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.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Berkshires
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.
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
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.
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
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."
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."
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Conclusions
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.
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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
These are a few of my favorite things
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.
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.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Daily Life
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.
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.
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