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.