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.