It's been awhile since I last updated this blog, mostly because I don't want to be tiresome and write 1000 words every time I learn the word for lizard (el lagarto, if you were wondering). I have done and seen some cool things, though, that you might be interested in hearing about.
During the military dictatorship's rule in Argentina between 1976 and 1983, thousands of young Argentine men and women were kidnapped by the government. Presumably they were tortured and killed, but the truth of what happened to them has never been uncovered. Now, every Thursday afternoon, the mothers of these desaparecidos march around the Plaza de Mayo, directly in front of the Casa Rosada, the Argentine version of the White House, as a way of demanding answers about their sons' and daughters' whereabouts. Last week I went to see the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, and I honestly cannot adequately describe the haunting sight of 80- and 90-year-old women defiantly chanting their demands for the truth. Each madre wears a white bonnet with the name of her son or daughter and they are joined by other protestors, mostly friends and family of the desaparecidos, who hold up signs with pictures of their lost loved ones. Here are some pictures:
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| Monument in Plaza de Mayo; Madres in bottom right |
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| A madre speaking to the crowd |
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| La Casa Rosada |
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| Las madres de la Plaza de Mayo |
I visited Puerto Madero with some friends, and finally saw the riverfront (not counting the time I took the boat to Uruguay). I can see why Buenos Aires was trying to hide it from me -- it's kinda dirty and gross. Because of this, Buenos Aires doesn't have much of a scenic riverfront area, and Puerto Madero is about as close as it gets. Though there are supposedly some very nice restaurants, a TGI Friday's, inexplicably; a cool pedestrian bridge, and some old boats that now serve as museums.
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| The cool bridge |
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| Will, Leah, Jenny, me, and the results of ten-second auto timer |
The aforementioned market was amazing. I had been to a few different ferias, but they were all filled with tourists and I was paranoid that the vendors were trying to rip me off. Last weekend, though, I went to the market in Mataderos, a barrio on the southwest fringe of the city. It was a little far, maybe 20 or 30 minutes by bus, but it was well worth the trip. It was much more authentic than the ferias in San Telmo or Recoleta, which are more upscale and touristy. The quality and prices were also better; I bought my second alpaca sweater for $30 because I realized that my first one was cheap quality. I also bought those comfy slippers for $15, a cool souvenir mate for $5, and a bottle of delicious homemade wine for $6. I restrained myself from buying a hand-carved guitar (it wasn't that hard, since I didn't have enough dinero), but I might go back next week and buy one. In addition to all of the friendly vendors, there was live music, traditional dancing, and gauchos riding their horses through a section of the street. Watch the video below of the folk dancers. Unfortunately, I turned off my camera just before I heard a girl behind me ask, in very American English, "How come our culture isn't cool like this?"
Yesterday was El Día del Niño, which is just a day when everyone pays attention to the kids and is nice to them. HOW DID I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS?! I demand two decades of owed kid's days. But anyways, we celebrated at my house by having french fries for dinner. When Moira ran into my room and excitedly told me that we were having french fries and lettuce for dinner, I thought I must have misunderstood. But no, it was true. And with Ketchup Hot too! (side note: it's really strange to pronounce English words with a Spanish accent; e.g. kay-choop HHHoht; dayleevayree (delivery), etc. (also difficult to spell out pronunciation differences...)) I think we need to bring this tradition to the United States while I have a chance at passing as a niño...
Funny story about my gym. It's called Gym Coliseum (again with the pronunciation thing), and it's located on the second floor of a movie theater. Yes, you heard right. And yes, it is strange to open the door to leave the gym and be met with the sweet odor of stale popcorn. The membership only costs $20 a month, so I've been learning a bit about what exercise was like in the 50's with a stationary bike made out of real bike parts. To increase the difficulty you don't press the up arrow like the spoiled Americans, but tighten the break; not too much, though, or the pedals on your bike become stationary too. The gym keeps me connected to what's happening in the American music scene, too; ABBA and Cheap Trick are still big there, right? I am also learning about kilograms; for example, 50 kilograms is really heavy. Baby steps.
Classes are going well, although I haven't done much homework yet, owing to the fact that it's kind of complicated to figure out which readings you're supposed to do and where to obtain these readings. The profesor of my "Capitalism, socialism, and social revolution" class is a 70-year-old chainsmoker, and what a hoot he is. As he stands directly in front of the sign proclaiming the rule against smoking in the building, he proceeds to smoke no fewer than ELEVEN cigarettes during our class, tapping his ashes nonchalantly onto the floor. He is also nearly deaf, so when you ask a question you either have to shout (a daunting task when you aren't confident about your language skills) or ask your question with his face 6 inches from yours (also uncomfortable). The building itself is very interesting, and nothing like Pomona; the hallways are narrow and dimly lit, and the classrooms are covered with political graffiti and posters. It's a completely different experience, but I do wish that students in the U.S. were as deeply invested in their country's political system. Even Pomona kids seem incredibly apathetic in comparison to the students of UBA.
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| A typical classroom at la UBA |
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| Political graffiti everywhere |
I was finally able to successfully stay awake for a porteño-like night out, as I returned Sunday morning at 6:30am and fell asleep just dawn was breaking outside my window. The key is to sleep in the day before, drink an outrageous amount of mate beforehand, and try to not sit on any comfortable surfaces. It was fun, but not something I can see myself doing multiple times a week... Pasos pequeños.
In other news, my parents are probably coming to visit! Turns out they have an Argentine friend in Boise that owns an apartment in Recoleta, 15 minutes from my house. I'm excited to be able to show off my mastery of Spanish and Buenos Aires when they come in December. Now I just have to master Spanish and Buenos Aires... I have spent un montón of time thinking about dates for when they can come, and I think I have schemed a way to fit their 10-day trip here in between a trip to Mendoza, Santiago, and Valparaiso and 10-12 days in Patagonia. It is thus decided that my last month in South America will consist almost entirely of traveling outside of Buenos Aires (because my parents want to visit the beaches of Uruguay, where we can bathe in warm sunlight in December).
In the week ahead: If it doesn't rain/isn't repressively cold tomorrow, I'm going to finally check out the ultimate frisbee team in Buenos Aires. On Sunday I'm going to see some real football (ahem, futból), cheering on my neighborhood's very own San Lorenzo against the famed Boca Juniors. And next week, I'm going to do something completely out of my comfort zone -- start taking tango lessons at a nearby milonga. The things I'll do in search of porteño friends. Once again, baby steps.
Hasta luego, chau!
That's cool that your parents might go see you!! My parents are thinking about meeting us in England in December.. I think the odds of this are very small, but I can dream.
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