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