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?