North, South, East and West.

Rewind: El Bolsón

2010-03-14T10:08:00.007-03:00

When my classes ended in Buenos Aires two Decembers ago, I had a month before my family would come to visit. I decided to spend it with my friend Jenny, traveling through Patagonia, a thinly-populated, mountainous region of southern Argentina and Chile. Jenny had spent a few weeks in Chile by herself while I finished my classes, so I took an overnight bus and met her in Bariloche, one of the biggest resort towns in Patagonia. Without leaving the train station, we boarded another bus which took us to El Bolsón, a smaller town two hours away. We chose to start our trip here because of El Bolsón's reputation as a hippie haven, populated by middle-aged Argentines who had moved down south looking for natural beauty and eco-friendly living. It also didn't hurt that the town was known for Belgian waffles and microbreweries. When we got off the bus, we took a cab to our hostel, and our Birkenstock-wearing driver put on Simon and Garfunkel's "I've Gone to Look for America." It seemed like an auspicious beginning to the trip.

Before we arrived at our hostel, we were disappointed that it was outside of town and (they told us) required a cab ride. But the minute we pulled into the driveway, we knew we had made the right decision. El Pueblito (the little village) was a log cabin in the middle of a meadow surrounded by snowy mountains. Patagonian peaks do not mess around. They were rocky and craggy and towering only a few hundred feet away. The hostel had both a front and a back porch, and we stood and watched the sunset on the front porch while the river meandered past us.

Inside, we found the most comfortable, homiest hostel I have ever seen. There was a beautiful kitchen, which made it easy to cook, combined with homemade meals sold every night and home-brewed beer. Only about four other people were staying in the hostel at the time - two guys about our age, one German and one American, as well as an older married couple. Every night, we all sat down to dinner together, along with the young Argentine guy who ran the hostel, the young American girl who was helping out in exchange for free room and board, and the older, eccentric German owner, who lived in a small building in the backyard. Most hostels provide breakfast in the morning, but this breakfast included homemade granola, fresh-cooked eggs, and toast with jam made from local Patagonian berries.

We spent a lot of our time in the backyard of El Pueblito, which featured a series of hammocks, chest-high Patagonian lupino flowers, and five or six friendly stray cats and dogs, who only wanted to lay on your lap and stare at the mountains with you. All of the other guests were very friendly, and we played cards and talked about our travels with them.

We soon realized we didn't really need to take a cab to the hostel, and instead opted for long walks down the dirt road connecting El Pueblito to El Bolsón. The mountains lined the road behind a series of meadows, and I finished the walk giddy every time. In town, we went to the craft market, where we feasted on pizza made before our eyes (more like bread with melted cheese and some vegetables really, but it was delicious nonetheless), beer brewed in the town, and Belgian waffles with strawberries, cream, and powdered sugar. El Bolsón has become known for these waffles, sold by a family that moved to Argentina from Belgium a generation ago.

We also went to Helados Jauja, a not-to-be-missed ice cream shop, at least twice in our two days in El Bolsón. I've written about Argentine ice cream - incredibly creamy and smooth with a boggling variety of flavors. Helados Jauja took that to the next level, selling tons of local Patagonian berry flavors, as well as things like lavender and fig, along with the typical chocolate and dulce de leche options. We spent nearly half an hour standing at the register, trying to determine the best pairing (since a small gets you two flavors) and sampling each other's picks before determining we had to come back for more. Two years later, my mouth waters remembering my bright purple, Maqui berry ice cream.

We spent the rest of our trip on short hikes near the town. The first was at Lake Puelo, a small lake that butts up against mountains about a twenty minute bus ride outside of town. We chose the difficult path, still less than an hour of walking, which brought us to the top of a hill with a view of the lake and the mountains all around it. We spent the afternoon sitting by the lake, eating lunch, talking, and reminding ourselves how lucky we were about every ten minutes.

Our second hike took us in a loop around El Bolsón itself. We spent most of it bushwacking in some woods and sitting by a different section of the same river that runs past El Pueblito. Getting lost gave us the opportunity to see a different side of town. We ended up in a poor, residential area, where a man in a pick-up truck practically begged us to let him give us a ride to the town center. These were clearly the people who, unlike the hippies, were not necessarily in middle-of-nowhere El Bolsón by choice. After two of the most beautiful days of my life, it was probably good to be reminded that the world is not all hammocks and lavender ice cream.

Berkshires

2010-03-08T11:47:00.005-03:00

A couple days after returning from Vermont, I headed north again, this time to Sandisfield, Massachusetts. My housemate Arran's family has a wooden mansion there, a converted Gentleman's Lodge on acres and acres of property, purchased by his great-grandparents in the 1970s. After years of gradual construction, the house feels like a grown-up playground, complete with indoor and outdoor fireplaces, cross-country skis, board games, books, a hot tub, a pool table, food grown on the property, a lake, a meadow, and even a slide connecting Arran's room to his brother's upstairs. They have left some of the original decorations, including antlers and animal hides and old books and globes. There are windows everywhere, and I spent the mornings reading in a huge leather chair as the house filled with light.

Though people came and went over the course of the four days, the group included, at some point, nearly all of my best friends from Wesleyan. It was the perfect way to spend spring break. The last time I went to visit, in the early fall, we made apple pancakes with apples picked from the trees outside and ate handfuls of the last few raspberries left on the bushes. This time, we covered our pancakes in maple syrup tapped in the backyard and ate dinners of steak, chicken and vegetables grilled on the outdoor fireplace.

On Wednesday morning, we awoke to a perfect spring day, perhaps the first of the season. Ankit, Sam and I walked to a lake about two miles away, and we sat watching ice melt and teaching Ankit camp songs. The rest of the trip was rainy, and we mostly spent it inside, cooking, playing board games, drinking beer, and reading. On our last night, we stayed up until 3 in the morning talking and laughing in front of the fire.

I'm back at Wesleyan now. The dreary weather has followed me, and I miss the fresh maple syrup and the fireplace. But it's nice to be home and to sleep in my own bed for a few days before I go on my last trip of the break.

Ludlow, Vermont

2010-03-08T11:46:00.006-03:00

Last weekend marked the beginning of Spring Break, the last Spring Break of my college career. A friend from CSS, my major, invited a group of us to her house in Vermont for the weekend. So on Friday afternoon, three Americans, a Singaporean, a Puerto Rican and a girl from Hong Kong (a Hong Kongian?) left for a weekend of winter sports and mountain beauty.

I have to admit, at first I was a bit disappointed. Though I'm from Illinois, perhaps the flattest place on earth, the mountains I have experienced have been from places like Colorado, Patagonia and Switzerland (**pause, think about how lucky I am, squeal a little**). In comparison, the ancient, worn-down mountains of Southern Vermont seemed more like big hills. But then I paused to look more closely.

The morning after we arrived, my friends went to the mountain to try their hand at downhill skiing, many for the first time. I'd done it many times before and wanted to try something new, so I went to the nearby golf course turned Nordic Center for a three-mile snowshoe hike.** Standing on a hill in the woods behind the snow-covered golf course, I could see the ski mountain in front of me and the rolling green mountains all around it. The mountains in Vermont were smaller and less dramatic than the ones I'd seen before, but the complete quiet and peacefulness of rural Vermont, only a few miles outside of a major ski resort, was unique. Driving outside of town the following day, I figured it out: the beauty of Vermont isn't in-your-face. It requires you to slow down for a minute and just be. Between the rivers, the hills, and the winding rural roads, I'd learned to let Vermont wash over me.

We concluded our trip with a visit to Long Trail Brewery in Bridgewater Corners, about half an hour from where we were staying. Sitting on the back patio in the sun, next to a fire, sharing a pitcher with my friends, I thought, "I could get used to this."

**For your comic amusement, I should add that I also tried cross-country skiing for the first time. When I asked the man at the rental place if he had any tips, he shrugged and said, "I've never done it before." Just picture me on a trail of slicked-down snow, lurching forward, stopping suddenly, almost doing the splits in an attempt to keep myself standing. It didn't take long before I switched to snowshoes.

New Orleans

2010-03-08T11:08:00.003-03:00

After doing some traveling in the past few weeks, I have definitely caught the bug again. I'm sure no one's reading this, but I'm updating anyway, as a way of coping with my excitement for future overseas travels that will interest other people.

A few weeks ago, my friend Jeff and I went to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It was on a Tuesday in the middle of the semester, so I only went for a couple days, but it was a wonderful trip. I've never been to New Orleans before, and I absolutely loved what I saw, though I'm sure my impression was skewed by the party atmosphere all around. Everywhere we went in the city, people were celebrating. Even when we deviated from the major parades, there were small ones, as well as barbecues, street dancing, and gatherings of all sorts.

I'm particularly excited that I got to go to New Orleans this year, immediately after the Saints won the Superbowl. Everywhere we went, people were shouting "who dat!", often right in our faces. We even got to see the Superbowl trophy and one of the Saints players at a parade. The excitement permeated the city, and it made me genuinely happy for them that their team had won. Clearly, this win really mattered to people.

The day I arrived, I took a bus from the airport to the French Quarter and met up with Jeff and Eric, Jeff's friend from high school, who now lives in New Orleans and works for the local NBC affiliate. Jeff almost immediately handed me a Piña Colada in a light up cup, which I carried down to the river, along with my backpack and sleeping bag. We met up with our friend Cait from Wesleyan, who was there visiting her brother. Cait, her brother, and her brother's friend were at Lindi Gras - the pre-party for the Zulu parade, as far as I can gather. We stood next to the stage for about ten minutes, before Ludacris came on and sang a couple of songs. So there I was, less than an hour after getting off my plane, listening to Ludacris and drinking a Piña Colada out of a light up cup at 2 pm on a Monday. I knew it was going to be a good trip.

For dinner, me, Jeff and Eric walked to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant Jeff had eaten at years earlier, where we ordered plates and plates of cajun fare, and ate some of the best sausages and fried chicken I've ever had. I also discovered that I like crab, which was pretty exciting. We spent the evening at the Orpheus parade, but left early, as we were all ready for bed and planned to get up early the next morning.

The next day, which was actual Mardi Gras, Jeff and I woke up early and took a gorgeous walk through the Garden District to get to the Zulu Parade. Though it was before 10 am, we were clearly late to the party. Families and other groups of people had been there for hours and were barbecuing and drinking like it was dinner time. We met up with Cait, her brother, and her brother's friends and spent a stupid amount of time shouting at passing floats in exchange for beads, cups and a boggling array of useless plastic items.

We spent the afternoon on several-hour long walk through the entire city, following Cait's brother and his friends to a barbecue at their friends' house. Though I had no idea where I was going, or even what the end goal of the journey was, I really enjoyed getting to see so many different neighborhoods of the city. We walked, in a very roundabout way, all the way from the top of the Garden District, through downtown and the French Quarter and into another neighborhood I don't know the name of. On our way, we saw the Madri Gras Indians, a small group of people who dress up in amazing, homemade costumes every year to honor the Indian tribes that allowed escaped Louisiana slaves to live among them. Very interesting and beautiful.

It was also really interesting to see the inside of a few different homes. Clearly, the property values have sunk, because people only a couple years older than me were living in beautiful houses and apartments. On the flip side, in some neighborhoods I saw, at least a third of the houses remained destroyed, and signs honored those who had died in the Hurricane.

After resting for awhile at the barbecue, Jeff, Cait, and I decided to pay our requisite tourist dues and head to Bourbon Street, home of giant beers, 24-hour-a-day bars, and middle-aged men yelling "show me your tits." It was an all-around disgusting place, but fun to see once. We ate dinner with Eric at Port o' Call, also in the French Quarter, which supposedly has the best burgers in the city. Though I have no basis for comparison, I can say that our dinner was definitely worth the two hour plus wait. The hamburgers were huge and delicious and came with amazing baked potatoes.

After that, we walked to another neighborhood nearby to meet up with my friends Sarah and Zak, recent Wesleyan alumni who moved to New Orleans after graduation. Though we were only a few blocks away from Bourbon Street, the scene was completely different. There was no dearth of partying, but in place of trashy tourists, the neighborhood was filled with live music and hipsters decked out in crazy Mardi Gras costumes. I wish I could have stayed longer at Zak's apartment, but my friends were more than ready for bed. Still, it was great to see friends and get an idea of life after Wesleyan for people interested in places besides New York and Boston.

Jeff and I woke up at 4:30 that morning to catch our cab. We stopped at the famous beignet place on the river (open 24/7), leading to one of the messiest, greasiest, and most delicious breakfasts I've had in awhile. As I waited to board my plane, the flight attendant came on the microphone and said, "we thank you for coming to visit our city. We'd like to remind you that Mardi Gras is over and it's time to get back to the real world." Hopefully, I'll have the chance to visit New Orleans again, when it is a bit more like "the real world."

Conclusions

2009-01-20T22:54:00.007-02:00

After five months in Buenos Aires, I still find it remarkably difficult to define the place. I can begin in the negative: Buenos Aires is not the cocaine-filled tropical paradise so many imagine. Nor is it the European capital its tourist industry claims it to be. Yet neither has Buenos Aires developed its own unique culture. Instead, it is an idiosyncratic immigrant city which has absorbed bits and pieces of its citizens' pasts, never quite producing something new. At times, the results are surprisingly beautiful, like when someone had the strange idea to mix Italian accordion music with dying slave dance beats and managed to create tango. Other times, the results are underwhelming, like the ubiquitous but bland attempts at old-world pasta dishes, the sad remains of Buenos Aires' rich Italian heritage.

My own time in Buenos Aires is as difficult to define as the city itself. Instead of broad, life-changing realizations, I left with a collection of experiences, some as beautiful as a tango number, others as disappointing as the cuisine. I came to a new understanding of the depth and dynamism of communication. I learned about the intersection of the personal and the political. I went to tango clubs. I dreamed in Spanish. Some days were tiring, others were thrilling, still others frustrating or funny. Most were all those things at the same time.

I would not give up my time in Argentina for anything, but, even after two and a half months of reflection, I find myself unable to define it. Instead of giving me conclusions, Argentina has provided me with a million questions. After five months of seeing the world from below the equator, I'm remembering what the view looks like from up here. Perhaps most valuably, I've learned in a real, first-hand way that there are endless views to be had. Travelers, explorers, students and intellectuals have been having this realization for centuries, but it somehow makes a lot more sense, seems a lot more pressing and important, to recognize it for oneself.

My time in Buenos Aires was not what I expected. I experienced no dramatic personality transformations. I have no radical new beliefs about the world. I did not find a suave Latin lover. I don't know what lasting impact it will have on me and the way I view the world. I expected my time in Argentina to progress in a logical, aesthetically pleasing way. I would likely feel uncomfortable for a time, eventually adjust, begin to feel like a local, and leave a changed and bettered person. In reality, Argentina was a series of false starts, surprise zig-zags, incredible highs and confusing lows. In the end, I can only reflect in the same way I lived: day by day.

Just as the city defies stereotypes, so does my own experience in it. Every time I thought I understood it, I discovered something confusing, something thrilling, something disappointing, something new. It is this newness, both regardless of and because of its greater meaning, that I crave to experience over and over again. Argentina was a start, but I doubt I will ever reach an end. In the meantime, I had the great fortune to spend five months of my life on a wonderful adventure.

These are a few of my favorite things

2008-11-30T23:27:00.001-02:00

Tomorrow, I leave for a 19 day trip through Patagonia. After that, I will come back up to Buenos Aires to meet my family, do some traveling with them, and show them around Buenos Aires. I'll try to find time to update, but I might have to save it all for when I get back to America on December 31st.

In honor of my last day in the city (save 4 days at the very end with my family, which will be a whole different thing), I have decided to write about the things I will miss most about Buenos Aires and Argentina. These range from places to people, from the very personal to things anyone would experience here.

1. The café culture, taken straight from Paris. I don't drink coffee, but I love the ritual of spending an afternoon in a café with a friend or a book and some medialunas (croissants). Coffee, or the hot chocolate I usually order, comes with a tiny glass of sparkling water and a biscuit. Waiters don't work for tips, so they never try to rush you out. In fact, it is usually quite a challenge to get the bill. Especially in the hot weather, I've found myself retreating into air-conditioned cafés, ordering nothing more than an orange juice and reading for hours until it gets dark.

2. Casual compliments. Affection is built into Argentinian Spanish (and that of other countries). Cashiers often greet me with, "hola, mi amor" (hello my love) or, "qué tal, mi vida" (how are you, my life). When I ask for directions on the street, people respond with "por allá, linda" (that way, beautiful) or "a la izquierda, divina" (to the left, divine). These compliments come from men and women of every age. Though these phrases are common and not particularly serious, they almost always make me smile.

3. Ice cream. Simply put, Argentinians do ice cream right. And they do it a lot. Boutique ice cream parlors cover the city, showcasing the Italian influence with rich, smooth, home made flavors. A small will get you two flavors, adding an extra element of creativity to ordering. My favorites are Banana Split (banana ice cream with chunks of chocolate and dulce de leche) and dark chocolate, even better when combined.

4. Twice a week, I sit in a park that makes everything in the world seem right. It is only two blocks from UBA, so I usually go to class early and spend some time doing homework, or simply sitting. It is huge and set off from the street, so if you sit by the lake near the middle, the sound of cars magically disappears. Unlike many other parks in the city, where the grass is worn down and uncomfortable to sit in, and the prevalence of sketchy looking people prevent me from fully relaxing, I always feel comfortable here. It is busy, but I can always find a bench. There is so much going on - exersize classes, jugglers, drummers, families walking, dogs playing, swans swimming - but never too much. In this park, I can concentrate on my work without trouble, but I can also spend time just staring, watching the people and the animals play.

5. San Telmo. The neighborhood I live in is easily my favorite in the city. It is artsy and funky, with great night life, while at the same time small and laid back. Unlike many other areas in BA, there is a real neighborhood feel. I've gotten to know people just from spending time in the area and have developed a small collection of people I say hi to on the street. It is also home to most of the reggae clubs (and, on a related note, most of the stoners) in the city. It is one of the homes of tango, and there are tango clubs everywhere. It also has one of the most lively gay scenes in the city (including a queer tango club). All of these people come together, along with most of the tourists in the city, on Sundays for the San Telmo fair, a collection of artisans, musicians, street performers and food vendors who occupy 10 blocks or so until dusk, when the San Telmo murga club dances and drums down the length of the fair, signaling the end.

6. Everyone I know here leads a double life. This is especially true among students and professors, since it is nearly impossible to be just a student or just a professor. But everyone else tends to have a lot going on as well. Since the economic crash of 2001, NGOs have flourished in Buenos Aires, and each one seems to have an army of dedicated volunteers. A staff member of my study abroad program also volunteers as a therapist for Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo (http://www.abuelas.org.ar, click on the left side for English version). My building manager trains street kids for the Pan American games. My host mom volunteers as a therapist at an orphanage. I don't want to diminish the destruction of the economic crash, nor of the general lack of public funds here. But it has had the pleasant side of effect of encouraging a cultural solidarity we lack in America. People here do things for free, because they see that they must be done and that no one else is going to do them. To me, this is beautiful.

7. Tango and folklore. I love Argentinian music and dance. My favorite weekend nights have been spent at milongas (tango clubs) and peñas (folklore clubs), where people of all ages dance until dawn. Whatever attempts I might make to describe these songs and dances would fall short, but here is a good example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3S4bFC2DasI&feature=related. Unfortunately, this video does not capture the liveliness of the clubs themselves, where people pull each other from tables to dance with grins and affection, enjoying every moment of what they are doing. These dance clubs further exemplify the double lives porteños live. I went to a peña last night and met a group of accountants who danced beautifully. Respected government ministers work all day, and dance tango all night.

8. The daily thrill of speaking Spanish. Some days, the language is far more frustrating than thrilling. But on the whole, learning Spanish here has been incredibly rewarding, and has added an exciting element to otherwise mundane daily interactions. "Oh my god," I think, "I just bought batteries! And I didn't have to repeat myself once!"

9. Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo. I have written about them here many times, but I could not neglect to mention these women just once more. Working with them has been a privilege, and without question the best thing I did here.

10. Rituals. Two extremely important customs here are saludos (greetings) and mate. Everyone greets everyone with a kiss on the cheek (just one, to the right) when they see each other. Meetings of large groups result in a ten minute long frenzy of kissing in every possible combination. If you forget to greet someone, better to do ten minutes later than not at all. I also love the ritual of drinking mate, a bitter tea, out of a hollow gourd with a metal straw (http://www.nutricion.pro/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/mate.jpg). People do drink mate alone, but when with other people, they always share. People pass their mate gourds in a circle, each person drinking as much as they want, refilling the water whenever necessary. I love both of these rituals, because they make interaction automatically personal. No one worries about personal space or germs. There is an affection in daily life, even among acquaintances, that we lack in America. Many Americans say that they consider hugs - rarer in Argentina - more intimate than kisses. While that might be true, Americans only hug those people with whom they are already intimate, while Argentinians kiss everyone, and pass their mate to anyone that looks thirsty.

Daily Life

2008-11-21T10:12:00.005-02:00

When I leave my peaceful apartment, I take a deep breath to ready myself for the daily chaos that is Buenos Aires. Over 40% of Argentina's population lives in the Buenos Aires metropolitan area. Although that definition could people living more than two hours from me, most of them commute to the city proper to work every day. Most of them, it seems, commute to the sidewalk I am walking on, forcing us all into a sullen trudge.

First, there is the public transportation. The subway, while quick, reaches absurd levels of crowded. I once spent an entire ride with my feet barely touching the floor, not bothering to sustain myself as we slowed to a stop - the people in the car simply leaned and straightened as one. To enter one of these crowded cars, it is necessary and socially acceptable to just shove, shoulders first, until a pocket of space appears. I am not above throwing an elbow when late. These smelly subway rides have shown me the best and worst of Buenos Aires. In certain moods, I have sworn under my breath, shocked by the inhumanity this inefficient system encourages. Other times, I've laughed with the people in my corner of the car, shrugging as we uncomfortably settle shoulders into chests, elbows into hips, like sweaty, mismatched puzzle pieces. None of us wants to be in this position, but there's nothing much we can do about it.

Colectivos (buses) are their own brand of crazy. Although they usually - usually - don't get as crowded as the subway, it is still often necessary to stand. This means sustaining yourself as the bus driver whips around corners, speeds quickly, and stops suddenly. It is a skill I have not yet mastered. Porteños calmly send text messages and talk to their friends, while I plant two feet squarely on the floor, bend my knees carefully, and brace myself for the twenty minutes of tripping and sliding that I must endure until someone takes pity on me and gives up their seat. Once you've learned to master the bus ride, there is still the matter of the bus system itself. Colectivos in Buenos Aires have no schedule. It is common to wait half an hour for a bus, only to see two or three arrive at the same time. The Guia T, a handy little guide, known as The Bible to recent arrivals in the city, details the web of bus routes that snake their way through almost every block of the city. When I first arrived, the buses confused me so much I often walked long distances just to avoid them. Now, despite the imperfections of Buenos Aires' colectivos, I can't believe I lived in this city without them.

Choosing your own two feet over public transport comes with its own set of challenges. First, there is the mierda. The dog shit is everywhere. Buenos Aires residents refuse to accept the fact that they live in a huge city, devoid of grass and open space, and insist on owning large, overly-energetic dogs that they hire people to walk fifteen at a time. Given the packed sidewalks in this city, it is a rare pile of mierda that gets left on its own. Instead, any given pile is usually followed by a half-block long smear, meaning that, just when you think you've avoided disaster, the worst often strikes.

Then there is the garbage. The 2001 economic crash left half of Argentina's population below the poverty line, with a 25% unemployment rate. Thus developed the cartoneros, a group of people who, deprived of conventional work, stayed alive by searching for recyclables in other peoples trash and exchanging them for money. After the crisis, the cartoneros became something like a profession, if not respected at least sadly accepted. Many still do this job, usually coming into Buenos Aires from poorer, surrounding areas, often on horseback. It originally made me nervous to see sizable groups of people sitting in dark corners, rifling through trash in the middle of the night. But all the cartoneros I've encountered have seemed to be hardworking people who just don't have any other options. They usually bring their kids with them, and often seem to be doing the best they can to laugh and enjoy what they're doing. Far from making me feel unsafe, I often feel that their presence on a street protects me from other dangers. I've never even gotten a piropo from a cartonero. Despite this, cartoneros do not much care about the state in which they leave the streets, and their garbage adds another element to the obstacle course of Buenos Aires' sidewalks.

This mass of subway stops, colectivos and pedestrians usually strikes a delicate balance, one that an experienced person can navigate without trouble. But if something upsets that balance, well... it might be better to leave the house in a few hours. Minor car accidents, subway break downs and strikes - all common - send entire neighborhoods into chaos as the number of bus passengers suddenly doubles and every car in the city seems to descend on the same intersection. Other times, it is strange, little things that get you. Once, I stepped on a loose sidewalk tile and was met with a surprisingly strong vertical squirt that left my bottom half covered in muddy water for the rest of the day.

Between the crowds, the mess, and the hurried urban atmosphere, the streets of Buenos Aires can be a stressful place. After four months of power walking down the street, dodging dogwalkers, businessmen, and oncoming buses, I can't say that I've learned to love the chaos. Often, I feel tired, and I just wish there were a quicker way to do daily tasks like grocery shopping and going to class.

But I have learned to find my own peace among it all. I frequent a magical park with swans, jugglers, a seniors pilates class, and, unlike most parks in this city, real escape from the noise of cars. On every corner, there is a quiet café with a waitress who doesn't care how long you stay. And even in the most packed subway car, there are people to laugh with about the madness that is simply impossible to avoid.

Piropos

2008-11-19T21:42:00.004-02:00

"Hola linda." "Ay, muy bien." "Mmm vení acá." Phrases like these, often accompanied by a spit-filled kissing noise, have become part of the soundtrack of my daily life. The piropo - a compliment given by a man to a woman on the street - is an Argentinian institution (although certainly not unique to this country). When I first arrived, the female staff of my program as well as my host mom immediately warned me about piropos, having seen the reactions of countless fearful American females. Don't be afraid, they urged me. Piropos are part of our culture. Take them as a genuine compliment, don't show any reaction, and you will be fine.

In my first months here, I followed their advice with vigilance. Sometimes, the piropos were sweet. After selling me my subway ticket, a middle-aged man told me, "you are very beautiful," and then continued his work without hope or expectation. Another man stepped off the sidewalk, took off his hat and bowed as I passed, saying in English, "welcome to my country beautiful lady." Other times, the piropos contained more stomach-turning lipsmacking and rapacious eye searches than old-fashioned gallantry. But in these cases, I avoided eye contact, kept walking, and shrugged to myself: just a part of being in Argentina.

In October, my opinion changed. I was up north in Jujuy, wandering through a mountainside village with a female friend, when a car full of men slowed down for the stop sign next to us. I unconsciously braced myself for what was coming, directing my gaze far ahead, tightening my muscles, checking that my shirt hadn't slipped down and that my shorts hadn't slipped up. The man in the driver's seat turned to us purposefully while his friends watched. "Buenos días," he said.

Until that interaction, I didn't realize how accustomed I had become to my new relationship with unknown males. I no longer considered the possibility of a pleasant interaction on equal terms. And all the while, I realized, this was the civil way Argentinian men treated one another, while all I could do was try to disappear in their presence. I'm not sure if the exchange in Jujuy was the result of different social mores in that region or just a particularly nice man. Either way, I now view piropos with indignance. Many girls I know like them, but I long for the day when I can walk down the street and play an active role in my interactions. I want to dress comfortably for the sweltering summer weather, and not feel uncomfortable as a result. I want to be able to smile at strangers. I still do as I was told when I arrived - I do not fear piropos, and I ignore them with success. Sometimes, if I'm in the right mood, an artful piropo still brightens my day. But piropos represent Argentinian machismo at its finest. Anyone who denies this is simply not paying attention. Some days, I prefer the United States, where we keep our sexism to ourselves.

In Which I Consort with World Leaders

2008-11-15T11:29:00.003-02:00

My service learning professor helped plan a presidential service learning award, and somehow managed to snag invitations for our class. This meant we got to enter the Casa Rosada through a gate that I've never seen open before, watch the Kristina Kirchner, the president of Argentina hand out the awards, and then take a picture and "saludar," i.e. kiss her on the cheek.

When she figured out we were a large group of Americans, she immediately asked us who we had voted for. When we answered Obama, she pumped her fists and chanted, "Obama, Obama!" It was funny to see a head of state share the same giddiness over the American elections as the vast majority of her citizenry.

Sí, se puede.

2008-11-06T10:30:00.003-02:00

I spent election night at a Democrats Abroad party. There, along with over 300 other Americans, I crammed myself into an air-conditioning-free bar on a 90+ degree night, to watch CNN in English and cheer stupidly for every statistic that appeared on the screen. It was a great night.

(The W in the photo is for Wesleyan, as I ended up hanging out with almost all the Wesleyan kids on my program that night).

Most Argentinians have followed the elections almost as closely as us, and are far more fervent Obama supporters than many people I know in the United States. At the Madres de Plaza de Mayo office today, three madres began running around excitedly when I came in (no small feat for 80something year-old women), kissing and hugging me as though I were personally responsible for Obama's win.

I also had a really interesting conversation with my host mom the day before the election. She also supports Obama and said she was worried that something would go wrong to prevent him from winning. Bush, she thinks, is an "immoral type" who would do anything to keep his party in power. Even though Obama had a clear lead at that point, it was difficult for her to conceive of a peaceful, minimally fraudulent power transition. I, on the other hand, despite believing in some degree of regular voter fraud, had never once considered the possibility that the rightful winner would somehow fail to gain power. It is a luxury to live in a country like America. For all of our many problems, we have a very good track record of switching parties peacefully and often. I don't think this is an innately American skill, as historical factors make this far more difficult to do in Argentina. Still, that conversation showed me, yet again, the degree to which national history affects the way individuals view the present.

Por favor, ¿no tenés una moneda?

2008-10-30T19:01:00.009-02:00

In Buenos Aires, one peso is worth so much more. The city is in the midst of a massive coin shortage. Although I don't know the source of this problem, I do know the result: a daily, desperate search for monedas (as coins are called here). Buses - by far the best way to travel - do not accept bills, making coins a necessity for most Buenos Aires residents. Cashiers angrily beg their customers for correct change or even lower the price to avoid losing monedas. A few weeks ago, everyone rode the subway for free, because the company simply couldn't make change. Stores hang signs in their windows: "Tampoco tenemos monedas." We don't have coins either.

As a new arrival searching for bus fare, I would innocently walk into kioskos (Argentinian convenience stores) and hand over a 2 peso bill, expecting a shiny one peso coin and a smile along with my purchase. Instead, I received angry looks, headshakes, and sometimes a curt "no." The kioskeros didn't want my business if it was only a trick to make them part with their monedas.

I soon learned to be slier. Simple transactions now involve mental warfare. Assessing the cashier, I must decide which tact to take: will I smile and play dumb, confront his frown with an equally unmovable glare, or just lie about the contents of my purse when he pleads, "una moneda, ¿puede ser?"

For one glorious month, this all changed. One unspeakably kind cashier gave me five one-peso coins. Secure in my supply, I started to spend my monedas a bit more freely, and through this experience developed a theory of moneda karma. For every time I cut a weary cashier some slack, and forked over exact change, I was rewarded not only with a pleasant human interaction, but also, at some point, with a cashier who would be equally kind to me. For several weeks, I had a steady moneda supply, which I made last by walking and taking the subway whenever possible. At a street fair, I bought a one peso churro with a one-peso coin, and the vendor's eyes lit up with gratitude. I was living the good life.

I spent the last of my monedas yesterday, and now I'm just like everyone else, lying to strangers and chasing fallen five cent coins into gutters. I don't know where this problem came from, and I have no solution. But I do know that paying in exact change, once a convenience, now means defeat.

Uruguay

2008-10-29T10:03:00.005-02:00

I spent last weekend in two Uruguayan cities, Colonia and Montevideo. Colonia is only an hour from Buenos Aires, just across the Río de la Plata. As it's name would suggest, most people go there to see the 15th century Portuguese colonial architecture. In general, the town is absurdly charming: roughly cobblestoned streets, short colorful houses, and, as promised, beautiful colonial buildings. Despite the extremely touristy environment (and the corresponding price hike), I couldn't help but fall in love. We spent most of the morning in the town center, wandering down narrow streets and resting periodically on the small beaches that bordered it all. In the late afternoon, we rented bikes and rode down the rambla (beach front path) for a mile or two. We eventually got to a larger beach, where we drank beer and watched the sunset. I learned almost nothing about history or culture in my time in Colonia - a plaque told me that the Spanish and Portuguese spent a lot of time fighting over this settlement - but it was a beautiful, charming, and overall absurdly pleasant place to spend a day.

The next day, we took a bus to Montevideo. A lot of people I've talked to, especially proud porteños, don't like Montevideo, and I can see why. We arrived on a chilly, overcast Saturday, and the city center seemed deserted. All the touristy things our guide book had recommended were closed, and I was the only person on most of the streets I walked down. Nonetheless, after a day of wandering by myself, I really began to like the city. Montevideo is not tourist-friendly, but beneath the almost morbidly tranquil surface, there was actually a lot happening. Almost every block had a bookstore or music store, usually advertising itself as a place to find local books and music (after browsing my third bookstore, I succumbed to the inevitable and left the city with three new books). While wandering, I also came across a children's chess tournament, a plaza full of people drinking mate, and a milonga (tango dance club) on the street. The milonga was probably the best part. Almost everyone there appeared to be over the age of 70, and this weekly dance was clearly a big thing for them. They had come with their own chairs to sit on, and cheered on their friends as they took breaks from dancing. A lot of the people there didn't dance that well, but I loved the fact that they wore casual clothes and had fun with it. After taking a tango class for the past three months, and worrying about things like correct form and rhythm, it was refreshing to see people make mistakes, laugh, and keep going. I saw lots of families, with grandmothers dragging their grandsons out to dance, and a few couples that, despite their age, danced incredibly, and had clearly been doing so for decades.

The next day, I went to the local market with my friends. Unlike the markets in Buenos Aires, which are fun but filled with clothes, jewelry, and other touristy knick-knacks, this one catered to actual Montevideo residents. The vendors sold strange things, like pet rats, broken televisions, and discount underwear. I didn't want anything, but the people watching was great, and I felt like I was seeing the real city, something that is usually harder to do with only two days in a place. We also wandered around Palermo, the historically black neighborhood and the home of the Candombe, an awesome Afro-Uruguayan dance. The houses were short and colorful, and it had a really different style than the rest of the city. We ate lunch at a restaurant there, and the waiter was so nice to us. In general, Montevideo seemed like a very pleasant, liveable city. Less in-your-face about its culture than Buenos Aires, but no less interesting for that.

From what I could gather, Uruguay as a country is poorer and more rural than Argentina. In our two and a half hour drive from Colonia to Montevideo, we saw nothing but green, with real live gauchos (South American cowboys) wearing their traditional clothes and riding horses down the side of the road. Unlike in much of Argentina, these men had not dressed like this to woo gullible Americans to their estancia (farm) turned tourist trap. People actually still live this way in Uruguay. Of course, there are still gauchos in Argentina and there are still tourist traps in Uruguay, but the difference in overall atmosphere was striking.

My travel-mates were another great aspect of the weekend. The group consisted of two Italians, two Spaniards, a Japanese girl and two Americans, mostly friends from my Spanish class, plus a couple of their friends. Since Spanish was our only common language, and since I had no computer access, I spoke and thought in Spanish the entire weekend. Regardless of their nationality, the people were generally awesome, and we all got along well. Uruguay was not Argentina, and for that reason, many Argentinians dislike it. But to me, it was an interesting country in its own right, and I feel lucky to have seen a small part of it.

Further Information

2008-10-29T10:01:00.002-02:00

For anyone interested in reading more about Argentina, from a great writer who puts my blogging to shame, I highly recommend this website: http://www.idlewords.com/argentina.htm. The article about eating in Buenos Aires rings particularly true.

Thanks for the tip, Brett.

These are a few of my favorite things

2008-10-27T01:48:00.009-02:00

Jujuy and Argentinian History

2008-10-23T11:00:00.000-02:00

One of the FLACSO staff members suggested that I interview our guide about human rights in the province of Jujuy as part of my work with Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo. As some of you have figured out, we made a facebook page for Las Madres, so he thought it would be a good idea to post the interview there. I was somewhat hesitant about the idea, since our guide is an archaeologist, and neither of us had any idea about his human rights knowledge. Nonetheless, the interview ended up being one of the coolest parts of the trip.

First, I learned about the dictatorship in Jujuy. He said the general perception in Argentina has always been that most of the disappearances occurred in Buenos Aires, but more and more information has come out in recent years about massive disappearances and other human rights violations throughout the country. Similarly, there are also formidable, if less internationally famous, human rights groups in the interior of the country. Many of these groups formed before the dictatorship to deal with systematic mistreatment of the mostly indigenous workers in this part of the country, and took up the cause of the disappeared people when it arose (two intimately related problems, as I will explain below). This is different than the Buenos Aires-based human rights groups, which universally formed in the middle of the dictatorship, when syndicates, political parties, and other traditional advocates of the oppressed were being silent. Both versions are pretty damn impressive, but I find the differences interesting and telling of the politics in the different parts of the country. In Buenos Aires, the levels of oppression that workers, poor people and their supporters experienced during the dictatorship was new. Under Perón, they'd been the most important political group, and they'd benefited hugely from his policies. They actually had a lot of power to negotiate, and their standards of living had risen hugely when he was in power. Although this had changed from 1955 on, lots of the social programs he'd put in place were still there. I'm not saying the working class in Buenos Aires had it easy, but compared to the workers of Jujuy, they were powerful. In contrast, people in the poorer northwest of Argentina have dealt with flagrant human rights violations for all of Argentinian history, starting in 1880 when the Argentinian army went off on a mission to kill as many indigenous people as they could. The ones that survived, as large communities in the northwest did, had pre-established human rights groups before the dictatorship because they had more human rights problems.

The most infamous incident regarding the dictatorship in Jujuy regards Ledesma, a sugar and paper-producing company in the region. At the time of the dictatorship, its workers lived in absurdly bad conditions. They had to live in the company town and receive credit rather than money, forced to buy whatever they needed from the company store, running up huge debts and finding themselves forever bound to the company. On top of that Ledesma has polluted the surrounding environment, making many of its workers sick. During the dictatorship, workers began to fight back. Many of them denounced company practices and tried to hold it legally accountable for the deaths it had caused. A docter, Luis Aredez, also famously denounced the company after treating many of its sick workers. The dictatorship and Ledesma teamed up to get rid of their shared problem on one night, now called la Noche del Apagón (Blackout Night). Ledesma turned off the electricity, while representatives of the dictatorship stormed the town and kidnapped hundreds of workers (somewhere between 200 and 400, depending on who you ask). A lot of them eventually survived, but many are still disappeared, and the mothers and family members of those affected still hold a march every year.

The guide also told me about his personal human rights work. There's a building in the Buenos Aires Province that was an important detention center - a place where the army would bring people to torture and kill them during the dictatorship. Toward the end of its regime, the government knocked down the building to hide the evidence, so our guide (an archaeologist) went in with a team of archaeologists and architects to reconstruct the building plans and show how it had been used. Through their work, they eventually got the site declared untouchable. Now, nothing can be built on top of it, so that the government's plans of covering up the evidence won't succeed. I found it really inspiring to listen to him talk about using his seemingly unrelated occupational skills to accomplish something so important. In general, he was an extremely passionate, well-spoken, intelligent man. I was so happy that I got to talk to him about things we never would have discussed otherwise.

One of the major things that never fails to amaze me about Argentinian history - and something that the interview highlighted - is the power of class divisions. The political environment of Wesleyan has made me automatically skeptical of simplistic historical interpretations that pit the rich vs. poor, capitalists vs. workers, landholders vs. peasants, oppression vs. freedom, in neat alignments. Of course, things have not been so simple in Argentina either. Nonetheless, the degree to which the rich - whether they be landholders, industrialists, or army generals - have aligned against all forms of poverty and freedom of expression in violently oppressive, dictatorial governments is astounding. The most recent dictatorship is the most extreme example, but only one of many such regimes. The alliance of Ledesma and the dictatorship is a perfect example of this dynamic. It's important to add that even the most worker-friendly government - Peron's first term - was pretty censorship happy. Nonetheless, the rich have been uniformly more authoritarian and repressive throughout Argentina's history.

Ironically, despite the terrible things the Argentinian government has done, in particular to its poor and liberal people, it is these very people who still consider the government the answer to their problems. It is these people who block the streets and cancel school on a weekly basis, protesting for more government spending in health, education, social security, unemployment, etc, etc. This, also, is a simplification of the issue, as Argentina has an incredible amount of NGOs and ridiculously dedicated volunteers (something I plan to write about in another post), but people nonetheless seem to expect a lot of their government, even though it has disappointed them repeatedly. I'm not sure what they should be doing instead, but it seems like there has to be a better way.

I have no conclusions yet, but these are some things I've been thinking about a lot lately.

Travels, Part 3

2008-10-18T10:29:00.009-03:00

Last weekend, I went on the second FLACSO-sponsored trip, this time to Jujuy, a province in far northern Argentina, right on the border with Bolivia. The geography up there is almost identical to Southwestern America, with cacti, plateaus and colorful, snow-free mountains. I loved being out of the city and in a quiet environment, where mornings were actually peaceful and the stars actually came out at night. Our hotel was in a beautiful location, basically a ten minute walk from the village of Tilcara, in front of a mountain and in between two farms. There were no planned activities our first night, so some friends and I took a walk into the village and easily found the main plaza, which has a craft fair, and then a smaller plaza near it. There was a church by the smaller plaza, with a visiting choir, so we went in and watched the Tilcara choir and then a few songs from the visiting one. It was actually a great show. The set-up was really laid back; the Tilcara group had no uniforms, were of all different ages, and seemed to be having a genuinely good time. They had a guitar accompanying them and sang local music, which was more folksy than religious.

On our second day, we went to the Pucará de Tilcara, which is an ancient Incan settlement. One of our guides for the trip was an archaeologist working there, so he showed us various parts of the Pucará and told us about how ancient Incan civilization had functioned. It was interesting, but I was more excited about the beautiful landscape around us, and more interested in learning about the indigenous cultures that occupy the area now.

After that, we went to Humahuaca, another village in the area. The village was very charming, and clearly re-designed to elicit that reaction in tourists. The dynamic of the visit made me very uncomfortable. Basically, our tour buses dropped us off next to the craft fair, left us with directions about how to shop, and then came back an hour later. They sold beautiful things, and I did shop, but I think that demonstrates the problem. The situation left both parties (the sellers and the buyers) with no choice about who they could be in the situation. Suddenly, we were all terrible, disgusting people. The women selling stuff shamelessly attempted to guilt us into buying things, one even shouting obscenities at my friend who changed his mind. For our part, we were superficial blond tourists, interested only in bringing home cheap souvenirs and getting a picture of the idyllic village. We saw nothing beyond the five blocks of stalls, and didn't talk to a single local outside the context of buying and selling. I'm actually disappointed in FLACSO for showing us the area in this way, as this was supposed to be our 'educational trip' and we learned almost nothing about the current situation of the places we visited. Things that stuck out though were the terrible state of nearly everyone's teeth, apparently an effect of chewing coca leaves, and one woman who barely spoke Spanish, because, it seemed, she had only learned Quechua.

The third day was by far my favorite. We started out the morning with a drive to Las Salinas Grandes, huge plateaus which are used to mine salt. The drive was beautiful; we gradually rised in elevation until we were above all the villages and most of the plants. We got out of the bus at the highest point, considered a very important place by the local people. There was a structure built there, essentially a pile of rocks, whose name I cannot remember for the life of me. Apparently, everyone is supposed to stop there and offer coca leaves, cigarettes, or alcohol to have good luck on the rest of your journey, something that truckers and other passersby still do. The staff had bought coca leaves to help us with the altitude sickness, so we each dropped a few into the pile. I recognize that this was just as much a superficial essentialization of indigenous culture as our time in the villages, but I enjoyed it a lot more. At least we were learning something about local traditions. Also, as someone who has always loved mountains, it made a lot of sense to me that they considered this place special. I think there is something really spiritual about being very, very high up, and I don't think you need to speak Quechua to understand that.

After this quick stop, we went to Las Salinas Grandes, which were ridiculously cool. It was just the strangest, most unique environment I've ever seen. Basically, about 10,000 years ago, this flat, mountain top area used to be a sea. The sea has since dried up, but the salt remains. We learned a bit about the natural environment of the place, the way the salt is harvested, and the lives of the workers who do it. Apparently, this is one of the last few salt flats where the workers do most of the work by hand, riding their bikes in from surrounding villages each day. They have been fighting to keep their labor-intensive form of mining relevant and to not be replaced by machines as they have been in most other places. Although I enjoyed the talk, I spent most of my time just taking pictures and staring. The ground looks smooth in the pictures, but it actually consisted of salt granules. You could pick up chunks and lick them (which, of course, we all had to do).

After Las Salinas, we went to our last village turned craft-market, Purmamarca. I actually enjoyed our time in this village a whole lot more, mostly because I spent about ten minutes shopping and spent the rest of the time on a hike with our other guide who lives in Purmamarca. First, she took us to another rock pile, with a different name that I have also forgotten. This structure existed as part of the village's carnival celebration, which she told us all about. Basically, it's a giant party, but one that involves masks, costumes, specific dances, and lots of other interesting rituals. We then went on a short hike to see El Cerro de los Siete Colores (The Seven-Colored Hill). I'm not sure if I counted a full seven colors, but the area was so beautiful, and I loved just being out and walking among the hills.

All in all, it was a great weekend, and I was honestly not ready to go back to Buenos Aires at the end of it. Luckily, I'll have lots of time to travel at the end of the semester. There's so much to see in this country, and I there's no way I'll be able to get to all of it. I guess that's the way it should be though.

Travels, Part 2

2008-10-13T09:35:00.006-03:00

The weekend after Tigre, I went to Córdoba, the capital city of the province with the same name. The second biggest city in Argentina, Córdoba has lots of well-preserved colonial architecture, as well as seven universities, making it historically interesting and currently vibrant. Although the city itself is huge, it is walkable and possible to see in a day with enough energy. Since there are lots of interesting towns near the city, we, like many people, spent a day in Córdoba, and spent the rest of our time doing day trips.

We spent the first day in the city itself, giving ourselves a tour first of the main plaza, which featured the original cabildo (local seat of Spanish government, see picture below) and a church built in the same era (see above). More than anything, I was interested in the exhibit outside, a tribute to people disappeared from Córdoba during the military dictatorship of the 70s. The exhibit featured clotheslines strung across the narrow street in between the cabildo and a church (not the one pictured above) with pictures of the disappeared people hanging on them. Most interesting was the graffiti written on the side of the church, calling the institution out on its complicity in these disappearances and accusing it of similar offenses today.

After that, we went to several small but interesting museums. First, the historical museum, built in the 18th century mansion occupied by Rafael Nuñez, former governor of Córdoba and then Viceroyal of the Río de la Plata. Although the exhibits went into slightly too much detail about the way Nuñez and his family had lived, it was a beautiful old house with a great courtyard in the middle and featured such ridiculous things as a private chapel and a music room. It was one of those old houses that looks reasonably sized from the outside, but has endless winding passages that lead to rooms previously invisible. Being the history nerd that I am, I'm always interested in seeing things like reconstructed bedrooms and servants quarters, so I very much enjoyed myself. We also went to the museum of fine arts, which was very small and in an interesting, old house. I had mixed feelings about the artwork itself, which ranged in time periods. Some was beautiful, but a decent amount was very so-so. Nonetheless, we all agreed that the museum itself was well-organized, aesthetically pleasing, and an all-around pleasant place in which to spend time.

At the end of the day, we met up with Silvia, my host mom's cousin who lives in Córdoba. She teaches at a university right on the Manzana Jesuítica (Jesuit Block), a world heritage site featuring a church, university and high school, all built in the 17th and 18th centuries. We met Silvia, as well as two of her students and a fellow teache at a café on the corner. They were all incredibly nice and seemed genuinely excited to take time out of their days to show us their city. Unfortunately, we had shown up almost an hour late, due to confusion with directions, so they didn't have much time. We walked into the courtyard of the high school, where they told us a bit about the history of the area, and then essentially guilted us into taking the official tour by forcing us to decide in front of the guide. We had arrived at 7 that morning after an overnight bus ride, so we were all tired and not much in the mood. Nonetheless, we all agreed later, the tour ended up being the best part of the day. We learned first about the history of the church. The tour guide focused on the way the architecture reflected the different attitudes the Jesuits held towards blacks and indigenous people. While they considered the former sub-humans who they could use for slavery without issue, they gave the indigenous people slightly more credit, considering them worthy of skilled crafts and conversion to Christianity. The church featured an entire half devoted to indigenous Christianity, and was in large part constructed by this group. After that, we moved into the school portion of the block (all three buildings were connected), where we saw beautiful old bibles and other books. We also saw an old classroom that had been used for thesis presentations, and learned about the incredibly high pressure manner in which students received (or attempted to receive) their doctorates. Basically, the student would sit on a high podium in the middle of the room. On one side sat all of his friends and family, and on the other side all those in the city who had already received their doctorates. The latter group questioned him while former group sat and watched. Only the student's tutor sat in his area of the room, the one form of symbolic support allowed him. If the student passed, he would parade through the city with all the other academics. If not, he would find out immediately in front of all his friends and family. I found it really interesting to learn about the central role education has always played in Córdoba. It's still considered Argentina's university center, and it has also been the center of several important student movements, including the one that won free and open education in Argentina. My experiences at UBA have made me very interested in the different ways of viewing and enacting education, and this historical quirk added another piece to the puzzle.

We had chosen Córdoba for that particular weekend because Villa General Belgrano, a small, nearby town up in the sierras was celebrating it's very own Oktoberfest, the third biggest in the world. On our second day, we took the bus to what felt like an alpine village in Germany. Though the town really does have a high German population, these features were surely exaggerated for the benefit of tourists. Nonetheless, the town was charming, the surroundings were beautiful, and the beer was good. It was basically an all-day party, featuring a parade of people in traditional German, Italian and Swiss costumes, as well as, more confusingly, Greek, Nordic, Arabic and Japanese ones. We ate pretzels and did folk dances of questionable origin and just enjoyed the lovely spring day. Please note the two men with pointy hats in the background of this picture.

I spent my last day Córdoba alone, overwhelmed by homework and not interested in the horseback riding trip my friends were taking. I went to Alta Gracia, a small town about an hour outside of Córdoba to see the Jesuit estancia (farm) there, another colonial world heritage site. The building and adjacent church were beautiful and interesting, although not very different from what I had seen the first day in Córdoba. I learned a bit about life on the estancia and the activity of the Jesuits throughout Argentina, and then began my trek to the bus station. I think I enjoyed this part more than anything that day, because I saw a large chunk of Alta Gracia. Although it wasn't a particularly interesting town, I realized that I get a thrill just from traveling itself, seeing people and things I've never seen before. As I walked past rows of houses, some dilapidated on dirt roads and others fairly large and new-looking, I thought of all the people in the world, and imagined a life in this little town on a hill top in the province of Córdoba in Argentina. It's amazing how many people there are in the world, and how many different ways they live their lives. To me, traveling isn't necessarily about seeing the most beautiful or interesting of these, although as a tourist, it's hard to get out of that circuit. It's just about going into the world and seeing what I find. To me, this is maybe the most exciting way I can spend my time, as well as the best way to really learn about the world around me.

Travels, Part 1

2008-10-06T23:02:00.002-03:00

Two weekends ago, FLACSO, my study abroad program, took us on a trip to Tigre. Tigre is the biggest town in a river delta area about an hour outside the city. We stayed on a resort on a small island about an hour away by boat from Tigre. FLACSO takes us on two trips - one educational and one recreational - and this one was very much the latter. We got off the train to one of the first warm, sunny days of spring and almost immediately got on our guided boat trip to the island. The guide talked to us about life on the delta islands, which consists of taking boats to school and to the supermarket, and of being vulnerable to the hot, humid summers and cold, wet winters. Soon, we arrived at the hotel and spent the day relaxing. There was a "nature trek" which consisted literally of a twenty minute stroll in the woods (a pleasant stroll in pretty woods, but still). Besides that, I spent the day sitting in lawn chairs in front of the river, talking to friends, reading, and eating the copious amounts of food FLACSO provided for us. At night, there was karaoke, made more lively by the beer and wine FLACSO also provided, and after that a campfire, complete with sing-a-long songs and a guitar (dad, you would have loved it).

More than anything, it was lovely to get out of the city for a night. Buenos Aires is great because it's the cultural and political center of Argentina; I will never run out of things to do. At the same time, it was wonderful to hear the quiet, to walk on grass, and to be surrounded by water instead of clogged streets. I can't say I saw a different side of Argentina, since all I really saw was the hotel. Nonetheless, it was a great place to spend the weekend, and I had a lot of fun.

The Part Where It Gets Awesome

2008-09-25T18:01:00.007-03:00

Over the past few weeks, my Spanish has improved an unbelievable amount. I understand nearly everything that people say to me, and I can speak with confidence in an uninterrupted flow. Before, if someone spoke to me without warning, I always needed to ask them to repeat themselves. I simply couldn't switch my brain to Spanish mode without concentration. Now, I absorb bits of conversation I hear in the subway, on the street, and everywhere else I go without thinking about it. I should qualify that there are still certain days and certain conversations where something just doesn't click. My friend who has been here for almost a year says he still feels that way sometimes. But now that I can effectively communicate without too much effort, I'm focusing on improving my accent. My mouth has lagged behind my brain, refusing to move in the way I want it to. My jaw and tongue muscles are often sore at the end of the day, and I get irrationally jealous of two-year-olds who can roll their 'r's.

With my newfound ability to communicate, the city seems like such a friendlier place. I have finally figured out the very complicated bus system and have also generally gotten my bearings. This means that previously disastrous events, like a missed bus stop or a wrong turn, are just parts of my daily routine. Between strikes, traffic jams, subway break downs, and clogged sidewalks there always seems to be something impeding me from getting where I need to go. But now I know alternate routes to all the places I go on a regular basis. I've also learned to accept the rhythms of the city and go with them. It helps to know that if I show up late anywhere, for any reason, all I have to do is roll my eyes and say "D line again."

This new level of comfort has coincided with the realization that my time here is passing far too quickly. Ever since I realized that the two month marker was on it's way, I have been making a concerted effort to see and do as much as I can every single day. Before, when my Spanish was worse, classes were a huge challenge that took up a lot of my time. Now that I can do homework without too much effort, I've realized that my classes here are really easy, at least compared to the ones at Wesleyan. This is in large part because they're designed for students who also work full time jobs. But because this does not apply to me, I have a lot of free time, which I've been using to explore. I'm also beginning to travel around the country, which is something I'll definitely write about soon.

When I first arrived, I thought my goal was to live life like a porteño and to make my time here feel like 'real life,' but from a different perspective. But I realize now that the best way to get to know a place, even when one has almost half a year there, is to take advantage of it in a way that locals typically don't. I've been doing this in small ways, like taking different walking routes, and in larger ways, like spending an afternoon exploring a neighborhood I don't know well. Through these efforts, I've actually observed a lot more about daily life and patterns here than I did before, sitting in my room doing homework. I will always be a foreigner here. That would be the case if I stayed here for ten years. But embracing my outsider perspective has been the best inroad into the city that I've found yet.

Las Madres, Part 2

2008-09-25T18:01:00.004-03:00

Last Thursday was an important day at Las Madres' office, the two year anniversary of the disappearance of Jorge Julio Lopez. Lopez was disappeared during the military regime back in the seventies but survived. Two years ago, just before Lopez was scheduled to testify as a key witness against an important military leader, he disappeared again. Argentina, for all its problems, is a relatively stable democracy now, so the fact that this happened only two years ago, under the same leadership, is really scary. It also highlights the relevance of Las Madres' refrain: "Nunca Más" (Never Again). Las Madres' main activities today involve memory and searching for the truth about what happened in the past. But this event shows how easy it would be to slip back into the situation of thirty years ago.

Incidentally, this possibility has been raised in political conversations at my house several times lately. Both Elvira and her daughter Kata worry that the looming financial crash - which, they believe, would hit Argentina and the rest of South America harder than the United States - will swing the currently left leaning continent back over to the right, as has happened in the past. The Economist also made a similar prediction, although they were far less gloomy about it, staunch capitalists that they are.

Getting back to Thursday, Carmen told us to leave the office for awhile to go watch the march, which would be in honor of Lopez that day and would accompany other special activities at la Plaza de Mayo. The dynamic of the march was really interesting. First of all, on first sight, it looked like nothing more than a tourist attraction, as there were probably more representatives of the latter group than the former. The madres marched slowly to allow all the tourists to kneel in front of them and get good pictures (I did this too, so I can't criticize). I think if I hadn't gotten to know the madres before coming, I would have considered the whole event a sad spectacle. But now that I've gotten to know the organization better, I see that this is a great situation for them. Now that they are getting older, they want to spread their message to as many people as possible. Although these marches spread only a shallow awareness to those who don't already know Las Madres' story, they're still a great way to keep their image alive and spread it to whatever countries these people came from. And for every crowd of people who snap a few pictures and leave, there has to be someone who looks them up, tells a friend about the experience, etc. Thursday was an especially great day for people to come watch, because the Lopez story (as far as I know) didn't make international news. But the madres all marched carrying signs with Lopez' picture on them that read "Aparición con vida, ya!" (Appearance with life, now! It makes more sense in Spanish). At the end of their march, one of them read something describing what had happened to Lopez and what Las Madres and other human rights groups are currently demanding.

The other interesting part of the march was the presence of the other line, Asociación Madres de Plaza de Mayo. I don't understand the original reasons for the division, but now the other line represents a much more radical wing of Las Madres. Given how warm and welcoming Las Madres have been to me, I was surprised to see such open hostility between the two groups. But then again, it shouldn't be too shocking that people with the gumption to fight a murderous dictatorship get angry and show it. Both branches of Las Madres marched in the same circle around the plaza, but in obviously distinct groups. While Línea Fundadora held up the Lopez signs, the other branch marched in support of Evo Morales and workers rights, carrying rainbow flags that symbolize indigenous people and other flags with pictures of Morales' face. While the madres from Línea Fundadora were still marching, the other group stopped to read from their own literature, chanting so loudly they drowned out Línea Fundadora's chants. They also left them with little space in which to march, forcing them to walk in a single file line for part of the time. When Línea Fundadora stopped to do their own reading and chanting, the other group was already done, but otherwise the same thing would have likely happened.

After watching the march, we went back to the office, where another group of American students from a different exchange program was visiting, and we watched Las Madres' presentation with them. Because a whole group of madres spoke, I got to hear different perspectives and stories from Carmen's for the first time, all of which were very interesting. The most upsetting part was the story of two different madres, both of whose kids were disappeared as punishment for their involvement in Catholic charity groups that gave food and medical care to children in the poorest parts of Argentina. While working on a different project today, I learned of a 6-month-old girl who was disappeared along with her mother. I also read about an entire family that was disappeared, all of whom, including the 8 and 10-year-old kids, listed as "subversive persons" in police files. It's stories like this that make me see the complete insanity of this regime (and the many others like it that have existed and continue to exist). It ostensibly carried out these acts to fight communism, which has never even been popular in Argentina, but stories like this invalidate any attempts at justification or even reasoning.

I haven't come to any conclusions yet, but working with las madres, as well as being in Argentina in general, has made me reconsider a lot of beliefs I previously held without thinking much about them (exactly the point of studying abroad, I guess). Specifically, I've been thinking a lot about what role governments should play in the world, what role they have historically played and about historical memory. Nothing concrete yet, but I'm sure I'll have thoughts to report in the weeks and months to come.

Politics and the Media

2008-09-21T23:13:00.003-03:00

The biggest news here this past week has been the ejection of the American ambassadors from Bolivia and Venezuela, as well as the situation in Bolivia generally. In contrast, the New York Times (the only American media I get here regularly) dedicated little attention to the issue. On the one hand, the financial news in America is big and important, so I can understand decisions to displace other items for it. At the same time, the American media's coverage makes it really easy to miss some very important things that are happening down here. In large part, this rises from a simple lack of interest in a part of the world that still does not seriously threaten American interests. I also think it's difficult for the American media to make sense of these events in a way that doesn't completely clash with our self-image of America as defender or at leas supporter of democracy. The historical memory and cultural context through which South Americans view this event is completely different from the American perspective.

First, a bit of context: The current unrest in Bolivia centers around Moraeles' efforts to nationalize its natural gas industry. Most of the gas is in the richer, whiter, eastern part of the country, while the mostly indigenous west remains poor. This week, groups from these eastern provinces began to rebel violently against Morales' efforts. Morales accused America of supporting these groups and ejected the American ambassador.

It's easy to write off such accusations as crazy and to dismiss the ejection as a populist and largely symbolic move. But in South America, most adults have lived through at least one violent, repressive military dictatorship aided by America. My host mom, one of these people, considers it obvious that America is aiding the rebel groups in Bolivia, just as they've always aided the rich, white conservatives. Like several current South American leaders, Morales comes from a poor background and promotes leftist views. Despite the fact that most Bolivians are of indigenous descent, he is the first indigenous president of Bolivia. Many people I've talked to view the current political situation as an example of South America finally standing up to the meddling United States and to the oligarchy that invites these foreign powers. I should emphasize that I've been exposed to a very leftist current of Argentinian society, attending UBA and living with a liberal family. At the same time, support for Morales goes beyond merely leftist groups. Immediately after Morales ejected the US ambassador, the leaders of every major South American country met to declare their support for Morales. I think that decision is telling. Almost all of these governments at least lean to the left, but I think their support for Morales shows to a wider, very popular trend of rejection of American intrusion.

In my opinion, the relative dearth of New York Times coverage partially results from the clash between the South American conception of the situation and the North American one. To them, it is obvious, important, and unforgiveable that we supported their dictators. In America, that history rarely discussed. And if we ignore that context - the history of European and American interference in South American affairs with the help of the domestic ruling classes - it is difficult to understand the significance of everything that has followed.

Las Madres

2008-09-07T12:09:00.004-03:00

This Thursday, I had my first day working for Las Madres. We spent the first hour and a half beginning our semester long project of summarizing declassified police files on note cards. Most of the madres are computer illiterate, so this will allow them to search through the police files quickly without having to use the internet filing system. It´s surprisingly difficult, because I actually have to synthesize rather than just comprehend Spanish. I find it really interesting to see exactly how the police were tracking Las Madres, and what they found important. At the same time, it´s definitely not the focus of our time there.

We spent the rest of our four hours listening to Carmen (our boss) telling her story. To summarize, the police kidnapped Carmen, along with her nephew, her daughter, and her daughter´s boyfriend, when they were eating dinner at Carmen´s apartment one night. Carmen spent three days in a basement somewhere outside Buenos Aires, enduring police violence, water and food deprivation, and the sight of her screaming, crying daughter after she had been tortured. After this time, the police released Carmen and her nephew, but they never saw her daughter or her daughter´s boyfriend again. This beginning part of the story was difficult just to hear, but Carmen told it matter-of-factly, like someone who had done so many times before.

She went on to discuss her subsequent search for her daughter, through which she discovered Las Madres, then an informal network meeting secretely in a church. As she explained their continued defiance of the military leaders, even after the founding members of the group were themselves disappeared, she concluded, ¨in the beginning, they called us the crazies of the Plaza de Mayo. And we were crazy. We didn´t know what we were doing. We were so stricken with grief that we didn´t understand we were confronting a dictatorshp. We just wanted our kids back.¨ Las Madres, according to her, started to get international attention when journalists in Buenos Aires for the soccer world cup began to film their march. The government tried to remove them, but Las Madres just kept marching. From here, they began travelling throughout the world (and continuing their activities in Argentina), helping to secure the international isolation and eventual downfall of the military regime.

As a side note, this is obviously a very personal story, and I might normally be hesitant to post this on a public blog. However, Carment emphasized repeatedly the importance of remembering, talking about, and passing on her experiences. In fact, it´s the main reason they have this internship program at all. Over the course of the semester, we´ll conduct recorded interviews with Carmen and two other mothers, and also do a presentation for all of FLACSO about Carmen and Las Madres.

As I listened to her story, two realizations struck me. First of all, these terrible things - things that Americans typically only read about in newspapers - happen to real people. I´ve only spent two days with her, but Carmen might be the most amazing person I´ve ever met. Her husband died young, so when her daughter disappeared, she was left completely alone. By her own account, Las Madres gave her a reason to keep living, and it is clear that the women involved, in addition to being badass dictatorship topplers, also provide a support network for one another. Despite all she´s been through, Carmen is a sociable, sarcastic, and downright cheerful person. She told us a great story about being strip searched in a New York airport because she has a metal leg and couldn´t communicate that in English, and then joked with us about meeting Argentinian boys and drinking beer on the job.

Second, it´s incredible how much damage governments have done to people. I think in America it´s easy to become apathetic, because the government, relatively speaking, doesn´t affect our daily lives much. But that´s only because we´re lucky enough to have a government that, despite its many problems, is stable, democratic and thus unable to get away with organized, systematic violence against large swaths of its population.

I can´t believe I have this much to say after having only spent one week at Las Madres. Expect more as I get to know the people and their stories more fully.

La Toma

2008-09-04T19:25:00.005-03:00

I went to UBA for my history class on Wednesday, to find a "toma," i.e. a taking of the school. Students had locked one of the two entrances and had moved all of the desks into the hallway,. At the open entrance, they had barricaded the entrance to the main hallway and stairs, and were standing on tables passing out literature and explaining the situation. I found a very friendly boy in a hammer and sickle t-shirt, and he explained the situation to me. Apparently, there had been an assembly of social sciences students the night before, and they had voted, with heavy encouragement from the professors who attended, to take the school. Although they're super into protesting here, a "toma" (I think) is a bit more serious. The last time they did it, in 2006, was in protest to the appointment of Atilio Alterini, a figure in the military dictatorship, to the position of Rector.

A group of students and a professor announced that they were on their way to the student march, so I decided to tag along. As I said, Argentinians like they're marches, so I've encountered quite a few since arriving. However, this was definitely the biggest one I've seen, and also the one with the most energy. It seemed like everyone marching was either carrying a sign, shouting into a megaphone, beating a drum, or leading the group in a protest chant. I'm terrible at estimating crowd sizes, but, for reference, I'm pretty sure we took up at least a city block. There were lots of social sciences student groups there, as well as student representatives of political parties, and supporting student groups from other facultades like engineering and architecture. We marched to the ministry of education building, where I met a very nice group of communications majors who answered my many questions, told me their opinions, and invited me to get a beer with them afterwards (we have plans to meet up again soon, which is really exciting for me).

As far as I can tell, two events precipitated this strike, in addition to the generally bad conditions at UBA. First of all, a ceiling beam fell on a student in one of the social sciences buildings last week. Also, the government announced that it will pay back its debt to the Paris Club that it repudiated in 2001, despite the fact that it hasn't increased UBA's budget since the 2001 financial crash and ensuing inflation (I'm still a bit hazy on the facts, so if someone, for some reason, knows I'm wrong, please tell me). If you're interested:, here's a better explanation of the debt repayment than I can give: http://www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/americas/09/02/argentina.debt.ap/index.html.

The main student complaints are as follows: the lack of gas and water in the buildings, the lack of evacuation plans, the lack of salaries for professors, the insufficient number of classes, and the division of La Facultad de Ciencias Sociales among three buildings, which makes organizing more difficult. I can't quite figure out the relationship between UBA and the government. Obviously, its the main source of their money. Despite this reliance, students, professors and alumni all have some say over the allocation of this money and over other important decisions, which I find really interesting. One of my history professor's main complaints is that only full-time professors get to vote, leaving virtually all the staff disenfranchised.

I'm very curious about the inner-workings of UBA, and I still have a lot to learn. But attending the march was a great start, as well as a fun evening.

The Beginnings of Routine

2008-08-25T23:44:00.006-03:00

This was my first week in my final schedule, after an uncomfortably long limbo period. Here are all my courses with descriptions:

1. Español Intensivo.
I have to take a Spanish class as part of FLACSO, and I decided to do the intensive one. Although it will be a painful 8 weeks of meeting from 9-11 AM (so much earlier in BA!) Tuesday-Friday, I'll have tons of free time the second half of the semester. Plus, it'll be good to review everything as soon as possible so I can start using it. Although I was dreading the class, the students make it much less painful. There are people from all over the world: 4 Americans, 2 Japanese, 2 Austrians, 1 Korean, 1 Englishman, and 1 Brazilian. Although most of us are students, everyone has a different story of how they ended up here, how long they're staying, etc. The Brazilian girl is here with her husband, who is getting his masters at UBA; the Korean guy up and moved his family here, for reasons that are unclear to me; one American girl decided to spend a year here, just because. My favorite person in the class is probably Lorenzo, who's writing a masters thesis in International Economics at UBA, and is every bit the stereotypical Italian: talkative, excitable, and fun to be around when it's 9 in the morning and no one else is in a good mood. In general, everyone seemed to bond immediately. I think we're all open to new relationships in a way that only people who have left most of their other relationships on other continents can be. Also, it's been easier for me to communicate in Spanish with many of these people than it has been with native speakers. We all speak slowly, have a limited vocabulary, and make similar mistakes. This class also reinforced to me, once again, the pathetic state of American foreign language education, at least compared to other countries. I'm pretty sure I've been studying Spanish for longer than anyone in the class, and while I'm not worse, I'm certainly not any better.

4. Seminario del Aprendizaje y Servicio (service learning seminar).
The class portion of this seminar is easy and of little interest to me, but it's completely worth it because for 4 hours a week I'll be working with Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo. For those who don't know, Las Madres formed during the military dictatorship of 1976-1983, as a group of mothers searching for their "disappeared" children, the word used for those kidnapped, tortured, and killed by the military. They grew from a small, informal network to a large group, protesting in La Plaza de Mayo every Thursday and thus contributing to the downfall of the dictatorship. They still march every Thursday, although now it's in support of other human rights causes, since they don't consider the current government hostile. Besides that, they spend their time trying to figure out what happened to their children, emphasizing the importance of remembrance through monuments, events, etc., and supporting other human rights causes. I haven't spent much time there yet, but the little experience I have has shown me that they're truly incredible people. Despite everything they've experienced, they seem to harbor little anger, instead putting all their energy into making sure that something like this never happens in Argentina again. The office is a very pleasant place, full of jokes and affection; most of the younger people working there are related to disappeared people in one way or another. Technically, my job will consist of sorting through recently declassified police files, given to Las Madres especially and archiving pictures and other mementos pertaining to disappeared people. However, Carmen, our boss, made it clear that she's far more interested in telling us her story and those of others, teaching us about the various human rights groups in Buenos Aires and showing us important locations in the history of Las Madres. Basically, I'm ridiculously excited about this opportunity; it might be the coolest thing that's ever happened to me.

3. Ritmos y Danzas del Río de la Plata.
This is a dance class (with some reading and tests thrown in as well), where we'll learn mostly tango, but also other dances typical to this region such as Milonga and Candombe. Despite my lack of experience or skill in this area, I'm having so much fun in the class. My professor said I have "afinidades para la baile," but he's clearly either a liar, or a terrible judge.

4. Historía Argentina (1880-present).
This, as you may have discerned, will be my only academically challenging class. It's a history class in the political science department taught by an economics professor - essentially CSS (my major) applied to Argentina. Needless to say, I am in love. Although it will be quite a challenge, it's fascinating, both for the material itself and for the way it is taught. In my last class, for example, we read an essay describing the early economic history of Argentina from a Marxist perspective. Without thinking much about it, I assumed that we would discuss things like the successes and failures of the Marxist perspective, when it arose, and for what reasons, just like I've done in countless other classes. Instead, when I got to class, the teacher proceeded to describe the history of Argentina from this perspective, as though it were indisputable fact that history consisted of class wars rooted in relations of production and material conditions. I bumped into a kid from my class on the subway ride home, and when I told him of my surprise and amusement at the lecture, he basically proceeded to disagree with me on everything I said. He felt that the lecture was Peronist rather than Marxist (I didn't know enough to argue with that one), and that most of what the professor said was true. He also made the excellent point that we had spent the first class discussing the impossibility of objective history, and now I understand why. To be honest, I agreed with a lot of what the professor said about international economics. Argentina was a colony, or a semi-colony, for most of its history, and as such it did play a dependent role in the world economy. But in my experience (with mostly liberal people, to be fair) that view is nearly universally accepted as truth here, whereas in America, no matter how liberal the professor, I think he or she typically feels obligated to give the other side of the argument as well. The class is divided into a Teórico and a Práctico, taught by different professors, the former being far more objective in his treatment of history (despite also being a staunch Peronist, from what I've heard).

I'm also excited for the access this class will give me to Argentinian students and UBA, which is such an interesting place. Nearly every class, I've ended up chatting with some student, and, as political science majors, they get right down to business, asking my opinion on the American elections, government in Argentina, etc. We spent the first half of my last class with the Marxist/Peronist professor discussing the upcoming teacher strike at UBA, whether or not it was justified, and how students and teachers should organize to improve the state of things at UBA (which severely lacks in basics like toilet paper, sometimes electricity, chalk for chalkboards and, oh yeah, salaries for the professors). Although a lot of people opposed this particular strike, the conversation operated under the implicit agreement among everyone that students and teachers needed to take action. There was no mention whatsoever of privatization as even a theoretical option.

Other things that are different about UBA: There are no copyright laws here, so everyone just photocopies the homework. It's cheap, but the professors clearly worry about students not developing their own library, and often implore them to buy the books for themselves, a suggestion they universally ignore. Also, I have not yet had an uninterrupted class. Typically students from some radical organizing group come in, often to announce an upcoming debate or charla (chat) about improving UBA. Other times though, it's been people coming in to beg for money or sell trinkets. Each time the professor lets them in, usually because he agrees with what they're doing. When people ask for money, they're far more successful than on the street.

I'm quite excited about this schedule. Despite the lack of academic rigor, I think I'll learn more about Argentina through these more active pursuits than I would sitting in my room reading a book.

Ciao,
Chelsea

Hace un Mes...

2008-08-24T13:00:00.011-03:00

As of Friday, I've officially been in Argentina for a month, but it does not feel like it. The world around me seems just as new and the challenges (almost) as challenging. To that end, this weekend, like every other, was full of firsts.

I spent Friday wandering around San Telmo, and it was lovely. I can't believe the amount of new things I continue to discover in my very own neighborhood. I went to a café and did homework for awhile, and then ended up at El Museo de la Ciudad, a small museum with rotating exhibits about life in Buenos Aires in various time periods. Although I encounter few museums I don't like, I have to admit that this one did not thrill me. The current main exhibit is about toilets through the ages, and, well, it was a lot of toilets. However, the other exhibit showed a bunch of huge, old doors from the mansions that used to populate parts of Buenos Aires, and I enjoyed that thoroughly. It's crazy to think of this city filled with European elites in mansions, since I haven't seen a house of any size in the city since arriving. The museum also displayed the winning entries in a photo contest that seemed to involve pictures of kids all over Argentina. They were very cute, and some of the pictures were really good.

After leaving the museum, I ambled down cobblestone streets, poking my head into churches and taking mental notes about the cafés and museums to which I wanted to return. The most exciting part of my day occurred when I stopped in a "kiosco" to buy a snack, and the two very chatty old men running it told me I spoke "castellano" very well. Although communication still frustrates me on a daily basis, it made me realize that I had understood and responded to all of their questions without a second thought - a major improvement from my first day here. I went to dinner at an Uruguayan restaurant with my friend Elaine, and we ate Chivitos, delicious beef sandwiches with vegetables and, in our case, fried egg, that are apparently typical to Uruguay.

I spent Saturday in a similar fashion, seeing various parts of the city. My favorite part of living in a big city is that, once I've left the house, the day just seems to take me, and I wander from place to place, following whims and crowds. I set out in search of a library in which to study, but when I arrived at the Congressional library someone had recommended it was closed. However, my walk there had been lovely; it was a sunny day and I took a new route down a street I'd never seen. There was a small fair in front of the library, and I bought what I thought was a hand-painted skirt (aren't you proud of me, mom?). When I got home, I realized they were actually bombachas, very baggy gaucho pants, that, according to my host mom, have recently become fashionable for girls to wear in feminine styles. So apparently I'm becoming a hip porteño without even trying.

When I got home, my host mom suggested we go to La Boca, the neighborhood with all the colorful houses that seems to have become emblematic of BsAs. To be clear, La Caminita, the two block strip of colorful houses, artist shops, cafés, and tango shows is not the same as La Boca, the poor, dangerous, soccer-obsessed neighborhood surrounding it. However, despite the astonishing number of hokey tourist attractions, my host mom managed to convince me that it really was a worthwhile cultural site. Up until twenty years ago, poor dockworkers, mostly Italian immigrants who got off the boat and never left the neighborhood, actually lived in those houses, only leaving because the government condemned the decaying houses. The buildings have since been repaired, and the dock work has gone. La Boca, though still poor and quite dangerous in some areas, is now a trendy neighborhood for young artists, and apartments in the colorful buildings deemed safe enough for residence are quite expensive. Gentrification, it turns out, is an international phenomenon. Incidentally, La Boca today is quite a bit like my neighborhood, San Telmo, just a few years ago: a poor and dangerous area with great architecture that hip young porteños were making their own, and bringing tourists with them. Who knows, in a few years La Boca might be the home to some of the best nightlife in Buenos Aires. While walking around, we bought sausages on the street, cooked in a tasty and typically Argentinian way whose name escapes me now. After over a month here, I'm finally jumping on the meat bandwagon; a lot of it just tastes really good.

This is a ship graveyard on the docks that used to be the center of La Boca's economy. It smelled really bad here.

Last night, I went to some bars in San Telmo with Jenny, and we befriended three Argentinian guys who play in a band together. We ended the night sitting on the roof of the hostel that one of them runs, watching to them play Nirvana and Oasis on their guitars. It was quite surreal.

A Vacation From My Vacation

2008-08-20T00:54:00.003-03:00

Monday was a holiday, so I spent the long weekend in Rosario, a city 4 hours from Buenos Aires, in the Santa Fe province. Before I even left the limits of Buenos Aires, I felt very far away. The bus station was on the edge of town in a very poor neighborhood like nothing I had seen in Buenos Aires so far. This was not the empty streets and dirty sidewalks that had so far characterized the ¨bad parts¨ of Buenos Aires. This was crumbling shacks made of wood planks that looked as thin as cardboard, on unpaved roads wide enough for just a few people. When I saw the kids running around with dirt-streaked faces and no shoes, I realized what the kids begging on the subway come home to at night (if they have homes at all). Needless to say, it was a real eye opener. In a lot of ways, Buenos Aires is like any other modern city, with safe parts and dodgier parts. But I don´t think we have this kind of poverty in America, and we certainly don´t have it around the edge of every major city. I slept for nearly all of the 4 hour bus ride, but when I woke up in the outskirts of Rosario, I saw the same thing, though possibly a bit worse.

Like Buenos Aires, Rosario has heartbreaking outskirts, and a charming center. Actually, Rosario was like a mini-Buenos Aires in almost every way, right up to its central Plaza de Mayo with a pink government building in the middle. Although it had the same gorgeous French architecture, charming cafés and ubiquitous nightlife, Rosario was smaller and more laid-back, with 1 million people to BA´s 3 million (and thirteen million in the metropolitan area). I never though a city of 1 million would feel like a small town to me, but compared to Buenos Aires, it did. It was great to walk down sidewalks and have space to swing my arms, to find a seat on the bus, to wander without fear of getting totally disoriented. Rosario used to be called the Chicago of Argentina for all it´s ties to the mercantile exchange and the cattle industry. But it was like Chicago in other ways: the kindler, gentler counterpart to hectic Buenos Aires, just as Chicago is to New York.

We started off the trip by going to the monument to the flag, a huge tower commemorating the birth of the Argentine flag, designed in Rosario. The monument itself was huge and pleasing to the eyes, if a bit gaudy. The whole area was basically a giant show of nationalism, including a Falkand´s war memorial with the phrase ¨The Falklands, always for Argentina¨ written on it. Most interesting was the design of the one-room museum that housed the first flag. When I walked in, the flags of every American and Carribean country (including the US and Canada) lined the sides, plus a Spanish flag and an Italian one (because Christopher Columbus was born there). At the very end, on its own wall, hung the Argentinian flag. Although the Argentinian flag was bigger and glowing under a light, the museum was not just a tribute to Argentina, but to all the American nations. In the US, I don´t think most people consider themselves linked to South America, so it was interesting to see an almost nationalistic take on the Western hemisphere, something that is much more common here. I also think that the decision to include Spain and Italy says a lot about the self-image of many Argentinians as descended from European colonizers rather than the colonized natives. I don´t want to go too deeply into a complex issue I know little about, but I do find it fascinating that the museum honors the place of Spain and Italy in forming the modern Americas, rather than condemning it, as I would have expected.

We also went to a tiny, charming museum about the river islands on the Rio Paraná, which borders Rosario. Basically, this painter, Raul Dominguez, fell in love with the islands and spent his life painting them, writing books about them, and, at the end, making this museum about them. The museum, now curated by Dominguez´s two sons and wife, was full of great paintings and really interesting recreations of life on the islands at the beginning of the twentieth century. I´ve always found small sub-cultures really interesting, so I knew I would enjoy the museum. But this one was especially great for its genuineness. It was obvious that the people there loved the islands, and, for lack of a less corny phrase, really put their hearts into the museum.

We also decided that we would have our first real Argentinian night: going to a boliche (dance club) at three in the morning and coming home at 7 am for breakfast. This plan was a total failure. We walked to a bar-dance club that the staff at our hostel recommended to us, but when we got to the intersection, we couldn´t find it. However, there was another bar right there, so we just followed the lights, music, and people. Our first clue that this was no ordinary dance club should have been the incredibly invasive, unannounced frisking that each one of us got before entering. Imagine going through airport security, and then multiply it by ten. We walked into the club, and for about ten minutes it was really fun. They were playing great Carribean-influenced pop music. The crowd seemed to be mostly immigrants (which here means Peruvians, Bolivians, Paraguayans, and a few Central Americans), and they were doing cool dances I had never seen. I definitely felt out of place, but I was willing to push past it and get my groove on. We wandered up to the second floor, which had a balcony overlooking the first, and all of the sudden every man in the room seemed to teleport to the balcony at exactly the same time. Still not getting it, my friends and I innocently wandered over to see a girl stripping on the stage below us. Very surprised and very amused, we stood there with our mouths open until the end of the dance. The fun music began to play again, so we thought maybe it was just a strange interlude, but a few minutes later, a man came onstage and did his own strip tease, right down to a very small thong. My friend Bennet and I laughed hysterically while our two male friends looked very uncomfortable. Finally, in the middle of the third dance, which involved the man and the woman together, we decided to leave. It was definitely my funniest night in Argentina so far.

Despite these exciting episodes, the weekend in general was wonderfully relaxing. We sat at cafés along the river, read in parks, and perused craft fairs. We ate incredibly good food (much cheaper in Rosario), including wine with every dinner and the best steak I´ve had in my life. Until this weekend, I didn´t understand what the big deal was with Argentinian steak, but this was mouthwateringly, party-in-my-mouth good. Oh my god. We also met a group of Argentinian college students from Mendoza in our hostel, who gave us their names and numbers and told us to call them if we ever go to Mendoza (which I plan to do). Basically, Rosario just had great vibes, and I enjoyed a lovely weekend there.

Muchísimas Cosas

2008-08-12T23:07:00.007-03:00

Once again, after having taken only a short break from writing, I find myself teeming with things to say. As I told my host mom earlier today, everything I do here is a "thing." This can be frustrating when simple tasks like grocery shopping or telling a story require all my concentration. At the same time, this means that everything is new, leaving me filled with observations and thoughts about even my most mundane experiences. To that end, I have much to say about the past few days, during which I've encountered new people, neighborhoods, and classes.

To begin with, Sunday was el Día de los Niños, a holiday here just like mother's and father's day. I planned to go to the zoo with Elvira, Joaquín, Ezekiel (Joaquín's friend), and Ezekiel's mom. We started the morning my going over to their friend's apartment, an exciting place in of itself. Their apartment was huge, about twice the size of ours, and ours is pretty big for densely populated Buenos Aires. It looked like something from a design show: each room was painted a different color, with lots of animal print furniture and plants all over the place. The coolest part was the second floor, which they added themselves by hanging a layer of metal walkways from the ceiling, with mechanically retractable stairs and ladders to go up and down. The family was really nice, and I felt very Argentinian sipping mate and gossiping with Elvira and her friend.

When we arrived at the zoo, it was absolutely packed with people, so we decided to walk around Alto Palermo, a nearby neighborhood. We walked to this street fair (they really like those here), this one for clothing and jewelery. Palermo, particularly Alto Palermo, is a fun part of town. It's very residential, with lots of trees and great French buildings. It's also a huge nightlife center - the only place I've found so far where you can just walk around until you find a bar.

We all went out for lunch together, and Elvira introduced me to asado - Argentinian barbecue, as far as I can gather. Our lunch consisted of platters of meat, far more meat than 5 people should ever ingest in a single sitting. Elvira and her friend just kept putting more meat on my plate and pouring me more glasses of wine, until by the end I just felt tired and woozy. It was fun, and I did like some cuts, but I do not understand how Argentinians eat like this on a regular basis. I did have a really interesting conversation at lunch with Elvira and her friend about education and socialism in the US and Argentina, two things that seem to come up a lot here.

Here are some pictures that Joaquín, the resident photographer here, took of Alto Palermo and the fair.

That last one is not Alto Palermo, but rather the bus ride home. I don't think I'll ever get over how cool my neighborhood is.

Monday was also a day of firsts, most notably my first dance class, not just in Argentina but in my entire life. The class is called "Ritmos y Danzas del Río de la Plata," and I'll learn tango as well as a bunch of folkloric dances. On the first day, we learned El Gato, a supposedly simple dance that I was comically bad at. I have many redeeming qualities, but grace is certainly not one of them, something the teacher certainly reinforced when he stopped class twice to give me extra help. Despite these embarrassments, however, I had a lot of fun in the class, and I think it will be a different way to learn about Argentina. It's certainly outside of my comfort zone, but then again, so is everything in Buenos Aires.

After dance, I had my first History of Argentina class, which I absolutely loved. We spent the first half of class divided into groups of four, discussing the (im)possibility of neutrality in the study of history by reading two different accounts of the military dictatorship in two different newspapers. For about the first half of my group's discussion, I sat there in silent confusion. I could understand the words coming out of their mouths, but I lacked the background to discuss these issues in any sort of sophisticated way. I could barely identify the differences between the two articles' perspectives, much less say something about those differences. However, when the group realized that I was American, they were extremely considerate of me. They went back and explained the context of the conversation, and then made sure to ask me my opinion at regular intervals, just in case. By the end, I did have opinions (just a great deal of trouble expressing them). Although I'll have to do some independent reading in order to follow this class, I think it's going to be really interesting. History totally rocks. Also, I made friends with a girl from my group, and we took the subway back together. She lives about an hour outside the city, like many UBA students, and it was interesting to hear about her daily routine commuting, working, and taking classes. In general, people here have been so nice to me - totally willing to repeat themselves, talk slowly, and show me things, and also, it seems, almost as interested in talking to an American as I am in talking to an Argentinian.

Monday was also my birthday, and I came home to find this on the door, courtesy of Joaquín and Elvira:

Elvira also made me a special birthday dinner, which consisted of, you guessed it, beef. It was actually delicious - she made it fondue style with all these really good sauces, some of which even had meat in them. Gotta love the idea of dipping meat into more meat. I invited Jenny over and it was great to have my whole Argentinian "family" with me on my birthday. Elvira was worried I'd be homesick on my birthday, and she made such an effort to make it special for me. Once again, I realized how lucky I am to live with my host family.

Today, I had my first service learning class, and my first Argentinian Political Thought class. I think both of them are going to be really interesting, but, to be honest, my sleep deprivation caught up with me today, and I didn't absorb as much as I would have liked in either class. More interestingly, I got to go the office of Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, basically to learn more about the organization and see if I want to work there or not. We met two of the madres, and they showed us pictures of their disappeared children, and told us about the projects they're currently working on. It's so amazing to think of these little old ladies helping to take down a dictatorship, and still fighting for the same principles today.

And now I'm back at home, living life like a Porteño: out of class at 11 pm and starting my homework at midnight.

Until next time,
Chelsea

Feliz cumpleaños a mí

2008-08-12T01:40:00.001-03:00

I have much updating to do, but I'm far too tired to do it at the moment.

I just wanted to thank everyone (and there were a lot of you) for the happy birthday messages. You people are wonderful.

Varias Cosas

2008-08-08T04:03:00.009-03:00

Although it's only been a few days, I feel like I have so much on which to update you, my surprisingly broad readership. To begin with, Thursday. It was divided neatly into two parts: the horribly frustrating morning at immigrations and the wonderful, FLACSO-sponsored night at Job's Bar.

To give you an idea of how terrible Argentinian immigrations is, my group spent about 6 hours there, and we were lucky. Those assigned to the previous day had waited 12 hours. They actually saw the sun rise and set inside the immigrations office. While waiting, I had two notable interactions, the first one involving a rather smelly Peruvian man attempting to convert me to some form of Christianity, and the second involving a three-year-old Peruvian girl who I played with and practiced my Spanish on while we waited.

That night, the students and staff met at a bar to celebrate the end of orientation and meet the Argentinian participants in our "Grupos de Interés." The grupos are a part of FLACSO in which students choose among three groups - journalism, sports, or arts - and participate in various events with Argentinians of our age who share our interests. Although I'm excited for the events (I'm doing the arts group), I was skeptical about actually meeting Argentinians in such a structured setting. However, Elaine and I ended up talking to two Argentinian members of the journalism group for most of the night, and it was so much fun!

I ended up having a really interesting conversation with one of them about Argentinian history and politics. I was pretty much jumping up and down with excitement the whole time; it was exactly the type of conversation I hoped to have with people here and exactly the way I had hoped to learn about Argentina. The most interesting part was when we were talking about how the rest of the world views Argentina. I said that a lot of people mistakenly see it as a third world country, and, unlike every other Argentinian I've talked to about this, he responded, "it is a third world country." He said that the rest of the country is completely different from Buenos Aires, and that even the poor parts of Buenos Aires don't seem like they belong in a developed country. Although many porteños have told me that Buenos Aires is different from the rest of the country, I'd never heard such an extreme opinion. Hearing this perspective made me want to see other parts of the country even more than I did before.

We also talked about Peronism for awhile. When I asked if they could define Peronism for me, both of them gave the exact same answer that every Argentinian has given me: "Es complicado." Both of them are literature majors, and they told me they'd email me the names of some novels and short stories that, they claim, will help me understand Peronismo more than any non-fiction explanation. One of them also said he'd make me a mix of Argentinian music. Normally, I'd be skeptical about someone following through on such promises, but they'll both be around FLACSO, so at the very least, I'll talk to them more. Perhaps even more exciting than the political conversation, I found out that one of them likes Wilco (my favorite band)! It turns out we had pretty much the exact same taste in music, and that, unsurprisingly, most of these bands were basically unheard of in Argentina. About halfway through these conversations, I realized that I was actually communicating substantial, complicated thoughts in Spanish, and understanding the equally complicated thoughts of someone else. It was so cool.

Today, I was supposed to meet up with Elaine to go to MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), but I accidentally ended up at el Museo de Bellas Artes (the two are quite close). Despite the mix up, I ended up having a lovely afternoon by myself. I often prefer to go to museums alone, because I can go as slowly as I want, which is usually quite slow. It was a very nice museum, with lots of French paintings from all the recent centuries, some great Rodin sculptures, and a whole floor of Argentinian art. To be honest, the Argentinian stuff, or at least their collection, didn't do much for me. It was mostly inferior copies of European styles. However, I liked seeing landscape paintings from all over Argentina, and paintings of colonial-era Buenos Aires with portraits of all the important social/political leaders from that time. Perhaps the best part about the museum was it's quietness and its bountiful space, both rare commodities in this city.

After I left the museum, I wandered around Recoleta, the surrounding neighborhood. I'd only previously seen the residential and commercial sections of Recoleta, but the museum was in the middle of a park, and the next few blocks in every direction were filled with parks and plazas. It was lovely to see some green stuff and sit in the grass and people watch by myself. Unfortunately, my camera died soon after I arrived (I'm not so good at monitoring that), but I'll definitely be back in that neighborhood again.

When I got home, I finally met Elvira's daughter, Cata, who was very nice. I was mostly listening to the conversation between she and Elvira, and it was incredibly exciting to realize that I could understand almost all of it without trying that hard. In generally, I think I've partially overcome my first language hurdle - being completely baffled by the Argentinian/Porteño accent. On a similar note, I learned a hilarious new Spanglish phrase: peace out = paz out. I think that's awesome.

The only bad part of the day: I looked over my schedule, and it turns out I'll most likely have to drop my geography class, and thus not take any classes at UBA filo. I was so excited about that class and campus, but it's simply not worth trading for all the other courses I want. Oh well, perhaps I shall find a way.

Additionally, I enabled anonymous commenting. Just in case you're curious.

Ciao,
Chelsea

Wanderings, Wonderings

2008-08-06T20:07:00.003-03:00

The past two days have been notable for their relative normalcy. I've had less free time, and am thus having my first experiences just living in the city. I won't pretend that this in any way feels like home, but it's definitely been a new dynamic.

I spent yesterday attending various orientation events, eating lunch with friends, going to the gym, and meeting up with Jenny at a bar with friends from each of our programs. Although the bar was very loud and very American (right down to the bartenders), it was fun to sit and talk with friends, and hear some good music (Queen and Sublime in Buenos Aires - I was so excited!). While there, we had a great conversation about language, communication, and everything our short time here has made us realize about them. For me at least, it was one of those really great interactions wherein you realize your own opinion on an issue through talking to someone else about it. Here's a summary of what we talked about and what I've been thinking about generally:

1. It's amazing how much of two different languages can be translated almost exactly. I find it fascinating that people in different parts of the world all needed to come up with ways to say the same things, whether basic or quite complicated. I'm not sure if I'd feel this way if I were studying a language that shared fewer roots with English. At the same time, despite the coincidences, there are also all these divergences between the two languages; some things simply cannot be translated adequately. I'm perhaps more fascinated by what these differences say about the people using their respective languages to communicate. At the same time, I haven't spent enough time here to really understand the connotations of those colloquial phrases, so I imagine this is a topic to which I'll return.

2. We also talked more generally about the amazing capacity humans have for language. All of us have had the experience of watching small children speak Spanish effortlessly (and feeling more than a bit jealous). Seeing these kids speak with the pronunciation I'm striving so hard to achieve makes me realize how intrinsic one's own language is. It is physically difficult for me to move my mouth in a way appropriate to Spanish pronunciation, and I see Argentinians having the exact same problem when they try to speak English. Similarly, when I see two Argentinians talking to one another in Spanish, I have trouble comprehending that this is their version of speaking English, that this feels as comfortable and natural to them as English does to me.

3. I never before considered all the subtle, unspoken cues we send to one another through our specific manner of using language. Austin and I spent a good five minutes picking apart my use of the phrase "it's a bit much." In using words that are ever so slightly more formal than one would typically use, we make subtle jokes that say to the other person, "I'm intelligent. I'm witty. I know how to re-arrange words for our mutual amusement without even interrupting the flow of the conversation." In English, our conversations happen on several levels, most of them unspoken and barely conscious. In Spanish, we simply do not have access to this type of interaction. A successful interaction here consists of telling a story with more than two tenses, or pronouncing difficult words such that porteños can still understand them. While this definitely frustrates me, it is not entirely bad. I'm learning as much about English as Spanish, and thus as much about my culture as this one. So corny, but so the point of this, right?

Today was less structured, since I had little to do at FLACSO, so I ate breakfast/lunch with Bennet, attended the 20 minutes of orientation that applied to me, and then commenced my plan of wandering around San Telmo. I went into a bookstore called La Librería de Avila, that, according to the pamphlet they gave me, has occupied that spot in some form or another since 1785. Elvira pointed it out to me on our walk around the neighborhood a few days ago, because it is known for having lots of books specific to Buenos Aires, Argentina, and Latin America. I bought two books, Buenos Aires Negra and Buenos Aires Ídish, respectively about the historic influence and place of black and Jewish culture in Argentina. I loved the feel of the bookstore in general, and I'm really excited about my purchases. After a bit more wandering, I spent the afternoon reading a packet I received from the teacher of Cuestiones Culturales en la Historia Argentina. Although I'm almost sure I'll drop that class, it sounds really interesting, and I'll take any opportunity to boost my embarrassingly meager knowledge of Argentinian history.

The pictures spread throughout this post are my attempt to capture my neighborhood. Although this is a particularly charming section of Buenos Aires, I've noticed that, even in the more modern, commercial areas, beautiful buildings tend to pop up among the nondescript gray and white slabs. It's pretty cool.

Hasta pronto,
Chelsea

Seconds and Firsts

2008-08-04T19:17:00.005-03:00

I spent my second Sunday in a row at La Ferría de San Telmo, this time with new friends Austin and Elaine (both pictured in previous post). No mom, I didn't buy anything (besides an empanada), but it's a fun place to people watch and enjoy cobblestone streets and old buildings. We wandered off of Calle Defensa, the site of all the vendors, and saw sidestreets I'd not yet ventured down. I made a resolution to come back on a less busy day and wander. Also, as promised, here is a picture of el Cabildo, site of the first Argentinian revolution. Have I mentioned that my neighborhood is awesome?The next picture is a Jesuit Church in my neighborhood (one church of about a bajillion within ten blocks of me).
Today was full of firsts, including most notably my first time going to a new place without getting lost (and three of them at that!). Even more exciting, I had my first class. Since classes have now officially begun, I think the time has come for me to explain the various schools I can access while here. I am technically studying abroad through CIEE, a private American company that has programs all over the world. However, in this program, CIEE basically acts as my liaison to FLACSO (Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales), a graduate school, funded in large part by the UN, that has one undergrad program: CIEE. Through FLACSO, I can take classes at any combination of four institutions: FLACSO, UBA (Universidad de Buenos Aires), UCA (Pontificia Universidad Católica), and IUNA (Instituto Universitario Nacional del Arte).

FLACSO is very well-respected academically, and pretty much every class they're offering sounds fascinating. They're all designed for Americans, which means they don't require any background in Argentinian history and culture. In some ways, I'd probably learn the most from taking classes at FLACSO. At the same time, all the students are American, so in other ways I'd learn less. I'm going to compromise and take one class there, a service learning seminar, because they give us the opportunity to work with Las Madres de La Plaza de Mayo, and that is totally awesome.

UBA is a HUGE public university. It has no campus, but rather consists of a bunch of buildings spread throughout the city. Students usually work at least 6 hours a day and live at home with their families, up to an hour outside the city, further limiting campus life. Because all Argentinians can attend for free, UBA is wildly underfunded. Right now, 30,000 professors teach there for free or for only a nominal salary. According to the Argentinians I've talked to (i.e. Elvira and the FLACSO staff), these professors consider it an honor to teach at UBA, because, despite its lack of basic resources, it is one of the best schools in Argentina. They also believe in the importance of free university, so much so that they're willing to make real sacrifices to make it happen. Apparently, a former minister of education had to resign because his plan to make Argentinians pay for higher education was so unpopular. Incidentally, most FLACSO professors get their salaries from FLACSO but also teach at UBA. I think it's amazing that so many Argentinians value education so highly; 30,000 people would never work for free in America.

Within UBA, I can take classes in Filosofía y Letras, Ciencias Sociales, and Ciencias Económicas, each of which encompasses several majors (although I don't qualify for economics, which requires terrible things like higher math). According to the people at FLACSO, we will meet every kind of person at UBA, but quite a few who are the first in their family to attend college, and who have made lots of sacrifices to get there. Right now, only 50% of Argentinians attend college. UBA students, they said, are only there if they want to be, and this makes it a more intellectual place than, for example, UCA. Finally, they told us that UBA, especially Filosofía y Letras, is the last bastion of real leftist thinking in Argentina among both students and professors.

UCA, in contrast, is smaller (although still 30,000 students), private, and Catholic. Although many of the professors are liberal (and, not coincidentally, shared with UBA), the institution is more conservative. There is a dress code, and students have to take finals in formal attire. Elvira told me that every student there is blond. Although some attend UCA simply because it has a major UBA lacks, UCA students are generally wealthier, and many attend university because their family expects it of them. On the flip side, UCA has much nicer facilities, and even university funded student organizations. However, I decided not to take any classes at UCA, because the campus climate just doesn't appeal to me as much. Interestingly, despite its greater resources, UCA seems to garner less respect academically than UBA - basically the opposite of schools in America.

IUNA, the last school, is one of the best art schools in the country. Obviously, I have no business attending.

My class today, Social Geography of Latin America, was at UBA Filosofía y Letras. The FLACSO staff described UBA Filo as a combination of hippies and black-coffee-drinking- cigarette-smoking intellectuals, and oh boy were they accurate. Every wall in the building, including the exterior, is covered with either pamphlets or paintings, uniformly having something to do with socialism or an upcoming concert.

However, nothing else about my class today was what I expected - in a good way. The FLACSO staff told us to expect overcrowded classrooms and frustrated professors with little interest in teacher-student interaction. However, my class was tiny, about 12 people (almost half of them American, unfortunately), with a welcoming professor who gave us her email address and said she wanted a discussion- based class. They also told us that the professors would resent the presence of American students, people who, in their minds, don't deserve the privilege of the Argentinian education they're working so hard to provide. However, my professor made a point of saying she likes foreign students, as well as non-geography majors, for the diversity they bring to discussion. For various logistical reasons, I think there will be more people in the next class, but it will still be tiny by UBA standards. Overall, it looks like it's going to be an awesome class, and I'm so excited to get started.

Geekily yours,
Chelsea

Aventuras en Montserrat y San Telmo

2008-08-03T10:28:00.004-03:00

Joaquín is spending the weekend in the country with his dad, so Elvira took me on a tour of our neighborhood yesterday, explaining the history behind all the old, colonial buildings. Although I'd seen most of these buildings in passing, I'd never really noticed how beautiful a lot of them are.

This was at the National Student Center, also the best high school in the country, according to Elvira. La Noche de los Lapices (Night of the Pencils) refers to a protest students carried out in 1976 demanding free bus passes. The military regime subsequently kidnapped and tortured a bunch of the student protestors.
This is me with some guards at the Buenos Aires municipal government/cultural center. I am so cool.
Cultural center again
The British bank
City Cathedral
La Casa Rosada (the president's house)
As you can tell, it was a gorgeous day.
This is a statue of San Martín, a national hero here, who liberated Argentina from the colonists
The national bank and a government ministry. I really like this corner.
Me and Elvira

Unfortunately, I failed to get a picture of the most interesting building, the site of the first Argentinian revolution against colonial powers. Although it was unsuccessful, it was, according to Elvira, very historically important in planting the seed of independence in Argentina. Expect photos of that later. In conclusion, my neighborhood is so cool!

That night at dinner, I had a fascinating conversation with Elvira. She asked me about my impressions of Argentina thus far, because most Americans expect a far less developed country than they find. I attempted to explain to her a vague idea I've been considering about the likeness between Argentina and France, particularly in terms of government and intellectual life, something I'll probably explain more fully on here when I can. We ended up talking about Argentinian democracy, education, and socialism, and the similarities and difference between Argentina and America.

It's also fascinating to be in a country where political violence and dictatorship is not just an abstract concept, but a very recent memory. I keep unwittingly stumbling upon the topic of the military regime in talking with Elvira, mostly because it's nearly impossible for her to talk about her life without mentioning it. Last night, for example, when we were on the topic of universities, I asked her where she went to school. She explained to me that the government shut down Universidad de Buenos Aires' Filosofía y Letras department, so she had to switch to a private school. Because I really didn't know what to say, I responded, "Es muy interesante." She replied, "No. Fue horrible."

After dinner, I met up with Bennet for drinks at a bar/restaurant in our neighborhood. It's so nice to have someone I really enjoy spending time with so close. Neither of us wanted to go far or stay out for long, so we just met up for about two hours. Although the neighborhood is supposed to be hopping on Saturday nights, it was 30 degrees out and pretty empty. I'm excited for the weather to warm up - I think it makes the city a lot more exciting and quite a bit safer.

In other news, if anyone knows how to make my pictures right side up, please tell me.

Hasta luego,
Chelsea

Jews, Jazz y Más

2008-08-02T12:13:00.000-03:00

Yesterday started with orientation at UCA (Pontificia Universidad Católica Argentina), one of the several institutions I'll be able to take classes at this semester. The differences among them are quite interesting, but I will save that for another post. Suffice it to say, however, that this is the conservative Catholic school. You could not look at a single wall without seeing Jesus, usually bleeding on a cross. Although I had little interest in taking classes there, I came for orientation just to see it, and also to walk around the neighborhood, Puerto Madero.

Puerto Madero is Buenos Aires' newest neighborhood. It is (unsurprisingly) a former port, but now five star hotels, fancy restaurants, ritzy apartment buildings, and UCA occupy the former warehouse buildings. It is right on the river, on the edge of BA, so there are lots of cool water views. On the very edge of Puerto Madero begins la Reserva Ecológica, a huge nature reserve on the edge of the city (see photos below). None of it looks all that pretty in the photos, because it's the middle of winter here. However, with a little sunshine and a bit more human activity, I think this would be a great neighborhood.
These are some seemingly random but nice looking structures we found at the edge of the nature reserve.

Un puente muy cool (yes, that's their word for cool too!)
A pirate ship, obvi

After exploring Puerto Madero for awhile, we (me and some kids from my program) walked to Café Tortoni. For those who don't know, Café Tortoni is this super famous (at least in Argentina), old café/tango bar, which has generally been a center of Argentinian culture since the beginning of the 20th century. There were pictures all over the walls of Buenos Aires circa 1900 and of all the famous people that have come to Café Tortoni since then. I also got to watch tango lessons going on in the back room. While there, we had a really nice conversation about being homesick, leaving loved ones/significant others, and the frustrations of being constantly unable to satisfactorily communicate. I'm having a great time, but the thought of being here for five months can be daunting sometimes, and it was nice to acknowledge that we are all in the same boat.

After a very long lunch, we went back to FLACSO for course registration. On the walk back, in what was by far my biggest accomplishment of the day (my life?), I led the whole group there without a map. Even though the walk consisted of taking two streets for about ten blocks each, it totally made my day.

After orientation ended, I went to a synagogue I found here, Paso 423. Although I don't go with any regularity at home, I thought it might be a nice way to meet some Argentinians, and I was also curious about the Jewish community here. The temple was huge, in a beautiful old building. At the service, they had a male and female cantor (singer) and also a pianist and flutist. Almost the entire service consisted of them singing really beautiful versions of various prayers, most of which I'd never heard (the melodies that is, not the prayers themselves). Most interestingly, there were tons of pamphlets for events memorializing the victims of a car bomb attack at a Jewish center here in 1994. It's obviously a huge issue in the Jewish community here, but something we never talk about in America. Although I really enjoyed the service, Elvira recommended a different temple to me, and I think I'll try that one the next time I go. Overall, though, it was great to find something at least somewhat familiar in a place that is so different.

After the service, I met up with some friends from my program at a bar in the Palermo neighborhood. Palermo is a largely residential neighborhood, filled with parks and lots of bars/clubs. We chose the bar because Jason, a jazz pianist friend from the program, was playing at a jam session there. It had cool paintings on the walls, good music (including the live jazz), and a generally laid back ambiance, all of which I liked a lot. I ended up sitting at a table with a few people from my program, some Argentinian members of the band, and a very nice Venezuelan guy, who couldn't stop talking about how badly he wanted to move to America. The night was a lot of fun, although I still need to adjust to the crazy hours they keep here. I left the bar at 4 am and it was still packed.

Until next time,
Chelsea

Excursiones en la Ciudad

2008-07-31T22:43:00.000-03:00

Since I have so much free time in the weeks before classes start, I decided I will see something new - a museum, park, neighborhood, etc. - every day. I enacted this plan yesterday by going to the Recoleta cemetery, a huge cemetery in (unsurprisingly) the Recoleta neighborhood. It is basically a miniature town, with wide paved roads lined with huge, house-like mausoleums. Although it's a huge tourist attraction, and something that I can't leave BA without seeing, I have to admit that I found the whole thing a bit weird. Still, a lot of the mausoleums were quite pretty, and it was definitely worth the trip. Unfortunately, my camera ran out of batteries almost as soon as I entered. I took a few pictures that don't really capture what it was like, but here they are anyway. Also, my camera died before I got to Evita Peron's grave, to me the most interesting part. There were tons of people standing around it, and the "street" in front was covered in flowers and notes.

After leaving the cemetery, I went home to eat dinner with Joaquín y Elvira, and then went out to a bar with new friend Bennett. Bennett actually goes to Wesleyan, but we never hung out until now. However, we live about 4 blocks away from each other, so we decided to check out the fairly sizeable bar/club scene where we live. We went to a bar called Gibraltar, about nine blocks from my house, and it was a lot of fun. On a Wednesday night, it was packed, mostly with people who had come from work. It was a very relaxed night, exactly how I like it, each of us just drinking a beer and talking.

Today, after a very short orientation session, I went to El Expo Rural with some other kids on my program. It was kind of like a county fair, filled with farm animals competing for prizes, and scantily clad women selling tractors (okay, I don't actually know if that happens at state fairs). The best part was seeing all the rural artisans selling really nice leather and wool stuff. I can say with confidence that this will be the smelliest new thing I see this week - or at least I hope so.

And now some boring logistical contact information:
The phone number I gave out is my new Argentinian cell phone, not my host family's apartment phone. I'm not sure if I can receive American calls on it, but feel free to give it a shot. You can also give my old phone number a try, but I don't usually turn it on. Finally, if you left me a voice mail, I am not ignoring you! I simply cannot figure out how to check my voicemail here. If you are my mystery voice mailer, please contact me and let me know what you said!

More neighborhoods, photos, etc. tomorrow.

¡Hasta pronto!
Chelsea

Un Día Maravilloso

2008-07-29T23:41:00.000-03:00

I spent today picking classes, exploring cafés with friends both new and old, and thinking about all the things I want to do in this city, country, and continent. I knew it was going to be a good day when I found out that Universidad de Buenos Aires has a geography department. I promptly pre-enrolled in 3 geography courses (and one history) and then did a squeally little dance of joy with a boy named Evan who also loves geography. Although he doesn’t know it yet, Evan will be my new best friend.

I had a long break in the middle of the day, when those in advanced economics were enrolling, and I walked to this really cool bookstore/café/former theater with two kids from my program called El Atenio (The Athenian - way better than the one in Middletown). The building is circular, with four floors, each one filled with books. The café is in the back of the first floor, the former location of the stage (see photo below). We sat in the café for about three hours. You can look up and see all the books and people. The ceiling is circular and painted like an old Renaissance painting.

I really like the group of kids that I hung out with today. They seemed very down to earth and interested in the same things as me. I even got to geek out about political theory with one of them. We even spoke Spanish the whole time. Although I learn more from hearing Porteño Spanish, it was wonderful to have an uninterrupted Spanish flow from the time I woke up until 7 pm. I don’t know if it was that or just having more time in Buenos Aires, but something clicked today. I began to remember old vocabulary, to speak more quickly, and to do so with a better accent. Best of all, I understood almost all the Spanish I heard, from American students and natives alike. It made the day a whole lot more pleasant.

In general, I’ve been really impressed with the group of students on my program. Before arriving, I expected something akin to college orientation – superficial conversation, artificial cliques, and lots of alcohol. But everyone I’ve met has been friendly, inclusive, and genuinely interested in speaking Spanish, exploring the city, and learning about Porteño/Argentinian culture. Of course, people (myself included) want to experience the nightlife, but everyone seems to have other interests as well.

After the orientation ended for the day, I met up with Jenny Shapiro at a café. For those who don’t know, Jenny is my friend from camp who happens to be studying in BA this semester on another program. It was great to see her, both because I rarely get to see her in America much less in Argentina, and because she’s the only person on this continent with whom, at this point, I can have a comfortable conversation. We sat and talked (in English) for about two hours, and made lots of plans to explore places in and around the city.

I’m beginning to realize just how much the city has to offer, and it’s really exciting. I feel really lucky to have a whole semester to savor it all. If I were here on vacation, I never would have let myself sit in El Ataeno all afternoon. Instead, I would have looked around, taken a few pictures, and moved on to my next destination. But this way I get to experience Buenos Aires, not just see it. And even with all this time, I’ll never get to all the museums, cafés, bars, and classes that I want. I’ll never be done meeting people, improving my Spanish, and learning about Argentina.

When I got back to the apartment, I sat in the kitchen with Elvira while she cooked dinner, and we had a really nice conversation. She asked me how I was feeling, and we talked about the difficulties of simultaneously learning the language, meeting new people, learning my way around, etc. It was good to hear that she is paying attention and cares.

After that, I hung out with Joaquín and his friend who taught me Spanish slang and showed off with their knowledge of English swear words. Just imagine a skinny thirteen-year-old trying as hard as he can to pronounce the words “suck my balls,” and you can begin to understand how funny this conversation was. I learned that “floggers,” as in foto-loggers, are the Argentinian equivalent of emo My Space-ers. They also taught me about “billeros,” who they described as guys who wear lots of “Nyke” (Nike) clothing and carry knives.

Dinner was also very interesting. I’m considering taking a service learning class where we work with the organization Las Madres del Plazo de Mayo. I knew that some of Elvira’s past students had done this, so I asked her about their experiences, unintentionally sparking an argument between Joaquín and Elvira that lasted through all of dinner. Basically, Joaquín began teasing his mom for revering las madres “como dioses,” and she got very angry, trying to explain to him the horrors of the military regime, and the role of las madres in ending it. She told a story about her cousin who worked for the military at that time. When he refused to kill, torture, etc, they basically ruined his life, making it impossible for him to get a job or live in his apartment. It was an intense, fascinating conversation. I was told not to raise this topic with Argentinians, and although I’ve respected this rule, I’m glad that I unwittingly started the conversation.

In other news, I took some pictures of my neighborhood on my walk home yesterday.
El Congreso. You know, just your typical walk home from school.
Apparently, there are a lot of very liberal people in Argentina. Or at least a few people that are good at writing on stuff. That, and putting stickers on things.

El Obelisko, also on my walk home.

I also walked past La Casa Rosada, but it was dark by the time I got there. However, pictures of la casa y El Plazo de Mayo coming soon. Well, it is past my bed time (aka the time when lots of Argentinians are just finishing dinner).

Until next time,
Chelsea

First Post!

2008-07-28T15:36:00.001-03:00

Well, it may have taken 25 hours longer than planned, but after 8 hours in O’Hare, an extra night at home, and 12 hours in Washington D.C., I have finally arrived in Buenos Aires. So far, I’ve had one night in a hotel with the other kids from my program and two in the apartment with my host mom and little brother. Although we did some interesting things the first days of orientation, including an architecture tour of Recoleta, a ritzy neighborhood with lots of old French buildings, I enjoy being with my host family much more. With them, I speak only Spanish, and, although I’m quite rusty, I know I’m already improving.

My host mom, Elvira, is extremely welcoming and helpful. She’s a child psychologist who sees patients in her office/bedroom. The family has hosted about ten students before, so she knows what information and advice to give me. Even better, she knows how to talk slowly for me. It was just the two of us at dinner when I arrived, and we had a surprisingly intimate conversation about Argentinian history and politics, American politics, homesickness, and traveling in Argentina.

She’s been married and divorced twice and has one kid from each marriage. Her daughter Catalina is 21 and lives in her own apartment in Buenos Aires. Obviously, my goal is to come home with an Argentinian BFFL, but I haven’t met her yet, so we shall see what happens.

Elvira’s son, Joaquín, is 13 years old and lives in the apartment with us (although he spends a lot of time at his dad’s house). He has two best friends, Matthias and Ezekiel (incidentally, both Hebes), who according to Elvira will be like two extra little brothers. I met all three of them at the same time, and in about five seconds they were offering to show me all these different places in the city, even take me shopping. It was very sweet, and I’ll probably take them up on it. Joaquín and his friends talk constantly, which both reminds me of home and helps a lot with my Spanish.

I love my new neighborhood. It’s very close to la Casa Rosada (where the president lives) and el Congreso (the congress building). Almost all of the protests in Buenos Aires (and there are a lot of them) happen in la Plaza de Mayo, right in front of la Casa Rosada. Last night, I saw a rally commemorating the anniversary of Evita Peron’s death. As a nerdy CSS major, this is pretty much my dream come true.

Yesterday, Joaquín, Elvira, Matthias and Ezekiel took me to la Ferria de San Telmo, a weekly craft fair. There was a tango show on the street that Elvira said is one of the best in the city. The dancers were amazing, and they stopped in between each number to explain the history of the type of tango they did.

In general, I really love Buenos Aires so far. It has so much energy, and every street is filled with people – a lot like New York in that way. I’ve really only seen bits of a few neighborhoods, so I have lots of exploring to do. Speaking and listening to Spanish all day is incredibly tiring. I think the two words I’ve said most since arriving are “no entiendo.” At the same time, I’ve improved already after three days, and I know it’ll be easier soon.

And here are some photos...

Joaquín, with the shirt I brought him. I swear he was excited about it. At least more excited than this picture would indicate.
Joaquín y Elvira
Matthias, Joaquín, Ezekiel
The tango show, photos courtesy of Joaquín

And finally, some contact information.

Apartment address:
Chelsea Sprayregen
Perú 420
Piso 4 “H”
1067 Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires
República Argentina 4342-3386

FLACSO address (the institute where my study abroad program is based):
Chelsea Sprayregen
CIEE Program
FLACSO
Tucumán 1966 Piso 2
Buenos Aires, 1050
Argentina

I know the last line is different in each, and I’m not sure which one will work better. Feel free to send anything you want to the apartment, but the mailboxes in FLACSO are small, and will pretty much only fit letters. I’m aware that this really only applies to my mom, but I just thought I’d let everyone know.

Argentinian phone number: 11 3182 0743

The 11 is the Buenos Aires city code. I'm not sure how to do the country code.

More frequent posts coming soon.

Hasta luego,
Chelsea