Suck it, Northern Hemisphere!

Yeah, that's right.  Summer is coming my way, no matter how much you northerners try to cling to it.  Today was El Dia del Primavera, in which we celebrate Spring's much-anticipated arrival.  And so, of course, school was cancelled.  I'm not so sure I want to go back to Pomona and never ever ever get a day off. Ever. But I digress.


It has been an eventful few weeks, and I have been extraordinarily busy, so blog-writing has taken a back-seat.  There's a ton to get through in this post, and I better just jump right in:


Artsy-Fartsy Cultural Stuff
A few Saturdays ago, I went to a free tango performance put on by the Buenos Aires World Tango Festival, which takes place the last two weeks of August.


Then, I went to MALBA (Museum of Latin American Fine Arts) to watch an Argentine art film.  The good news: I understand almost all of the dialogue.  The bad: There were probably 20 minutes of dialogue in the entire movie, which included a nearly 30 minute word-free scene in which the protagonist gets his car repaired.  Needless to say, I started to run out of patience toward the end. But I felt really cultured and snooty.

Sunset in Buenos Aires taken from inside La Bombanera

Fútbol
The following day, some friends and I went to a fútbol match, Boca vs San Lorenzo.  We didn't buy tickets beforehand, because the web site is completely unnavigable (seriously, try to figure out how to buy tickets to the next match.  I dare you).  Assuming that there would be myriad ticket-scalpers willing to rip us off outside the gates, we didn't think there would be any problem.  And there wasn't, I guess; it's just that Argentines do their ticket scalping a bit differently.  You see, there are these soccer gangs here in Buenos Aires.  As we walked around looking lost, confused, and ticket-less, a friendly, tweaked-out Argentine approached us and said we could get into the match for 200 pesos.  This was a bit steep (around 50 US$), but after going all the way to La Boca and hearing the incredible noise emanating from inside, we couldn't say no.  The man told us we needed to go to a less-public alley so that we wouldn't be seen while we waited for his partner who had the tickets.  At that point we began to think that maybe this wasn't the safest idea, especially since we hadn't yet grown out of our oh-my-god-i'm-in-a-foreign-country-and-therefore-i'm-paranoid-of-everything phase.  As the sun started to go down and the alley became more and more dimly lit, Will and I continued to scan the street around us to make sure that we would be able to make an escape if we needed.  (I might be making this sound more dramatic than it actually was.  Yes, we were hesitant and a little bit worried, but we obviously wouldn't have stayed there if we had actually been terrified of being robbed and murdered).  Anyways, the associate finally shows up, we give our money to the other guy and hope that we aren't being ripped off, then we ask for our tickets.  He says something in Spanish that none of us really understand, but it's clear that he doesn't have any tickets.  He tells us to follow him; we oblige.  We reach security, the man says something to them quickly, and security lets us pass.  And just like that, we get into the stadium.  Without any sort of ticket or legitimate payment.  At that point we realize that we had been dealing with the corrupt barras bravas (read the above link to learn more), and decide that the 200 pesos was worth it, considering it included several adrenaline rushes as well as entrance to the match.

The very loud Bombonera, home of the Boca Juniors

Now for the match. It probably won't surprise you to hear that Argentine fútbol is intense.  Like, really intense.  Just watch this video of the aftermath of Boca's only goal to understand what I mean:

Now I know how football can be so popular, even though goals are rare and ties (gasp!) are possible: the passion and fervent devotion of the fans creates an inexplicable tension in which even the slightest opportunity for a goal is a thrilling experience.  Even as someone who never followed the sport before, I'm hooked, and wish that I hadn't stopped played in fourth grade.  Soccer fandom is a one of many parts of Argentina that will surely return to the United States with me.

A shop in La Boca painted the hometown team's colors

La Boca is known for its colorfulness.  Obligatory photo.

Speaking of the United States, that place seems so far away and foreign nowadays.  I saw an American flag yesterday, and it was a bizarre experience -- an omnipresent symbol in the U.S., yet I realized that I hadn't seen one for over two months.  I also haven't heard "God Bless America" or seen Jersey Shore and I'm not sure I still meet the requirements for citizenship.  When my dwindling supply of peanut butter is exhausted I might have nothing left of my American-ness.


That, luckily, means that I'm building up my Argentine-ness.  I fit in better now; I have my San Lorenzo jacket, my mate and thermos, and my tendency to be late to everything.  Now I just need to learn the hardest part: speaking like a porteño.


Actually, one of the things I've enjoyed greatly is learning the slang, or lunfardo, of BsAs.  Mostly obscenities, really.  The soccer match was a  great opportunity to hear every bad word under the sun put to good use, even by four-foot tall pre-adolescent boys.  But the language in general has been a pain.  I had this deluded idea that I would come to Argentina, struggle for a few days, then be fluent and have tons of Argentine friends after a month.  Not so.  Two months in, I still have no Argentine friends, and sometimes struggle pathetically to communicate.  As it goes with anything, there are good days and bad, but it seems that the emotions are magnified here.  One moment I'll feel like I'm wasting five months of my life and will leave with neither friends nor an ability to speak Spanish, and the next I'll feel overjoyed because I made conversation with an Argentine.  This experience has been much more difficult than anything I expected, but I think and hope that once I do start to catch on the things more that it will be that much more rewarding.  Cross your fingers.

Will and I hate Guidos. Also photos that pertain to the text surrounding them

I did learn that a way to make friends is to just do very strange things and use them as conversation starters.  For example, last week there were elections at UBA to choose student government, and it's much more serious business here.  There are legitimate parties, and they plaster their campaign posters over every imaginable surface in the building.  So, of course, I wanted to take some of these posters as keepsakes.  As I stood on a handrail to reach an especially high poster, a girl came by and asked if the poster (with President Cristina Kirchner's face) really bothered me that much.  A little embarrassed, I explained, and she offered to give me one of the extra advertisements that they had never put up, and we had a legitimate conversation.  hashtag winning


Viaje a Córdoba
Two weekends ago the program took us all on a trip to Córdoba, which is 10 hours away by bus.  We took an overnight bus, and of course it was impossible to sleep despite the relative comfort of the seats. We arrived at our hostel at 5am to find that we were not allowed to check-in until noon, so a few of us drank mate until the sun rose.  After we finally began our day, we headed off for the first event on our agenda: touring the Universidad de Córdoba.  And yes, we were as confused as you are as to why we were spending our vacation time in a place very similar to our own universities.  Our tour guide spoke to us as if we were 5 year olds (¿Saben lo que es el NÚCLEO DE LA CÉLULA?), which proved to us that we had, in fact, progressed beyond a kindergarden comprehension level.  The small things in life, amirite?


The next day we took a bus to the nearby sierra to hacer trekking (hiking, but hacer trekking is so much more fun to say). It was a welcome change to leave city life and get out into nature for a bit. Also, there were some absolutely fantastic meal times with great friends, and there are many silly photos which document this fact.  Our excuse is that we were severely sleep-deprived the entire weekend, so don't judge.  On Sunday, we had a free day, and chose to go to the nearby town of Alta Gracia to see Che Guevera's childhood home.  It was a worthwhile excursion, and I learned a lot about a man that Argentines are very proud to claim as their own.

WHAT?! A candy/liquor store? I can die now
Also not related to surrounding text, sorry

Star Struck 
Last Monday, I went to my internship to find all of my co-workers leaving the building.  They told me to leave my backpack in the office and to come with them, so I did.  As we walked, they explained to me that MTV Latin America was doing a filming a few blocks away, and this was an opportunity for publicity.  We all put on our Conciencia t-shirts and headed to Plaza General San Martin, where we found a crowd surrounding Axel, who I later discovered has the #4 song in Argentina right now.  If you watch the music video below, you'll probably be unsurprised to know that I was one of very few guys in the crowd, surrounding by screaming teenage girls who demanded Axel's sweaty tissues. Ick.

We Become Celebrities
On Thursday Leah and I went on an art tour of San Telmo, a barrio that is filled with really cool street art and graffiti.  Since I had forgotten to charge my camera, I have no pictures to share, unfortunately.  However, you may soon be able to see a really embarrassing video of us: A film crew followed us throughout the tour, as they tried to collect material for their tourism video promoting Buenos Aires.  The kicker is that they needed to interview people, and especially people who spoke Spanish, and I foolishly revealed that we were here studying Spanish.  Of course this meant that we had to be interviewed.  The conversation went something like this:


Interviewer: Where are you from?
Ryan: Los Angeles
Leah: New York
(note: neither of those answers is true)
I: Do you like art?
R: Oh yeah, I go to museums all the time.  There are many museums in Los Angeles.  And in New York.
I: What do you like best about Buenos Aires?
R: Food.  And mate.
L: Yeah I have my thermos! (turns 180 degrees to show her thermos)
I: What kind of food do you like here?
R: Meat.
L: And carbohydrates.


....Yeah, it was as awkward as it sounds.

El Ateneo, a former opera theater that has been converted into a bookstore. Right up my alley.

Quilombo at the post office
My dear Aunt Kim was kind enough to send me a care package, so I received a notice at my house saying that I needed to go to the International Package Center to retrieve it.  I was warned that this could be a lengthy process, so I brought along some medialunas, some mate, and, as always, Harry Potter y el prisionero de Azkaban.  When I arrived there was a crowd inside and out of the post-office.  I entered, took a number (73), and looked at the board to see how long it would be before I was called.  Alas, 99 was being served at that time, and I could tell that it would be awhile before 73 came around again, considering that there were only three windows open. After reading HP for around an hour, 73 was called, and I took my ticket to the window.  The man shook his head at me, and explained that I had ticket 73 E, and they had just called 73 D, which meant I had to wait another 100 numbers, or 1.5 hours.  When I was finally called, I went to the window to pay my small tax and was given a number which corresponded to my package.  The man at the counter told me to wait in another room until my package was ready.


The problem this time was that these new package numbers were not in chronological order, so you had to listen to every number that was called until you heard yours, or you would never know that your number had been called.  After two more hours waiting in that room, I made the classic foreigner's mistake: I dozed off for a few minutes as I sat on the floor against the wall.  Regaining consciousness, I panicked.  Had my number been called in the preceding minutes?  I went to the back room and told a man that yes, I had heard my number called (because they refused to even look if you weren't sure).  He looked, didn't find it, and directed me to another section, where my package also was not located.  So I returned to the first place, stood in line again, and found another worker to look for my package.  I repeated this process several times to no avail.  At this point, it was 6:00pm (an hour after the post office had officially closed), and I had to catch the bus to Córdoba at 8 and had some errands to run beforehand.  I thus made the painful (well, not really) decision to leave without my package.  Yes, I waited in the post office for FIVE HOURS and left empty-handed.  Well, that isn't completely true: I did get a good story out of it.  Also an understanding of the horrific Argentine bureaucracy.  And I had some great moments in which I complained with other Argentines about the insanity of the situation, so I'd say it's a win overall. Thanks Aunt Kim! (and if you're reading this, no, that really isn't sarcastic, and I appreciated the sentiment!)

Walking down/Attempting to cross Avenida de Julio is one of my favorite things to do

The famous Obelisco, Buenos Aires's defining landmark

A small plaza in the middle of Avenida de Julio, with the beloved Eva Peron in the background

School and Stuff
So I really do go to school here.  And it's pretty hard and in Spanish.  I know I harp on this "It's in Spanish" theme a lot, but seriously it can put a damper on things.  And I have a midterm coming up at an unspecified but imminent date, so wish me luck on that, since I've understood approximately 10% of what's happened so far in class.  The next few weeks will be spent trying to discern a mountain of readings that are sitting on my desk.


In case anyone made it through this monster of a post, congratulations! I will have nothing original to tell you when I get back.  But I kid.

Chau!


PS This article is really interesting and is somewhat related to what I'm doing here. Read it if you have time.

Baby Steps

I have been in Buenos Aires for more than a month now, and I have that strange sensation of having been here forever and having just arrived.  I'm reminded every day that I'm not from here, by both the things that I don't understand and the people who don't understand me and ask, "De donde sos?"  In some ways, however, I'm settling in.  I am almost never lost thanks to the fairly intuitive street grid of Buenos Aires and countless hours of staring at my bus map and wandering around new parts of town.  I've started all of my classes, and I started my internship today at political education/activism organization called Conciencia, where I'll be working 10-12 hours a week.  I even have a gym membership, which comes with some comical observations.  My capacity to look like a porteño has even improved, now that I own a mate, an alpaca sweater, and some sweet argentine slippers, all courtesy of a Sunday feria, or market.  Most astoundingly, I passed the Level One test for basic language ability -- I went to a barber shop and left without a mullet.  Baby steps.

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:

Monument in Plaza de Mayo; Madres in bottom right

A madre speaking to the crowd

La Casa Rosada

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.

The cool bridge

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.

A typical classroom at la UBA

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!

Beauty Will Save the World

I just returned yesterday from a weekend in Montevideo, Uruguay, and it was a strange juxtaposition of perspectives.  I was absolutely a tourist, but I was some cross between an American tourist and an Argentine tourist.  I'm already accustomed to the porteño way of life, and Montevideo was a change of pace.  It is a bit of a smaller city and it felt less physically constricting than the concrete jungle of Buenos Aires.  Also, urugayos are a different breed; it's difficult to explain the subtleties in the cultural differences, but I think that it is accurate to say that they are very hospitable and more laid back.  Buenos Aires seems much busier and cosmopolitan, while Montevideo is a more typical Latin American city.  I have to say that I dig the buena onda (good vibes) in Uruguay.  But as much as I enjoyed my time in Montevideo, I am glad that I chose to study in Buenos Aires, because it is, after all, a world-class city, and I don't think that I will ever cease to be amazed by its its offerings.

This very-phallic building in downtown Montevideo
used to be the tallest in all of South America

But I have to gush about Uruguay for a bit.  You know those moments where everything is just perfect?  I was lucky enough to have a few of those in the last few days.  The hostel I stayed at was run by some really friendly montevideanos (though I'm not sure they come in any other way), and was filled with tourists from Brazil and elsewhere in South America.  They all spoke English to some degree, the hostel people spoke Portuguese and the Brazilians spoke some Spanish.  One night we had a fantastic conversation after we all returned from our night on the town, and it was something that I imagine would fascinate the linguistics major in each of us.  I would tell a story in 90% Spanish, throwing in a few words of English when I needed to.  The Brazilians would respond in Spanglish/Portuñol, and the Uruguayos would translate the Portuguese for me.  It was a magical experience to be able to communicate like that with complete strangers.

The second perfect moment came when I walked along a pier-type thing that jutted out into the Río de la Plate.  When I reached the end, I turned back for the first time, and the sight was staggering.  It wasn't beauty as conventionally defined; the pier was located in an industrial part of town near the port.  But the scene got to me.  The sun was approaching the horizon, casting long shadows on the enormous cargo cranes and the modest, yet distinctively Latin American apartments in the vicinity.  I was surrounded on three sides by water, and the wind was just cold enough to chase away complacency.  The rugged charm of that pier was so utterly calming that I could not dwell on any negative thought or be concerned with any of the stressful aspects of life in a foreign land.  All I could do was look, and see.  And I saw something that I could never have expected to see in that place, something that washed away my anxieties better than anything else could have.

Yes, four grown adults did cling to childhood here

The third moment came in a public bus.  We were returning to our hostel after a long day walking through town, and admittedly I was not in the best of moods for a variety of reasons.  But then a man stood up, holding his acoustic guitar, and began to play and sing.  If there were a way to objectively measure beauty, this probably would not have made the cut, as the man most likely wasn't a particularly magnificent singer or guitarist.  The truth is, though, that I don't even remember how talented a musician he was.  I only remember the intense beauty and improbability of the situation.  That I would find myself on a bus in Montevideo, Uruguay, listening to a man make life a little more pleasant for 30-odd people on their way somewhere else was incredible. 

Montevideo's beautiful shoreline must be perfect on a warm summer day

It inspired an inner philosophical monologue for me, and it brought to mind a favorite quote from Fyodor Dostoyevski's The Idiot, and the title of this post: "Beauty will save the world." We need not only find beauty in the expected places, but in everyday life as well.  And we must find that beauty in order to survive, because without it, what is life for?

So you might have noticed that the style of this post is little different.  More serious, probably with better grammar, and maybe it even seems pretentious, but this is how I feel right now, and for me, this blog is mostly just a diary of my life abroad that the whole world can read.  So please, forgive the bad-attempt-at-Zen attitude this week!

A scary/intriguing abandoned train station we came across

Some miscellaneous items:  

1) Before leaving for Montevideo, I went to a movie theater that the Argentine government subsidizes, so tickets cost just $1.50 for students.  I went with a friend from my program, and after arriving at the cinema we had to choose whether to see "Paka Paka" or something with "end of the world" in the title.  Clearly, we chose the latter, and found that the full title was Hermanitos del fin del mundo.  When I requested a ticket for this movie, the ticket guy shot me the most confused look, so I confirmed that this was the movie that started at 4:15.  My friend asked if I was a good movie, but the man just shrugged and said he hadn't seen it.  Thoroughly perplexed, we went to the theater, and as we waiting for the movie to begin, we noticed that every person that entered the theater was under the age of eight or with someone under the age of eight.  It turns out that "Little Brothers at the End of the World" is a children's movie set in Tierra del Fuego (hence the end of the world bit).  To top it off, it was also a musical, and a badly acted and performed one at that.  Needless to say, it won't be a contender for the Best Foreign Film   Oscar, but at least it was easy to follow and provided me with a good extranjero story.

"You have a weapon, you have a problem."
Things are different here.

2) In three short weeks, I've changed a lot.  I am a calmer person because I've been forced to be okay with not being in control of what happens around me.  Additionally, my perspective on the world and my identity has shifted, though not in the ways I had anticipated.  The most striking thought I have had is that despite the fact that I've always strongly identified myself as an American (though I was not always conscious of how much so), nationality is completely arbitrary.  I never chose to be born in America, and the choice to never leave there had never truly been left up to me.  It might sound silly, but after talking to Argentines and Uruguayos, I understand that we are all really the same in a way that I hadn't before.  What really separates you for someone from another country? Language and culture, maybe, but as I'm finding, that is something that can be learned.  So I've begun to question the entire premise of borders and nations and national identity, and I know that I sound like a hippie and a communist but I don't care.  For now, I still consider myself an American, but my acceptance of the idea that it might not always be that way has been interesting.  Who knows, maybe I'll just tell people I'm a "student of the world" when they ask me where I'm from.

3) Border security between Argentina and Uruguay is absolutely nothing.  I walked through a metal detector and set it off because I was wearing a belt, and no one insisted on a cavity search! In fact, no one even stopped me!  So much for TSA.  And a Londoner I met in the hostel told me that he had unwittingly been an illegal immigrant in Argentina for eight months because his visa had expired.  No one deported him, and his only punishment was that he had to pay a 300 peso (US$75) fine.  It is insane how differently Americans and Argentines think about borders and immigration, and though I know there are many differences in their respective immigration situations, the more relaxed, welcoming, and tolerant way of South America appeals to me more.

4) I started classes today.  I'll have more about life at UBA in a later post, but I can tell you a few things after just a day.  UBA has been nothing like the organizational disaster that it was described to me as.  My two professors today were both very friendly, made a point to welcome the exchange students, and spoke slowly and clearly for our benefit.  One professor emailed everyone the week's reading (unexpectedly), and included a version in English! I'm going to read it first in Spanish, but since I can really only understand 40% of political theory written in English, it can't hurt to have the option.  The building is nothing like you would find at Pomona, but is also not the rathole that I had expected.  Although it was humorous that flyers praising the merits of the new building (by new I mean different) that the political science department has this year said "The bathrooms are clean, and sometimes even have soap!"  Additionally, when my professor flipped to light switch to brighten the room, nothing happened, and everyone reacted nonchalantly.  My first class had only about 20 students, 5 of which were exchange students from American liberal arts colleges, and my second class, with about 40 total, had maybe 10 from the US.  As a first-day safety blanket, I sat with the American kids, but starting tomorrow I plan to shun them and try to make Argentine friends.  The incredible thing is that UBA is completely free, and seems to have impressive academics, with great professors and small classes.  Add this to the free and universal health care they have here, and I'm trying to figure out what we're doing wrong in the United States. *typical liberal American response*

PICTURES!!!

The thing reminiscent of a Soviet-era bomb shelter
at the end of the magical pier

A fountain where lovers go to immortalize
their devotion.  Urban version of carving
your names into a tree

An enormous chivito, a traditional Uruguayan sandwich made with
beef, ham, bacon, egg, and about 3 pounds of condiments

A cool statue and building in Montevideo

Alex and Mary por siempre

Beginnings of a panorama of the view from the end of the dock.
A brave attempt, but a failed one.

A very colorful corner market

Sorry for the awful formatting.  If you have tips on how to do it better, or tips on anything really, drop me a comment!

Next week, I swear I'll have some photos of Buenos Aires for you to contrast these with.  Until then, hasta luego!

PS Completely unrelated, but does someone that has Watch the Throne get it to me somehows??

Cómo se dice, "homesick"?

I've never been homesick before.  Not when I went to college for the first time, and not when I lived in San Francisco by myself this summer.  Of course I occasionally missed home/Pomona and people in both places, but nothing I would characterize as "homesick."  In fact, I never really knew what that meant.  Well now I do.  Homesickness is when everything about a new place makes you irrationally irritated and several times a day you find yourself wishing you could just go back.  But I can't go back, at least not until December, so I'll deal with it and hopefully regain my positive outlook on my time in Buenos Aires.  In case you're wondering, here are some things that annoyed me on a recent afternoon:

1) Why is it winter here? I don't care about science and how the Earth's spherical shape creates hemispheres with opposite seasons, it's JULY, dammit, and it shouldn't be 8 degrees Celsius!

2) WHO UNDERSTANDS CELSIUS?! NOT ME.  All I know is that 8 degrees Celsius is real cold.

3) Why am I always lost? Yeah, I eventually find my way home, but sometimes it takes 10 minutes of standing on a corner deciphering my bus guide and 15 minutes walking to the stop for the bus that I thought was closest but almost certainly wasn't.  And then 10 minutes waiting for the bus, all in 8 degree Celsius weather! (FYI, 8 degrees Celsius is somewhere around 45 degrees Fahrenheit)

4) Where is the American food?  Yeah, the food here is mostly delicious.  But it's ALL THE SAME.  Seriously, half of my meals have been pizza or empanadas, or some combination thereof.  I just want some vegetables, yo! I'm pretty sure my body hates me for the lack of nutrients it has been getting lately.  Out of frustration I had a PB&J (PB and J both brought from home) and a glass of milk for lunch a few days ago, although the taste of the bread kind of overpowered everything else.  You see, my host family makes their own bread, but it doesn't especially taste good (I'm hoping that the blandness indicates some sort of nutritional value... maybe?)

5) Why does everyone speak Spanish all the time? Seriously, this is getting old.

6) On the real, I haven't been exercising much (it's hard to find a gym that I like, okay!), but after a day of trying to understand a foreign language nonstop, I'm completely exhausted.

Part of the problem might be that I've sorta been a bum the last week.  Orientation is over now, so I don't have much motivation to leave my bed.  I hate to admit this, but I spend over half of the day in my room sleeping or on the Internet.  Last night I fell asleep at 10pm, woke up at midnight to brush my teeth and change my clothes, then slept until 11am this morning.  But this is also a bit of a chicken-and-egg dilemma; I don't leave my house because I don't know what to do once I leave my house, but I don't know what there is to do here because I haven't left my house.  I'm blaming it on the weather, which is additional incentive to hermitize.

I know that everything will be better in a few weeks, after I start classes, become more familiar with the city, the culture, and the language, and hopefully make a few friends.  To do this, I'm planning to join an ultimate frisbee team here.  We'll see how that goes, because most of the Argentines with whom I've talked about ultimate have no clue what it is.  But since ultimate will be only once a week, I might also join a fútbol team, though I haven't played soccer since I was 8.

In other news, I finally chose some classes.  Ultimately I will only need to take 3 classes (or 2 if I end up getting an internship), but for now I'm enrolled in 4.  They are:

Argentina Reciente II (1983-1999) - Recent political history of Argentina
Historia Latinoamericana 
Capitalismo, socialismo, y revolución social contemporánea
Análisis Político: Conflicto y Cooperación en Latinoamérica


As you can tell, I'm eager to learn about the history, politics, and social dynamics of this country and Latin America in general. I'm sure I will learn a ton, but I'm also sure that there is no way I will keep up to date with 100% of my schoolwork, at least while I'm in 4 classes.  The double-whammy of having to learn in a foreign language of which I currently only have a basic grasp and the desire to enjoy my time in a new city ensures that I will probably spend most of the first months barely hanging on.  But that's the point of study abroad, right?

The kids returned yesterday from their weeklong winter vacation to their grandma's house.  It's nice to have them back, because I have two little monsters with whom I can pretend to be dragons.  They still don't know/can't pronounce my name, but I'm hoping we'll get there soon.  Moira explained to me today that it's my fault, because my name is hard to pronounce, while hers is easy.  I think she's pretty close to getting it, though; today she called me something along the lines of Rum.

It's cat mating season, as my host mom informed me.  My window faces several rooftops where cats like to chill after dark.  Not much else to say about that.

A cat chillaxin' in Cementerio Recoleta

There are also tons of cats that live in el Cementerio Recoleta, a cemetery where famous Argentines, ex-presidents, and military heroes are buried.  Well not so much buried... The cemetery is filled with beautiful tiny buildings made of marble, inside of which the caskets are located, with glass windows for viewing.  It's a bit disconcerting to walk past and actually see the casket which presumably has a dead body inside (or whatever remains of the body).  The cats just roam around in the cemetery, and it's on the whole a very bizarre experience.

So when we got here the program paired everyone up with a tutor.  Surely they explained their purpose, but I was either not listening or just not understanding Spanish.  Anyways, I assumed from his title that Rodrigo would be helping me to figure out my classes.  To my surprise, he scoffed when I asked if he also studied political science at UBA.  "No," he said, "I'm a musician!"  Being thoroughly confused, I resorted to my mode of late: Act like you understand and maybe you will.  Probably not, but maybe.

I eventually learned that my tutor was actually just a young guy that Middlebury pays to be my friend.  The good thing is that it doesn't seem like he's getting paid, but rather he seems to actually enjoy teaching me what young folks do here.  Rodrigo is friends with two other guys' tutores, so on Saturday all six of us when to a party at their friend's apartment.  Being musicians, they have lots of hipster artist friends, and the party felt straight out of a scene from Woody Allen's recent film Midnight in Paris.  There was a girl chain-smoking in corner while painting, and after a period of socializing, a jam session broke out.  Our tutores are fantastic Spanish guitar players, it turns out, and it was an amazing scene to see such incredible talent concentrated in one room.  There were more guitars, bongo drums, and singing, at it was all indescribably beautiful.  These are the kind of Argentine friends I need.

I have no pictures to post this time, because I never have my camera with me.  This is mostly because I'm absent-minded, but also because I'm afraid of getting my camera snatched.  Once I understand better where I will and won't get things stolen, I'll be taking more pictures.  I'm going across the Río de la Plata to Uruguay with some friends from my program for our last few days before school starts.  I promise to have pictures of that adventure next time!

¡Chau, amigos!

PS to those of you who have facebook chatted, emailed, and video chatted me, I appreciate it! Seriously, there is nothing I appreciate more than real friends who understand me.  Keep it up, and if I haven't talked to you yet, let's do so soon.  And although you might think your silly American life isn't exciting compared to mine in a foreign country, know that I still care!  Let me know how you're doing!

La vida cotidiana en Buenos Aires

It's been a whirlwind of a few days.  I've been in Argentina for less than a week, and I've already learned so much.  Of course, there are still many, many things that I don't understand yet.

The Food

The typical Argentine diet includes a lot of meat, mostly beef.  Argentina is famous for its steaks, though I have yet to try one because my host mom is a former vegetarian, and my family generally eats more vegetables and less meat than the average Argentine household.  I really appreciate this fact, because a lot of people from my program have had trouble adjusting to such a meat-and-processed-carbohydrate heavy diet.  The empanadas are delicious, although I'm pretty sure they aren't that good for you, because they're basically just Hot Pockets.  Also whole grains don't exist here.  Overall, though, the food is fantastic, but somehow everyone here is thin...

Orientation

My program's orientation began Friday, and it has been a whole lot of boring.  I have spoken and heard a lot more Spanish because of it, but I've also done the same with English, because having other American students around is a constant temptation to break out the inglés.  I've made friends with some really cool people, though, and they'll come in handy in the coming weeks until I make Argentine friends.  (That last sentence made it seem like I'll ditch them as soon as I meet some locals.  I can neither confirm or deny this, but I can say that that was not the sentiment I was trying to convey.)  On Saturday we got to tour the Casa Rosada, which is the Argentine equivalent of the White House.  I don't have much to say about it, except that it's pink.

The Language

Argentines don't call it español, they call it castellano.  I'm not entirely sure what the distinction is, but it's possible that español refers to the Spanish spoken in Spain while castellano refers to the Spanish spoken in Argentina and Uruguay.  And oh yes, there is a difference.  In most Spanish-speaking countries, ll is pronounced like y.  For example, pollo is pronounced "po-YO." But porteños (literally people of the port, or residents of BA) pronounce "ll" and "y" like the "s" sound in "measure," so pollo = "po-ZHO."  This can be confusing, because sometimes you won't even recognize basic words when you hear them.

The view from my room, photo courtesy of Moira

My castellano has improved quite a bit since I got here.  I've started to unconsciously think in Spanish and I've had several dreams in Spanish (though the idea that this is the indicator that you're fluent is phooey).  It is a very bizarre feeling to think in another language.  When I think about things people said in the past in English, I remember them as if the person said them in Spanish.  My mind is automatically converting ideas expressed in English to Spanish, and it's a really cool but surreal experience!  Since orientation has started, though, I've been speaking a lot more English to the other Americans, because after speaking Spanish for 8-10 hours, everyone is really tired of it.  It's amazing how comforting it is to simply to able to express yourself fully and naturally after hours of not being able to.  But my progress with Spanish has slowed because of this, so I've decided that for the next week I'm going to try to speak and read as little English as possible.  I need to learn as much Spanish as possible before I start classes in two weeks!

Nightlife


On Friday night a few people from the program decided that we wanted to go out.  I was really tired, though, and porteños don't even start their night until midnight or 1am, so I decided to take a short siesta at 10pm.  I learned that this isn't the best idea when I woke up at 10am the next morning.  The key to success is to drink mate, a ubiquitous type of tea which is basically crack cocaine in liquid form.  Drink just a little mate and you feel like running a marathon!  Saturday was more successful after this lesson was learned, and we went to an overpriced bar in Palermo.  I realized that I've already become a cheapskate, because the idea of paying 8 dollars for a mixed drink was horrifying.  In general things are very inexpensive here; the national slogan should be "In Argentina, it's all Two-Buck Chuck".  I went to the grocery store and bought the most expensive bottle of wine they had early today.  And it was ten dollars.  I didn't especially want/need the ten-dollar bottle of wine, but how many times in America will I buy the most expensive wine in the store? Approximately never.


¡Qué Quilombo!

Cornelios fell asleep on my bed while listening to Eminem.
 All together now, "AWW"

From what I've gathered, there is a lot of pickpocketing and straight-up robbery here.  I'm pretty sure I experienced this firsthand a few days ago.  I was waiting at the bus stop, probably looking like an American, and some guy came up to me and starting saying something.  He was speaking really quickly and really close to my face, and I couldn't understand him; I'm pretty sure, though, that he said the word "machete" (although this could have been "billete," or wallet, but either way he wanted my money).  I figured I was being robbed, although it was a curious scenario -- it was dark, but it was only about 8pm, so there were plenty of people around.  Thus I surrendered my wallet and the guy took some money and walked briskly away.  I wasn't too shaken up about it, though, considering that I was confused more than anything and he only got away with around 30 US dollars.

In other news, there have been some small victories.  Like when I figured out how to decode the bus guide, or unlock the front door to my house.  Now the big decision is choosing my classes; do I want to take "Análisis Político: Conflicto y Cooperación en Latinoamérica," or "La Socialdemocracia en América Latina: Problemas, Actores, y Estrategias en el marco de los procesos de democratización"?  I'll letcha know how that one turns out next week!

¡Hasta luego amigos!

First day in Buenos Aires

Living in a foreign country is a good way to increase your humility.  Because pretty much everything you do seems stupid.

Yesterday, I finally arrived in Buenos Aires after a grueling 13-hour red-eye flight.  I wasn't able to sleep at all, but on the upside, the flight attendants served me food!! and WINE! Those 3 ounces of wine were pretty much the highlight of my journey.  I convinced everyone I encountered that I spoke fluent Spanish, although I understood approximately 5 percent of what they said.  When the flight attendent came by to ask what we wanted for dinner, I just said "lo mismo" ("the same") and found that the lady sitting next to me had ordered teriyaki chicken.  Not bad.

The trouble started after I arrived at the airport in Buenos Aires.  I hadn't written down the exact address of my host family because my program's director had told me that there would be a taxi waiting for me.  As I left customs, I saw a bunch of people holding signs with names, but none with mine.  So after pacing back and forth, thinking maybe I just hadn't seen my driver for some reason, I decided to get another taxi.  This turned out to be fine (although it was quite a bit more expensive than the original taxi), but I still didn't know the address, so I told him (in my rudimentary Spanish) the name of the barrio and the street where I was living and asked him to drop me off at an internet cafe.

Apparently he thought I meant a real cafe.  Like, with pastries and coffee.  And without internet.  So I bought a doughnut and a bottle of water after ten minutes of trying to figure out the exact means of doing so, then sat down to see if I could find nearby wi-fi.  No luck.  I didn't know how I was supposed to pay for my snack, so I just waited with a profound look of confusion until a waitress came over and told me how much money I owed.  Of course hearing her speak Spanish caused me an undue amount of anxiety, so I didn't hear exactly what she said and misunderstood her.  She said it was 10 pesos and 86 cents, but I thought she said 86 pesos, which would be around 20 dollars.  But I gave her a hundred pesos anyways and awaited to see how much change I'd get back.  After not being ripped off, I asked the woman where I could find internet, and she gave me directions that I didn't really understand, but she made it seem like it was somewhere on that street.  I walked up and down Avenida Boedo probably 20 times before I found an Internet cafe.  Luckily I was only two blocks from the house and I finally made it there.

My host family is SO GREAT.  Pablo and Regula are tango instructors, and they also run a bed and breakfast that is attached to their house.  Juan is 13, but he is only here Wednesday, Thursdays, and the last weekend of every month (I think? I dunno they explained this to me but I only ever understand half of what they say), and the rest of the time he lives with his mom.  Moira is 5 and Cornelios is 3, and they are the cutest and friendliest little kids ever.  Last night I was in my room kind of avoiding them so I didn't have to deal with the stress of speaking and hearing Spanish, and I could hear the little kids and their dad singing to tango music at the top of their lungs in the kitchen.

Last night I was in my room wondering when dinner was going to happen, but being to afraid to ask, I googled it and eHow told me dinner would be between 8pm and 9pm, which turned out to be correct! Who knew?  Anyways, I had no idea what I was eating, although it looked like mashed potatoes with some vegetables on top.  I asked Pablo, and I think he told me it was mashed corn?  It tasted good though.

Today I slept until lunch time, so my family probably thinks I'm the laziest person ever.  I also didn't leave the house because I didn't know where to go and I don't have a phone yet.  About an hour ago, Regula knocked on my door and started telling me something.  I was really proud of myself because I thought I understood almost everything she said.  She said she was going to give me a tour of Buenos Aires so that I knew where everything was.  So I put on my coat (because it's winter here and it's actually really cold, given that I'm used to summer weather) and walked downstairs.  Well apparently she was going to give me a tour of Buenos Aires by showing me things on the MAP.  oops.  so currently I feel like the biggest dummy this side of the Mississippi.  But she explained some important things, like how Argentines conjugate their verbs weird (that explained part of the reason why I couldn't understand any of what they said) and how to use the bus guide (the most complicated thing in the world).  And I told her that I didn't understand much of the Spanish I heard and that I would probably ask the same questions many times.  Unfortunately I haven't really asked any questions, but instead I just nod and pretend like I get what's going on -- not the best idea.

I won't lie, this is a really scary experience.  It's really hard to not be able to understand what's going on around you, even more so than I thought.  I miss hearing people speak English!  But luckily I have a great family, and I'm pretty comfortable with this house.  Once I decide to leave the house, though.... welp, that'll be another story.

Pictures coming soon! Like, after I take them and upload them!