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.