Missing the Less Developed

I missed Argentina for the first time in 2 months.

We watched clips from the 2001 riots in Argentina in J621: Mass Media and Developing Countries.

That’s were I was, a “developing country.” I strode through those “backwards” streets of Buenos Aires with ease despite my capitalist 1^st world label. I wonder if an Argentine would be allowed the same courtesy here.

Because our glorious developed country technology wasn’t working in class, I translated the Argentine man’s word in the movie with surprising effortlessness.

I had heard his words before. “There is no future or past here. We only live in today.”

A country of the hopeless middle class. Yet I felt the vibrancy in the UBA halls. It was more alive than the sterilely silent halls of Vilas. And I felt more alive there, more alive because there seemed to always be potential lying around the next broken sidewalk, always a new challenge to meet at the next bus stop, always a new today.

After all isn’t it better to be “developing,” to have something to more to accomplish, to work for?

After all we can’t all be perfect like America.

Frozen in Spirit

I am buried under 3 feet of unbearable winter.

I am trapped in my house, unable to venture out into this world I was looking forward to rediscovering.

I am weighed down in body and spirit, by this deadening winter.

I forgot how spirit-breaking Wisconsin winters are.

So instead of trying to fight the next month of below zero wind chills, I am putting on my sweats, making some cocoa and hibernating until the March thaws.

My infamous driveway where my car got stuck twice, yes twice, in one day.

Third Culture

[First, props to Penny for enlightening me to the term third culture and for just being enlightening in general.]

7 months ago, I left Green Bay, my first culture. The culture I called home for 22 years. The only culture I thought would ever be home. A culture I would soon learn to miss desperately and question critically.

6 months ago, I stopped crying in my second culture. I looked around Buenos Aires and thought profoundly, “This isn’t that bad.” I experienced my second culture, then I lived my second culture and finally I was my second culture.

1 month ago I returned to my first culture, dismayed that it seemed unrecognizable and unlivable. And so in true Fritz fashion, I panicked, labeled it depression of readjustment and boarded myself up until my first culture stopped slapping me across the face with Wal-Marts and McDonalds.

But I am not re-adjusting nor re-adapting nor doing any re-ing. I am experiencing my 3^rd culture for the first time. For my 2^nd culture not only changed me, it irreversibly changed my 1^st culture. So now I am walking through Wal-Mart with new legs. I am looking at the golden arches with new eyes. I am experiencing my third culture and I am living it with a new soul.

And like that first Sunday in Buenos Aires, I am abandoning my useless fear, getting on collectivo 128 and heading for the unknown of this new home. The guards I needed in my first culture, I learned to abandon and burn in my second. And upon reaching my third, I find the old guards are rusting and ugly and have no use in my painfully bright third culture.

My Computer is a Traitor

I have reset my computer's clock three times since returning to Central Standard Time.

Yet inevitably a few days after resetting my traitorous computer, I open my screen to find i am still in Argentine time.

Currently it is 7:47 PM. I am sitting down to eat with mi familia. Maite is hiding under the table trying to tickle my feet. Inaquis is telling me yet another joke in Spanish I don't understand. Gustavo and Angles are exchanging office gossip and Teo is passing me another serving of food even after I pleaded “estoy llena.”

That is according to my computer.

My brain knows it is 4:47 PM. That I just walked home in the most miserable cold rain after a day of lectures I could understand but not feel. My brain knows I need to do at least another 3 hours of homework before I can even begin to fantasize about the folds of my bed.

My heart is in cahoots with my computer. My heart is opening the patio window and breathing in Argentina, breathing in fresh, hot beginnings.

But my body is here, frozen in Madison, frozen in the past, slipping on the sidewalk between the past and the future.

And I am left wondering; has anything changed in 7 months?

Or am I still crying on concrete steps?

My computer and my heart are in denial, hoping by freezing time in Argentina, they can ignore the past here.

But there are the concrete steps, looking slippery with regret.