Piropos

"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

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.

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?

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

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

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

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.