Walking Slow

I stopped in mid-step half-way down Avenida Libertador today and asked myself “why are you walking so fast?”

I had just attended my last internship meeting and handed in my final paper. I was free. But I was still walking like time owned me.

My mother is right: I function better with too many things to do on my to do list; I thrive under stress, deadlines and full agendas.

Even today, I dutifully filled in my agenda with museums to see, as to not “waste” one precious moment of time.

But as I walked out of MALBA, my first of 3 scheduled stops, I just felt exhausted. So I crossed the final two stops off my list (literally), walked to the nearest Havana, ordered my beloved coffee and just sat. Sat, and thought, and breathed, and relaxed and accepted my empty agenda.

Summer Sweats

Hace calor is an understatement. It was almost 90 degrees today, the third day in december. I sweat as i browsed corrientes looking at the cheap imitation Christmas wreathes. And it all seemed a bit surreal.

Tonight the best $1 ice cream i have ever eaten dripped down my hand as Emily and I walked Almagro at night. Even at 11, the air was heavy making my ice cream and forehead sweat.

Now at midnight, i smell the neighbor's asada and hear their late night celebration. It feels like the fourth of july not the third of december.

At home the world is covered in a white blanket of snow or as the news here calls it "muerte blanca"= white death. The worlds could not be farther apart in this moment.

The lists

Almost everyone i know made the three lists before they left Buenos Aires: the things they love about argentina, the things they hate about it and what they miss about home.

The idea is to look at the things you love now to appreciate the last moments here, look at the things you hate when you are crying at the airport and look at the things you missed from home when you are wondering how it was ever possible to miss such a boring small town.

So in the spirit of tradition and because it is therapeutic, here are my lists.


THINGS I LOVE ABOUT ARGENTINA
1. CAFE!!! - i am going to die without cafe havana
2. Cheap, cool clothes on Cordoba
3. el subte
4. thick curly hair :)
5. Gancia and cheap wine
6. alfajores, ducle de leche, milensa and carne- all the food i started out hating and will now crave
7. mi familia and all of the girls from my track
8. ferias, teatro, plazas, centros culturales: always having something cheap and amazing to do at any hour and any day
9. the exchange rate: cheap waxes, cheap avocados, cheap(er) living
10. lo argnetino: the accent, UBA, the flag, it is a country unlike any other

THE THINGS I HATE ABOUT ARGENTINA
1. PIROPOS
2. Dog shit and the smell of dog shit everywhere
3. Light pollution- oh how i miss the stars
4. Noise pollution- honking does not make the light change color faster
5. Crowed wallet-stealing buses
6. Broken sidewalks and dripping building juice
7. INEFFICIENCY- i will be a happy person if i never have to wait in three lines at the correo again
8. Self absorbed argentine conversations
9. Self absorbed mullet wearing argentine musicians
10. Self absorbed argentine waiters- i miss customer service

THINGS I MISS ABOUT HOME
1. family and friends
2. My room, my big bed, my down comforter, sleeping and sleeping and sleeping
3. Grocery stores and cooking
4. Madison: the union, the coffee shops, the restaurants
5. Food: mexican, thai, chinese, bagels, skim milk, CHEESE!
6. Talking face to face with the people i love
7. Midwest friendliness
8. living on water
9. Target
10. Tampons with plastic applicators

Almost there- casi ya esta

Papers are done, almost all presents are bought (ps Rob you are a lot harder to buy for than i though) and after a confirmation from the good-looking but macho Ivan, my final trip with mom will be ready. Casi ya esta, casi.

This weekend was the last weekend, at least the last regualar weekend, i spent in Buenos Aires and i was too exhausted to even make it to one last round of too-loud, too sticky, too-crowded boliches.

I did however take some fantastic pictures of Almagro, soaked in rays at the park, saw an amazing show accompanied by amazing noquis and spent the after noon wandering through modern art. In retrospect it was the weekend was better boliche-free, in general, argentina is better boliche free.

Dreams of Home Sweet Home

The past two weeks has been a whirlwind of last minute trips and activities. From boats to beaches and buses to well more buses, at the end of each amazing but exhausting trip, i just want to look out the window and see home. Home home: snow, bay and family. I want is to be back in Wisconsin.

I am desperately trying to enjoy my last month but with last minute papers to write, presents to buy and trips to take, I am running out of patience and coffee.

I just want to light a fire, curl up on the couch and sip some hot cocoa. I want to do nothing and not feel guilty for it.

Every spare last minute here in Buenos Aires i feel like has to be filled with one last-minute adventure. But my spontaneity is just about burnt out and my tired bones ache for comfort, routine, and rest.

Burnt, Burnt Bottom

I spent the day after thanksgiving eating an amazing Thanksgiving dinner complete with stuffing, mashed potatoes, a really large chicken we pretended was a turkey and a couple bottles of vino.

It was as perfect as Thanksgiving can get in a place so far from my hogar.

I spent the day after the day after thanksgiving eating leftovers straight from the fridge and complaining about how bloated my stomach was. Just about perfect.

The day after the day... you get the idea... i spent laying naked around a pool in 85 degree cloudless weather. Thus the burnt, burnt bottom. But the redness, slight pain and the inevitable peeling is all worth it considering a spent a full day without clothes in one of the most relaxed places in Argentina: Santa Clara, the pueblito outside Mar del Plata.

It was a vacation in every sense of the word: from eating too much to being naked too much, it was everything i needed to break up the paper writing and god-awful presentations in Spanish.

But now i have returned to my concrete jungle and reality to discover i am not yet done with... ugg... responsibilities.

So i am buckeling down for a few more days, putting a few more papers and worthless presentations under my belt before i can officially take my burnt behind on vacation.

Thanksgiving far from home

My Thanksgiving meal consisted of a suprema al napolitana (breaded chicken breast covered with argentina's favorite vegetable: ham) and a side of mashed potatoes. It was as close as i could get to the turkey and stuffing i was craving.

But after my less-than-thanksgivingy meal, I was determined to at least get part of thanksgiving right: the stuffing. So to satisfy my craving and my family's demand for some "american food" i went to the grocery store to buy the ingredients.

An hour later i stepped outside into the 85 degree heat, my celery stalks peeking out of my bags ready to make stuffing from scratch. A long shot from the box that normally produces my family's thanksgiving staple.

4 hours later, the stuffing was done and not that bad considering it was a first attempt and it sat for an hour waiting to be eaten by the endlessly late argentines. And the responses, well they were amusing.

Gustavo poked it, literally stuck his nose in the air as if it smelled bad and then dosed it with soy sauce. Angeles ate it with exaggerated smiles and yummy noises. Maite ate half of it like she does all her food and then got distracted and started telling me a story about her friend paulina. Inaki, making sure i was watching, ate it all and gave me a big smile as swallowed the last bite. And teo asked for seconds, bless her heart.

Me, I ate it but barely tasted it. Its flavor was like something vaguely familiar but yet almost unrecognizable.

And then i started to get home sick because i remembered, that it didn't taste the same because it was missing the other sides: the spuds mom makes out of a box and pretends are from real potatoes, Aunt Peg's spicy spinach, grandma's apple crisp and all of aunt laura's appetizers.

But more than that it was missing mom, aunt peg, grandma, aunt laura and the rest of the family. Food just tastes different, better, when you know people you love made it, and when you are there to eat it with them.

It is my first Thanksgiving away from home and I sincerely hope my last because there is no where like hogar for thanksgiving.

waiting on argentina yet again

The bus i was riding home tonight hit a car. But that is not the crazy part. After it hit the car it sped off as if it could make a get away on the congested streets of BsAs. A hit and run in a bus! Now that is crazy

However the young driver made some judgment errors thinking his bus could outrun the cops that were at the corner. The cops "chased down the bus" and "pulled it over," an amusing sight at 10 mph. All the people on my bus were clapping until they realized they were walking home. It was one of the most crazy, surreal experiences of Argentina.

And that was just part of my day of demoras.

today there were delays on the subte, my tutor was 2 hours late to meet me and i had to walk home. All of this equals i wasted a good 60% of my day waiting on la Argentina to get its act together.

Honestly, i have learned to deal with the inefficiency and the occasion blatant stupidity. I don't have an anxiety attack every time something doesn't go as it is planned in my agenda. But good lord will it be good to be back to the land of efficiency, punctuality and sanity.

Yes, mr. anonymous commenter, this is "a bit extreme" and even as i write it i am laughing because these things i hate about argentina are also what i love. I love that people take their time, enjoy their coffee and their friends. I love that the country is so filled with passion it spills over into inefficiency and demoras.

But I also love doing my tareas well because i planned it out. i love being punctual and showing people i respect their time. I love not waiting in line for 3 hours.

I guess i am just wondering that 5 month old question- can argentina and america mix? Can i have passion and punctuality? And if i can't which do i really prefer? Do i even have a decision?

Unplanned without regrets

I went on my first unplanned, unresearched, unmapped out trip. I left my agenda at home, exchanging it for a really bad romance novel. I brought my lonely planet, contemplated following its advice and then stuffed it in the bottom of my bag and took another nap on the beach.

I spent 3 glorious days in Uruguay without one single plan and without one single regret.

I think that is the first time i can honestly say i lived for three days without either plan or regret. It is a liberating feeling.

From watching storms roll in over the ocean to watching the sun rise over stale beer. From singing the soundtrack of RENT to the shinning moon to skinny dipping in impossibly cold water because of the flip of a coin. From heated feminist debates to ridiculously corny pickup lines.

Uruguay was full of everything new, unexpected and alive; everything i have been lacking in my list-making world. I finally feel 22 and not 42.

Argentine is right: I am young. I need to think less and listen to the surf, the stories of strangers, and the flips of coins more.

Piropos: Last Rant, I promise

Today i gave my castellano presentation on piropos and let me just say it didn't go over well.

First let me acknowledge that piropos have been the theme of probably one too many blog entries. For that matter, piropos have probably played too large of a role in my Argentine experience, they have consumed too much of my thoughts, too much of my time.

That said, i am going to dedicate one more entry to piropos and their cross-cultural effects.

My presentation discussed the difference between argentine and northamerican women's views on piropos. For the most part I discovered argentines and northamericans received the same amount of piropos and generally the same type- everything from linda (pretty) to puta (bitch). But the reactions and emotions associated with the piropos varies greatly depending on the woman.

Argetines like the "nice" piropos. They smile and say thank you and feel good about themselves and their bodies after they recieve a "nice" piropo. If they receive an ugly piropo they tend to feel embarrassed or ashamed. If they don't received any piropos they also start to feel bad about their appearance. Piropos make up part of argentine women's self esteem.

Northamericans hate piropos, all kinds of piropos from linda to puta. They never respond with a thank you or a smile but instead a mean glare and occasionally the finger. They don't feel embarrassed by piropos, they feel pissed. Most northamericans feel piropos are a violation of their bodies and there lives.

So there are the differences. The problem comes in the analysis of the differences, of what i consider a "problem." I stated that piropos are evidence of machismo in the culture. I thought this was a very acceptable widely know fact not an opinion to be discussed. After all it is men evaluating women's bodies and appearances and declaring them in a public space to keep women in a subordinate role. In what world is it not machista to yell puta at an unknown woman on the street?

However my teacher Gabriella was clearly in disagreement with me. First she declared machismo too complex of a term to define and then that piropos are an understood agreement between the sexes of argentina rather than a violation.

I was shocked.

I simply could not believe a woman would justify and defend piropos. Yes i understand that piropos are part of the culture, but that does not mean one has to agree with them. I am american yet i do not agree with the inequality in the education system or unilateral foreign policy. Without looking in one's culture and seeing the inequalities, cultures never develop to become just, or simply they never develop.

Which brings me to my next point: equality. Gabriella stated she was a woman and she was proud to be DIFFERENT from men. We said of course, no one is denying the DIFFERENCE between the sexes (although i might debate the origin of this difference since i believe it is societal and not natural). However DIFFERENT does not mean unequal. The sexes can be different and equal. But to me equal and equality is more than Gabriella's definition of equal opportunity in the work force. Equal is being treated with the same amount of respect at home, at work and in the streets. How can i be a partner in a law firm and then called puta on the street? (Yes carrie that is the second rhetorical question i used- argentine has officially ruined me!)

I am going to state something that i'm sure would piss off any argentine: Piropos are a problem. And yes piropos are part of the culture. And yes there is a problem with the culture. Excusing piropos as a "natural" part of culture does not actually justify them, it just ignores them.

Piropos are a problem because they keep half of argentine's population in a subordinate role, where they can not reach their full potential, where they can not contribute 100% to their society. Piropos are hurting Argentine's society- and not just 50% of it, all of it. All argentines are hurt because all argentines are denied an equal society.

We are told to not judge the culture we are living in; to observe and learn but not judge. And for the most part i have tried to understand the lack of punctuality, the endless talking, the lack of efficiency, and the seemingly self absorbed natures of Argentines. In all honestly i have gotten used to these things- i even laugh about them now.

Much i will never be used to or laugh about piropos because they are personal and are a violation. It is a judgment but it is too true for me in this moment to not state it; to not say clearly, throwing all cultural non-bias out the window, that piropos are wrong and i will always hate them.

OMG

The only thing my 8 year old host brother has learned from me over the course of the past 4 months is the oh-so-annoying phrase "Oh my god."

He says it all the time now no matter what the circumstance or context.

I don't think he realizes he sounds like a valley girl diva using oh my god as an adjective, noun and verb.

I don't think i ever realized how annoying it is when i say it.

Well at least part of me will always be left with my Argentine family.

Querida Buenos Aires

Tonight Angeles asked me if i wanted to go home. And i actually surprised myself by repsonding quickly no.

If circumstances were different, if i had more money, more time, less responsibilities and less plans, I would stay in Buenos Aires.

As i tried very inelegantly to explain in my still awful Spanish, Buenos Aires has grown on me. It now has a permanent place of endearment in my heart.

I feel like i have been through a traumatic experience with the city and it has brought us closer, it has created a bond that i will hold with me forever. Buenos Aires will always be a home to me.

That said, I had a dream last night i was walking through the aisles of Copps grocery store picking out things to make Christmas cookies. I am so excited to come home and see friends and family who faces are fuzzy in my memory but whose presences have been with me the entire last 4 months.

But i will be sad to leave the family i have made here. My friends and my argentine family now have their faces, the sound of their voices and their gestures permanently in my heart.

And the memories. The memories are etched into my mind like the silver workers chiseling designs into the sides of mate cups.

Today was another memory chiseled into my mind.

Today we went to the feria de mataderos and wandered through the chorizo-smelling smoke of the parilla, watched the folk dancers smile and snap and browsed the endless artisan stands. And when gustavo rolled his eyes when angeles stopped again at yet another stand and then whispered an inside joke about wives and their waiting husbands, i felt like part of the family. When Maite leaned her tired head against my hip when waiting for her parents to barter, i felt like family. When Inga honestly told me at the end of the day that he was tired of talking to me, i really felt like family.

So this is traveling: making new homes and new families knowing in the end you will only have the new memories. New families to share with old families. New experiences to mix with an old life. A new home to leave for an old. And new memories to add to the old, to help create this colorful scrapbook of experiences that is becoming my life.

Mi nombre imprimado

I love seeing my name in print. It gives me a sense of accomplishment, like this whole experience now has a tangible point.

On Wednesday, the WSJ (Wisconsin State Journal - don't get too excited david :) printed an article i wrote comparing Cristina Kirchner, Argentina's now first elected president, and Hillary Clinton, the woman Republicans love to hate.

To be honest, it is not my favorite article. I simplified the rather complex dynamic between the representation of CFK and HRC for the sake of word count and readability. I could, and probably actually will, write a 25 page paper on just the comparison between two.

But oversimplification and the writer's regret aside, it is nice to have published proof about this experience. It is nice to know it all hasn't been a long, strange hallucination.

See my name in print here:
http://www.madison.com/wsj/home/column/index.php?ntid=255422&ntpid=2

Thoughts through the sweat

I came home today to an full inbox.

My first instinct was to scream, rip the computer off the table and smash it against the wall a few times for good measure just to make sure life couldn't reach me anymore.

Luckily, i am too poor to buy a new computer and my senses returned to me quickly. Instead of destroying property, i went for a run and thought long and hard through my sweat. And i seem to see things clearer now.

It is true that stress exists everywhere although different cultures handle it differently. Argentine seems to have the "don't worry, it will get done somehow" attitude. And i am starting to think it might be a good attitude to adapt right about now.

There will always be 3 people demanding your attention at the same time. There will always 5 more essays you should read and 2 more papers you should be writing. There will always be more things to do than time you have to do it.

But i will not always be in Argentina.

I have one more month to enjoy Argentina and take in all it has to give me (and exchange what i don't like for something better.)

And today, as a ran, i decided i am going to take it all in.

During my run, I took in the slow-walking, snobby old ladies who demand half the side walk for themselves and their poodles with booties. I took in the school kids passing the soccer ball back and forth with more skill and talent than most of the pro-soccer players in the United States. I took in the old men playing chest in the park with the tattooed punk kids smoking pot next to them. I took in the annoying group of 17-year old boys at the corner saying crude piropos to passing women (and i decided to exchange them for the cute curly haired argenine boys at Ramos Mejia.)

I took them all in because they are what makes up my memory of Buenos Aires. I will not remember these articles i am reading or the paper i will present. I will remember the good, the bad and the real of the characters of Buenos Aires.

Because that is what they are; they are characters in this crazy chapter of my life titled: Oh the places you will go.

Research- not fun in any language

Just a short entry to mention I hate endless research in any country and in any language

I am wasting the most beautiful last days of my trip attached to this damn computer staring blankly at a flickering screen.

I am living a sad sad life.

OK, i have to go. I don't even have time to reflect upon my sad emotion less existence.

Good night.

Noches Lindas

Sometimes you just find beautiful nights.

Nights when the air is warm and smooth. Nights when music turns to movements which turns to love, lust and hate. Nights when you can see all emotions: everything beautiful from dolor to amor.

Tonight was a beautiful night. A night filled with conversaciones intimas, new and old friends, musica apasionante, and French cheese and wine.

Tonight started with talks of la economia over smuggled French cheese and wine.

It progressed with un espectaculo alternativo de tango, where no one danced but everyone seemed to, where the instruments came alive, the accordion seducing the violin, the cello dancing melancholy in the corner.

It ended with an enamored couple making out on my doorstep in la madrugada, that shyly moved when I told them that I needed to break up there lovely caresses to enter my house and go to bed.

Tonight was beautiful. It was lovely in the way only another world can be, a world where nothing is understood but everything is felt, a world where you can appreciate the beauty others create, a world where you know you are part of the beauty.

Tonight I felt like part of a beautiful night in Buenos Aires.

Yeah, OK, Americans are a little weird

"Feliz Halloween." That is what we told our taxi driver as if to explain why we were dressed up as a greek goddess, a gypsy, robin hood and captain underpants (definitely the hardest to explain to Argentines.)

He looked at us as if we had lost our minds. Or were just 4 more crazy Yankees.

It is clear Argentines don't understand Halloween and in all likelihood don't understand north americans.

And standing sober on the sidelines i kind of understood why: we look like fools, drunken costumed fools.

We scream about bitches and ho's while grinding up against each other all while trying to keep our power ranger swords out of the way. Yeah the United States looks weird.

I had a very enlightened conversation with an Argentine about how the United States and Argentina are different. That was the conclusion of the night: Argentina and the United States are different.

And i think that is going to be the conclusion of my trip too: Argentina and the United States are very, very different.

Clarification: We are not americans. Argentines call us norteamericanos or yankees and get very upset when we call all ourselves americanos. For them americanos are all people who live in the continental americas. However they call us norteamericanos not referring to canada or mexico. They get very upset when you point this out.

FINALLY!

It finally hit me. I am in Argentina. Amazing.

After 3 months of wondering who i am and what i am doing here, i finally just realized i am in Argentina and i am happy to be here. I am happy here.

I was going to bed last night, going through my routine, it had just started to rain outside and i realized how familiar everything was around me. I am even used to not understanding half the stuff people are saying to me.

But it is more than just finally finding a comfort zone in Argentina; it is wanting to find more comfort zones. It is like now that i have my comfort zone I want to go and explore every uncomfortable place in the city and make it comfortable.

I am finally ready to study abroad. And i leave in less than 2 months.

But, let me tell you, it is going to be a great last 2 months.

Electiones, Yeah!....what i can't get a drink!

Sunday was election day for Argentina. Which meant for me, no drinks on Saturday.

Yes you read right. The day before elections in Argentina, no one is allowed to sell liquor and dance clubs are closed. This is suppose to make all those reckless Argentine voters suddenly sober up and think seriously about the power of one vote.

But seriously, it does help to seta tone of importance to the elections, even if it is only the illusion of importance.

Every single Argentine has known for months that Cristina Kirchner would win the election, and win she did with 46% of the vote, 1% more than she needed to guarantee there would be no run off.

So let me explain this clearly and slowly because it took me 2 days and 2 people plus the NY Times to understand: 1. a candidate needs 45% of the vote to win the election or 40% of the vote with a gap of more than 10% between him/her and the next candidate 2. if neither occurs there is a runoff election between the two top runners.

But that is a mute point since Cristina slaughtered her competition- like everyone said she would, even those who opposed her.

What I guess stuck me about the elections is how even though it seemed so predestined, Argentina seemed still seemed so passionate about the elections

Yet maybe that passion is an illusion too. Voting is not a choice in Argentina it is the obligation of a citizen, with a supposed penalty attached for not completing the duty.

Illusion or not, Argentina successfully got almost all of its population to vote and the majority voted with passion. It is something the United States has not accomplished since the 18th century when only white, property owning men could vote.

Sorry to say it grandma :) but maybe the United States should take a page from Argentina, force the vote and ban liquor. Oh wouldn't dad be happy with that.

3 screaming chidren, 1 perfect picture and no camera

It was one of those days where the only thing missing was my camera.

My camera could have captured Inaquis jumping down the decaying stairs to the river, brightly colored graffiti decorating the fence behind him.

My camera could have captured Maite closing her eyes and walking through the dangling branches of the budding trees, letting the leaves brush her sun-colored cheeks.

My camera could have captured the mountain of meat set before the salivating mouths three hungry children.

My camera could have captured the one rare moment of affection when Gustavo put his hand lightly on Angles's back and kissed her cheek.

My camera could have captured the perfect day in Tigre, a small town just outside of Buenos Aires. It would have captured the first time i felt like i had family in Buenos Aires, from scolding fighting children to being scolded for not wearing shoes in the kitchen, from laughing at stupid jokes to drying over tired tears, Tigre was just what i needed.

A trip to the tree lined river of Tigre, revived my tired spirit. The flow of the water, the tranquility of the people, the life of the sun made me see the possibility of the next two months in Buenos Aires; two months not leading to an end but to the beginning of a new view of life.

Today I didn't have my camera to capture the perfect day, but maybe that is better. Pictures would have shown the reality of the day; how the trees were just trees, not green bursting life; how the graffiti was just graffiti, not bright bleeding passion; how the water was just water, not a new flow to the world.

I prefer to keep the perfect precious moments in my memory.

I prefer to believe that for one day the city of contradictions was perfect.

Empaparse

Empaparse= to get drenched

The storm today came fast and severe. From grey clouds and a chilly wind to sheets of rain pouring down on my head, Argentina dumped itself on me for 15 minutes of pure storm.

At first i put up my hood, looked down and tried not to slip on the marble sidewalks. I "gracefully" jumped from one kiosk to the next trying to preserve one inch of dry skin.

Then a bus passed, splashing the dirty rain water onto my once-semi-dry pants. Then it was all over.

There is a point when you lose that last inch of dry skin and you throw in the towel; that point where you just want to take off all your clothes, let the rain soak every inch of your skin, until the adjective dry doesn't even seem to exist in your vocabulary anymore.

I hit that point today in the middle of Rodriquez Pena. Argentina has drenched me to the point where the words dry, normal, comfort and home don't exist anymore.

Today i am just a drenched naked girl dancing in the middle of Recoleta.

The Hump

Don't freak grandma. I'm not referring to my "humps" or my "milkshake" or any other cheesy fergie metaphor for women's body parts. It is not that kind of a blog.

I'm talking about the mid-week hump, the hump day. I talking about wednesdays; that mid-week day when you know you are already half way through the week but yet seem to be only half way through; when you can look back and see that monday and tuesday flew by but friday still seems unreachable; that day when you seem stuck in the middle of coming and going.

This week is a never ending wednesday.

Really i am having a mid-trip crisis; like a mid-life crisis except in castellano and a sports car won't fix it. After one amazing vacation, i am wondering what i am doing here in Argentina.

It is more than just a fleeting thought. I dwell on the question (really un monton de questions) for hours. Why did i originally want to come to argentina? why i am i here now? what do i want/need to do before i go home? How can it be there are so many things i want to do before i leave and yet most of the time i just want to go home?

It is the hump. That point where you realize you are halfway in and halfway out, stuck with not enough time to do what you want and too much time to just take a nap.

But damn, I am just so tired. A nap would be perfect right now.

"There is a light at each end of the tunnel, you shout because you're just as far in as you will ever be out." -Anna Nalick

So Brasil

17 Oct. 2007

We almost got stranded in Rio. When we bought tickets for our return trip to Sao Paulo yesterday the sales woman gave us tickets for 10/16 instead of 10/17. Two brasilian men were very confused to find two American girls in their seats.

When we explained to the lady we needed to get on the bus to catch our flight she just shrugged her shoulders and was like "Yup, shit happens."

So Brasil!

I can't even remember how many times i have heard: "that is just how we do it in Brasil," as if that is an excuse for drunk driving, bad pick-up lines or bus ticket errors.

Luckily there were two more open seats on the bus and we got to Sao Paulo. WE are now standing in line with a bunch of portenos saying "che boludo." I only understand every other word they are saying. The check-in people are an hour late.

That is so Argentine.

I am irked and just want to get on my plane.

That is so American- excuse me I mean norteamericano.

Rio de Janiero: Check

16 Oct. 2007

We did Rio. And by "did" I mean we got there, experienced teh city and didn't get robbed.

WE were tourists in the finest sense of the word. WE took the cable car to Pao de Azucar. WE climbed Corcovado. WE strolled the beaches of Cococabana and Impenema. WE saw Rio through rose-colored tourist sunglasses. WE saw the beauty Rio lays at the feet of her tourists. In our cococabana cove we were sheltered from 4/5 of Rio and all the not-so-beautiful of Brasil.

Well almost sheltered. Walking back from the beach two scrawny teenage boys tried to get us to give them our cameras. One showed Sarah a bullet between his teeth. WE shooed them away but remained slightly shaken by the brazen attempt at robbery in broad daylight on a crowded beach. We had a day and a half of beauty in Rio and 20 seconds of ugly that will always be part of Rio in our memories.

But beyond the beauty and ugly of Brasil, we saw the beauty and ugly in ourselves and each other.

I learned I can let go although i would rather not.

Letting go is part of knowing and trusting yourself and others.

Letting go is trusting you will end up where you need to be; trusting where you need to be is where you want to be.

I also learned that tempers and hair get ugly after 5 days of no sleep.

Headed to Rio

15 Oct. 2007
Right now i am on a shaky crowded bus that smells like sweat. I am headed towards a city of millions with a reputation of crime and beauty. A city i can't communicate with, a city that can only shout back strange yet familiar words back at me.

I have to admit, I am scared, terrified. This is far from my comfort zone.

Yet I look out of the window and i see starts for the first time in months. Orion looks beautiful. And then i remember the beauty of this trip. The beauty of being 22, traveling Brasil with but a backpack. The beauty of being young and foolish; the beauty of taking a trip that opens my eyes to all my foolishness and the foolishness of others and still allows me to see the beauty.

In the middle of a Dr. Seuss book

14 Oct. 2007

Brasil. I am in Brasil. I have been in Brasil for 3 days.

It is hot here but it smells fresh.
It is scary but exhilarating.
It is a place i never thought i would be but a place i know i want to be right now.

I came Brasil for a wedding but instead i find myself in the middle of Dr. Seuss: Oh the places you will go. "It's opener there in the wide open air."

I have traveled from the piss-smelling streets of Sao Paulo to the hot-dry air of Belo Horizonte to a 80's style church in Ipatinga to the cobble-stoned streets of Ouro Preto and now onto the infamous Rio.

I have seen monks in the bus terminal, joggers with fanny packs, nervous fiances, happy newlyweds, Brazilian boys trying to be American and unfortunately succeeding, beggar children, poodles with pink booties and friends you can only say goodbye to because you promise to "see each other soon."

I have felt exhausted, terrified, annoyed, excited, alive and happy.

I have danced like a fool, cried tears of happiness, ate condensed milk ice cream, smelt vomit on a sickening 4-hour bus ride, clutched the seat of a miniature car as it flew around 90 degree corners and seriously doubted the decency of mankind.

And that is just the first three days.

Reluctant Tour Guide

After spending the last 5 days being a tour guide I realized how much being a tourist in Buenos Aires would suck.

Everyday for the past 5 days we have run around trying to experience BsAs through a series of museums, ferias and restaurants and yet non of this sight-seeing is BsAs- it is just what BsAs wants you to see, not what it is.

BsAs is a city of contradictions that can't be understood in a week. It is a city whose false European front can easily be seen deteriorating from the naked tourist eye but whose passion and life underneath that facade only shines rarely... on odd number days... when it storms. ..maybe.

It is a city I am honestly happy to be living in because after being tour guide and hating it, I feel like I have begun to appreciate everything non-touristy about the city; like BsAs and i now have an inside joke; like only we know the true city.

I love the ferias, the restaurants are ricismo and the museums...well they could use some work...but what i really love are Inaquis' cheesy jokes, the old ladies complaining about incense in my yoga class and explaining Hooters to the kids at my UBA class.

I really love the passion and life of BsAs...even if it is cursi.

Not what i expected

New hair cut

hair cuts, dipilacion and house parties.

yesterday i learned to appreciate what i experienced even if it was a far cry from what i expected or what i thought i wanted.

I think this is how i want to live my life. Making plans (because i will always make plans and excel spread sheets) but then enjoying the twists and turns or complete deviation from the plan.

It is not plans that are bad, without a plan i wouldn't be in Argentina. It is the lack of flujo with plans written in stone. So from now on i write all my plans in pencil and carry a giant eraser.

Finding Home

I have been searching for 2 months now in vain to find comfort and home in Buenos Aires. But the city always seemed too cold, too rushed, and too inconsiderate to ever call home.

But today rushing through the fat, cold drops of rain to the Brazilian Consulate, then maneuvering through old ladies with over sized umbrellas to the bank and then trying to stay amiable once again with the rudest of Argentina at the consulate; today, a day filled with everything cold, rushed and inconsiderate of Argentina; today i found home in Argentina.

Because today Sarah was running through rain laughing at the soaking wet girl with a white shirt and white bra. Sarah was here to agree that Argentina needs umbrella courtesy laws such as if you have an umbrella don't walk under the over hang. Sarah was there to call the Brazilian consulate lady a beast when we were both thinking of a different word.

It is cheesy but true. Home isn't where you are put who you are with.

Oh and to the Brazilian Consulate: you sucks, you stole my day and $130.

But I got over it with a bottle of wine, empanadas and dulce de batata.

Ranch Dressing and Brett Farve

Today I watched Brett Farve break Dan Marino's record for most touchdown passes.

I was so happy i almost cried along with Brett.

In Argentina, I love things i don't look at twice in the states; like the Packers or ranch dressing. I miss ranch dressing.

Sitting and watching the Packers play while dipping some celery in some imported ranch dressing is the perfect Sunday for me here and something i would be bored out of my mind with in the states.

Partially it is that Argentina has made me appreciate what i have in the states more. Partially it is because i tie those boring home things to the people i love and miss.

Either way today's Packer game made me not only realize how much of a Packer-backer I am, but also how not-Argentine i am. And how much Buenos Aires will never be my home.

I don't think I will ever feel at home anywhere else other than sitting in Green Bay watching the ships roll in with my cheesehead on.

Loving the mistakes

Before I left for Argentina, I made myself a promise: no arrepentimientos. No regrets.

Before i boarded the plane at the Green Bay INTERNATIONAL airport, I threw all of my old regrets into the bay, let them wash away to Canada, and landed in Argentina with a clean regret-free spirit.

In Argentina, I walked out of the airport filled with expectation. I was going to experience everything, and all without the weight of fear or regret. I was going to live, as I promised, 6 months without regret.

But this promise I made to myself is harder to keep than it appears. Regret is a complicated concept.

In the states, I lived my life carefully. I didn't take risks and therefore my only regrets were of things i did not do, things i did not say.

But in Argentina, I take risks everyday because there is no other way to live. If i want to see the city i have to take risks. And with these risks come mistakes; mistakes i am not used to making; mistakes that are a complicated mixture of Adeline and panic.

After a mistake filled weekend though i realized all these mistakes i am making, these mistakes i have been calling regrets, are not regrets; they are experiences. They are not the experiences I planned to return with but they are not regrets I should dread carrying around with me.

I am still not a risk-taker, watching people gamble still freaks me out, but I am now a mistake-maker. And more than that, I am a happy mistake maker. Because I have learned mistake is just another word for experience.

Dipilacion

This week was a monton of firsts: first yoga class, first article in Spanish published and my first trip to dipilacion.

In Argentina, dipilacion (waxing) is more common than getting your mullet trimmed. On every block in Buenos Aires there is a large bright sign announcing DIPILACION: SOLO 5. This is a city where you can literally get everything from your forehead to your toes waxed all for under $5 USD.

Argentine women are hairy creatures trying desperately to appear to be hairless white Europeans. They go to dipilacion more than they go to church.

But for me, the blonde American, I thought those hairy Argentine women were crazy. In the states not only is waxing expensive, it is often seen as unnecessary when a razor is available.

But in anticipation of summer and buenas ondas, I decided to bite the bullet, endure the expected pain and laid my ghost-white fragile legs before the vat of red hot wax.

And it actually felt kind of nice.

Well i mean it stung a little and my legs looked like someone had whipped them repeatedly after it was done, but, all in al,l it kind of felt good, like a strong exfoliate.

So another first I went into with fear and came out of victorious.

Next up la pelvis. "No calvo por favor. NO CALVO!"

Flujo con las ancianas

I found my flow tonight in the incense-filled attic of an old house surrounded by 7 viejas.

I went to my first yoga class and was surprised to be greeted by 7 aging women. I guess i thought flexibility and flow was reserved for the young.

But throughout the hour long yoga session we did much less flexing and much more flowing. We let our arms flow, our legs flow and our breath flow until finally our thoughts flowed as well.

And i walked home smiling for the first time since I got here. It is not that i haven't been happy walking home here; it is just that the happiness didn't rise to my cheeks. it always stayed heavy in my heart; a good feeling of deep happiness.

But tonight the happiness was light and flowed throughout my entire body, lifting my cheeks in an irresistible smile.

Yoga class is like therapy with my grandma. And i will so be back next week.

Change of Plans

This week I was sent to cover my first "marcha"- demonstration.

The march was for Julio Lopez, a man who the dictatorship “disappeared” in the 80s because of his politics but who survived torture to testify against los jefes (the bosses) last year. After his testimony, which put some top jefes in jail, he disappeared again and has been officially “disappeared” for a year.

The marcha was demanding his return…alive. There were thousands of people there and close to 50 different groups; some with drums, some with large sticks and some Madres de la Plaza with white handkerchiefs on their heads. The group pulsed with energy, with that Argentine passion. And I ran around in between the energy looking like a bewildered American reporter.

And with this one explosion of political passion I decided I don't want to be a journalist.

OK parents, don't flip out. I don't to be a journalist in the traditional sense. I don't want to go to protests, or fires, or car crashes and run around like a boluda trying to get a good quote.

I want to listen to people’s stories and then tell them in a way that makes others want to hear them.

I want to sit down to merienda with Julio Lopez’s family and just hear about his life. Or sit down with one of the young protesters and talk to her about when at 17 she is here from a provincial to walk for a man she didn’t even know.

I guess it took me a continent and Argentine marcha to realize I don’t want to be a periodista; I want to be a storyteller.

Ya esta

Last night the director of our program gave us a nice little speech about how our study abroad experience was really just starting. He said we were done adjusting, done traveling and, with chuckles, done getting robbed.

Then today at 2:09 PM on bus 128 at about 1500 Billlinghurst I was robbed.

I guess i am just a step behind the adjustment/getting robbed process.

I wasn't really "robbed;" i was pick pocketed. And it kills me because i knew something wasn't right. A guy in a suit came and stood next to me on a bus when there were a few extra seats on the bus open. He bumped into me once and then got off the bus. I thought it was suspicious so i checked my purse and my wallet was gone. Not only did he open the zipper on my purse but also the zipper inside the purse and then reached in to get my wallet. He was good.

And I can't remember his face which bothers me for some reason. I feel like i should know the face of the man who now has my driver's license, my 20 pesos and the contact information of my therapist.

And yes I feel violated. I feel like some of my power has been taken. And the worse part is I can't seem to get pissed. I'm not really mad at this guy. I just feel little and defenseless in this big city I thought I was starting to conquer.

Life here is a roller coaster. Ups, downs, loops, fear, excitement and a slight nausea. I just hope I get to enjoy the ride before it ends.

P.S. Please do not send me any "advice" on how to not get pickpocket. I have already gotten an earful and I will never carry my money in a poach under my shirt like a tourist. But thanks for the suggestion.

P.P.S. Positive note: My friend and I have vowed to stop speaking English on the bus to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Maybe i will actually begin to learn castellano now.

Flow Found

3 months ago, my fortune cookie told me "You are heading for a land of sunshine and relaxation." I stuck the fortune in my journal and forgot about it. Then when I opened up my journal the first night in Puerto Iguazu, the pueblito half an hour from the widest waterfalls in the world, the fortune fell to my feat.

Yes, I believe in the power of the fortune cookie, or more the power of chance; the power of happening to be in the exact right place at the exact right time; me ending up in Iguazu on one of the most beautiful days of the year looking at the most beautiful waterfalls in the world and finding the flow I had been searching for all those weeks in Buenos Aires.

In Buenos Aires, I was flowing against the city. I moving against myself, not allowing myself to flow or feel myself in the middle of the concrete jungle.

But in Iguazu, sitting in the quite leftovers of the day contemplating life, there I could feel the flow. There the beat of life slowed down, it quited down and i was able to find my own rhythm i had almost forgotten.

There the rhythm is steady and constant like the water crashing over the falls. The beat allows my brain to slow down, my heart to realize it is beating and my soul the time to shine in the sun. It is a beat i don't get lost in but a familiar beat, a beat i can remember myself in.

Remember who i am and what i want to do here.

Damn, all i needed was a vacation!

Going with the F%$#ing Flow

On Monday, I scampered around the bus terminal, zigzagging from one end of the building to the next looking for the best deal on bus tickets to Puerto Iguaçu only to find they all cost exactly the same price.

On Tuesday, I waited for an hour for my teacher to show up to give us our mid-term only to be sent home because she literally “just forgot.”

On Wednesday, I got up at 5:30 AM to get to the migration office by 7 AM only to wait 3 hours to be told there was a mistake and we would have to return next week to get our student visas.

Today I slept until 11 while rain fell on the tin roof outside my window and I pretended all the inefficiency and red tape of Buenos Aires was just a bad pesadilla.

By Wednesday, I was really genuinely pissed at Buenos Aires and its complete and utter lack of ability to do anything efficiently without 3 lines and a 10 hour wait. Riding home on the subte, (which thank god was working after a week of on-and-off service) I gritted my teeth and muttered swear words under my breath. Then a friend suggested I “just go with the flow,” to which I responded “I am going with the f@#$ing flow.”

At this point I realized I was indeed not going with the flow, whether it f@#$ing sucked or not. Genuinely in life I do not do much flowing. I make lists and spread sheets and freak out without my agenda. That is who I am. And in America I can get away with it because I am usually surrounded by at least 5 other people who are just as anal.

But my lists and agendas don’t jive with the Argentine world. In Argentine I get “why is this blonde girl freakin’ out” looks and I am beginning to ask myself the same thing: “Why can’t this uptight blond girl just flow.”

So in the spirit of coming to a cultural compromise with Argentina I am taking a yoga class, lighting some incense and doing some deep breathing. And I am learning to flow.

But I’m keeping the agenda book- whether it flows or not.

Living in a hyporcrital world and realizing you are part it

Things that made me cringe today
1. 7 year old dirty little boy on subway selling pens for a peso who sat down next to a 20-something guy reading a comic so he could look over the guy's shoulder and read about Superman, at least until his 12 year old sister came along to hurry him up.
2. knowing it's not the people you miss but the way they made you feel
3. hearing "hola gata rubia" from a police officer at 10 pm
4. realizing you are not as good of a person as you thought or hoped you were
5. seeing graffiti that read CHINA PUTA in all caps as if it needed more emphasis

Things that made me smile today
1. my host dad calling me niña de fuego because i like spicy food
2. the botería guy thinking i was from Canadian because obviously Wisconsin is a province of Canada- well close enough
3. congregating a verb correctly
4. Watching Maite make ñoquis with her dad
5. giving up my seat for a vieja and then having a caballero give up his seat for me

I am often infuriated with the hypocritical nature of Argentina; it is a country with so much wealth and so much poverty, so many good intentions and so many failed dreams, so much passionate talking and so little intent listening.

But today I felt just a bit too much of my own hypocritical nature; today I felt very much a part of this flawed world I live in but am often too busy analyzing to realize I am a part of.

Things i learned at 5 am at a salsa club in Almagro

1. I can learn to follow. In fact, i can even enjoy following-even if i am following a 65-year-old man.
2. My first impressions are usually wrong just as people's first impression of me are usually incorrect- i am not as heinous as i first appear.
3. Burritos and tequila are great no matter what continent you are on.
4. Sweating is gross but also great.
5. The steps of salsa matter less than the rhythm and flow of the dance. Forgetting the steps allows you to dance. The same can be said for living life in Argentina. The steps, the cultural rules, are written out, but only once you ignore them are you truly living in Buenos Aires.
6. Screw learning anything about myself or learning to speak Spanish fluently- I just wanna dance!

OH the places you will go

“It's not where we are but who we are." Maggie Zimmermann

I remember spending many evenings the summer before freshman year of college sitting in Maggie's neon green room, candles lit, tea slowly losing its heat, talking about what the next year would hold for us.

I thought college would change me completely. I remember thinking my life would be like a WB series. I would magically transform from the chubby school newspaper editor to the gorgeous girl of every man's dream. I thought college had the power to change in me what i could not change within myself.

Of course my life didn't play out like a WB series- thank god or i would have been cancelled by sophomore year. It twisted and turned; I changed partially due to where I was and partially due to who i was. And then I ended up in Argentina.

And without realizing it, I made Argentina my freshman year of college. I envisioned the stereotypical American abroad in a foreign land scenario, full of dark handsome men, exciting exotic places and of course dramatic changes physically and personally. I imagined i would become the person i have always wanted to be in Argentina.

But again, I gave the where too much power. The things I really want to change in myself, Argentina does not have the power to change. Only i have that power.

So now i ponder the same question i pondered 3 years ago. Is it where we are or who we are?

It is both. Where I am will surely shape and mold me into the person i will be but not in the way i expect or want it to. And who i am...well I am not a WB series.

Sh-o (or as the rest of the world says yo)

Today, when i was picking up my laundry from the lavaropa down the street, i had a nice little conversation with the ladies there about what i was doing in Buenos Aires.

Then they started laughing at me.

"Pareces como una portena. Dices "sho" no yo."

Apparently i have picked up the- what i always thought was terribly annoying- porteno way of saying the letters y and ll.

shaves instead of llaves. shuvia instead of lluvia. masho instead of mayo.

And sho instead of yo.

And for some reason it made me smile the whole way home.

It's not that i think i appear porteno to portenos or even to the ladies at the dry cleaners. It is just that i finally feel like Buenos Aires is starting to have an effect on me; like it is actually starting to change me.

Honestly, I didn't come here to learn Spanish, although that would be a plus. I came here to experience another country or really i came to experience myself in another country. I came here to touch another culture and let it touch me. I came hoping to be changed, hoping to be a different person after 6 months, a person who has lived a little more. I came hoping to leave a mark on a city and now realize although my mark here will fade the mark of Buenos Aires on me will be forever; even if it is the terribly annoying sho.

La Bomba del Tiempo

Last night I listened to a conversation without words; a conversation between two drums; a conversation I could feel more than hear.

The conversation started out with more or less 15 drummers; really 15 strangers who came together on a Monday night at 7 pm to play to a standing crowd of people who ranged from their proud moms taking pictures to stonners getting high behind the curtains.

One drummer took the conductor position and tried, sometimes successfully and sometimes not, to create a unified band. Often I could see the brilliant idea the conductor had and then I could see the brilliance fade because of a lack of effective communication. Sometimes he brought in a drummer too soon out of enthusiasm or forgot completely to include another drum.

How often do I feel like this conductor. How often do my castellano words fail to convey the idea in my head. How often do I say catedrales (cathedrals) when I mean to say cataracas (waterfalls).

But yet as long as I keep going like this conductor, as long as I keep the beat, the audience will dance. As long as a feel the beat more than hear it, I will dance my way through Argentina.

Side note: Anyone who is going to be in Argentina for the month of September needs to go to the Konex Center (Sarmiento 3131) on Monday nights at 7 pm to see “La Bomba del Tiempo.” It is well worth the 7 pesos and the smell of pot on your clothes at the end of the night.

Lessons Learned Round 2

Tonight I learned nice boys do exist in Argentina and they dance like fools.

Tonight I learned I dance like a fool and I really don't care who is watching.

Tonight I learned just how right doctor Seuss is:
"And when things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew. Just go right along. You'll start happening too."

Things I learned about myself at 5 AM at a gay club in Flores

1. Argentine gay men and I are the only ones who know all the words to "backstreets back" and will sing them loudly and proudly
2. Sometimes I want to be a gay man because they are just so hot. (No Laura it has nothing to do with Freud or me wanting a penis- I just want to be hot.)
3. I like to dance like no one is watching but it is even better when no one really is watching because they are too busy making out with their boyfriends. Dancing is always better without an audience.
4. I will not be fluent in Spanish in 3 months, I may never be fluent, and that is probably good because i don't really want to know everything that is said at me on the street. Sometimes, in my world, ignorance is not bliss but can be mildly comforting.
5. Vomit is universally gross (OK that one wasn't about me but the poor guy outside the club)

Cafe y cookies

Before i left Madison, I had been coffee free for almost 3 months. I gave it up more as a challenge to myself, to see if i could break the addiction.

Apparently I can't because my first day here I drank the best cup of coffee ever and have continued to drink the best coffee every day since. And, damn, does it taste good.

Un cafecito, una alfajor y el diario. Life doesn't get any better than a coffee, an alfajor (the official cookie of Argentina) and pagina 12 (the left-leaning Buenos Aires newspaper).

I have time almost everyday to enjoy these 3 wonders of Buenos Aires. My life in the United States is always filled with rushing- rushing to class, to work, to the grocery store. And I like it that way. As my mom knows, I like being busy even if it drives me crazy.

But here in Argentina, my days aren't filled. I have time for the first time in my life.

At first it freaked me out. I felt the need to fill up my schedule with useless notes like "sweep room" or "write blog" just to fill in the time gaps.

But now I am enjoying my blank schedule. I am enjoying slowing sipping the tiny cafecito; i am enjoying indulging in an alfajor without even thinking of the ridiculous amount of calories i must be eating and I am enjoying having sacred free time i know most people aren't blessed with.

In short I am learning to enjoy my life without a filled agenda book.

Generalizations

I tend to make broad, sweeping generalization about Argentina. I know i shouldn't. Even when I am writing the generalizations, I know they are not true. But, honestly, they are just so easy to make.

I generalize, the world generalizes, to make life easier. Generalizations give an order to a world that most probably doesn't have an order. My brain wants to catagorize Argentina. It wants to make Argentina into a bulleted list or put it neatly into a spread sheet.

But today i discovered Argentina doesn't fit into my ideal world of catagories.

Today, per the advice of one persisitent cousin, I walked with my head up- with occasional glances down to make sure i didn't step in dog shit of course. And with my head up I found i didn't encounter more piropos. I didn't encounter less, but I also wasn't assaulted with piropos from every direction like i thought i was going to be.

And with my head up, for the first time I saw women react to the piropos. One blond-haired Argetine women replied to a piropo with a sarcastic "gracias" and something i couldn't make out under her breath. The guys tried to laugh it off but I could tell they were a little taken back.

I still think machismo exists in full force in Argentina. I just am begining to realize that doesn't mean submission by all women or aggression by all men- even if sometimes it feels that way. And it definitely doesn't mean I need to submit to anything.

People may generalize. They may say feminism may be bullshit. But that doesn't mean I'm not still a feminist. Because I don't fit in a bulleted list, nor in a spread sheet, nor in any catagory Argentina could make for me.

Machismo and that feminist bullshit

Wikipedia's definition of Machismo:
Spanish machismo refers exclusively to the belief in the superiority of males over females, that is it means "sexism" or "male chauvinism" (along with the Spanish adjective machista, "sexist" or "male chauvinist"). Machismo itself derives from macho, meaning "male [animal]" or, when used metaphorically, "masculine" or "very masculine"

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This Friday night, an fairly cool Argentine musician told me feminism was bullshit. He said it as a fact; as if bullshit was a synonym for feminism.

Considering that i am spending the the next 4 months studying gender relations in Argentina, this was not a good night for me.

The machismo has finally gotten to me. I am past frustrated; I am pissed.

At first, I only saw the machismo in it's visible form. The piropos (cat call on the street) bothered me but didn't seem to extend beyond the streets. I, like Argentine women, learned to walk with my head down and my eyes averted. This is the national walk of an Argentine women; body submissively slumped, eyes and emotions hidden to the world.

And although I seemed to ignore the piropos, it is impossible to not hear them; it is impossible to be immune. Because even though the piropos stop at your home's door, their affect does not.

I first noticed machismo in my home when my host dad told my host mom not to interrupt my host brother but then 2 minutes later he interrupted her. There is often an attitude that men have first priority to speak. It is not that women are not allowed to speak but that the man's opinion is usually first and last and most important. In another friend's house, the brother gets first use over the computer even if the sisters are have a more urgent need to use it.

The machismo extends to the classroom. Feminism thought is not considered a legitimate academic theory. There is no Gender Studies department in UBA- the top public school in Argentina and home to 100,000 students.

And, in general, feminism here considered bullshit. It is a fact as clear as Maradona is the best futbol player ever or Evita was a saint.

And it really pisses me off.

But after being pissed for a good 48 hours straight, I realized it is not worth the energy. I am going to be here for 4 months and machismo is not going to change. I am not going to change it.

I just have to hope it doesn't change me. I have to hope my body is not permanently slumped; that my eyes remember how to show emotion; and that my voice is still loud, clear and strong when I come home.

But, for now, I am a visitor. I am here to learn and to observe. I won't be able to do that if i stomp around pissed off all the time. So for the next 4 months I will learn to pretend my ears are closed while really taking note of every vulgar expression flung at me. And in 4 months I will leave that list of piropos in Argentina and come home with a better understanding of what it means to be a woman.

Kilombo

"Una cosa es el mapa, otro es el teritorio." This is what my castellano teacher told us today. "One thing is the map, another is the land."

Things always look so easy on my Guia T map. There are only two little centimeters separating me from my destination: the Central Post Office. But those two itsy bitsy centimeters are filled with 9 lane highways, trucks that don't yield to pedestrians and mislabeled street signs.

The path is never as easy or clear as it looks on paper. On paper, in black and white, life makes sense, it has an order. But once you step off that page, huge semis try to run you over.

That is how Argentina has been for me. Everything was so planned out before i came from my packing list to contacts in Buenos Aires to sights to see. But then i got here and the list disintegrated before my eyes. All of that stuff on paper was not real. It was just the plans i made waiting for reality to begin.

Now I wish i had thrown the list away. Or I wish now I could throw away any plans, written or unwritten, I have for myself in this city. Because it seems the only way i actually find my way in this city is when i stop looking at the map.

One month without sarcasm

The typical theater applause here lasts a minimum of three curtain calls. Along with the applause, there are shouts of praise, the traditional standing ovation, and occasionally tears. The passion for the players, for the stage, for the theater pours out of every porteno in el teatro.

And I sit there, applauding with respect, thinking in my oh-so-American way "give it a rest."

Daily i confronted with this culture shock; my American sensibility crashing with Argentine surreal enthusiasm for everything.

I simply can't believe it. I can't believe one person can hold that much true passion. I can't believe the standing ovation when every play ends with the audience on its feet. I don't believe Argentina really has passion for anything when it acts as if it has passion for everything. (Remember Maggie: you can't love every song.)

And yet I am starting to believe it. I am starting to believe Argentines are born with an infinite amount of passion while I was born with a definite amount that I am hoarding away for something special.

All this passion flowing around, crashing with my sensibility means, in very basic terms, I have to completely change my way of speaking, acting and living. I am learning to not make faces at cursi pick-up lines, not to sigh at yet another curtain call and to abandon my sarcasm for a language of sincere passion.

But have no fear friends, I have a feeling my sarcasm is only in temporary hibernation. I don't think even the overabundance of passion in Argentina could kill my one true passion: sarcasm.

First Fight (and make up)

I have fallen out of love with Argentina.

Here are a list of reasons we are fighting.
1. Argentina's complete lack of respect for my need of tampons with applicators
2. constant smell of dog shit that has permanently lodged itself in my nostrils
3. barrage of bad 90's music at boliche
4. light pollution- i miss the stars
5. pollution in general- my lungs miss breathing
6. piropos- i'm not your nene nor your rubia and whistling at me like a dog does not make you any more of a man, it makes you a creep.
7. the city's inability to ever really fix anything: broken sidewalks, leaky toilets, incorrect signs- how does a broken city function?
8. a lack of reality replaced by an overabundance of passion
9.lack of an internal clock or a sense of punctuality- if you want to meet at 10:30 then say 10:30 not 9
10. thighs that don't touch stuffed into pants meant for a 9 year old

The worst part is I know this hate for Argentina is just a phase. I have read my "preparing to study abroad" manual and thus far i have followed the culture shock diagram almost perfectly. I know now comes complete disdain for anything Argentine along with a longing for anything American. And knowing it is a phase, knowing it will pass, doesn't make me feel better. It makes me feel fake; the feeling doesn't seem real or valid. Sometimes you just want to be allowed to hate something even if it is completely irrational.

And then my 8 year old host brother knocks on my door to say buenas noches; he knocked just to say good night. And my heart breaks. How could i possibly hate this country?