass and sweaty socks on a sunny Saturday morning, and I felt right at home in my post out at left-mid. Still trying to figure out how to translate English field commands to Spanish ones...for example, I'm not sure if the literal translation of "man on" would come out quite correctly. The team is about an even split of US and Argentine players, and the games are a jumbled mess of Spanglish but it's so great and I love it! Was awesome also riding to the game in the car of one of the Argentine girls named Linda...sat in the front seat and chatted with her to and from the game (in Spanish!) and she ended up joining my friends Sarah and Nina and I for lunch, where more Spanish/Spanglish conversation ensued. (We ate at this American restaurant called Kansas, which has an Elephant Bar-esque ambiance, and where the prices are high but worth it...it is a mecca for US students homesick for familiar food. I got a spinach salad with surprisingly normal-tasting grilled chicken and blue cheese and candied walnuts and raspberry vinaigrette dressing ahhhhhhhh amazing!) Speaking of amazing restaurants, I also had the pleasure of eating at an all-you-can-eat vegetarian buffet with Davina and her mom who was recently visiting. It is a 25-peso-flat-rate absolute gem. Definitely will be returning. But perhaps with a little more self-control.
I ran a 10K this morning in a race sponsored by my university...was very fun! Am also really happy that I have found a great running location in Puerto Madero at the Ecological Reserve.....there are tons of trails cut through wilderness reminiscent of the American River...it's a weird fusion of 3 different worlds, as I take in the smells of river that remind me of home, yet run next to the ocean (which is actually the river, but so wide that it's without horizon, so I'm gonna call it an ocean) that reminds me of running on the beach in Santa Monica, yet am surrounded by the sounds of Spanish conversation of Argentines all around me. Like at UCLA, running and exercise has kept me sane here.
The ecological reserve...don't know who the random guy is...One last thing and then I'm over and out. Went and saw Inglorious Basterds (Bastardos Sin Gloria, as called here) with a group of friends. SO GOOD, Quinten Tarantino. Was not, however, expecting half of the movie to be in German and French. Whereas this would have been accompanied by English subtitles in the US, they were Spanish here (obviously). So, on a night when I was expecting to turn off my brain and be entertained, I had to turn it back on to decipher and translate a somewhat-complex movie plot. But the good part is that I was able to do it! With a little help from Tara (whose Spanish is far superior to mine) sitting on my right.
Whooooo okay I'm officially getting arthritis and carpal tunnel syndrome. Sad that Argentina lost to Brazil in the world cup qualifying match but happy that my other blue-and-gold team prevailed victorious over San Diego State! Yeah Bruins!
Love to everyone.
Allison
Friday, August 21, 2009
Two-thirds to go!
Considering yesterday marked the 2-month (of 6) anniversary of my arrival in Argentina, it seems an appropriate time to reflect on my journey thus far. Uh-oh, sounds like the beginning of a long blog entry! I'll try and keep it concise. No promises.
A new development in my study abroad experience (where the majority of the studying takes place outside the formal classroom setting) has been my volunteer work at an orphanage (called "Cor," for "heart") in the town of San Isidro, about an hour train ride/subsequent 15 block walk outside of the capital. The commute is time-consuming, but the train proves an entertaining venue for people-watching, and I rather enjoy the solitary walk that follows. Plus, I get to listen to chirping birds! (San Isidro is much more tranquil than the capital. All wildlife has not yet fled.) I've been going twice a week, for about four hours each time, and have already developed an obsession with the children.
In some respects, I think the orphanage fills the void of acceptance and belonging I feel living so far outside my comfort zone. Daily life is an endless sequence of uphill battles when living in a land of foreign speech and customs. I prevail victorious in many of these battles, like when I successfully find throat lozenges at a drug store, or am served food at a restaurant that actually appears similar to what I believed I had ordered off the menu. But these small victories are not without struggle, and it is often difficult to abandon the mindset that you are in some way an inconvenience to someone, or stand out from the rest of the population, even if you speak perfect Spanish or make efforts to dress and walk in the same fashion as the locals. Nothing ever feels quite natural. It is so refreshing, therefore, to be welcomed into the orphanage each day by a mob of maniacal children twenty-deep and starved for individual love and attention. Their unconditional love is so reassuring, their patience so comforting. They have truly proven my most helpful teachers so far. Most importantly, they cover the units of study my Spanish textbook left out, like playing "house," "doctor" and "pet shop."
The kids have been a true test of patience, but I'll just say I'm getting a lot of quality practice with the "command" verbs. The other day I took a handful of kids to a park a few blocks from the home. One of the "mothers" at the orphanage asked me how many children I could handle on this mini field trip, and I foolishly responded "five or so." Everything was fine until a dead bird on the ground became more interesting than the soccer game we had been playing. It was all I could do to keep the kids from putting their hands in their mouths after they excitedly passed the bird around amongst themselves--they of course didn't pay an ounce of attention to my "Don't touch it!" command, and I'm not exactly sure how my attempt to translate the possibility that the bird might carry an infectious disease came out. Luckily, the oldest boy came up with the ingenious idea to give the bird a proper burial service, and once the dead bird was hidden in the shallow depths of the earth I could sigh a breath of relief. Until of course two of the kids found a particularly dangerous tree to climb, whilst one boy nursed a recently-bloodied knee, and one especially trouble-making and rather overweight girl threatened to march off in the direction of the home because I would not give her a piggy-back ride, while the fifth child was already on my back, her arms hugged around my neck in such a manner that effectively constricted my breathing such that whatever directions I was already trying to give in Spanish became even more jumbled and futile. But when the troops were at last assembled for the journey back home to Cor, and one girl named Augustina looked up at me with those beautiful and imploring big brown eyes and asked if they had all "behaved well" as their mothers had ordered, I of course responded in the affirmative. The "mothers" are very nice women, but I've seen how they maintain order and discipline and I think I would even be a little scared of my fate had I not behaved well at the park.
Anyway, I leave the orphanage each day with cheeks wet from the kisses of the children, and often a collection of love letters. My hair is also usually done up in a different style than when I arrived, and not without significant chunks of hair gone missing (I think the quantity of strands of hair on my head has been cut at least in half since I began working). The kids are absolutely preciosos, charming, adorable, wonderful. It is easy to forget that they have HIV and come from such troubling pasts; one would never know it without having been first told. Although Cor is truly a wonderful place for the children to live, frequented by a constant stream of kind volunteers, etc., I cannot help feeling saddened by the fact that these children do not have real adopted families to call their own. I was told that much of this is unfortunately founded in prejudices against the childrens' disease and backgrounds. I'm a long way away from having children of my own, and hadn't ever really considered the option of adopting, but would not at all be opposed to the idea of someday looking to an orphanage such as this as a possible option.
Cor is home to kids of all ages, from 3-14ish, and I cannot help but admire the patience of the older children as they help the mothers with preparing food and the younger ones with their homework. The pre-teens do not offer me the same unconditional love as the younger kids (I refer mainly to the girls, because the boys are hormonal and awkwardly flirtatious with me and soccer serves as our means of communication when language barriers prove to thick), but I hope to win their love with time. It is definitely more difficult than wooing the love of the pre-teens at Bruin Woods last summer, and that wasn't exactly the easiest task. I tried to break the ice with a girl named Nadia yesterday by commenting on her Quiksilver brand sweatshirt--I tried to tell her that it was a very popular brand in the US, especially among surfers, etc. in California. Part of me wonders if she was thinking, "Yeah, well it's probably from there originally, but came to me second-hand with this brown stain on the sleeve." Perhaps I will bring a magazine or something next time to share with her. I will make sure none of the pages are ripped. (With the little kids, all you have to do is tell them that Arnold Schwarzenegger is your boyfriend or that you are 200 years old and they automatically think you're the coolest person on the planet.)
Bueno, much more to come about the orphanage later. Could fill novels already and it has been barely three weeks.
In other news, went with Tara today to explore the neighborhood of San Telmo, and specifically Plaza San Martin. We took a self-guided tour of the "Museo de Armas" or "Weapons Museum." This held our interest for about 20 minutes. I mean in no way to discount the awesomeness of the museum--it was loaded (hehe) with an incredible amount of guns, knives, cannons, suits of armor, some samurai stuff, etc...but Tara and I both agreed that we just don't have enough knowledge/appreciation for that kind of stuff. I think the museum was designed more for the type with that y chromosome thing: the interior design and ambiance could have used a serious make-over, and the women's bathroom had no place to hang a purse or coat. Also, someone had left the toilet seat up.
The next tour we took was much more suited for us: it was of a really cool mansion built long ago for the rich family of General Paz (founder of a popular newspaper here still in circulation)...it was BEAUTIFUL. Gold plated walls, intricately carved wooden furniture, ornate chandeliers (also called "aranas" or SPIDERS in Spanish, due to their appearance...blegh!), etc. The tour was reminiscent of tours in California of both Hearst Castle and Winchester Mystery House. Apparently they rent out rooms for dances, weddings, etc.--depending on the quantity of people, timespan, etc. it's about 13,000 pesos for a night--aka $4,000 USD? Believe that's about how much it cost to rent out the Library Galeria downtown for Senior Ball? Not a bad option...I might get married there...the problem of course would be shipping family/friends down to South America from the US... A high point of the tour (which was conducted in Spanish by a sweet elderly lady) was the realization that I could understood almost everything being said! Such a world of difference in comparison to the last Spanish guided tour I had taken about a month ago. I had to clarify the translations for "plaster," "dome," and "wood of walnut tree," but other than that I got the main gist of everything being said! (Just don't ask me to give the tour myself...listening comprehension is quite different from speaking ability!)
Ok my eyes are going to burn up if I look at the computer any longer. Looking forward to a full day tomorrow out on an estancia (ranch) a couple hours out of town with the study abroad group!
A new development in my study abroad experience (where the majority of the studying takes place outside the formal classroom setting) has been my volunteer work at an orphanage (called "Cor," for "heart") in the town of San Isidro, about an hour train ride/subsequent 15 block walk outside of the capital. The commute is time-consuming, but the train proves an entertaining venue for people-watching, and I rather enjoy the solitary walk that follows. Plus, I get to listen to chirping birds! (San Isidro is much more tranquil than the capital. All wildlife has not yet fled.) I've been going twice a week, for about four hours each time, and have already developed an obsession with the children.
In some respects, I think the orphanage fills the void of acceptance and belonging I feel living so far outside my comfort zone. Daily life is an endless sequence of uphill battles when living in a land of foreign speech and customs. I prevail victorious in many of these battles, like when I successfully find throat lozenges at a drug store, or am served food at a restaurant that actually appears similar to what I believed I had ordered off the menu. But these small victories are not without struggle, and it is often difficult to abandon the mindset that you are in some way an inconvenience to someone, or stand out from the rest of the population, even if you speak perfect Spanish or make efforts to dress and walk in the same fashion as the locals. Nothing ever feels quite natural. It is so refreshing, therefore, to be welcomed into the orphanage each day by a mob of maniacal children twenty-deep and starved for individual love and attention. Their unconditional love is so reassuring, their patience so comforting. They have truly proven my most helpful teachers so far. Most importantly, they cover the units of study my Spanish textbook left out, like playing "house," "doctor" and "pet shop."
The kids have been a true test of patience, but I'll just say I'm getting a lot of quality practice with the "command" verbs. The other day I took a handful of kids to a park a few blocks from the home. One of the "mothers" at the orphanage asked me how many children I could handle on this mini field trip, and I foolishly responded "five or so." Everything was fine until a dead bird on the ground became more interesting than the soccer game we had been playing. It was all I could do to keep the kids from putting their hands in their mouths after they excitedly passed the bird around amongst themselves--they of course didn't pay an ounce of attention to my "Don't touch it!" command, and I'm not exactly sure how my attempt to translate the possibility that the bird might carry an infectious disease came out. Luckily, the oldest boy came up with the ingenious idea to give the bird a proper burial service, and once the dead bird was hidden in the shallow depths of the earth I could sigh a breath of relief. Until of course two of the kids found a particularly dangerous tree to climb, whilst one boy nursed a recently-bloodied knee, and one especially trouble-making and rather overweight girl threatened to march off in the direction of the home because I would not give her a piggy-back ride, while the fifth child was already on my back, her arms hugged around my neck in such a manner that effectively constricted my breathing such that whatever directions I was already trying to give in Spanish became even more jumbled and futile. But when the troops were at last assembled for the journey back home to Cor, and one girl named Augustina looked up at me with those beautiful and imploring big brown eyes and asked if they had all "behaved well" as their mothers had ordered, I of course responded in the affirmative. The "mothers" are very nice women, but I've seen how they maintain order and discipline and I think I would even be a little scared of my fate had I not behaved well at the park.
Anyway, I leave the orphanage each day with cheeks wet from the kisses of the children, and often a collection of love letters. My hair is also usually done up in a different style than when I arrived, and not without significant chunks of hair gone missing (I think the quantity of strands of hair on my head has been cut at least in half since I began working). The kids are absolutely preciosos, charming, adorable, wonderful. It is easy to forget that they have HIV and come from such troubling pasts; one would never know it without having been first told. Although Cor is truly a wonderful place for the children to live, frequented by a constant stream of kind volunteers, etc., I cannot help feeling saddened by the fact that these children do not have real adopted families to call their own. I was told that much of this is unfortunately founded in prejudices against the childrens' disease and backgrounds. I'm a long way away from having children of my own, and hadn't ever really considered the option of adopting, but would not at all be opposed to the idea of someday looking to an orphanage such as this as a possible option.
Cor is home to kids of all ages, from 3-14ish, and I cannot help but admire the patience of the older children as they help the mothers with preparing food and the younger ones with their homework. The pre-teens do not offer me the same unconditional love as the younger kids (I refer mainly to the girls, because the boys are hormonal and awkwardly flirtatious with me and soccer serves as our means of communication when language barriers prove to thick), but I hope to win their love with time. It is definitely more difficult than wooing the love of the pre-teens at Bruin Woods last summer, and that wasn't exactly the easiest task. I tried to break the ice with a girl named Nadia yesterday by commenting on her Quiksilver brand sweatshirt--I tried to tell her that it was a very popular brand in the US, especially among surfers, etc. in California. Part of me wonders if she was thinking, "Yeah, well it's probably from there originally, but came to me second-hand with this brown stain on the sleeve." Perhaps I will bring a magazine or something next time to share with her. I will make sure none of the pages are ripped. (With the little kids, all you have to do is tell them that Arnold Schwarzenegger is your boyfriend or that you are 200 years old and they automatically think you're the coolest person on the planet.)
Bueno, much more to come about the orphanage later. Could fill novels already and it has been barely three weeks.
In other news, went with Tara today to explore the neighborhood of San Telmo, and specifically Plaza San Martin. We took a self-guided tour of the "Museo de Armas" or "Weapons Museum." This held our interest for about 20 minutes. I mean in no way to discount the awesomeness of the museum--it was loaded (hehe) with an incredible amount of guns, knives, cannons, suits of armor, some samurai stuff, etc...but Tara and I both agreed that we just don't have enough knowledge/appreciation for that kind of stuff. I think the museum was designed more for the type with that y chromosome thing: the interior design and ambiance could have used a serious make-over, and the women's bathroom had no place to hang a purse or coat. Also, someone had left the toilet seat up.
The next tour we took was much more suited for us: it was of a really cool mansion built long ago for the rich family of General Paz (founder of a popular newspaper here still in circulation)...it was BEAUTIFUL. Gold plated walls, intricately carved wooden furniture, ornate chandeliers (also called "aranas" or SPIDERS in Spanish, due to their appearance...blegh!), etc. The tour was reminiscent of tours in California of both Hearst Castle and Winchester Mystery House. Apparently they rent out rooms for dances, weddings, etc.--depending on the quantity of people, timespan, etc. it's about 13,000 pesos for a night--aka $4,000 USD? Believe that's about how much it cost to rent out the Library Galeria downtown for Senior Ball? Not a bad option...I might get married there...the problem of course would be shipping family/friends down to South America from the US... A high point of the tour (which was conducted in Spanish by a sweet elderly lady) was the realization that I could understood almost everything being said! Such a world of difference in comparison to the last Spanish guided tour I had taken about a month ago. I had to clarify the translations for "plaster," "dome," and "wood of walnut tree," but other than that I got the main gist of everything being said! (Just don't ask me to give the tour myself...listening comprehension is quite different from speaking ability!)
Ok my eyes are going to burn up if I look at the computer any longer. Looking forward to a full day tomorrow out on an estancia (ranch) a couple hours out of town with the study abroad group!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Frat House Embassies
Tired of the usual, New York City status hustle-bustle of Cabildo Avenue here in the neighborhood of Belgrano, city of Buenos Aires, country of Argentina, I decided the other day to take an alternate route on my walk to school. Granted I probably could have handled Cabildo Avenue on this particular day because I was walking to a class that began at the frighteningly early hour of 8am, when not even the coffee shops are open, I am pleased with my decision to have taken a road less traveled...I found the "frat row" of Argentina! (Yes, as in "row of fraternity houses on a college campus.")
I was walking (in my new, amazing boots!) along Avenida 11 de Septiembre, welcoming the change of scenery and enjoying the most recent song that the shuffle feature of my iPod had selected for my listening pleasure ("Shape of my Heart," Backstreet Boys), when I happened upon an especially ornate building. Architecture interested me as a school/career option at one point in my life, but I'm not really learned in the subject at all, so instead of taking a stab at the style and era of the building, I'm just going to say that it looked like a "really fancy house." (Although I have been told that most of the architecture throughout the city draws from French and Italian influences...just like the food.) Anyway, there was a sign on the sidewalk just outside the rod-iron fence encircling the building indicating that parking outside the Vietnam Embassy was strictly prohibited. I did a double-take. Wait, the Vietnam Embassy? My level of self-importance spiked at that moment: I was in the presence of a real live ambassadorial residence! I paused for a moment and then continued on my way, only to immediately after happen upon another parking-prohibited sign, but this time belonging to the Turkish Embassy! And then shortly thereafter, I found the Czech Republic's Embassy! By the time I had arrived at school on this round-about walk, I needed a second hand to count on my fingers all the embassies I had seen: those of Vietnam, Turkey, the Czech Republic, Thailand, Austria, and Australia.
During my walk, I found myself looking for other "parking prohibited" signs outside of each building I passed, and also craning my neck in search of other details that might give away yet another embassy...like, tiny gold placards on front entrance gates, or 4-car garages stocked with Mercedes Benz, standing guards in uniform, and flags waving proudly over front doors. (Sometimes the signs were obvious, and other times not.) Regardless, it stirred in me memories of similar adventures...though I could not quite place it...and then it hit me! Ahh, scoping out the embassies was like scoping out the frat houses and parties at UCLA on a typical Thursday night! (Of course, a very non-shallow process.) If embassies were frat houses, these would be my first impression conclusions:
-Thailand had the prettiest embassy, which probably means its parties are the worst, because no one ever goes there and actually trashes the place. (Frat house "disrepair" index corresponds with party "fun" level, obviously.)
-Turkey knows what's up. The embassy was gray in color and the architecture rather simple and modern, but judging by the trodden grass on the front lawn, something big had gone down there the night before...lots of foot traffic. Also, the ambassador and other officials probably invest more of their resources in "party provisions" rather than building maintenance, which is a plus.
-The Czech Republic, I suspect, is that "little-known yet really cool" frat, judging by its long driveway which led (to what I assume was the embassy) behind a thick grove of trees, such that the embassy was completely concealed from the view of pedestrian traffic. Although word of their parties probably only gets passed around via underground means (whereas the staff members (bros?) of the other embassies on the row could easily just open their front windows or party on the lawn and beckon to passers-by to join in on the fun), I bet they get away with murder at the Czech Republic Embassy considering they are out of ear-shot of cops and neighbors who might file noise complaints.
-Australia for some reason feels entitled to have their embassy cover an entire corner of the block; theirs is by far the largest of all the embassies I saw. I wouldn't go as far as saying it was also the fairest of all, although the building was very well-kept. I have the sneaking suspicion that they are harboring a mock Coral Sea in there--complete perhaps with a miniature Great Barrier Reef and some sick waves so the government officials can get in some surfing without driving 4 hours south to the nearest surf-able coast. Perhaps they also have some barbies in there for puttin' shrimp on. Eh, mate?
-Austria: Nothing particularly memorable about this one. But, perhaps they get the occasional party guests who mistake them for the cooler Australia around the corner?
....
And so concluded my walk to school one fine Tuesday morning. I later let my imagination wander again as I sat through three hours of a professor talking in Spanish far too rapidly for my little brain to digest.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Random Snapshots
No words coming to mind right now...here is a random smattering of photos for your viewing pleasure. Photos compliments of Kristin Rumery :) (They are copy and pasted from Facebook...I don't have my USB cord, otherwise uploading my own photos would be much easier!)
In the neighborhood of San Telmo in BsAs...beautiful architecture!
In the ritzy neighborhood of Puerto Madero in BsAs. We are standing on a bridge called "Puente de la Mujer" (Bridge of the Woman)
Ordering food in restaurants here is always a mystery...translations are iffy at best such that you never know quite what you're going to get...thought "Pollo Limon" (lemon chicken) would be a safe bet, but turns out the "Limon" part was in reference to lemon-flavored mayonnaise. Delicious! NOT.
In the neighborhood of San Telmo in BsAs...beautiful architecture!
In the ritzy neighborhood of Puerto Madero in BsAs. We are standing on a bridge called "Puente de la Mujer" (Bridge of the Woman)
Ordering food in restaurants here is always a mystery...translations are iffy at best such that you never know quite what you're going to get...thought "Pollo Limon" (lemon chicken) would be a safe bet, but turns out the "Limon" part was in reference to lemon-flavored mayonnaise. Delicious! NOT.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Boots, Classes, Peanut Butter, Kids
Bought a beautiful pair of leather boots yesterday. It was a complete impulse buy (eek!), but I keep asking myself as justification, "When else will I be able to buy such quality leather goods for such cheap prices?" They are gorgeous. Win. And they look good on me. Double win. And my orthotics fit into them! Triple win! They are also very functional--good for both walking in the city and for wearing out dancing in clubs. (My host-mom was pleased with this as well, as she will no longer have to lecture me on not wearing strappy gladiator sandals out to clubs in the dead of winter.) I find myself saying way too often "Yo soy de Los Angeles y no estoy acostumbrada a este tiempo! Nunca es invierno en LA!" to make up for my ill-equipped-for-winter wardrobe (as earlier mentioned, I brought about 6 summer dresses for every sweater and 3 pairs of sandals for every pair of closed-toe shoes. Good thing I hastily threw in my peacoat with my luggage as a last-minute decision before leaving the US.)
In other news, completed first week of classes. I will be taking two literature classes (one with works from 20th century-present, and the other with works from 19th century-way earlier), and a Spanish grammar class. These classes are with other international students and taught in Spanish. I will also be taking a class on epidemiology and nutrition with Argentine students, but have yet to have the first class because Argentines are still on extended vacation as a result of the SWINE FLU scare. (Feel urge to add the ominous "duh-duh-duh" after every time that is mentioned.) Not sure why foreign students are exempt from the same extended vacations. Perhaps it is assumed that those of us hailing the northern hemisphere have stronger immune systems, having already experienced the first wave of the pandemic? No se. Anyyyyway that class should be interesting.
In other, even more exciting news, I FOUND PEANUT BUTTER AND HUMMUS IN BUENOS AIRES!!!! Of all places, in Chinatown. I do have to say that these products looked much better in their unopened jars than after tasting them (peanut butter is a bit too liquid-y and makes my lips stick together...and of course I don't have normal-tasting milk to wash it down with...and the hummus is just strange) but it's better than nothing! Enjoyed one too many crackers with peanut butter and honey as a midnight (mid-morning?) snack after returning home from salsa dancing late last night (this morning?) Still getting accustomed to "la vida noche" (nightlife) here...pulled my first all night boliche (club) experience with Kristin, Tara, and the North Carolina boys earlier this week. We met at a bar in Palermo around 1:30 am, caught a taxi to the club around 2:30am, began dancing around 3:00am, stopped dancing around 6:00am, caught the subway to the nearest McDonald's (MUCH better here than in the US--at least the "McCafe" part which offers higher-end coffee and pastries) and ate breakfast at 7:00am, and returned home to sleep around 8:00am, just as the sun was rising. Needless to say, was absolutely exhausting. But on the plus side, we saved money on the usual taxi ride home, considering the subway had begun operating again for the day as we were finishing our night! Was odd sitting on the subway in "clubbin' clothes" as others were dressed in work clothes.
Also, began work at the orphanage! Went for the first time this past Friday and immediately fell in love. Was greeted by a gaggle of hyper children who immediately inquired as to whether I had a boyfriend--specifically, the other guy from my program who has been working at the home (Chris). I shrugged my shoulders as to whether or not I was dating Chris (barely know the kid, and wanted to spare him the burden of pretending to be in a relationship with me without his consent), but after glancing up at "Pirates of the Caribbean" playing on the TV in the background, I attempted to convince the children that I dated Orlando Bloom years and years ago. (I managed to concoct a story about how we first met, which involved exploding airplanes and abandonment on a deserted island.) LOVE the children. They are a bit rougher of a crowd than the Bruin Woods kids (Instead of toting iPods and hailing from families with summer homes in Malibu, these kids hail from families that either likely abandoned them or exposed them to things that resulted in severe psychological damage, like extreme violence or using the kids as a means of trafficking drugs. Oh yeah, and they all have HIV--although I was told that this is actually the least of these kids' worries because they are taking medication and antiretrovirals that allow them to function normally, and many of them are too young to even understand the implications of the disease.). Anyway, enjoyed a wonderful afternoon playing soccer with the kids on the back patio (truly is the universal sport...and these kids are GOOD!), and was even given my first love-letter since being here from an adorable little girl named Barbara. Met also with the directors of the home, all of whom are very kind and welcoming, and the lead director of whom asked if I had a boyfriend (why is that such a common question here?!), and after my negative reply, now seems intent on setting me up with her son. Goodness gracious. I expect to learn a lot from the kids; they have already proven patient teachers.
Looking forward to a fresh week of adventure!
In other news, completed first week of classes. I will be taking two literature classes (one with works from 20th century-present, and the other with works from 19th century-way earlier), and a Spanish grammar class. These classes are with other international students and taught in Spanish. I will also be taking a class on epidemiology and nutrition with Argentine students, but have yet to have the first class because Argentines are still on extended vacation as a result of the SWINE FLU scare. (Feel urge to add the ominous "duh-duh-duh" after every time that is mentioned.) Not sure why foreign students are exempt from the same extended vacations. Perhaps it is assumed that those of us hailing the northern hemisphere have stronger immune systems, having already experienced the first wave of the pandemic? No se. Anyyyyway that class should be interesting.
In other, even more exciting news, I FOUND PEANUT BUTTER AND HUMMUS IN BUENOS AIRES!!!! Of all places, in Chinatown. I do have to say that these products looked much better in their unopened jars than after tasting them (peanut butter is a bit too liquid-y and makes my lips stick together...and of course I don't have normal-tasting milk to wash it down with...and the hummus is just strange) but it's better than nothing! Enjoyed one too many crackers with peanut butter and honey as a midnight (mid-morning?) snack after returning home from salsa dancing late last night (this morning?) Still getting accustomed to "la vida noche" (nightlife) here...pulled my first all night boliche (club) experience with Kristin, Tara, and the North Carolina boys earlier this week. We met at a bar in Palermo around 1:30 am, caught a taxi to the club around 2:30am, began dancing around 3:00am, stopped dancing around 6:00am, caught the subway to the nearest McDonald's (MUCH better here than in the US--at least the "McCafe" part which offers higher-end coffee and pastries) and ate breakfast at 7:00am, and returned home to sleep around 8:00am, just as the sun was rising. Needless to say, was absolutely exhausting. But on the plus side, we saved money on the usual taxi ride home, considering the subway had begun operating again for the day as we were finishing our night! Was odd sitting on the subway in "clubbin' clothes" as others were dressed in work clothes.
Also, began work at the orphanage! Went for the first time this past Friday and immediately fell in love. Was greeted by a gaggle of hyper children who immediately inquired as to whether I had a boyfriend--specifically, the other guy from my program who has been working at the home (Chris). I shrugged my shoulders as to whether or not I was dating Chris (barely know the kid, and wanted to spare him the burden of pretending to be in a relationship with me without his consent), but after glancing up at "Pirates of the Caribbean" playing on the TV in the background, I attempted to convince the children that I dated Orlando Bloom years and years ago. (I managed to concoct a story about how we first met, which involved exploding airplanes and abandonment on a deserted island.) LOVE the children. They are a bit rougher of a crowd than the Bruin Woods kids (Instead of toting iPods and hailing from families with summer homes in Malibu, these kids hail from families that either likely abandoned them or exposed them to things that resulted in severe psychological damage, like extreme violence or using the kids as a means of trafficking drugs. Oh yeah, and they all have HIV--although I was told that this is actually the least of these kids' worries because they are taking medication and antiretrovirals that allow them to function normally, and many of them are too young to even understand the implications of the disease.). Anyway, enjoyed a wonderful afternoon playing soccer with the kids on the back patio (truly is the universal sport...and these kids are GOOD!), and was even given my first love-letter since being here from an adorable little girl named Barbara. Met also with the directors of the home, all of whom are very kind and welcoming, and the lead director of whom asked if I had a boyfriend (why is that such a common question here?!), and after my negative reply, now seems intent on setting me up with her son. Goodness gracious. I expect to learn a lot from the kids; they have already proven patient teachers.
Looking forward to a fresh week of adventure!
Monday, July 27, 2009
Salta/Jujuy Recap!
I returned home a couple hours ago from exploring the very northwestern corner of Argentina, during a 10-day trip that will now be marked in my personal life history book as one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had. Prior to leaving for Argentina from the US I had not even heard of the provinces Salta and Jujuy, sandwiched between the Andes Mountains and Chile to the east and Bolivia to the north, let alone would I have expected to find such bliss while there. I am apprehensive about blogging of my experiences and relaying stories from my travels, because I know that no choice of words will amount to the real thing. How to capture the taste of the sweet, freshly steaming humitas? The kind and patient eyes of the woman from whom I bought my pendant and who told me of her adventures parachuting off the nearby cliff with her husband and daughter amongst condors? The feel of they dry high-desert air, which dried the skin of my face and refused to let my recently purchased moisturizer (finally found a beauty store that carries Clinique products!) repair my damaged skin? The temporary escape into a lifestyle, far removed from city smog and deadlines, so much more tranquil and simple than that to which I have grown accustomed? The prisms of color splashed onto the awesome geology that encircled us; rock formations of the most vibrant reds, purples, and greens jutting hundreds, thousands of feet into the air? Perhaps when the approximately 500 pictures waiting to be uploaded from my camera onto my computer make their way onto this blog, they will fill in for the thousands of words I will surely leave out.
It is no easy task to summarize the events of ten amazing, adventure-filled days in a single blog entry, and I could (and probably will) write on forever, so skim if you get bored. My apologies for all the word vomit.
Day 1: Left BsAs with Tara and Kristin via plane at 7:20am, landed in Salta a few hours later (our first impressions in 3 words: fresh air, mountains, agriculture). We were quite the comical trio, and realized upon landing in Salta that although we had booked reservations for our hostel, we didn’t have the address or any idea as to how we were planning on getting there. Ditched the “let’s not appear like tourists” goal and frantically searched for someone who could help us/a computer (both scarce) and eventually convinced a seemingly bored, Facebook-browsing office worker in the airport to kindly assist us. One embarrassing walk with rolly-suitcases and city gear down a stretch of road meant for cars, one 45-minute collectivo (bus) ride, and another embarrassing walk down broken sidewalks and curbs unkind to rolling baggage later, we made it to our hostel, aka Heaven. Note to self: selecting hostel’s on hostelworld.com based on “fun level” rating pays off.
Hadn’t stayed in a hostel before, but was half-expecting flee-infested living conditions bordering on the comfort level of Hedrick Hall (aka, not comfortable). Was pleasantly surprised, and contrary to what I had expected, we were greeted with open arms and clean sheets. Youthful atmosphere. Later enjoyed an awesome (free) dinner of freshly baked pizza in the outdoor patio area; Red Hot Chili Peppers, twinkly lights, and Coronas made for a perfect combination. Had so much fun chatting with Tara and Kristin and our new friends from Hawaii and Australia. Were ready to retreat to our room when the guys that worked at the hostel (Fernando and Hernan) asked (?) if we were planning on going out with them later that night. Sure! Enjoyed the Salta night life, a glowingly green drink whose name translates to “skin of iguana,” and tried (after some hesitation) the local custom of chewing coca leaves (“No son drogas, chicas!” Takes an entire pool-sized amount to make a gram of cocaine, or so they told us.) Fended off creepy Paraguayans and were later perplexed by the 3 peso charge required to leave the club. Upon arrival back to our room at approximately 5:30am (yes, as breakfast for excursion-goers the following day was being prepared in the kitchen), we spread our heavily smoke-scented clothing about the room to air. The amount of smoking in the clubs in Argentina is unbearable. Everyone smokes, and a lot. Quite sad.Before the night’s festivities, we enjoyed going to MAAM [Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montana de Salta], where we viewed 600-year-old Incan children who were discovered by archaelogists in the high peaks of the Andes in 1999 after having been naturally mummified since their burial in the 1400s preceding Spanish conquest) delicious empanadas [30 pesos for a dozen], walking around Plaza 9 de Julio, and stepping inside an awesome church [Iglesia y Convento San Francisco] which literally looked like a pink and white frosted cake from the outside…super ornate inside as well. Sat in the pews and pretended we were religious, when some kind of service began. I fell asleep, yikes. Think I’m more of the soccer-game-on-Sunday type of girl.
Day 2: Will try to make this one shorter. After waking up at 2pm and washing the distinct smoky smell typical of the boliches out of out hair and skin, we welcomed the arrival of three more girls from our program (2 of whom also go to UCLA, Lianna and Lily) to join us for the day and night. Took a gondola ride up a high peak as twilight was setting in (but no Edward Cullen), and were able to look out across the city—gorgeous! Enjoyed a 30-minute hike down the mountain, where we found groups of local kids gathered in circles playing guitars and singing. We took a break and situated ourselves nearby, wishing we had the courage to approach them and be friends, but later becoming satisfied by singing “La Bamba” and “Twist and Shout” from a distance, relishing the fact that music has the beautiful capability of transcending cultural and linguistic barriers. Later that night enjoyed asado (BBQ) and a peña (folklore song/dance show) at the hostel…our new friends Fernando and Hernan amazed us with their musical talents; they both switched easily between 3, 4 instruments apiece, including their own voices. I reevaluated earlier judgments that had ignorantly dismissed them as “hostel workers and not much else.” Had a blast getting up and dancing. Both Kristin and Tara were selected from the audience to try folk dancing, which resulted in hilarity and one too many video recordings. (To upload later…)
Day 3: Took a full-day excursion to a town called Cachi, located about 4 hours west of the city of Salta.
The views along the entire drive were nothing short of breathtaking. Awe-inspiring rock formations of every color of the rainbow, 400-year-old cacti, snow-capped Andes in the distance, etc. No big deal. 
Ate dish popular of the region, locro, for lunch (delicious veggie stew with mysterious chunk of meat in the middle), and finished it off with some rice pudding, which I ordered simply because its name on the menu was Bella Vista (hah! Go Broncos!) De-lish. 
Wanted to kidnap the little 2-year-old boy sitting next to me on the bus with his parents—he was literally THE cutest little kid I’ve ever seen, and I feel like I’ve seen a handful of 2-year-olds. Thought of how much Amanda would love him as a gift from me from Argentina, though if we can’t even bring back plants to the states, I doubt that small children would make it through customs. Had dinner again at the hostel. Enjoyed conversing with “Victor” from Spain during the meal of odd-tasting spaghetti. Decided during the midst of the conversation that I was glad to not be studying in Spain—the lisp with which he spoke, characteristic of Spaniards, would have spelled horrors for my brief past of speech therapy and lisp-correction practices.
Day 4: Bussed south two hours to Cafayate with K and T. ADORABLE town. Enjoyed wine tours (organic winery called Nanni took the cake…especially enjoyed the sweet white desert wine special to the area called Torrontes. Were also muy jealous that our tour guide easily alternated between Spanish, English, and French throughout the tour.) Almost died of happiness upon later eating the most amazing flatbread EVER, which we bought from a guy making them fresh on the side of the road after following the scent of the bread from blocks away. Back at the hostel, lamented the fact that we were not at Backpacker’s again, but had cool roommates from France. Also met a gaggle of cute little kids gathered around a puppy in the foyer of the hostel. Learned the words for “paws” and “tail.” Kids are the most patient teachers. A second urge to kidnap children kicked in at this time.
Day 5: Took a beautiful hike through mountains starting 2.5km out of town. GORGEOUS. Words can’t describe.
It is not recommended to take this hike without a local guide, so we hired the services of a local 15-year-old kid named Axil to lead the way. He did the whole thing without water and with his hands in his pockets, while Kristin, Tara, and I huffed and puffed the whole way up. Very fun experience. Later ate dinner at a restaurant in the main plaza, where we didn’t realize there would be live music/dancing show. Before the show began, the lead guitarist/vocalist asked each table of people where they were from (in Spanish), “De donde son?”. When he arrived at our table, the inquiry was in English, “Where are you from?” Frustrating but comical: can’t blend in as locals when traveling with a pelirroja (redhead) like Kristin! Drowned our sorrows in two bottles of the sweet desert wine (eek) and later indulged in ice cream and more wine with the guys that worked at our hostel (who also informed us that it would take around 20 years to reach a point of Spanish fluency anywhere near to that of our English. Ugh. But true.)
Day 6: Woke up literally 2 hours after returning home from the bar with the hostel workers to catch a bus to Jujuy (region north of Salta). Ended up traveling way farther north than originally anticipated, and after 8 hours (slept the whole way) we found ourselves in the town of Humahuaca. Fell in love with the peaceful atmosphere of our hostel, and decided on point to spend 3 nights instead of the originally planned one night there. Enjoyed our first showers in approx. 72 hours and embraced the momentarily warm weather by walking around barefoot outside.
Met some tight guys, Nick and Worth, from North Carolina (both starting college this fall, so Amanda’s age), and ended up going out to dinner with them later that night after buying more sweaters and scarves made out of alpaca fur than we could imagine. Ate dinner at a restaurant called Casa Vieja, where the waitress seemed to hate us for no apparent reason and jipped us of our dessert (gave us dessert menus and then when we were ready to order, told us the restaurant was closing and we couldn’t have any. Puta.),so we stepped into the next open restaurant we could find and ordered 2 portions of flan w/ dulce de leche to share amongst the five of us. Decided two portions were not quite satisfying enough, and so ordered four more plates of it (cleaned the restaurant of their flan supply) and ate every last bite. A-MA-ZING.
Day 7: Opted out of plans to awake early and go south to Tilcara for the day, and instead spent all day bumming around the hostel reading/writing/eating. Had one of the more interesting experiences of my life on this day, and am still not quite sure what to think of it. T, K, and I decided to take the morning to ourselves (a bit of alone time was needed after spending 6 straight days with each other), and so I headed into town with book and sketchpad under arm. I situated myself on one of the sixty stone steps leading up to a huge monument, but looked in the direction opposite of the impressing statue and instead tried to capture on sketchpad the scene of the local artisan fair before me. Mid-drawing, I was approached by two 9-year-old kids who were curious as to what I was doing. I instinctively dismissed them as beggers and slyly secured the partially-unzipped compartments of my backpack, however I soon discovered that they were harmless, and we enjoyed a short conversation and language lesson (I learned local words for “dog” and “grandma,” and taught the boys “hello,” “bye=bye,” and “puppy” (“dog” proved too difficult for them to pronounce). Although this was an interesting experience, it was not the interesting experience to which I earlier referred. That came next.
After reading a chapter of The Zookeeper’s Wife in the sun right outside the main plaza, I went to the Folklore Museum where I enjoyed a tour given by a kindly looking old man. The other tourists were a family from BsAs, who kindly helped me with translations when I didn’t understand. When the tour was over, I stuck around for a couple minutes to ask our tour-guide to clarify a couple points I hadn’t completely understood. He elaborated, and then asked me some questions about myself and my life. I was mid-response on “What kind of work does you father do?” when he abruptly grabbed hold of my arm, looked me in the face, and informed me that I had a “gran pena” (“significant troubles”) that needed resolving. He then said, “Mi padre me enseño como conocer a la gente” (“My father taught me how to know people,” if my translation is correct). He then told me he had a gift for me and led me back into the final room where the tour had just finished. He retrieved a small leather pouch from behind some other objects on a bookshelf and procured a small white stone with a gold center, which he placed into my palm and closed my fingers around. He then embraced me in a hug, stroked my hair, and trembled a little all while murmuring stuff in Spanish. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, but figured he was solving my “gran pena,” whatever it was. He then told me then that I was “very intelligent, but too sensitive.” My first reaction when this was over was, “Sweet! I just got cured of something by a witch-doctor sort of figure.” But was confused by his subsequent invitation to join him for dinner that night. I played neutral, and said I was here with two friends, one of whom was sick and might need my help tonight. After he gave me a pamphlet of poetry he had written, which had his website and contact info on the front, I bid him adieu and walked quickly back through town and over the river to our hostel on the skirts of town.
In the hostel, I found Tara taking advantage of the 1-peso-per-half-hour Internet, explained what had just happened, and tried to portray the urgency of needing to look up online more about the strange man I had just met. At this point, I was still contemplating whether or not to go back and join him for dinner tonight—the invitation seemed a bit weird, but I also didn’t want to later kick myself for not having taken advantage of a great cultural opportunity. In our Internet search, we discovered that the man was a very distinguished man in the area—author of 14 books about indigenous culture, had been a professor of indigenous language Quechua at a university in BsAs, was owner and founder of the museum I had just visited, etc. Seemed legit. Later asked the man who owned the hostel whom we had grown to trust throughout the past few days, Ruben, what he thought about the man. I could tell he was answering the question carefully. He spoke slowly and seemed to pick his words with utmost care and consideration. Basically, he informed us that this man, although very renowned and distinguished renown in his areas of study, is not a good man, and not well-liked by the local people of Humahuaca. He informed me that the invitation to dinner was probably an invitation to more than dinner, if you know what I mean. He shared with us a quote that translated more or less to, “He speaks of the indigenous people, but not to them,” as a means of illustrating his attitude toward locals and how he doesn’t allow anyone but people from outlying provinces into his museum. I was very glad I talked to Ruben about my experience, and opted to stay in the hostel that night for dinner. Enjoyed a delicious meal of homemade oatmeal and crackers with honey with Tara and Kristin.
Day 8: Bussed 3 hours north to small town of Iruya for the day. Dustiest, most uncomfortable bus ride I have ever experienced, but quite a kick. Marveled at how the buses still manage to function after traveling continuously upon roads barely-paved. Iruya is just below the Bolivian border, and is a town sandwiched in the valley between rock walls a thousand feet high. Absolutely breathtaking. Peaceful and quite. Enjoyed a short hike up to a lookout point, during which we stumbled upon horses and the outdoor recreation area of a school.
We walked down some steps leading to its basketball court and again couldn't believe what we saw…2 sides of the court were completely surrounded by chain-link fences, separating the court from the drop-offs below…surrounded by distant huge towering rock walls…echo-y, eerie feel. Very cool. Supported the local economy by buying peace sign earrings from a girl about my age, who kept saying “paz y amor, paz y amor” (peace and love), then somehow survived the 3 hour bus ride back to Humahuaca.Back at the hostel, we found our usually-peaceful lobby now filled with 14 high school-aged kids from England who had just completed eight full days of backpacking throughout the northwest. Later discovered that their expedition leader was to be sharing the upstairs portion of our room that night. Our reaction can be deduced a brief description of this guy. [Name: Simon. Physical appearance: fit, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes. Profession: outdoor excursion leader by summer, teacher by other seasons. Professor by other seasons. Subject taught? Biochemistry, at a university in London. Age? Twenty-five.] Needless to say, we felt a bit unaccomplished after speaking with him. But very thankful that the gods seemed to be smiling upon us and endlessly casting attractive gentlemen in our path throughout the trip, for earlier we had met in the hostel lobby a very nice guy from BsAs and his dad and brother, who played guitar/sang for us (Jason Mraz, mom!) and later invited us to play “The General is Coming” (Yahtzee) with them.
Also, necessary to mention: Kristin and I discovered a delicious alternative to peanut butter/banana/honey sandwiches! Mixed bananas, honey, dry oatmeal, and finely-chopped peanuts in a bowl and then scooped the mixture onto crackers...DE-LISH. Shared it with the Argentine family we met, and think they thought we were a bit loco.
Day 9: Chilled in the morning, collected our freshly cleaned, sun-dried laundry, and packed for the journey back to Salta before flying home out of the Salta airport back to BsAs. We were all very ready to go back home after so much time spent traveling. I read outside in the sun, alternating between The Zookeeper’s Wife and El Leon, La Bruja, y El Ropero (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—in Spanish). Met some cool kids from France on the five hour bus ride, and enjoyed sitting with Kristin up at the very front of the bus on the second level, where we embraced the beautiful views of the country out of the front and side windows…reminded me of being on the ride Soarin’ over California at Disney’s California Adventures theme park. Upon arrival in Salta, enjoyed a final dinner and exchanged gifts with the hostel owners (they gave us CDs with their music for a sketch of the hostel I drew for them), and then went to bed.
Day 10: Went to airport to fly back home to BsAs.
Throughout the trip, Kristin, Tara, and I continuously reflected about how amazing our trip had been. Literally, nothing went wrong. I have never been on a trip that went so smoothly. We had zero hick-ups, except for Kristin struggling a little with mysterious and recurrent food poisoning. Met the coolest people in the world, and decided that hostels are some of the most interesting places on the planet. Met people from all over the (developed?) world: France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, Australia, New Zealand, other parts of the states, etc. (none from Africa, Asia, or the Middle East). Everyone we met had interesting travel stories to share, or interesting perspectives to offer. Sooo much fun. K, T, and I have resolved to spend at least one night upon returning back to UCLA in the hostel in Santa Monica, just for kicks. Perhaps we’ll even seek out part-time employment? Also, we are planning on buying a Lonely Planet guidebook to Los Angeles (after seeing one in a bookstore here) so we can explore our own city, which is a travel destination for so many others.
Wheeeeeeeeeew that was a lot of writing. If you made it to the end of this, congratulations, you now know way more about minute details of my travels than you probably ever wanted to know! 3,628 words, really? Why is it so much more difficult to reach that word count when writing school papers?
Love to all,
Allison
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