Notas sobre el pais

“How does an Argentine commit suicide?”
“He climbs to the top of his ego and jumps off – but he doesn’t die from the impact, he dies of starvation on the way down.”


Now please excuse me while I make some massive generalizations about the people of the country I’ve spent the last six months getting to know.

They’re friendly. They love to talk. They’re soccer-mad, too interested in psychoanalysis, and they take care of their appearance. I am incredibly impressed with how many women wear the spindliest of heels while taking public transportation. Both plastic surgery and eating disorder statistics are through the roof; they had to pass a law insisting that shops stock sizes larger than Famine Barbie because normal people couldn’t buy clothes.

They are, as stereotyped, infinitely arrogant. Examples of this include the Malvinas issue, the four pages one of my tango readings spent methodically discounting Montevideo’s influence on the formation of the dance, and the fact that I’ve heard several people say things like “Oh, Uruguay is really just an Argentine province, you know. They ended up splitting off for some reason, but really, they’re with us.” (Uruguay to Argentina is kind of like Canada is to us. Apparently).
It’s marginally terrifying to think about what this attitude could do if Argentina had much international power, but as it doesn’t it’s just amusing.
On a personal level, the only way to deal with the arrogance sometimes is to be incredibly arrogant right back.

They hate giving change. (No, I don’t have seventy centavos. ¡Dame las monedas!) As far as I can tell, this is mostly because the buses only take coins and not bills, but about ninety percent of the time you hand someone a hundred-peso note (which, of course, the ATMs prefer to give out) they’ll kick up a fuss, too.

They cross themselves as they pass churches. I once saw a woman nearly fall down because she let go of her handhold on the bus in order to do this.

As previously noted, they’re part of a self-admitted ‘cultura machista.’

They’re kind of racist. It’s hard to tell if this is just the lack of the P.C. blanket, or maybe lingual differences. But I have heard disconcerting things like “oh, you know, Chinese people smile all the time” or “the black race and their sexual dancing,” which seem accepted by the porteños without the least twitch.

Their greeting is a kiss on the cheek. When you enter a room of people you know, the polite thing to do is greet everyone individually. This custom does not vary with gender, and I was very amused in the first month to hear some of the extranjeros complaining about how weird it was to touch another man’s beard. I think they’re used to it by now, though.

People hawk things and beg on the Subtes; I’ve seen at least as many musicians actually playing in the cars as I have in the stations.

There are usually at least three cafes per block. This is wonderful. When I went to Montevideo, there were far more hamburger/pizza joints than cafes, and it felt deeply, deeply wrong.
The waiters don’t bother you if you keep your table for three hours, chatting or studying, either: in fact, they can be difficult to flag down for the check or more coffee. I am going to miss the cafés so, so much.

And finally, they like the Rolling Stones. Don’t ask my why; my host brother told me this. “Argentina es muy Stone.”

note: I wrote this while still in the country - only just typed it up. To explain my use of tenses and the word 'here.'

chau, queridos, les extraño!

well, I'm back (aunque no voy a quedarme acá)

It's weird to be back in the U.S. I keep getting caught off guard by things like the NPR theme song, how terribly Americans dress, or the fact that stores are open on Sundays.
Also, this town is small. I know where the people whose names are on the town businesses or in the paper live and how many kids they have; I know the semi-secret swimming holes along the Blackfoot and my mother has already been to every doctor I can choose between to get my tonsils out.

This all isn't necessarily a bad thing - I know of no other town where your nose is full of the scent of ponderosa pine the minute you step off the plane, and there is something to be said for the predictable and orderly. But going from the highly-functional chaos of Buenos Aires to this is definitely a shock to the system.

So! I'm hideously behind on posts, having wandered off to explore the country (Argentina, not the US) with my family and without my computer for three weeks. It was a good trip - full of bickering, cake-hunting, and of course, that which no family vacation is complete without: the scattering of a dead relation's ashes.
I have pictures of toucans from Iguazú, cathedrals in Salta, and some spectacular rocks and waterfalls, which I will post once I've organized them. Until then, three photos (and some tango, for going along with):

Folclorico show en la Feria de Mataderos (Buenos Aires)

Guitar player in El Anfiteatro, a rock formation in la Quebrada de Cafayate (Northwest Argentina)

Live music in La Catedral, a tango club (slow night)

I'm going back one day. Not optional.

Chau amigos, de todos partes!

P.S. - you should be able to click on the photos to enlarge them. Which I'm sure you've already figured out. Enjoy!

comida -¿hay otra cosa?

Interesting as it is to see what a family from another culture eats like, I feel like there’s lard coming out of my pores.
We eat good food here, and there’s definitely always enough for me (at points I’ve literally had to defend my plate with my fork to prevent Lili from spooning more onto it) but I want my veggies, damnit! And I’m not exactly a vegan or a health food nut (although I suppose that depends on your definition of health food nut). There’s usually meat and potatoes in something in every dinner, and I’m pretty sure that when Lili lets her brain stop running the automatic filler is for her to say “Hay pollo, ¿sabes?” [There’s chicken, you know!] – because there is. Always.
This isn't just a complaint about my host family (I shouldn't complain at all, really: they buy me cake at random); this country in general does not value its greens.

¡Miravos el queso!

I’ve been noticing lately that people often ask each other what they ate. I feel like this would be Awkward Small Talk in the U.S., but my host mother or the random girls trying on clothes in the fitting room next to mine seem genuinely interested in whether it was spinach ravioli or cheese someone else had for dinner yesterday, and who cooked it, and what kind of sauce was on it. Good grief.

Parrilla en la Feria de Mataderos. I think the smell would have been much more expressive than this picture.

You can get nearly everything delivered, from ice cream to sushi to alcohol to a fresh cup of coffee in a ceramic cup, poured in front of you. This is probably the reason that I haven’t seen anyone eating while walking (unless you count mate – thermos and all – and the amount that Argentines carry mate around is nothing compared to the Uruguayans). It isn’t uncommon to see the occasional waiter with a covered tray popping out of a café, though, or to have to dodge the food delivery scooters when they decide the sidewalk is the faster route, pedestrians be damned. Food is not for ‘on the go,’ it’s to sit down and enjoy!

This is the chivito uruguayo. It contains: a hamburger patty, a slice of cheese, bacon, and an egg. (Plus bread, ketchup, mustard, and a single piece of lettuce… and corn or mayo if you want it). I can feel the cholesterol attack from here.

I’d be willing to bet Argentina’s cholesterol levels aren’t great, as a country. I’m not saying they eat unhealthily, despite their love of meat and their propensity to stuff dulce de leche into everything. I imagine the average American doesn’t eat that well either, and, well, we all survive without being ‘foodies’. One thing I’ve realized, being here, is that my family at home eats really, really well (and yes, I am unreasonably smug about it). But I suspect that Argentines enjoy their food more, in general, than Americans do.

Alfajorjito.

Damn. Now I’m hungry. I’ll have to fill up on empanadas and medialunas and alfajores before I leave; those are something I’ll really miss.

Personajes de Argentina: los mujeres

Mafalda

"Lo malo de la gran familia humana es que todos quieren ser el padre."

Someone described her to me as the “Argentine Charlie Brown, only more political.” She’s pretty cute, and shows up around town on kioskos or the Subte.
Her author is Quino, who stopped producing Mafalda comics in 1973 and moved to Milan (hmm, I wonder why?)


Evita

You could write a novel about just what happened to this woman’s corpse, so I’m not quite sure how to sum her up other than slapping on a big ‘Controversial!’ label. Born an illegitimate child in poverty, former showgirl and radio star, wife to the first and most influential dictator Perón, fought for women’s suffrage and worker’s rights, died young from cancer in 1952; her body ended up in the ritzy Cemeterio Recoleta (I went for a visit) and the leftists during/before the Guerra Sucia of the 70s used her image as a banner – instead of that of the still-living Perón’s second wife Isabel. Oh, dear.


One week until the program's over, most of my friends here have gone, and my family arrives; two more weeks in Buenos Aires; one month until I get back to Montana and all its American-ness; two months until I arrive at Wes once again. What a semester!

(pero mi querida, todavia creo en vos)

Photos from yesterday afternoon:

("During the Argentina games, 30% off").

Folding up the flag.

Consolement (the best kind).

Me too.

Happy 4th!

Personajes de Argentina: los futbolistas

I've got some Argentina personalities for you to meet!
The list includes three Santas, two soccer players, one cartoon character, and one equivalent of Paris Hilton; it got a bit long so I'll start with one saint and two soccer players.

Diego Maradona

Here’s a general video of his futbol feats, with song by the marvelous Mano Negra (to whom you should listen even if sports bore you).



His biggest accomplishments: this spectacular goal against England in 1986 (Mundial, quarterfinal match). Side note: Malvinas war? 1983. (Also re-start of democracy). Of course Argentina would make a national hero of anyone who’d put the English down a little.

And then, what he later called the ‘Hand of God’ goal – made in the same game, the referee never caught it.

Named one of two ‘futbolistas del siglo,’ there seems to be nothing this man can do to bungle his own popularity. And oh boy has he tried – cocaine, alcohol, illegitimate children he refuses to acknowledge, relations with the mafia in Naples, relations with Fidel Castro, Hugo Chavez, and the military dictatorships here in the 70s. Swearing at journalists or running over their feet with his car (no, really), and now a relationship with a much younger woman who ‘spontaneously aborted’ when it was discovered she was pregnant…


Well, this year he’s coaching the Argentine team, and the cameras make sure to cut to him any time anything interesting happens on the field, because he’ll be glowering or waving his arms around or tackle-hugging people (in a manly way, of course). He’s promised (threatened?) to go run naked in the streets of Buenos Aires if Argentina wins. I guess it’s rebellion against that suit his daughters convinced him to wear.

Lionel Messi


Currently suffering under the title of the ‘New Maradona,’ he's the star of the Argentine Mundial selection this year (though Higuain and Tevez are doing pretty well for themselves, too). There are rumors flying right now that he has a cold – and if I, in my eh-sports and language bubble, have heard of this, you can imagine what a big deal futbol is here. The country literally stops for the games – there’s a law that federal employees must be allowed to watch Argentina games. I don’t even need to watch to know the score, just count how many times the city has erupted with horns and yells. There was a man singing and throwing confetti off his balcony after Argentina won against Greece, and after Portugal lost to Spain I heard two separate people enquiring the results of strangers on the street. Versus Germany tomorrow should be an exciting game.

Back to Messi – he plays for Barcelona, and they call him ‘Pulga’ – flea – because he’s just little (and seems to get knocked down a lot by the bigger players), but oh man can he handle the ball. Maradona seems to alternately treat him like the favorite and a scapegoat – probably jealous of the attention.

That is quite enough of futbol. The excitement is infectious, though - chau chau, y VAMOS ARGENTINA!!

Eat your heart out, Baskin Robbins, 'cos I ain't ever coming back

Heladeria count: 14
Current favorite: Volta
Runners-up: El Vesuvio (on Corrientes right next to the Obelisk) and Persicco
Left to visit: 3 – that is, of the ones I've had recommended to me. All existent is too many to count. Also one has moved so I'll have to hunt it down [insert battle cry].


Flavors include: - starting with the weirdest flavors I’ve seen (though some of even those pop up in every heladeria):
Kinotos/quinotos al wisky – kumquats! With whiskey. Who thought of that? The one time I tried this, it was not good, but it’s surprisingly common. As is champagne al limon. Ristreto granizado: ristreto is one step stronger than espresso, and granizado, which is often an option for popular flavors, is what I would call shredded with chocolate. Needless to say, caffeine-y!

Sambayon (yes, the wine and egg). Marscapone, mousse de limon, crema de chantilly, gancia (a type of ‘vino espumate’ – bubbly wine? It’s popular in Uruguay too). Other random ‘let’s add alcohol!’ flavors. Frambuesa (raspberry), maracuya (passionfruit), mango, pomelo rosado (pink grapefruit), frutilla (strawberry), durazo y naranja (peach and orange), blueberry mousse…

If you avoid strawberry ice cream (which I do in the U.S., because it always tastes like cotton candy and not actual strawberries), they really do it right here. The fruit flavors are delicious, because they use real fruit and not flavored syrup, and don’t use too much milk – sometimes none at all – which really lets the fruit stand out.

Then there’s the twelve or so variations on chocolate every place has (I am not exaggerating – I’d better take a picture of their menus one day), and a whole selection of ‘cremas,’ which I usually don’t bother with because I don’t find them as interesting. They’re like vanilla (with less vanilla flavoring) with nuts, or chocolate, or fruit, or dulce de leche swirls…
Speaking of, can’t forget that every place also usually has at least three variations on dulce de leche.

The apparent reason the ice cream is so good here is the Italian immigrants. The older places (El Vesuvio began in 1902!) sometimes have little blurbs about their history posted somewhere, and it usually begins with a variation on, "in such-a-year, the family such-and-such travelled from North Italy with their gelato skills..." which I think is always a good beginning.


My method of trying ice cream (yes, I have a method) is to get two flavors each time: one experimental, and one that I know I’ll probably like. That way I will be happy even if my ‘ooh, what’s that? Let’s get it!’ urges don’t prove fruitful. The smallest cone with two flavors is definitely enough – they tend to pile it high.
And that way I get to try all the different kinds of chocolate (it’s my safety) without missing the other things.

I also like to ask what things are and to try them beforehand, as it results in either lots of delicious varied spoonfuls or very confused workers trying to explain than it’s a “red fruit that grows in the forest, and it’s not a strawberry” – or, once, a man warning me very seriously that it “has alcohol, you know!” I guess I looked like At Risk Youth that day.

Presently, I mean to post addresses (if I kept track) and ratings and things, so that anyone in Buenos Aires can visit them, but for now I’m a little busy with my sugar coma. Mmm.
/end fluff

Life outside the bubble: ¿sos feminista?

A few days ago, there was a solid ten-minute segment on some talk show on how women don’t understand football. I got so annoyed by the repetition of clips of various overbleached, prominently cleavaged women looking confused as the host shot rapidfire technical sports questions at them that I gave the television the bird. I hadn’t meant him to, but my host father saw this. Fortunately, he thought it was hilarious – and once he stopped cracking up, he asked,

“¿Sos feminista?” (Are you a feminist?)
Ever been asked that question? Ever seen anyone be asked that question? I’ve heard it a couple of times recently. It sounds straightforward, but when I was asked it, I was taken aback and I’ve been trying to figure out why.
I can remember having heard it in the US too (outside of Wes, of course). Sometimes it’s perfectly innocent; sometimes it’s full-on mocking, and sometimes there’s an insidious ‘of course you have a right to your opinion, little one’ contempt lurking underneath. Sometimes it’s asked by people I have respect for (I like my host father); sometimes, no. But what caught my attention was the way that the person it’s directed at often goes, “Er… yes?” or even “No, I just think…” and shrinks away a little bit. (Including myself, this time: “…er, I think so, yes.”)

Now that I’m thinking about this –
“Um, I’m not really a feminist, I just think that generalizing women as stupid isn’t right.”

I’m sorry, what?

What am I missing here? So there’s resentment for sexual harassment laws, and for the fact that employers sometimes have to hire people who challenge their world views just a little bit, and who might go on maternity leave sometime in the future. So there are angry bra-burning penis-hating lesbians in existence. Are any of those things particularly pertinent?

To me (fill me in if I’ve missed something), feminism is the belief that women should have equal rights. If I’m glad every day that I’m not a man, or if I think that women don’t like soccer or bother to understand it because we require something slightly less trivial to catch our attention, that’s my own opinion and I won’t bother you with it. What I really, really, really don’t understand is why anyone should think they could mock someone else for believing in equality. I don’t even understand why you would want to tease someone ironically, as you’d do at Wes, for those beliefs. Equality: women are people too. Women are as much real people as men are. That sounds stupidly obvious to me. Why, then, does it stick out as something that someone could hold in contempt, or as something that makes someone uncomfortable enough that they have to tease a person who voices it out loud?

Maybe feminism sticks out to men in this machista culture (Argentina) because it’s new, because for them it’s normal to think of domestic abuse as the woman’s personal problem or of rape as female-provoked – because they can’t imagine having those kinds of problems, obviously the problems are merely womens’ and women should deal with them by themselves. Maybe they only ‘put up’ with feminism because it’s made itself a political nuisance, but they’re not going to listen to what the feminists are saying.
I don’t think the message is so hard to understand that if they were listening, they’d disagree. All it is is this: women are human beings, and they deserve everything men do.

The part that maybe I take for granted, the part that’s maybe why I don’t understand, is that I believe that this idea should resonate with everyone. That if you think about it, this is absolutely logical – that people who don’t think this aren’t thinking; that women who don’t think this are practicing self-hatred just a little bit. (Really, though, what evidence does any woman have to make her decide that her place in life is subservient to a whole bunch of people she’s never met, just because of their gender?)

Apparently, some people are stupid. I would appreciate it if everyone understood how dumb a question “Are you a feminist?” is. I would appreciate it if I hadn’t briefly felt hesitation in answering it. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to and I did hesitate.
I would like to change this. I can’t force people to understand; I can’t stop them from being stupid. But I can change my own reaction.

I would like to say, “Yes, I am a feminist. I don’t hate men. I hate rape. I hate the idea of one human being assaulting another and getting away with it. I hate the idea that someone could assume I’m stupid or incompetent or defenseless or temperamental because I have breasts; that I only value material things because I like shiny shoes and think every woman should have the perfect bra (it’s empowering, damnit); or that someone else should be more valuable than I for no reason other than gender.
Are these things a problem?”

I probably won’t. (Especially not in Spanish, because that’s a lot of subjunctive tense).
If I can restrain myself, I might not even say, “So, you don’t think women are people too?” in contemptuous tones.

What I will say is what I really want everyone else to say too. I know some of the girls I’ve seen who go “uh, no, but –” in response, taken aback (hopefully by the stupidity of the question), believe in those very simple equal rights like I do. The only answer I want to hear to that question is the truth, without hesitation, confusion, or shame (because the people asking that question are the ones who should be ashamed):
YES.

(And while you’re at it, my far-too-skinny female friend, the answer to “do you want this delicious free cookie?” is always YES too).

guia fotografica de Jujuy

That's 'hoo-HOO-ey,' in case you were interested.
I don't feel like research, so I shall simply plop these photos down. They're possibly a bit small, but it's the kind of landscape that makes all photos look small anyway.

Here is where Jujuy is. The Andes, border with Chile and Bolivia.

Here are things I saw:
In the clouds.

The pyramid is not an actual ancient ruin. It's a monument to a archaeologist from the 20s, put there to confuse future archaeologists. The wall in front of it is a reconstruction from the 20s of ancient ruins (using their original stones and - of course! - making complete bollocks of any possible future archaeology to be done with the originals).


Cerra de Siete Colores.


Graveyard. The most colorful thing we saw.


Salt flats.
"In time of rain and in nocturnal hour, circulate with caution."

Que dulce la venganza - or, making telenovelas out of Argentine news

Argentine politics are really interesting, as it turns out - now that I

can actually understand the rapid-fire news announcers or the people on 6-7-8, this type of political debate show we watch at dinner every night.

The first debate of the night was over a new law that will break up (to some extent) the monopoly that the Clarín group has over Argentina's media by restricting the number of media licenses per proprietor. According to my host family, this company has control of most of the television news networks as well as Argentina's largest newspaper (clarin.com) and as such can hugely sway politics. Cristina Fernández de Kirchner is the first president to oppose the media group's boa-constrictor-hold (note: she decided to do this after she was elected) and as such is encountering significant difficulties in getting her law through. Unsurprisingly, bad press from Clarín's media is also causing her support among the people to decrease.

La Presidenta (getting a little peeved there)

Now, the second large ongoing controversy here is a little more history-related, and a lot more depressing - fitting, as a it's a result of the dictatorship. Probably some of you know the background to this; and it seems kind of really obvious to me because it's such a big entrenched thing here, but here's a sum-up anyway: during the Dirty War of '76-'83, the right-wing military dictatorship was slyly and massively 'disappearing' anyone they even vaguely suspected of leftist activities or Peronism. President Kirchner was a member of the Peronist Youth in the 1970s - which means she had definitely been at risk of being 'disappeared.'

The 'disappeared' people were literally that - they'd go to the store and not come back, or be dragged out of their houses and into Ford Falcons in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. Apparently some were tortured or held in prisons; many (this is grisly) were flung out of planes into the Atlantic Ocean so there were no bodies and no evidence. It gets more upsetting: many of the desaparecidos were young, and some of them were pregnant women whose children, it is now evident from DNA tests, were given to people who supported the dictatorship, or members of the upper class who would pay for them. It's suspected that up to 30,000 people were disappeared; it's bad enough that the government wouldn't even persecute those responsible for some time - in the name of 'moving on.' Now that these children are surfacing, it's obviously a big conflict - the relations of the desaparecidos want the children found, or even 'given back;' the adopted parents might or might not want the children to know their history...

Here's where the yellow journalist in me starts salivating: In 1976, Ernestina Herrera de Noble, who has been the director of Clarín since 1969, adopted two infants. You can guess where this is going: in 2002 the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo filed a lawsuit against her demanding that she submit them to DNA tests; she fought to deny the demand. Apparently the case is still in litigation, with Kirchner proposing in 2009 that in cases related to crimes against humanity, the submission of DNA samples be compulsory. Of course, Kirchner's opponents took it as a personal attack on Mrs. Noble, with whom (juicier still!) until recently Kirchner had maintained 'cordial relations.'

Mrs. Noble and her adoptive childers.

Obviously, I'm probably only skimming the surface of this whole thing - I just learned about it, and I'm getting portions of my information from answers.com - but wow. It's practically a telenovela. Baby-stealing and all. (I wonder what Mrs. Noble's kids - who're what, in their 30s now? - think of this. And why they're letting their adopted mother decide for them).

In case you didn't tune in for an excitable and generalizing sum-up of very serious history, according to my Lista de Heladerías, I've visited eight. This is very distressing news, as though I've visited a good number of those twice (and I'm sure a couple I haven't written down), I found an article in my hostel in Uruguay on historic heladerías en Buenos Aires that gave me the names of twelve more, not to mention the eight other ones I've already written down and haven't gone to yet. Gotta get cracking! I suppose I could cross some off the list for completely failing to put their addresses online or in the article, too...

My favorite so far: Persicco, which is kind of expensive but so very worth it: the chocolate amargo (that's bitter, which is code for most chocolaty) is... I don't know, my friend described it as "rich enough to ice a cake with." Yummm. And the limon (not mousse de limon) is everything anyone would dream of when they're out for a week with a brain-boiling fever. Which I did, all those months ago.

The ice cream article I read listed this one place where apparently Gardel (that's Carlos Gardel, the famous tango singer martyred in a plane crash) was a 'fanatic' of the lemon flavor... so that will be fun.

I forgot two words yesterday!

One: matear - yup, the process of drinking mate has its own verb.

and two: cicatriz, which is a far superior way to say 'scar' than English has.

Apologies for being an ice-cream- and word-snob (I just like them, damnit)

oh, and ¡Viva Cristina!,

Lindsey

Fun Times with Candles, Cortos y Caserolazos

A list of Delicious and Probably Useless Words (because I collect them; I think I remember puñal [dagger] before I remember cuchillo [knife] - whoops):

guiñar - to wink
gruñir - to growl. The most adorable story I've ever read - where I learned this word - is one by Cortázar called "El discurso del oso." It's about a page long and I kind of want to illustrate it and read it to small children.
cafishear - 'hmm, that one has an interesting ring to it,' I thought. Guess what it means? 'To pimp.'
vanagloriarse - okay, this may not actually entertain anyone else in the world, but you guys. It's 'vainglorious.' AS A VERB. A REFLEXIVE verb! That definitely warrants caps.

And some lunfardo (slang):
¡Que lio! What a mess!
¡Que bárbaro! Literally, "How barbaric!" (which I quite like) but they use it for both "how awful!" and "cool!"
Che - yup, that Argentine thing (as you know, that's where Che Guevara's nickname comes from). Means: yo, hey you, man, buddy... everyone's che.

A few days after the Bicentenario, I witnessed two men fighting each other on the street - serious fighting; one of them actually picked up a loose paving stone and ran after the other with it - and I heard this rather upright older man go, "¡Que loca mierda!" in amazement. I'll let you translate that one yourself.


There's the Congreso building (where my Subte stop is) lit up all pretty for the Bicentenario!

When I woke up yesterday morning I discovered that my heater wouldn't turn on. I wasn't all that surprised, because the electricity in my room is sometimes so sketchy that my lights flicker when I plug my computer in.

I then discovered, however, that the power outage covered not only in my room, or the building, but an enormous chunk of the neighborhood - when I looked of the balcony that night a disturbingly large swathe of buildings was pitch-black. The Subte was working; the traffic lights weren't - which made crossing Rivadavia something of an adventure. I would have had to climb down and up ten flights of stairs in complete blackness (aside from the occasional candle on the landing) if I hadn't found my flashlight at the bottom of a drawer. It was shocking how normally people carried on with their day; when I came home in the evening many businesses were still open - just darker than usual.

According to my host mother, cortos this long (it lasted about 20 hours in all) are not usual. I guess they're common enough, though, that people have a tradition of taking to the streets with casserole pots and cooking spoons and creating a ruckus in protest. They call these caserolazos, and my host mother was quite happy to lean out the window and join in.
Apparently this all started only in 2001, when the utility outages were so bad that several people died, and the caserolazos marched all the way to the Casa Rosada and caused the resignation of President de la Rua. As you do. (It should be mentioned that during that whole mess they were going through presidents like I go through episodes of Glee - one a day, or something).

I think I'm finally assimilating (some). My tongue is scarred from drinking mate; I don't even blink when the Subte announces it's having a tantrum today, and just hop on a bus; I understand not just the rapid-fire spanish but much of the lunfardo - more often than not, that is, which is something. Crossing the street like a porteño (or maybe just a city person, how would I know) has become so automatic that the other day I accidentally crossed a street in the wrong direction just because the walk light turned on as I went by. I also reached for a word while talking to a fellow American - in English - and the only one that came up was Spanish. Progress!

And because I really have to go work on my monografía now, I leave you with another picture of Jujuy:

O Argentina, yo creo en vos

Well, my friends, most of you are out of school, home from abroad (I want to hear your counter-culture-shock stories and thoughts on your whole trip, if any of you want to write them!), and probably enjoying summer by now, but since I'm living upside down from you I've got a couple months left and winter is approaching.

Either way, the Mundial is upon us! Every ad on television blazes with blue and white and gold and flying footballs (er, soccer balls), the kioscos are stocked with patriotic candy and collectible figurines, and my host mother is threatening to drag out the flag-covered jerseys for everyone in the house.

I still don't care about sports. But watching commercials like the following makes me understand why one might:



This super-epic ad never fails to delight me. Besides the absurd visuals, and the use of Historic Football Incidents, it is God telling Argentines that he believes in them.
And it's for beer. Granted, it's Quilmes, which is sort of the national beer and consistently does absolutely absurd and delightful commercials, but beer. And it's probably just because I'm an outsider, and because, well, I'm not exactly accustomed to the results of US patriotism filling me with flag-waving pride - but I really like the feeling of unjaded national pride I'm getting from people over the Mundial. Somehow, patriotism is a lot cuter when it's a still-developing nation using God to invigorate itself, not a super power using God to justify itself.

This Tuesday is also the Bicentenario, two hundred years since, well, not the official declaration of statehood - they're having another party for that in six years - but the first organization of a non-Spanish government in the capital (don't blame the Spanish, they were busy being occupied by Napoleon at the time). So there's holidays (no classes!) and parades and a promise of aerial acrobatics. Viva Argentina!


Other things:
I love the fact that in this town, you can hop off the bus on a whim at one in the morning on a Friday night and go get two scoops of the best ice cream you've ever had for the equivalent of about three dollars. I made a goal about a month ago of visiting every recommended ice cream place in the city, but I had to give it up because there are so very very many and they are (nearly) all so very very good. I will settle for going to as many as possible and trying as many flavors as possible.
Featured oddities I've discovered so far: chocolate al wisky (yes, that's what you think it is, and oh dear lord is it delicious), sambayon (wine and egg. No, really), mousse de arandanas (blueberry mousse - better in some places than others).
I may bore you all with a ridiculously poetic list of ice cream flavors and places I've gone to at some point, just so I have a reference for when I come back here later in life. And so I can pretend I've spent my time here productively.


The rainy season is approaching, of course (ha ha. It's never too cold for ice cream!) but never fear, I'm preparing by scoping out pastry places. Churros and Spanish hot chocolate, fluffy cakes with layers of dulce de leche... bring it on.

In other notes, it's commonplace to go out to the bars and the clubs starting around one or two a.m., and then dance until five a.m. because that's when the Subte opens and you don't have to take a cab home. I approve.


Two weeks ago, the program took us all on a trip to the province of Jujuy, on which we all bought llama sweaters and took pictures of llamas - and the llama cousins up there, vicunas - and tried llama meat. It was incredibly distinct from Buenos Aires and warrants its own long description, but not today.
I've gotten marginally better at blending in on the street (mostly, I think, because I stopped trying to) though I'm probably never going to completely.

Oh, and my taxi driver tried to sell me cocaine last night. I couldn't quite believe it at the time, but that's definitely what happened. I looked up the words just to be sure (because there's coco as in coconut, cocoa as in chocolate, coca as in Coca Cola, coca as in coca leaves, which they chew in the provinces for altitude sickess... and then there's cocaina). I'm already becoming addicted to cafe and mate, thank you, and please, dear country, stop trying to prove to me that you are crazy: I'd noticed and I love you anyway.

Hasta luego, amigos!

zapatos de oro, cafe y gente

I'm sitting in a Starbucks right now, because my in-house (stolen) WiFi quit working (partly why I haven't written anything for so long). And let me tell you, this is not coffee. This is a giant sugary dessert with minute amounts of coffee flavoring. And probably too much caffeine. No wonder Americans are fat; they can't even man up and drink straight coffee without a mountain of whipped cream on top and a silty layer of syrup on the bottom. *slurp*

This could be partly my fault for getting the dulce de leche latte. In my defense, I tried to order the 'mate latte' and 'te con mango de maracuya,' first, but after telling me they had neither the counter-man gave me a Look and asked me where I was from. He was then surprised that I was an American outside of Palermo (a trendy neighborhood more towards the city center). So I ordered the most Argentine-sounding thing (for Starbucks, which means it's not Argentine at all) on the menu.

On that note, I really really really like my neighborhood. Yeah, it sucks to have to leave the house 45 minutes before any class or meeting, and yeah, it's annoying that the guidebooks often leave my neighborhood out entirely (when there's a lot worthwhile to see and eat here) but Caballito is lovely. It's not full of tourists and super expensive like Palermo, it's not scary to walk around in alone like La Boca, and it's not full of narrow streets where you can't see the sky like El Centro. Plus, I do kind of like exploring stuff that none of the other foreigners are going to know about.


Yes - mine mine mine mine. PRETTY.

As it turns out, buying tango shoes is kind of like buying a wand in Harry Potter. I went to the shop the professor for our tango class recommended (Flabella's, Suipacha 263 - just around the corner from Diagonal Norte) and it's this little store, grouped with three other tango-shoe-stores, with all of these stiletto heels and embossed metallic leather toes and pretty straps gleaming from the dusty windows. Half of the actual store space was taken up by this huge pile of barely-labelled shoeboxes. I have no idea how the funny shopkeeper lady found anything, but I spent at least an hour in there, with her poking around the boxes and pulling things out apparently at random, trying to find a shoe that was both pretty and fit me so well I could dance in a heel (believe it or not, that heel up there was one of the shorter, fatter ones in the shop).

While I was waiting for her to find a different color of a pair of rather comfortable but unfortunately dowdy maroon shoes (which they ended up not having, as apparently they make about one of each type of shoe), I spied this golden shoe half-hidden behind a display case...
And then I waved it around and it produced sparks, so I bought the pair. The end!

I wish talking about the beggar who accosted me right outside that shop was as easy as blathering on about the shoes. Or the toothless women with her two children who came into my UBA class a few weeks ago, before the professor had arrived, and lispingly begged for money. Or the kids who work the Subte, passing around notes that say "Con tu ayuda puedo compara comida, Gracias" and kiss your cheek if you're female or high-five you if you're male. Or the man I saw dressed like an Indian holy man except completely in garbage bags, barefoot on a street full of prosperous people in fancy leather boots out to enjoy a day's shopping.
That stuff is harder to talk about, although I remember it just as much. I can't sum it up like I can ice cream and sushi, the fact that yesterday I had no hot water to shower with, or street fairs full of antiques and feathered hats (la Feria en domingo en San Telmo is full of things I could spend all my money on).
But how is the fact that every dusk I walk by whole families digging through the trash left out for the garbage trucks on the sidewalks, looking for salable cardboard or anything useful, supposed to make a diverting note for people back home?
I guess it isn't. Imma say it anyway.

Okay. I have more to write, but now they're playing Michael Buble. Which means I have to leave.

enjoy your pussy excuse for coffee!
- your suddenly-a-coffe-snob pal, Lindsey

I hate volcanoes

I should be in Venice right now.

Instead, there is a cloud of ash over most of Europe (except for Moscow, which kinda makes me giggle), stopping all flights in or out of anywhere.


It's really rather obnoxious. My travel plans were to go to Venice, then Florence, then Rome. Then to Athens, then Mykonos, then Santorini, then Ios. I'm pretty sure I'll get Greece in still, and hopefully Rome, and maybe a day in Rome, but seriously Eyjafjallajokull, I was really looking forward to going to Italy. It was going to be a phenomenal vacation, with the first week being in a country with so much cultural and historical stuff in it, and the second week partying and laying on island beaches. Oh well, I guess I'm just going to have to party instead. *sigh*

Sorry I haven't posted in a while - I was busy being in Paris. Coincidentally (not really), that's also the reason why I haven't been Skyping/FB-chatting with people. I figured it was either tell people about my life (over and over, because they wouldn't tell each other, of course), or go out and actually live it. I am keeping a scrapbook journal though, and (though you wouldn't know through FB) I am taking a bunch of pictures. I'm also making memories, which is how people did it before technology. Although, we seem to be regressing a little for a moment, because of a STUPID VOLCANO.

Sorry. I'm a bit sore about that. I didn't even know there were volcanoes in Iceland, let alone active ones. I suppose I should blame myself for that one, though, not on the volcano itself. It's not its fault that I didn't know about it.

Anyway, I'm still having a lovely time, even during the days that I would have gone to Venice. We still don't have classes, so we explored some of Paris that we hadn't yet, and found several parks, including a water park, complete with slides and a WHALE a few minutes walk from my friend Aaron's house. He was kinda angry at the world that he hadn't known about this for the past few months.

I'm hoping everyone's good States-side, and that the flooding has gone down to a minimum. Floods, eruptions, snowpocalypse - maybe the Ancient Mayans were off by a couple of years...

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIt's.... FACT TIME! (with additional Pictures)

Time to get serious, yo. It occurred to me that I've been absorbing all these background facts and that they might be Usefully and Pertinently collected here. So I've dug some stuff up.

Argentina is the 8th largest country in the world in area, though the 31st in population. The population of the Buenos Aires is about 3 million, though the population of the "metropolitan area" is about 12 million, making it the third (or second, depending on how you count) largest city in South America.
Montana's entire population is nearly 1 million. MT=380,849 sq km, and BsAs=203 sq km. That gives Montanans about 5600x more space per person than porteños. Someone check my math; I don't think I can handle that absurd of a difference!

The population is mostly white (of Spanish/Italian descent) and mostly (nominally) Catholic, although Buenos Aires has a notable Jewish population. According to the Mexican poet Octavio Paz (that's right, I have a quote!), "Argentines are Italians who speak Spanish and think they're French."
Truth, from what little I know.

The country is arguably the most progressive in Latin America in the area of gay rights, as civil unions are permitted in the capital and some of the provinces, and in 2009 it became the site of the first gay marriage in Latin America. Since the couple was married under special legal (judicial) circumstances, I wouldn't say gay marriage here is legal per se, though.
Abortion seems to be nearly impossible to obtain legally.
The president is Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, and the political system is a many-party tangle I have yet to figure out (and probably won't, since I'm studying flighty surrealist authors instead of politics or history). The former dictatorship(s) still has a marked influence on politics - at least one political party still bears the name "Peronist."

People always seem to be marching for one thing or another near the Congreso building, which is also my Subte stop to get home from FLACSO (where I take four of my five classes). It's difficult to figure out what the Spanish political slogans mean sometimes, especially over the drumming, but at least one was for the Partido Obrero (Worker's Party) and another, on the national Dia de la Mujer, women's rights. It seems to me like there is more political involvement here than in the US on the part of the people, but it's hard to tell. In any case, the marches make walking home exciting.
I've also heard rumors that the Subte will be on protest next week. (But I dun wanna take the bus to school!) We'll see.

For those who don't know, Juan Peron - and his wife, the famous Evita, whose tomb is still covered with fresh flowers daily - controlled the government from 1946 to 1955, and for another year in 1973. Argentina wobbled under dictatorships from 1943 to 1983, and suffered a massive economic collapse in 2001 (bank runs! defaulting on foreign debt! 25% unemployment! huge devaluation of currency!), which it's still coming back from. One of the more common stencil-graffiti signs scattered across the city says "LA DEUDA EXTERNA MATA," which means "the foreign debt kills."

Speaking of, I love the graffiti. At least half of it is political ("Ninguna mujer nace para ser puta!") - some of it stenciled and copied in the strangest places, some of it obscure slogans, some of it blogspot web addresses for opinion-pressing. Stenciled portraits and caricatures, declarations of love, and the occasional tag on a Subte.
"Fuck the Police" it says, on a building that's been standing since 1831. "POETAS DE NADIE ROCK" says another. "Pink Floyd," "Bad Religion," "JETS."
Then there's the straight-up murals, which are extremely variable and all very interesting. This one is not too far from my apartment, on the outside of an art school.

Don't even get me started on the inside of the IUNA (art university) building. Patchwork-y, spontaneous-looking artwork explodes on random walls and classrooms and stair landings; it makes me itch to add to it. The place is kind of spartan and not terribly clean, but oh, the smell of paint. Even though it's in La Boca, which is far away and which the Subte is apparently afraid to enter, I am rather excited to take a class there.

One final historical anecdote I found amusing: in 1982, Argentina attempted to nab the Falkland Islands from Britain, which has claimed them as a territory since at least the 1830s. This failed utterly and in doing so finished off the dictatorship, but Argentina still insists that "las Islas Malvinas" are in fact Argentine, despite the Falkland Islands' government absolutely ignoring them after Britain kicked them out. Hence, "Las Islas Malvinas" must be named as such, and counted as Argentine, on every map printed here, and the nearest cross street to mine is named Malvinas Argentinas. Because naming a street after something proves it exists.
Honestly, I'm not quite sure why Argentina is in denial about this, because though the islands are close geographically, they are also small, full of sheep, and insistently British. Must be that famed Argentine pride.

And thus ends the research portion of the program.

Let us now debate the relative merits of sunsets viewed from my balcony here:


Versus sunsets viewed from my balcony in Montana:


Hmm. I give BsAs full marks for effort, but MT's just got this undiluted gorgeousness...
(that is, a lack of smog and buildings blocking out the mountains).
Well, BsAs, you have six months to change my mind. Give it your best shot.

Next time I will have more to say about ice cream, bureaucracy-fail, and how I am absolutely fed up with aggressive Argentine men (whinnying like a horse? Not an effective mating call, thank you). I do not want to bore anyone with an absurdly long post, however, so I will just add the obligatory food comment and be done: I don't think my host-parents understand that prodding me to "Come tranquila! Come tranquila!" (Eat peacefully! Eat peacefully!) every ten minutes is not having its intended effect. I EAT SLOW, OKAY?

Viva el Partido Obrero!
Or something.

-Lindsey

si la vida me da palo me lo voy a soportar

I'm not entirely sure why all of my posts involve food (maybe because I write them all before dinner?) but this one does too.
I guess I just like food.
So!

Your average coffee is quite the production here. It's not the huge paper cup full of flavored syrups ordered from a long Starbucks line; it's something taken at a tiny little table with plenty of time to chat or read your Borges (also, reading Borges' writing about his city, while actually in his city, on the streets he's describing and using to describe things? AWESOME).
I order the simplest thing on the menu (cafe con leche, tres facturas) and I end up with three tiny little plates and three teensy little cups, feeling ridiculously sophisticated as I dip my croissants in my tiny-but-strong coffee and finish up with a few sips of orange juice and soda water (which they drink so their teeth aren't stained and their breath smells nice, apparently).

This all makes me super happy.
Actually, when I'm not dying of strep (new fever record for me! 104.9!) this whole city makes me super happy.
They sell underwear on the street. Literally, on the street corners, along with leather goods, comic book figures, fruit, and a surprising number of serious-looking books. And - once - the prettiest (handmade) Barbie dresses I've ever seen.

And I'm still drooling over shoes. I think I'm going to need some dancing shoes - I'm taking a tango class, which I'm really excited for, and I kind of want to learn to salsa too. I miss swing dancing - I was finally getting good back in the US, and even though this is definitely a dance-positive city, swing isn't to be found here. Back to being a beginner. Oh well!


Oh! After a month here, I find out that my host mother is Jewish. This makes so much sense, I'm really not sure how I managed to avoid figuring it out before. She's living up to basically every Jewish-mother stereotype I've ever heard. Ever.
She's quite the character, actually. She's a chain smoker who'll only watch Disney movies and romantic comedies, drinks lots of mate, demands that people stuff themselves with her generally yummy and excessive cooking while adhering to a very strange diet herself, and sings terribly and joyfully while her son, trying to study, begs her to stop. I'm a fan - although I'm fairly sure she, and her entire family, are quite mad.

I survived a sixteen-person family dinner with them last night. It took up at least half of the apartment, and all of its non-desk tables. That's how I found out they were Jewish - there were yarmulkes. And gefilte fish, chocolate-covered matzo imported from Israel, and kosher grape juice imported from New Jersey.
They're not particularly strict, though - my host father isn't Jewish, and they definitely don't keep kosher.
I spent most of the meal trying to figure out if everyone talking at once actually had any idea of anything else anyone was saying. Then there was ice cream, and I was shepherded into the corner with the English-speaking cousins and we had a round of Poke the Foreigner, during which I explained that no, Detroit is not near Montana, answered questions about how many boyfriends I've had, and actually briefly discussed atheism. Ended up being kind of fun.

I've been trying out some classes at UBA - the public university of reportedly 300,000+ students. The classes have been ridiculously hard, but I've been happy to go just to get a feel for the place. The Ciencias Sociales and Filosofia and Letras buildings (which are in entirely separate neighborhoods) are both bunker-like, covered in political graffiti, and constantly full of extremely varied students being hassled by other students handing out political pamphlets. The day I went to Ciencias Sociales it was raining torrentially and the building was full of random dripping. I bought an umbrella halfway there and still looked like a drowned rat with my shoes full of water by the time I got there - and FLACSO sent us an email warning that sometimes some neighborhoods flood when it rains, so, you know, watch out for that. Ha.

More pictures next time, I swear. I joined the photography club, so I have an excuse to wander around with a camera looking like an idiot, taking pictures of rusty cars and mate and buildings and street underwear. You know, things you all want to see!

Hasta luego! <3

Moshiwakenai

I.E. There is no excuse. My last post on here was about 2 months ago. I have been keeping busy.
Japan. Japan is full of so many kinds of awesome it is fairly difficult to summarize them in a text format. Everybody strap in for a bit, and I'll do my best to keep this interesting.

I have been traveling all over the place. I've been back to Osaka for clubbing, bars, shopping, meeting up with Jeremy Bazinet and Hoang Nguyen (sp.?) and going to the electronics district/a maid cafe/an all you can drink club, and even for a couple dates with a Japanese girl I met at said club. In fact, I've been meeting a lot of people, some of them Japanese, some from America, some from Australia, some British, etc., etc. A small percentage of these have been attractive women, but that is not to say that attractive women are in any sort of short supply in this country. I once overheard a friend of mine say that he didn't come here with an asian fetish, but he's sure gonna leave with one.

I went to a play called Takarazuka. The acors are all women, even the male roles, and some of the overblown acting and setwork puts Broadway to shame. No, seriously. And the best part is, I went to this fairly expensive show on the program's dollar. They pay for a surprising number of things, like making Japanese sweets, going to temples (like Enryakuji, on Mt. Hiei), going to festivals, and next week we're talking a field trip to a ryokan (traditional Japanese style inn) in Hiroshima.

I've been out an about in Kyoto too. I've seen all sorts of temples and shrines, been to two different types of fire rituals, one involving a masive bonfire made of sticks with people's misfortunes written on them, and one involving monks running around a temple with massive torches made of bamboo and pine branches. I've been to two different clubs here, one of which had a drag night, I.E. all m freinds were in dresses, on stage, dancing in front of a massive crowd of Japanese people. I''ve been to all you can eat, all you can drink, and all you can eat and drink establishments. I once put away 14 plates of sushi at a revolving sushi restaurant. The bar street is full of restaurants, from Yaki Niku, to Ramen, to sushi, bar food, soba, udon, tenpura, everything Japanese, and Italian, French, Korean, Chinese, and more as well.

I went to Nagoya to visit Liz Ling, who was in my Japanese 1 class, do some tourism with Shinko Hattori, my Japanese 1 TA, and meet up with a really cute Korean girl I met way a ways back. While there I went to castels, shopping districts, museums, gardens, and even a randomly placed pellet gun shooting gallery. I saw guys in Samurai outfits fighting each other, Katanas from every era ever, and a tree that is apparently also an important Kami. Also, combination revolving sushi/arcade is a brilliant idea.

I've been learning judo which is cool. Except for the fact that my friend kevin, who is 6 foot and change, and at least one and a half of me, is also in judo class. Being thrown at the ground, even if you know how to take a fall, hurts. Speaking of my hobbies, I also met some fire spinners In kyoto, and managed to participate in a burn in Osaka. This famous poi spinner named Yuta was there. There were also a whole bunch of other random funky performing arts acts. It was a good time.

Sorry, that was kinda list-ey, but in summation, I love this freaking country. But I'm also excited to get back to the states and see everbody.

Ojos Que No Ven

Well hello there! I'm not good about these types of things, but I will try and post regularly. Here are just a few thoughts of Buenos Aires so far. This definitely does not summarize my experience, but I didn't feel like repeating the same (now boring) stories about my home-stay, etc. For the record, everything is just dandy!


There are a lot of things about this city that I find hilarious and wonderful. For example, the napkins.

They don't know how to make paper products here. The napkins are made of plastic and/or wax paper. They smear rather than absorb and are also no bigger than a post-it. The tissues and toilet paper aren't much better. Maybe Americans are just messier than Porteños -- I'd believe it.

I was also surprised by how many dogs there are in this city. Most are owned but a good amount are also strays. They all seem well-fed, though, and they are all incredibly well trained. I'm pretty sure I stand out as a tourist by swooning over every dog I see. It also takes longer to get anywhere with me, because I stop every five minutes to go "Aww, puppy!!"

I mentioned that I hadn't seen as many attractive porteños as I thought I would, and my friend curtly reminded me that I spend too much time looking at animals to pay attention to the men. Oops. It's definitely true, though...I'm blissfully unaware. You have to be, though, because here if you make eye-contact with a guy, that basically means you want to (or at least would) have sex with him. Who knew? I'm not just talking about a deep, penetrating gaze, either. A casual glance can mean, "Yes, I want you to use a lame pick-up line on me." Last night these men used the exact same line on us twice. At different times. In the same location. Could they honestly have forgotten?

Sometimes the men trick you here. You think they are attractive, and then they turn around and you see their rat-tail, their ONE dreadlock, their four or five dreadlocks...you name it, they have it. I want to bring around scissors with me and just start snipping these things off. I really can't imagine who led these men to believe this was a good look. I might be too nice sometimes, but I would never go so far as to compliment a single, SIDE dreadlock on a man's head. Don't worry too much, though. There is plenty of eye-candy to go around. You just have to check the hair first.

I saw a vampire last night. No joke. Either they exist and he was one, or he truly believes he is. (I'm sure you know which theory I believe). This guy wore all black, including a black trench coat, had slicked-back black hair, a goatee of sorts, and the craziest eyes I have ever seen. He looked like he was trying to hypnotize us by hiding his irises...that's the only way I can explain it. It was intense -- trust me. Don't worry, though. I wasn't attracted to this particular vampire. A little too sleazy/serial killer-esq for my taste. Besides, where was the bleached-blonde hair and fake British accent?

I think I'll end on that note. Fitting, right? I will try to update more often now that I'm more settled here. We'll see if anyone reads...

Chao!

helter skelter, paso a paso

I've experienced some typical Argentine stuff in the past few days. Most of it has been food-related: mate, which is a kind of tea, drunk in a very specific manner. Kind of bitter and green-tasting. I think it's an acquired taste. Decidedly not so: a submarino, which is basically hot (sometimes foamy) milk with a chocolate bar sunk into the middle. With medialunas, which are like croissants, for dipping in. Oh boy. I drooled over that almost as much as I've been drooling over the shoes in the shop windows. Thigh-high snakeskin boots with five-inch stiletto heels, anyone?
Various (somewhat dubious) meats from the asado (barbecue, basically - I'll stop translating things now). Including blood sausage and grilled intestines, neither of which were actually bad but I didn't quite enjoy anyway. Ugh.
Pizza with mozzarella and onions, empanadas, these marvelous cookie things called alfajores, and mountains of dulce de leche. MOUNTAINS. I'm starting to crave vegetables.

I also went to a milonga, which is a tango dance. Only watched, but it was very exciting anyway. Tango is impossibly sexy when done right, and the place it was at was sort of indescribably perfect - this huge dark, smoky, humid space with moody lighting, framed paintings, and a giant red ventricular heart/deflated parachute/wire sculpture hanging from the ceiling over the bar. Oh, and a live band (with an accordion!) at one point. The only US music I heard all night was Ob-La-Di, and that I can't complain about. I'll have to go back and take some pictures. And lessons, por cierto.

Two important words to know when taking the Subte: permiso (excuse me) and perdón (sorry). Rush hour was frightening the first time I witnessed it: people jam themselves into subte cars so tightly that their shirts end up caught in the doors for the whole ride, and you have to make sure you wade over to the door at least a stop ahead or you won't be able to get through the crush in time.

Also, yesterday was a FLACSO overnight trip to Tigre, a delta zone outside the city in Buenos Aires province. I finally got to know some of my fellow Flacsitos. It's been nice to be able to say things more complicated than "It's hot!," or "Can you repeat that?" for a whole day.
Tigre was beautiful, and probably better explained in pictures when I get around to uploading them.

Classes begin on Monday; more reportage presently.
Chao!