Chau

There is so much to be said about this past half year. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that in 12 short days, I'll be referring to my 5 month living/learning/traveling experience in Buenos Aires, Argentina as a novelty of the past.

This morning, I pulled open my mailbox to be greeted with a letter from my friend, my che boluda, Amy. She had written it in the FLACSO computer lab while I was glacier-sighting in the Patagonian south for a few days. "It seems like yesterday and years ago that a cute Asian in a grey sweatshirt that had the name of a college that I can't remember but she doesn't go to anyway, approached me in an airport to ask if I was lost too. That was such a confusing sentence. I'm sorry. I don't speak English anymore." At first I laughed, so typical Amy--I could hear her fluctuating voice singing those sentences. Then, I fell quiet. That yesterday was five long months ago, when a hundred-twenty American and international college students arrived, drowning in luggage, at the Ezeiza International Airport. What happened since that late July afternoon? Well, your guess is as good as mine.

Change cannot be chronicled, transcribed to manuscript, but change can be processed. So how did I process the culture shocks, a bizarre majority of European faces in a Latin American country, and the Argentine addiction to a drink based in dry leaves (and twigs)? Through channeling un montón de paciencia. Patience is innate to every Argentine (or eventually self learned) because without it, the frequent labor protests that cut off streets and generate massive transportation quilombo, subway chaos every time it rains, shopkeepers' stingy hold over coins (the babies that make the bus rides possible), students striking now and then, and well, the list never ends, would have consumed the city. I've been fortunate enough to cross paths with individuals--friends, with whom I've stumbled en pedo through streets just warming up to the morning sunlight, talked about running simply to convince ourselves it would be okay to indulge in homemade mousse, and seen different faces of Argentina and the South American continent--family, to whom I turned under moments of anxiety and stress--mentors, who without, I probably would have suffered more than I did under UBA's wrath.

Nearly half a year in Buenos Aires has flown by, simply flown by. However, not a day passes when my mind isn't on crack or, when my mind isn't constantly absorbing fresh information, processing new images, and trying to understand the subtle and grand complexities that make Buenos Aires such an attractive mess. Perhaps a month ago, I began to count the remaining sunsets I would see from my 12th floor window. At the time, 66 remained. Today, I have 1 left.

Buenos Aires, although you pretty much depleted my bank account, your quilombos ignited the curiosity, passion and adventures that made this an unforgettable semester, and you an unforgettable home.

Right Around the Corner...

....my three night, four day trekking excursion through the Andes Mountains in Peru, with the final destination being the ancient, world renowned Incan ruins--Machu Picchu

....a trip down to the Patagonian South, home to a few of the world's remaining moving glaciers and breath-taking wildlife and creations of Mother Nature

...a struggle to replenish my near-depleted bank account

...reunion with a familiar yet seemingly centuries distant world

...normal school schedules and students that lack the militancy of UBA students

...microwaves (because they are near inexistent in Buenos Aires)

...imported and heinously overpriced wine

...the Spanish language as I've known it for the past 9 years

...creamy, non-imitation Jiffy peanut butter

...community and 30 rock

...a white christmas without summer heat and clothing stores busting out swimwear

...reacquaintance with Chinglish

...renewing my driver's license so that I may learn the roads all over again

Transcendence

At the start of last week, I was finally forced to put pen to paper and confront the reality that was my non-existent 15 pager comparing inmigration policies in Argentina and the United States. While I was well aware of the impending stress and anticipating many hours of anti-socialness, I spent the past weekend in Mendoza, the land of fine Argentine wine, and days before the trip, accommodating the visiting father. I like the way my mind functions most times, but in this instance, what was I thinking spending 28 hours on a bus, spending a day trekking through the Andes, and getting wine drunk every evening, AND writing such a paper? Nope, even though I lugged my computer along, minimal words made their way to the screen. But here I am now, writing this entry, because I've terminated the 15 pager--two days ahead of schedule. Transcendence is alive and real.

The three-day escape to tierra del vino was as transcendent, if not more, than my speedy 15 page paper writing proficiency. After four and a half months of pure Buenos Aires city living, every opportunity to travel to tranquilidad and where greenery actually still exists, is academic reprieve and an early Christmas gift. In Mendoza, I renewed much of the energy, patience and tranquility that Buenos Aires had mercilessly sucked away. I was further renewed, albeit through chilly winds ripping at unhumane altitudes, during the ascent into the Andes. Over the course of the weekend, I trascended polar opposite seasonal temperatures, transcended an otherwise unimaginable realm of natural beauty and by far most interesting, transcended my identity/ethnicity.

Never during the numerous times I left the hostel to wander the Mendozan streets, did I see an Asian. While it may seem I have an obsession of sorts with being Asian in Argentina, I don't. Maybe the Argentines should simply focus less on Asians among themselves and more on their own presence amid Asians. During one of our dinners at a buffet-style restaurant, I could not walk from our table to the island bars without commanding table by table stares. I mean, the food was delicious, so I must have been quite a rare and intriguing sighting for people to momentarily abandon their plates to cast an upwards glance at the flaca, hair-in-bun, Asian girl passing by. If there is one thing I learned about Mendozans, it's that they prefer to ask my friend (when I was most likely in the bathroom) where I'm from, and upon being told the United States, assume a confused expression and insist that I can only be from Asia. This said, in the rare chance I return to Mendoza someday, maybe I should I adopt a blonde wig and colored contacts?

Hmm, maybe Buenos Aires is still my city cup of tea.

Wet Reality

I've always loved rain. There was a time way back when I'd pop in a CD entitled A Rainy Day into the stereo whenever it rained--or whenever the sky cried. I've always loved rain because its the one occasion that allows me to truly appreciate the current moment I live. While I no longer have time to watch endless curtains of clear and innocent rain beads trickle down the window pane, the soothing sounds of pit-pat, flow and drip leave me nostalgic for these long forgotten days.

Does the sky really cry? If so, what does it cry for?

Joy?

Loss?

Love?

Hate?

If it told us the reason, we would no longer find rainy days to be as mysterious as they are. But humans, we're not like the sky. When we cry, we may be grateful, moved, incandescently happy, entertained, or completely heart-broken. Point is---there's a reason our tears flow. So what makes Mother Nature's tears different from human tears? As I sat along a sloping plaza along the Rio de la Plata earlier this week, these thoughts didn't occur. However, as I reflected about what made that moment along the river unique, real and fantastical--all at the same time--I remembered it was because I love the way rain washes me away from reality, and into a clearer reality. This clearer reality is also known as the moment. As my time in Argentina washes away, I need to make each moment the moment and not simply a moment.

Heartbreak Warfare.

Those that know me well know my semi-obsession about being organized. As my time here winds down formidably fast, and I mentally prepare for the return to New England winter, organization has become ever more important. Every couple of days, I fulfill a Bucket List activity; last night I cut myself some academic slack and attended the Passion Pit concert. BY FAR, the best concert I've been; mingling/being shoved/tossed around amongst hundreds of sweat-covered, stinky, drunk, high, straight, non-straight (pretty much the entire spectrum) Argentines definitely had its insecure and near-suffocating moments, but hellllooooooo?!? PASSION PIT.

And now, I've returned to the insanely boring but stressful realm of academia...what a quilombo of a two weeks I'll suffer before liberation. But from another perspective, these impending two weeks are time in Buenos Aires (albeit in my room) that I'll never regain nor experience again. In 33 days, I'll be in suburbia; in 44 days, I'll have returned to the beloved Hill. While I'm thrilled about my return to stateside, I'm finally understanding what it means and feels like to be a portena. The great John Mayer sings, "Watch my face as I pretend to feel no pain". These words will embody my exact sentiments as I approach the finish line that will end an incredible five months. But no, I'm not expressing pessimism. No one can anticipate the events, the turns a life takes, between a simple sunrise and a sunset; I have 66 more times to see the sun rise and dip along this city's horizon. I don't know about you, but I'd say that's quite a bit of time.

Storybook Characters.

I feel as if I'm about to propose an Inception-themed storyline. Dale, here it goes. During my time in Argentina, I've met an incredible spectrum of people who I now call friends, acquaintances, confidants, mentors, role models and...imaginary, but real strangers.

These 'imaginary, but real strangers' are somewhat creations of my mind. The 'real' part is indeed real; these are individuals with whom I've had interaction, although inconsistent (for example, two to three weeks at a time). Every half month or so--each wash and dry are not penny pinchers here--I send my laundry to the Lava Ropas down the block. I know nothing more about the amiable woman that folds my clothes than the fact she's Bolivian, thinks I speak great Spanish, and lives far away. While folding my jeans and digging through the clothes looking for the other matching sock, she silently listens and occasionally nods as I talk about upcoming exams, my past weekend trip, or my perception of Argentine guys. She knows no more about me than the stories I choose to share, and I know no more about her than the responses she chooses to provide. Yes, our interactions are real, but I also imagine what her life is really like.

Alicia, my host mother, has a close friend who comes over every two to three weeks to share dinner with us. Lily works at the same milonga (tango dance hall) as Alicia, selling clothes that no one buys. I know no more about Lily than the fact she has a daughter who works part-time, a desperate and unemployed son, used to clean bathrooms in milongas, lives super far away, and is currently seeing a man she met at a milonga three weeks ago. What do I do with these bits and pieces of information? During these dinners, which I greatly enjoy, because Lily always brings something interesting to share or question, I really get to know Lily and her thoughts about the recent death of ex-Argentine President, Nestor Kirchner, or my recent experience being robbed. But when Lily steps out the door, our conversations become a novelty of the past. Until I see her three weeks later, I stop 'getting to know' Lily, and our interactions come to a halt. I can only imagine what she experiences and/or suffers in that three week time frame.

Along my walk to Madres every Monday and Thursday, I pass by the same stores, the same streetlights and the same bus stops. What changes on each stroll are my fellow walking buddies. People. As incredibly unnecessary as it is to say this, people are incredibly diverse and amazing to observe. This is to say that no walk here, there or anywhere for that matter, has and will ever be the same. But there is always an exception to every stated fact. At the intersection of Avenida de Mayo and Avenida 9 de Julio, there is a young woman. This young woman always has her earphones plugged in, dark brown/near black hair pitched in a messy bun, and clutches a stack of pamphlets, which she offers to each passerby. Even as the pamphlet in her extended hand brushes against my bag, I've never taken a look at the piece of paper in her hand. For all I know, she could be promoting an electronic product, offering Spanish language classes or condemning the Kirchner administration (a normality around here). She doesn't speak. I don't know anything else about her besides the actions I observe during my swift three second passing. During my Monday and Thursday life, she is a constant, but like my other storybook characters, she comes and goes with the flutter of an eyelash.

I have more Argentine storybook characters. I could write and write, but writing about their distant and mysterious lives only agitates my curiosity. Sadly, curiosity knows that curiosity only extends so far.

The Worth of an Empanada.

To steal the words of a friend on the program, "To me, the Paris of the South should be quaint and charming." This is the idealized image of Buenos Aires proposed by tourism agencies and the Lonely Planet Buenos Aires City Guide. What a quilombo (Argentine slang for 'mess'). If there's one thing I've learned from my Ethnicity and Multiculturalism class (when I'm not coffee deprived and dozing), it's the poverty that Buenos Aires conceals particularly well from its foreigners.

When I hit the halfway point of this experience, and the reality that time was slipping away like ocean sand effortlessly leaking through one's fingers, I started the Argentine Bucket List. The List, which hangs on the wall right above my computer, has grown line by line with each passing day. Most of the activities are surprise--touristy, but I've marked one activity, one that doesn't invoke a ticket, camera nor sightseeing.

It has to do with empanadas and poverty.

To start off, empanadas (stuffed bread or pastry with chicken, beef, vegetables and cheese) are non-discriminatory. No, I am not attempting to link empanadas with politics. By non-discriminatory, I mean that the rich, the poor, the native porteño and the typical tourist share one thing in common: the inability to refuse a 3 peso piece of hearty satisfaction. While Argentines are undeniably torn between their love for Peronism and mate, by no exaggeration or stretch of imagination do I say that each and every Argentine/non-Argentine in Argentina, loves empanadas--bottom line. This said, my aforementioned Bucket List activity is to buy an empanada for the first homeless individual I encounter my next trip out. Unfortunately, saying is not as easy as doing.

Poverty is a prolific phenomenon in the city. Buenos Aires's higher-end neighborhoods, which include Recoleta, Palermo and Belgrano, maintain a clean and safe image and convert into the city's hotbeds for local and foreign tourism. But what about the homeless individuals, families and groups of strangers that inhabit the streets of these same 'wealthy' neighborhoods? While it is impossible to neglect their disheveled and starkly different appearance, the pace of city life makes it all too easy to glance, walk past and forget. Glance. Walk. Forget. Alone, these words are of little worth and insignificant, but together, they speak the formidably fine line between life and suffering. Should I, who lives in so-called Recoleta neighborhood, feel guilty? Like the majority of the portenos, I glance, walk and forget. Is it time to stop in a superkiosk and buy a 3 peso carne empanada? Will the empanada make any difference?

Does the empanada even have anything to do with poverty?

Joy Ride?

Last Wednesday, October 27th, Argentina came to a standstill. The country conducted its official 10 year national census. Tens of thousands of government officials were sent to every home in Argentina, from its northern border with Bolivia to its Antarctic bases. This Wednesday felt like a Sunday; not only was every place closed, but even the 24 hour green kiosks were tightly chained and shut. Moreover, buses and subway lines were reduced to limited hours, and taxis were hard to come by. Paradoxically, the same day the government exercised such hegemonic control was also the same day it suffered from a profound loss.

As I do every morning, I turn on my MacBook and almost simultaneously appears the New York Times homepage. On this morning, I spent a little bit longer on the homepage because smack dab in the center was an unanticipated headline: the ex-Argentine President, Nestor Kirchner had just passed an hour ago. I only knew relatively little about this man besides the fact he was an ex-President and the husband of the current Argentine president, Cristina Fernandez Kirchner. This said, the news resonated with me simply as a sad event. However, the same could not be said for the country, whose tears flooded the city streets, and whose people once again claimed the streets--this time, in peaceful commemoration. Almost immediately following the tragedy, the government declared three consecutive days of national mourning. As I replayed the events of late (Kirchner's death, UBA's two month long/longest student strike in the university's history, labor union clash which left one UBA student dead), I was sure I've been living the most intense and chaotic semester in FLACSO's history.

Significant or not, these three months have been a hell of a ride. Does this mean I can no longer claim to have never ridden a roller coaster?

30 Seconds.

I was struck by something today. No, not physically struck, but rather mentally struck by an action that unfolded before my eyes. As any typical Monday or Thursday afternoon, I was walking down Avenida de Mayo on my way to work with Madres de Plaza de Mayo. de Mayo is among one of the more popular avenues in the city, with its seemingly endless stretch of shopping, restaurants and cafes. Every person on this walk seems to have an agenda; eyes looking directly ahead, briefcase clutched tightly, or a Clarín newspaper and cafe in hand. As such, no one notices the microscopic details, such as the one I happened to witness this afternoon. A man and woman, fully engaged in conversation, were walking in the opposite direction of me. After they swiftly passed, I almost ran over the young man walking in front of me. Why? Because he abruptly stopped to pick up a neatly folded stack of what seemed to be four or five 100 peso bills. Whoa, man. The young fellow immediately turned 180 and ran in the opposite direction, bills clutched in hand. Based on the limited view I had, he returned the money to the couple. This entire scene from start to finish occurred within the time frame of perhaps, 30 seconds. In those 30 seconds, I was reassured that a) I was definitely treading through a city and b) the world is still good.

Perfection.

I've had enough of the city, recently. Just as the one and a half month student strike finally concluded this week, another manifestation has consumed the streets. A violent encounter between two labor organizations resulted in the death of a 23 year old member, who was also a student. Almost instantaneously, various labor unions and groups claimed the city streets (as the students had done prior), which also instantaneously created a mass public transportation disaster. Two days ago, my program warned us about escalating violence in the streets and urged us to stay indoors if possible. At this point, I've come to accept blocked off streets and unannounced Subte shutdowns as a weekly, if not daily occurrence. The remedy? [A temporary] escape. Yesterday, three friends and I embarked on a rather last minute, but incredible day trip to Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay.
With a population slightly over 21,000 residents, Colonia is the oldest town in Uruguay and the capital of the southwestern department (province) of Colonia. A speedy one hour trip in the Buquebus (literally, ship-bus) landed us in a quaint little town consumed by lush greenery and beautiful cobblestone streets built by the Portuguese in the 17th century.



With our maps in hand and Will and Brian's distinctly American day-tripper backpacks, we blended perfectly into the population of tourists and proceeded to explore the town. The scenery didn't strike me as anything remarkably uruguayan, or better said, tourist shops and parrillas lined every street and corner. There was only one condition for this trip--to have no agenda. From the main square, we meandered to the edge of the town and discovered a mini-beach, tucked away behind a supposed residential area. I don't think any of us had the intention of swimming but a spontaneous game of frisbee on the beach soon turned the tide. Thanks to my wonderful frisbee management skills, I successfully plopped the disc about 20 feet from shore. From here on out, it was a rather wet game of frisbee, as you can imagine.
As relaxing and leisurely as being tourists appears to be, it isn't so. We recharged with a delicious lunch including Patricia, the country's domestic beer, and chivito sandwiches (a national dish composed of a thin steak filet, mozzarella cheese, fried egg, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on a bun) with sides of french fries.



From left: Andrew, Will, me, Brian.

And of course, we all fell into a semi-food coma, but had so much more ground to cover. What better way to explore the rest of Colonia than moto-cart style. The four of us packed into a roof-less mini Jeep of sorts, and key in engine, cruised through a few streets before tackling the highway ramp that paralleled Rio de la Plata. Although we precariously cruised along the edge of the road, with real cars zooming past on our left, the ride was exhilarating, nonetheless. The days of amusement park go-carting were far behind us. After having parked our sweet ride in an undefined rest area, we headed to the beach again, but with a different intention this time--it was mate time. While Brian meticulously prepared the mate, the rest of us marveled at the fact that we were lounging on sandy heaven, underneath the luminous sun, simply relaxing and living. We sipped mate like true Argentines and spoke perfect Spanglish for nearly an hour before a group of Uruguayan children approached and first, determined we were from Brasil, then begged us to sing English songs, and finally engaged us in a friendly game of soccer.
While somewhat lamenting the fact that we didn't take shots on the boat ride home, it was still a perfect day. I couldn't have asked more from an international day trip.



In front of the snail (or spiral, whatever it is. I'm hiding on the left).



View from atop the historic lighthouse. Panoramic Buenos Aires is tucked away behind the pine trees.



The moto-cart.



Some pibes.



Beach and mate. Best combination imaginable.

Everlasting Shock.

As of yesterday, I had exactly two months left in Buenos Aires. Someone please awaken me from this nightmare that is reality. I've loved my time in this city, I really have. The sleepless nights, the fact that I need only walk 50 meters to hold a 75 cent, oven-hot, pollo empanada in hand and the people's various facial expressions when I walk through the streets. But I've realized that simply loving these aspects doesn't mean I've fully accepted the city.

Let me explain.

Three years ago, I spent the summer living and working in rural mountains in San Lorenzo, Mexico. San Lorenzo was (and still is) a no name place. The closest Google Earth has come to detecting its coordinates was pinpointing a town some 20 miles away. This said, I expected to experience 6 weeks of intense culture shock, having to acclimate my diet to more meat, carbs and grease, speak Spanish 24/7 and well essentially, taking on a whole new world. In retrospect however, my experience with culture shock seemed to hit hard and quickly dissipate within the first two weeks.

Argentina however, deserves its own analysis. After three months of complete immersion, I feel confused saying (honestly) that I'm still in culture shock. I practically lived in the city for the first 18 years of my life--Chicago is quite the charmer and the epitome of an ideal city, in my opinion. For this reason, the fact that I'm once again in a city is not the root of the shock I feel. Buenos Aires is such a mysterious and unpredictable place; sometimes I feel as if each day here is my first day. However, this could easily apply to any place, so what is it about this city then? For starters, I am still learning (not so much how to accept) but how to process this culture of being straight-forward and direct. Back home, there's a tendency to state things nicely because we fear 'hurting feelings' but in my experiences here, your feelings only get hurt when you navigate around the truth. It's a cultural virtue which the Argentines plainly acknowledge and believe is important in upholding relationships on any level. On one hand, I think its a great virtue; straight-up honesty now and then would do all of us good. After all, we're only given one proper chance to express those true feelings; after strike one, the subsequent attempts just....falter. On the other hand, being direct doesn't leave much room for negotiation. As much as we'd like to believe that feelings are permanent, they aren't. They're as instable and irregular as a plane flying through a thunderstorm. And so, feelings are negotiable. As much as it relieves me to hear the bare to the bone thoughts, why does sharing even matter if its going to be treated like a cut and dry legal sentence? All speculations aside, this cultural virtue is undeniably fascinating and nothing like I've ever encountered. But that's why I'm here-to experience the unexperienced.

The other culture shocks are less severe (unannounced and sudden Subte shutdowns, let's go study at a cafe on Sunday--oh wait, nothing is ever open on this day, and dinner around expected bedtime). No denying my love for this city, though.

I wonder whether I could handle permanently living here....an experience like none other, I'd suppose.

Unspeakable Memories.

I've been working with Madres de Plaza de Mayo, Linea Fundadora (I make this distinction because there is another, more radical Madres group known for generating greater political controversy). As the 'practical part' of my Learning and Community Service class, I have been working at the main office, located a few blocks from the infamous site where the mothers peacefully protest every Thursday afternoon from 3:30 to 4:30. What do they protest? Well, that requires a lengthy and historical explanation, one that extends three decades back to Argentina's military dictatorship, a period of inexplicable, trepid terrorization. To explain the entire history would beget hours of your unfaltering attention, as even Carmen (one of the mothers) continues to feed us more and more information at every meeting. Exactly how massive was this terrorization, then? This depends on who you ask. To ask the mothers whose daughters and sons, the fathers whose sons and daughters, the grandparents whose nieces and nephews, the cousins and siblings of those who 'disappeared' among 30,000 other Argentines, the answer would be, international. To ask the government the same question would beget two responses--either 'it was an inevitable historical process' or more explicitly, a door slam in the face.

Twice a week, two hours at a time, four other students and I delve deeper into this discussion with Maria Adela and/or Carmen. On one seemingly normal day in 1977, both these women became victims of the military dictatorship. Maria Adela's younger brother was forcefully snatched from his house, as well as was Carmen's daughter, Alexandra from her home. It's true--we never come to know the sufferings of a mother in a lifetime. As both of these women courageously and sincerely related their individual experiences, I couldn't imagine the pain of reliving the horrors of that unspeakable time. They weren't told anything about the whereabouts of their only children, whose only crime was peaceful protest against an unfair and poorly represented political system. It felt like we lived various lifetimes, they told us, before the remains of their beloved children were returned to them, nearly indiscernable. Although kidnapped without notice and returned without notice, their spirits continue their fight, ever alive and present. This, this is the memory of the 30,000 who were mysteriously "disappeared" between 1976 and 1983.

Aside from translating documents from Spanish to English for posting on Madres's homesite (which is http://www.madresfundadoras.org.ar/), I've been reliving history, albeit an extremely terrorized one. Over a cup of cafe and a basket of cookies, we have bonded through the shared strength, determination and memories of young Argentines.

Rejuvenation.

Just two days ago, I was in the Grand Canyon of Argentina. It was absolutely spectacular, to say the least. Never in my life had I been enveloped by such massive mountains, crystal clear blue sky, and cacti as tall as myself. The journey to northern Argentina (Tilcara in the province of Jujuy) began on a rough early Thursday morning. After flying into Jujuy's sister province, Salta, all I could think about was food but helpless, as a 3 hour bus ride and 4 more hours of waiting separated me from rejuvenation. In fact, rejuvenation defined this weekend in every possible way.

The open vastness of this foreign world left me bare and exposed alongside Mother Nature and her children. But that is precisely why I love these settings. Only in such places am I able to clearly hear my own thoughts; silent is the formidably early morning honking 11 stories below, silent is the incessant tapping of the computer keyboard, and silent is the city of Buenos Aires. Alive is the free sprit, rejuvenated, unchained and ready to soar to conquer new and treacherous heights (literally). On Saturday, a mini bus (pretty much a van), meticulously weaved through stretches and stretches of mountains, ascending higher and higher with each turn of the steering wheel, until we rested 4,170 meters above sea level. That's 13,681 feet above the earth, half the altitude of the world's highest peak (29,028 feet). Thank goodness for the coca leaves which without, I probably would have colored the floor of the bus and left a mildly unpleasant odor. Initially skeptical about coca leaves' ability to cure altitude sickness-the act of chewing (but not swallowing) the leaves releases alkaloids, which widen the veins and allow for an increased flow of oxygen-they became the most prized possession among us travelers.

Just like our previous trip to San Antonio de Areco, breaking away from the city does wonders. I returned late Sunday night, exhausted and hungry (shouldn't be a surprise by now), but REJUVENATED and ready to tackle a formidable three weeks of academia.

Here are a few samples from the weekend scenery:








Mountains in Purmamarca. During this hike, I pretended I was Frodo.

Taken.

An interesting fact about UBA--the university is free for all. Regardless your social or religious background, as long as you possess an intermediate level of Spanish, UBA is your gateway to intellectual enlightenment. Wonderful, isn't it? Well actually, that's heavily influenced by two factors, as I've discovered in these past two weeks--one is politics and the other, politics. U.S. politics is a jumbled mess in and of itself and ultimately, inaction IS American politics. I don't know as much about Argentine national politics to make as assertive a statement, but based on my knowledge about Argentine local politics, I can tell you one thing: the UBA students are unfamiliar with the term 'inaction'.

We've all had cancelled classes due to snow days, yes? However, because snow doesn't exist in Buenos Aires, the city's ingenious students have discovered (for years now) another way to ensure cancelled classes. Here's the low down on the UBA strike, which is into its third week now. If you recall my earlier entry about the condition of the UBA facilities and its student demographic, the fact that the students have 'taken' all the academic buildings shouldn't be a shocker. At least from what I've heard/read from the news and been told by my Argentine classmates, the students are striking against the poor conditions at the academic facilities, which includes the absence of doors in the bathroom stalls, insufficient desks and chairs, and graffitied(?) mirrors. Moreover, the complaints extend to the the quality of the professors. I can tell you from firsthand experience that my UBA professors come to class sometimes half an hour late and unprepared. As such, the students are often left to conduct the class-more power to the students-and now, conduct a city-wide strike. The strike also carries deep political undertones, dissatisfaction with the Kirchner administration, but I don't know much more than that. Below, you'll find physical evidence from the recent weeks (sorry for stealing your pictures Sarah!)






Yes, some classes were conducted in hallways.


I have a midterm scheduled for October 7th. I haven't had class for the past two and a half weeks. Good luck?

The students just took the streets an hour ago, armed with their spray painted flags, signs and pamphlets, each condemning the Kirchner administration in some way or form. The television stations have rolled their trucks out, the steady beat of drums echoes throughout the city, and the only talk on the streets is the student's talk. Pictures below.



Blocking the street...


....street blocked.....


.......and they're off. This, this is the fight for public education.

Ludicrousness.

The weather gods finally decided to bestow the city with a beautiful and sunny day. Where was I? Shamefully, indoors. Although I successfully conquered some 50 pages about the various definitions and factions of Latin American populism, I should have been outside, or at least studying with a friend in a street corner cafe. Why I opted for the less attractive option, I don't know, really. It's not even the case that I'm in over my head with reading. Moreover, I denied an invitation to attend an asado (a wood fired barbecue) at a friend's house outside the city. What is this ludicrousness?

City Beneath My Feet.

Change.

It induces revolution, conflict and challenges. For me, it has always signified independence. Last weekend, I finally realized the change in host family and moved into my new home. I now share a cozy little apartment with a 56 year old tango professor. The space is decorated with antiques, porcelain dancer figurines and dust-coated books, all of which relate to Alicia (my host mother)'s dying passion for tango. Despite her debil appearance, Alicia's energy-laden 20 year old radiates through her wrinkled skin. In fact, this entire city is young at heart.

So much has happened during my two week absence from blogging (apologies), that I don't even know where to begin. Classes are growing denser and denser, with parciales (midterm exams) hovering around the corner. I have yet to find a within-budget gym (the 100 meter long blocks and excessive traffic lights couldn't make for a more choppier run), that'll trim the calories resting so comfortably inside me. This past month of August was the 'Festival y Mundial de Tango 2010', in which renowned tango dancers from all corners of the globe flocked to Buenos Aires. Aside from the city's claim to asado (carne), occasionally soccer (Argentina creamed Spain today, 4:1), and the Europe of the South, it bleeds tango. I had slight tango fever this past weekend; a group of students from the program attended a tango class at La Catedral, an underground milonga (tango dance hall). 'Underground' because it is located outside the 'central circuit' of milongas, and more interestingly (according to Alicia), because the 20 year olds sell porro (pot) as well as their tango skills. However, the class taught me little more than how to take long strides forward and backward across the floor. And it finally seems like the city has caught spring fever; chilly winds and puffy coats can retire, until I meet Maine winter again.

Yesterday morning, I had the city of Buenos Aires beneath my feet. Alone on the 16th floor terrace, I savored my 360 degree view of the expansive city. Had there been a few tall buildings within 100 meters of me, and had I been endowed Spiderman's powers, I would have soared through the air. No intention of ever coming down.


Ever.




Ever.

Crystal Clear.

In this past month, I have acquired a new name, la china (pronounced 'chee-na' instead of 'chi-na'). One thing to note about the Argentine understanding of Asians: as long as you have black hair and small, squinty eyes, you are china. As such, the Koreans and Japanese (whose communities are smaller and less cohesive than the Chinese) receive no distinction in Buenos Aires. Simply put, every Asian is Chinese. Prior to this trip, I have frequently been mistaken for Japanese or Korean, so that the Argentines correctly identify my Chinese ethnicity (albeit for lack of knowing better), is a great feeling. Moreover, this strong identification is linked to the great waves of Chinese immigration: the first in the 1980s from Taiwan, and the second group hailing from Fujian Province in the 1990s. While these groups ventured to Argentina and greater Latin America for distinctive reasons, the Argentines have come to view them as a homogenous group. A group that dominates the second tier supermarket business in Buenos Aires today. The supermercados chinos, each under a different family name, have become all too popular with the porteños, and myself. Every four to five days, I visit a different supermercado for fruits, seeking the house with the lowest prices (because I'm so Asian, no?).

Even though I'm thousands of miles away from the United States and China, I've come to think of myself having a 'backup' community here in Buenos Aires; a group with whom I can speak Spanish, Chinese and even Spanise (I'm getting creative). When I'm walking among the masses in the streets, the Argentines never cease to remind me of my ethnicity, 'ay, china', 'sos una china', 'mira, la china'. Yes, it's painstakingly evident that I don't blend in among the European faces, but during these past four weeks, I've loved the feeling of standing out, and being recognized as such. Si, soy china y eso me da mucho orgullo.

Borderline.

I've never thought (no, scratch that), seen as much water as I did last weekend. Last Thursday evening, a few friends and I embarked on a 20 hour journey through city and campo, headed for the infamous waterfalls of Iguazu, which are (miraculously) shared by Argentina and Brazil. If there's only one place you could visit in Argentina, the porteños say, it's Iguazu Falls. Four times the width of Niagara Falls, with 275 cascades spread over two miles along the Iguazu River, this natural wonder borderlined reality and fantasy. Green path after green path led to various falls throughout the park, but the most marvelous of them all was the Devil's Throat (Garganta del Diablo).




Garganta del Diablo.

Words cannot parallel the physical magnitude of these waterfalls, so this entry will end in a series of photographs. Enjoy!




Amy, Tiffany and I at Garganta del Diablo.

Socialism and Peanut Butter.

The academic side of this experience is underway. I've previewed (we're currently in "shopping period" for classes) three classes thus far, and the experience has proven more difficult than I'd anticipated. The two I sampled at UBA (the University of Buenos Aires) turned out to be seminars for Argentine students finishing up their carrera (major). The challenge in testing out these waters was both daunting and thrilling, but I opted for the former; I'm not one to usually place academics on the back burner, but I was digging myself a little too deep. This morning's three and a half hour lecture, pure lecture in Spanish, was horror. I understood the majority of the lecture alright, but it was a combination of factors: the 60 some year old professor's quiet and monotonous voice, a cacophony of yelling, honking and clatter in the streets, and incessant sneezing and coughing, that made the classroom experience simply horrible. So, I took a little siesta (nap). UBA, the largest university by enrollment (300,000 plus) in Latin America, has no campus. I'm studying at Ciencias Sociales (the Social Sciences Building), one of 13 faculty buildings scattered throughout the city. The building's interior is not decorated with plaques of academic achievement or the like, but covered instead, with thousands of colorful political posters and notices.




Socialist and communist propaganda filled the halls. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen, and the overwhelming evidence of student participation in political activism stirred so much excitement within me. With less than 15 minutes left in class, two students entered, with little hesitation, to advocate and distribute the school's Socialist Paper. The liberty with which the students acted and dignified their ideas was honorable (politics aside), to say the least.

Now, where does peanut butter fit into this scheme? Well, it doesn't. Shortly after arriving in Buenos Aires, I had been told of some nonsense that peanut butter doesn't exist here. And then, other sources spoke otherwise, so I decided to embark on a mini journey in search of 'manteca de mani'. A few hours ago, I wandered into a store that carried only imported food products, and lo and behold, there was peanut butter (in English) sitting on the shelf.

What a day.

Destination-less.

I've just returned from the campo (countryside) in San Antonio de Areco. It's a northern town in the province of Buenos Aires, about 70 miles from the capital city. As described by the program's coordinators, the intent of the two-day, one night trip to the remote fields of Argentina, was to see another 'face' of Argentina. For the foreigner, the city is marvelous in unique and infinite ways. Two days ago, I learned the same of the campo. Shortly after our arrival, we embarked on a guided tour of San Antonio. The silence that was our group was frequently shattered by ferocious barking and growling from several stray dogs. Underfed and irritated, they ambled among us, nudging their dirty bodies against ours. What did they know? Moreover, what did they expect from us? We were just as lost as them. Although I was familiar with the countryside scene, its simplicity and bareness was slightly unnerving.




The above scenes were taken a few miles outside the town itself. It was a perfect meeting of happy and sad (to borrow the words of a friend back home), the air both fresh and unpleasant, and the fields lonely yet abundant with life. I loved every moment of walking along the dirt path, with no known or planned destination. By contrast, the city is all about destination. Neither the Subte, the colectivo or taxi can take you 'nowhere'. Being 'nowhere' is the greatest feeling, because it isn't someone else's place, an established territory or a place of judgment. We judge too often and fail to see places, people and ideas in their natural light. That day, I met the true Argentine campo, and it was a pleasure.

Wine Fever.

This is the last week of orientation and my classes at FLACSO and the University of Buenos Aires begin Monday. While the city has kept the rain at bay, the past few days have been unexpectedly frigid. As sure as I was of never being the one with a scarf -wrapped face, well to say the least, I was wrong. But as I've trudged through Chicago and Maine's wintry landscapes, Buenos Aires will be a walk (as the winters are snow-less). In this past week, I've contributed generously to local businesses and stores along Avenida Santa Fe (Chicago's Michigan Avenue equivalent), marveling at the affordability of everything the States have, but cannot match. I imagine (or hope) that when classes start, my binge spending will be overcast by books. This past weekend was jam-packed with activities; we took a short-lived trip to La Boca (a neighborhood that lines the province's southeastern edge). I say short-lived (as most Argentines would also say) because La Boca is essentially only known for its 2 block diameter main square. The multi-colored stores, restaurants and tango spectacular provide an unimaginable contrast to the decrepit houses and deserted, trash-lined streets outside the square.





Definitely a must-see, La Boca. But once is enough. The rest of the weekend was dominated by plenty of fine Argentine wine. Malbec, a product of the Mendoza region, is one of many images that has become synonymous with Argentina. Cheers to a journey well underway, and cheers to the Paris of the South!

Full Engine.

I've known Buenos Aires for a week and a day now. The amount of walking I've completed, delicious food I've tasted, spontaneous conversations with passer-bys and borrachos (drunks) in the bars, and by far the greatest of all-the independence under which I'm intoxicated, has only begun. I awoke this morning, to a bizarre mix of my host mother scolding the 2 year old, "Por el amor del Dios, Juan!", the 1 year old, Mateo's chorus of screams, and heavy rain attacking the window panes. Sigh, rain again. I figured I'd be stranded in the apartment till at least late evening fiddling with miscellaneous activities, but only an hour ago did my host mother announce the family was heading to the campo for the weekend. The apartment now, save the indie and rock tunes emanating from my macbook and the occasional pit-pat of rain, has become a place of profound solitude. A nice change, it is, but I'm craving the world three floors below and a few strides out the door.

I'm a fully reveed up engine. Buenos dias, rain. And we meet again in the streets.

Carne.

I have never been a big meat eater. However, in this past week, I've had more carne and chicken than my own family normally eats in a month. Along every street, there are multiple kiosks that sell newspapers, phone cards, junk food and the occasional fruits. Aside from my 2 year old host brother, Juan, who occasionally bites an apple for dinner, I have yet to seen an Argentine eating fruit or vegetables (aside from the simple salad). As this is solely an initial observation, I won't draw any conclusions about the Argentinian diet (yet). The meat that I have eaten so far though, has been undeniably delicious and a taste prepared within the kitchens of Buenos Aires.

Today, a friend and I walked the streets looking for a quaint place with a simple lunch menu. 'Simple' in my mind correlated to salad, but my order, which initially began as a sandwich with milanesa, tomato and lettuce, was somehow understood by the waiter to be a milanesa dish. Milanesa means 'breaded meat', which I didn't know at the time of ordering. When the dish was delivered to both of us, we looked down at the piece of meat, which literally filled 3/4 of the plate, then at each other, and smiled at the waiter and said 'Gracias'. While this dish ceased to fail my taste buds, it also definitively ignored my hope for some healthy food.

Have a look at the criminal himself:




Ciao!

Winter Rain?

During this winter season, it rained (whether for the first time or not, I don't know) today. The chilly air and sharp wind felt like a slap across my face as I left the apartment this afternoon, searching for the Number 10 colectivo (bus) stop to San Telmo, where a popular feria de arte (art fair) was supposedly already underway. The bus, a setting no different from buses in the United States, skillfully maneuvered through the glistening narrow streets. Aside from the colectivos, the Subte and taxis make up the most convenient and popular modes of transportation. Virtually each and every city, regardless its level of recognition, can be accessed by one of these methods, making travel around the province all too easy.

Quite frankly, I didn't enter or leave San Telmo under the best impression. (Though perhaps, this was somewhat related to the ill weather and the fact that the majority of tiendas (stores) are closed for Sunday). For this reason, I was walking among few people in the streets--a deserted feeling I hadn't felt in a while. The day climaxed at 2 pm, or lunch time. Conejo, or rabbit, when cooked tender and marinated well, is one of the most heavenly delicious foods I have ever eaten. Albeit more expensive than the typical, I was beyond satisfied with the order. The feria offered me my first glimpse of a live tango performance, which was performed by a lavishly dressed elderly pair, moving fluidly, concordantly and gracefully to the hymn of the guitar.

While the rain somewhat stinted the day's potential, the Argentinians carried on, barely fazed by the missing sun.

The indoor section of the Feria:

Que Reina.

Buenos Aires, a city inhabited by 13 million people, is widely known as "la Reina del Plata" (the literal translation I believe, being "Queen of the Silver). 'Plata' refers to El Rio de la Plata, a river which forms part of the border between Argentina and Uruguay. After more than 24 hours in this (frigid) city, I have sampled Spanish Ham, which being undercooked, fatty and inedible, will not again meet my taste buds for the next five months, learned the Argentine way to obtain a chicken meal by asking for 'po-joh' instead of 'po-yo' (for the non-Spanish speakers), and wandered into the Subte (Subway) looking to exchange my two $100 peso bills into smaller change (which I achieved only after entrusting the money to a Federal Police officer, who then cut a massive line of Argentinians waiting to purchase tickets, to acquire my change).

After a lengthy first day of orientation, I've ambled my way back to Hotel Lyon, waiting now to be received by my host family in half an hour. As I write all this and recount my experiences with cultural adjustment, I have yet to feel that I am in fact, in the world's southern hemisphere, thousands of miles removed from familiarity, and in one of the greatest cities in South America, if not the world. Damn the omnipresence of the English language.

Ciao for now.

-Kayla

The Great Escape.

Time has finally outdone me. Less than 24 hours before United Airlines shuttles me over thousands of miles of clouds, ocean, landscapes and memories. I will be in touch again after 24 plus 12 hours of traveling time.

See you in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Inching Ever Closer.

As of yesterday, June 21st, I've passed the one month mark and counting ever so attentively now as the days slowly wean by. I haven't even begun to rummage through my various piles of unassorted and entangled clothes, not to mention the subsequent process of categorizing them into their respective seasons. Quite honestly, the inevitable fate of having to spend hours upon hours of packing, stuffing, tossing and more stuffing, thrills me to the point of....nothing. How great would it be to strap on a fanny pack (are those ever making a comeback?) for those rudimentary essentials and an all-purpose backpack of unlimited capacity for the other necessities in my life?

Too great. And greatly impossible.

In the meantime, I guess I can begin by tossing. Tossing out the old in preparation for accumulation of the new.