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?

4 AM Reflections

So today/tonight/this morning/ right now at 4 AM, after spending the night listening to Argentine Jazz, which is a mix of bob marley, blaring trumpets, and a solid bass line, I realized that with all that focusing on breathing or lack of breathing I forgot I was in Argentina; a country completely different from home; a place filled with differences I want to remember. Because if nothing else I am here to realize the differences; the differences in the country, in the people and in myself.

Argentine-ness
1. Argentines talk a lot and always with their hands. They don't breathe or pause but then are confused when you don't talk. Argentine conversations are like their streets: one way.
2. Psychologists are really popular here. Everyone goes to one and nobody has qualms about it. A very popular expression is "I have to leave work early to see my psychologist."
3. Street lights are not mandatory; they are a luxury. One group of Argentines waited 20 years to get a street light put in front of the school in their neighborhood. 20 years.
4. There is plenty of man love in this machismo culture. The mixture of cheek kisses and sexist comments makes me laugh with happiness and anger at the same time.
5. Couples rule the country. There are not individuals, there are not groups, there are couples; one boy and one girl. It is impossible for a (American) girl to be friends with a (Argentine) boy. It is almost impossible for a (American) girl to make friends with other (Argentine) girls. It is too possible for a (American) girl to find a (Argentine) boyfriend.
6. Everything is "rock;" from Avril Laveign to Red Hot Chili Peppers to Green Day; it is all rock. And they love it all. Argentines love music. Every boy is in a band and has played an instrument since he was 5.
7. Sometimes Subte ticket sellers just tell people to go through without paying because the line is too long. And the people go without thinking it is weird.

There of course is more and will always be more. And, to be honest, right now is the first time I am excited to discover more differences instead of searching fruitlessly for the comfort of similarities.

Remembering to Breathe

In a city as big, busy and bustling as Buenos Aires, it is sometimes difficult to remember to breathe. And sometimes, even when I remember to breathe, it is impossible. It is a city whose name "good air" seems like a cruel sarcastic joke; a city where I take deep gasping breaths only to have my lungs filled with the exhaust of the passing bus.

But it is also a city with Internet; my connection to the world where I can breathe easy: home. And home is filled with people who remind me that breathing is a natural action not one I should be struggling with daily.

With my new found skill of breathing easy, I am giving up whatever quest I had to be a porteno, any ridiculous desire I had to be able to breath the buenos aires as if it was clean and natural and not filled with foreign smog. Yes David, I am tourist, una extranjera, and I will continue to be for the next 5 months. It is better to accept this and just breathe rather than struggling with each breath wondering if I am breathing right.

Niche-less

It is the one month deadline.

One night during week one, after crying yet again, I decided I would give Argentina one month. After one month, if Argentina and I still didn't vibe, if there were no buenas ondas, I would go home; go home without regret.

It is the one month deadline.

Argentina and I aren't exactly old chums but at least we are finally on speaking terms (even if that speaking is broken castellano). And I see potential in this relationship. So I guess this is my way of deciding, buenas ondas or no, I'm staying.

And yet I am disappointed. It has been a month. a month. I thought by now Argentina and I would be on a hot and heavy passion-filled honeymoon not be in a still rocky getting-to-know- you period.

But I know our problems are my fault. I have not fully immersed myself in Argentina; I have not given myself to Buenos Aires. I have sampled a bit of all the city: the theater, Havanna, the feria in San Telmo, the pizza shop down the street, UBA, the museo de la ciudad, the random protests and of course the mall. But I have not gotten swept away by anything.

I have not found my niche in Buenos Aires.

In a city of 3 million people (13 million including the greater Buenos Aires area) people don't belong to the city; they belong to an aspect of the city. They are theater snobs, tango enthusiasts, boliche rockers. They belong to one part of Buenos to save themselves from getting lost in the maze of the city.

But I seem to still be getting lost daily (figuratively and literally). I can't seem to find my niche in this city filled with niches. Should I become a yoga master, or a rockster, or a teatro fan?

It is more than missing a niche, it is missing a belonging, missing that feeling of home or comfort. I'm searching for a niche because I don't have a home in Buenos Aires. I have been homeless for a month and am ready for a permanent settlement.

So I guess this all really means: book your plane ticket mom.

Stepping on Toes

I never was any good at following my dance partner. I always wanted to lead. And in the States that was usually acceptable. I could lead or if i wanted I could dance by myself.

But no one dances alone in Argentina. And girls never lead.

And it is driving me a little crazy.

It is the biggest of all the gigantic culture shocks i have experienced here. Men here are Aggressive- yes that is with a capital A. They like to control the conversation, the music, the dance, and, yes, even the kiss. I don't feel like a desired, interesting woman but a piece of prime cattle that needs to be branded and then herded to the desired location; a location I'm not sure i want to go to.

The method of branding is an arm around the shoulder to warn off poachers. The means of herding is an interesting combination of flattery and guilt that is can be strangely persuasive and of course annoying.

What is lacking is a genuine conversation; an exchange of thoughts that makes it possible to determine if two people are compatible. Instead there is a one way street of cheesy compliments after which neither party really knows anything about the other.

I always complained that guys in the states weren't aggressive enough. Maybe this is karma's way of having a good laugh.

Or maybe this is just how another culture deals with the complexity of relationships. From the amount of affection i see on the subte everyday, it looks like this method is working for them.

I guess I will just have to ignore the couples only signs and dance to my own rhythm.

Resfriado

Estoy resfriada. Tengo un resfrio.... I don't even know how to say i have a cold in spanish much less get medication to fix the cold in spanish. (If someone can help me out on how to say I have a cold I would love them forever.)

I am sick in a foreign country without my mom or nightquil. It is not a good feeling. And just at a time when I actually wanted to leave my house. Now my heavy head is tied to my pillow.

Spanish seems to float around in my head getting stuck in all the mucus in my sinus cavities. The italian-sounding Spanish doesn't traslate through a cold. I feel like i have cotton in my ears. The soft sounds of castellano can't penetrate the thick cloud of sickness that is my head right now.

So I nod a lot and feel like it is my first week here except more I am more frustrated because i know if my ears would cooperate i could understand. But my body and will are in two different places right now so I am going to sleep, hoping they meet during the night.

Falling in love

Yesterday I began to fall in love with Argentina. Today I realized i still had so much to learn about this beautifully fickle country.

Yesterday was the first day I saw the sun in Argentina. The sky was blue, really blue, with bright shots of sun streaming down on my heat-thirsty skin. The past 3 weeks have been grey, just grey, without an ounce of color; it was a world of black and white for me; a world of black disappointment and white hope. But yesterday, Argentina shone like a rainbow; red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet all exploded before my eyes; such intense colors I almost looked away. But this is falling in love; intense, violent and without reason. There wasn't one exact event or encounter that made me fall in love; one color that stole by heart; it was just that finally I could see the color. And it was too beautiful not to love.

Today, I discovered I didn't know my lover as well at I thought. Today, I discovered high class hookers look for customers in the cafe close to my program's office (a great story for the grandkids some day.) I discovered there are 5 different ways to say jacket in spanish, none of which is chaqueta the word I learned when I was 15. I discovered cheesy pick-up lines while universal do not always translate even when they are said in English.

In a way, this scared me. I have already fallen in love and now i am finding i don't even know the country i have fallen in love with. I am afraid my love for this country also gives me the power to hate it. When I feel something as good as love, I am terrified of losing that feeling and replacing it with the dark void of hate.

P.S. No mom and grandmom I have not fallen in love with an argentine and I still promise not to bring anybody home!

My feet hurt

My feet hurt and I love it. My feet feel like they have experienced Argentina. They throb and ache in a way that makes them feel alive. I feel like Argentina has finally touched me.

I have perfect circle bruise on my right foot where I stuck a peso coin for the bus home. But I didn't take the bus home. So the coin stayed there all night, until 6 in the morning, rubbing against the sole of my foot. The coin is a reminder of expecations. I expected to take the bus home and got a bruise. I didn't expect to be dancing in a dark, smoky techno filled basement until dawn but that is what I got.

I need to let go of my expectations here. My expectation that I will be fluent by the one-month deadline. My expectation that I will feel comfortable in a home that is so far from home. My expectation that Argentina and I will ever completely understand each other.

Because if i am always waiting for my expecations to be realized, I may miss the extraordinary experiences i wasn't expecting.

If I don't let go of my expecations I might come home one big bruise of disappointment.

P.S. This is the first birthday is years that I didn't cry. I always cry because i have these huge expecations that never materialize. But this year I just let Argentina take me. And it took me away from my tears, really touched me for the first time, and made me smile. really smile.

Smiling Tears

Today, when i read the letters I got from mom and grandma, I cried. But they were not tears of sadness nor were they tears of joy. They were just tears; the only way my body knows how to express all the sentiment it feels. The tears are the contradiction i feel everyday in Argentina.

Today, when i went to buy a phone card, the lady yelled at me for pressing the bell twice. I had been waiting for about 2 minutes and i wasn't sure if she heard me, so i rang again. I guess that was a big mistake. It is a crime to rush people here. So I began to think Portenos (people from Buenos Aires) were all a bunch of big-city snobs. But then at dinner, my host parent's brother stopped by and was the single nicest person i have ever met. I can't figure it out. Argentina is a contradicion.

But then again it's not. Because Argentina is not singular, it is plural; it cannot be described as one adjective or the other; it must be described as them all. Because Argentina is composed of people; and people are contradictions in and of themselves. The contradictions that exist in myself and in all the argentines are simply reflected in the country.

Con Permiso

"Con Permiso"
Daily i use this phrase, usually when i am crashing into people on the steet. The fault is always mine. The argentines know where they are going. It is me who is constantly second guessing myself, wondering if left is better than right, doubting my ability to even walk in a city as complex, complicated and confusing as Buenos Aires.

It is the same with the language. My mind and tounge constantly crash. My mind sees the word, hears it, understands it but my tounge second guesses itself. It does not believe it can move to produce those different sounds, the -sh sound, the r that comes from the tip of the tounge, the d and t that makes my mouth hurt when i try to say them.

And so I crash... a lot. But it is better than standing still.

Note: Argentines like to talk. They like to talk more than they like to be heard. The care more about what they are saying if there audience is paying attention. And often the audience is not because they are having their own conversations in their heads or with the person next to them. This is frustrating for a forienger who can't seem to get one word in the conversation. It is hard to practice the language when argentina won't let me.

Bailar

"Bailar, cuando todo esta mal.
cuando quiero estar alli pero no puedo.
Bailar, cuando todo sigue igual.
cuando busco un razon y no la encuentro."

"Dance, when everthing is bad.
when i want to be there but I can't.
Dance, when everything continues going the same.
when i look for a reason and i don't find it."

This is exactly how I feel in week 3. Like i have to just keep moving my feet even though they are sore and blistering. I need to keep moving so i don't think about looking for a reason when there may not be a reason.

Week three is hard but for different reasons. I am more comfortable here but now I am seriously starting to miss home, friends, family. Before I longed for the comfort of home but now I miss the people.

But I have convinced myself that all will change at week 5. Week 5 will be beautiful.