Ushaia: Mi Viaje al Fin del Mundo

Having visited Jujuy in the north, Mendoza in the East, and of course, Buenos Aires on the western shore, only one corner of this enormous country remained to be explored: the South. And I when I say South, I really mean it. My French host sister Anna and I travelled to Ushaia, la ciudad más austral del mundo (the most southern city in the world), also known as “El Fin del Mundo,” (the End of the World). Ushaia is located in Patagonia, in the province Tierra del Fuego (the land of fire). Nothing about Ushaia however, makes me think of fire. Maybe the Land of Ice and Snow, or the Land of Arctic Chill, but certainly nothing above zero degrees Celsius.

We took a very early flight, and I woke up just as we began the descent into Ushaia. It was a spectacular sight: the huge basin of water and the imposing mountain range seemed to devour the tiny landing strip. It was so tiny in fact, that I was amazed to land in one piece. We passed quickly through the small airport and headed outside to catch a cab. Despite my attempt to mentally prepare for the weather, I couldn't help but be a little shocked when I first stepped outside and was hit by the bitterly cold Patagonia air. And I swear I wasn't just being a wimp: Ushaia is about as close as you can get to Antarctica without actually going there.

After leaving the airport, we checked Torre del Sur, our small hostel perched atop the hillside overlooking Ushaia. Anna and I had a room to ourselves, with huge windows and a panoramic view of the town. When we first entered our room, two of the fattest cats I have ever seen in my life were sleeping on our beds. Their names were Alfonsina and Garcia, and they looked more like small mountain lions than domestic pets. To my disbelief, I discovered later they were both on a diet, and had already lost a couple kilos. Luckily Alfonsina rolled off my bed and waddled away (probably to eat), because I’m pretty sure there would not have been room for the both of us.

A view from our hostel:



After walking around the center for a bit, we grabbed lunch at a little restaurant. When I opened the menu, what I saw nearly brought tears of joy to my eyes: salmón. Yes, the wonderfully tasty Seattle delicacy, along with a bunch of other types of fish, was served in Ushaia. There is very little fish in Buenos Aires, and this was the first seafood I had eaten since I left home. My salmon sandwich was extremely satisfying, which is good considering that it will probably have to hold me over until I get home in August.

Next we headed to la Glacial Martial. The only way to get there is by taxi, and our very friendly cab driver drove us up the windy road, giving us some background on the area, telling us his life story, and insisting that we pull over at random tourist stops to take pictures. For example, it was imperative that we pose with this carriage:



We hiked around up by the glacier for a couple hours, and soaked in the majestic landscape. At the glacier, and throughout my trip in Ushaia, I was often at a loss for words. I found myself saying "Wow" a lot, as any adjective could only begin to capture the surrounding beauty. That being said, I'll let the photos speak for themselves:



We started heading down just when the rain started. It would have been perfect timing had there been a taxi to take back to town, but unfortunately there were none in sight. Left with no other option, we began to trek back along the road, down the hillside, in the pouring rain. An hour and a half later we arrived back at our hostel, soaking wet and freezing, but feeling like we had just survived an authentic Ushaian adventure. I discovered the main heater by the front door of our hostel and parked myself next to it for the next several hours.

The next morning Anna and I headed down to the waterfront for una navegación, where we boarded our boat, El Tango. Despite the boat's ridiculously lame name, we had a wonderful tour. There were no more than ten of us onboard, and we could ask our tour guide questions whenever we wanted. There was also a big cabin we could go warm up a bit when we felt the frostbite coming on. We travelled to three little islands/big rocks throughout Canal Beagle, where we saw tons of wildlife and many amazing views. El Tango drove right up to Isla de los Lobos, where the sea lions were barking there little hearts out. We were hardly a few feet away, and the only thing stopping me from hopping over to join the party was the guide's warning that falling into Canal Beagle would guarantee a slow and painful death. El Tango also drove around in circles, and a large pack of seals followed us around, jumping playfully in the wake.







We disembarked at Isla Bridges, where the guide gave us a tour, pointing out the different native plants and giving us some history on the Yámana, the indigenous people who used to inhabit Tierra del Fuego. We learned that the Yámana survived mainly off of sea lion and seal fat, and that to be able to digest such a diet, their abdomens expanded, increasing their average body temperature several degrees higher than the average human. And not only did the go swimming to look for food and shells, but they lived naked. That really blew my mind. I was literally wearing seven layers and still freezing. The outstanding resilience of the Yámana could not however, withstand the arrival of the Europeans: two hundred years ago there were thousands of the Yámana, and now in Ushaia there only one still living.

Isla Bridges:





Anna and I made our way over to la pista para patinar, where Anna made her first-ever appearance on the ice-skating rink. We realized quickly that Argentines ice-skate like they drive. In other words, like complete maniacs. At any given time roughly 50 percent were on the ground, while the rest were completely out of control, on the brink on crashing. Despite not being the most hospitable of learning environments, Anna quickly picked it up. She started of clutching the rail, but by the end of the night she cruising around the rink, dodging Argentines, like a natural.



We spent the next three days hiking in el Parque Nacional. We did three different routes, and the scenery of each was completely unique. The first day we hiked along the shoreline, passing through thick forested areas and wide open fields. The landscape was constantly changing as we forged ahead: one moment I felt like I was heading to the mountains to go skiing, the next at the ocean ready for a boat ride, and minutes later I was in the woods, expecting Frodo Baggins and crew to appear at any moment.







Day 2: Snow. Ushaia was a winter wonderland blanketed in several inches of soft powder. The only pair of shoes I had was my running shoes, so to stay dry I wore plastic bags in between my socks and shoes. I looked like a homeless person, but fashion was a low priority on this trip, and my feet stayed dry. Once again, extremely diverse terrain: we passed by the sea, lakes, creeks and peat bogs, and through (according to my brochure) Subantarctic Southern Beech Woods.







The red posts marking the trail were buried in snow, and about half way through the hike we took a wrong turn and somehow ended up at the border with Chile. Though it was not exactly the trip I had envisioned, I am glad that I made it over to Argentina's skinny western neighbor, even if only for 30 seconds. Here am am in two countries at once!



Day 3: The final day we hiked along the bank of an enormous lake, in the shadow of the Andes.







During my stay in Ushaia I constantly had the sensation of being overwhelmed by the massive and indomitable natural environment. Even though town itself, hanging precariously on the mountainside, has not come even close to taming this rugged terrain. Having descended down into El Fin del Mundo, I emerged convinced that nature will have the last word.

Jujuy: Lana, Llamas y Pachamama

Last weekend I headed to Jujuy (pronounced who-who-EE), the northernmost province in Argentina. FLACSO, my study abroad program, organized the trip, and about fifty of us spent the weekend exploring some of the most breathtaking landscapes I have ever seen.

We flew into the province of Salta and drove a few hours north up to Tilcara, a small pueblo in Jujuy tucked deep into the heart of the Andes. The bus dropped us off on an nearly unpopulated road at the cabins we would be staying in. Within hours I had moved from the bustling madness of Buenos Aires to the peaceful, great outdoors of northern Argentina. (A little bit like flying back to Seattle from LA.)

A view from my cabaña:



My state of tranquility was short lived. I learned of a pet llama housed nearby, so naturally, an expedition was in order. That very night, my friends and I entered into the darkness wielding only our cameras and our thirst for adventure, determined to locate and befriend the mythical creature. Apparently llamas like to spit, so we were uncertain how open-minded the llama would be our friendship, and were prepared for a potential confrontation. The mission however, went extremely smoothly: we discovered the outdoor cage which houses the legendary llama, sleeping peacefully and even furrier than I had imagined. I dubbed him “Uriburi.” It is the name of one of Argentina’s first presidents, and it was perfect. I returned to my cabin, extremely pleased with our discovery of Uriburi, only to find that my water bottle, once full, had leaked onto my bed and was now completely empty. Exhausted from the night’s events, I curled into fetal position in the one square foot of dry space remaining, and dreamed I was perched on top of Uriburi as he galloped majestically into the Andean sunset.





I awoke the next morning rather damp and prepared for more adventure. We drove to an archaeological site in a town called Humahuaca, where the guide showed us vestiges of the pre-Incan, Incan and Spanish civilizations: thousand-year old fortresses, altars, graves and houses. To my great excitement, there were also tons of llamas grazing. (By this point in the trip, I was plotting how I could pack one in my suitcase and take it home with me to Buenos Aires.)







The guide also pointed out a hideously out of place structure in middle of the site. The archeologists, working the early 20th century, had decided that to congratulate themselves for reviving this “dead civilization,” they would build a pyramid. And not just anywhere, but smack on top of the ancient ruins. The anthropologists currently working in Humahuaca only leave this ethnocentric eyesore because, “it too is a part of history.” I was also horrified to see the name inscribed across the face of the construction: Juan B. Ambrosetti, the head archaeologist, as well as the name of the street I live on in Buenos Aires. It was disappointing to discover that old Juan was far from the valiant Argentine heroe I had envisioned as I strolled down my street each day.



That afternoon we drove to another little town, where we enjoyed a tasty lunch and a traditional folkloric musical performance. One of the musicians was playing what must be the world’s longest instrument. When he started swinging it around in the air we all got a little worried, but in the end no one was injured.



We walked from the restaurant to the town center, where the guide took us over to a cemetery. Far from gloomy and somber, this burial ground was bursting with color and life. Like many other indigenous cultures, the natives to this region had, and still have, an outlook on death completely distinct from that of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Rather than mourning the dead, they celebrate with their deceased loved ones.





Afterwards we headed over to la feria artesenal, basically and arts and crafts fair (Dad, I would argue mostly arts :) ). La feria offered every llama/alpaca product imaginable, and spent the next hour or so seeking out the perfect llama sweater. I found just the right one, along with the perfect pair of wool gloves and socks. I also bought Natalia a pair of salad forks, which she apparently did not think were salad forks, as she mounted them on the wall in the kitchen when I presented them to her upon my return. I was not going to argue.

Sporting our new llama gear:



That night we hit the town for dinner, I was not going to pass up the opportunity to try the classic Jujuy dish: llama. It tasted a lot like beef, and was quite tasty.



That night, three wild dogs parked themselves outside our cabin, where they began a boisterous barking/howling competition with what was apparently a rival pack from the other side of the hill. It went on for hours, each pack alternating turns, attempting to out-bark the other. It was an impressive performance, but I'm pretty sure that Max could give them all a run for their money.

We woke up early the next morning ready to take things up a notch, in vertical feet that is. Here we are at 13,000 feet, the highest point in Jujuy. They served us tea made from coca leaves, which is supposed to help with elevation sickness. Pretty much everyone thought it was disgusing, but being the tea fanatic that I am, I guzzled down my cup and as well as my friends'.



The guide then led us to a pile of rubble on the side of the road.



Or, at least that is what I thought it was, until we found out that this mound of stones and garbage is actually an altar to Pachamama, “Mother Earth,” or the fertility goddess worshipped in the Incan tradition. When passing by this point, you leave an offering to Pachamama, such as coca leaves or cigarettes, to ensure safe travels for the remainder of the journey. If in serious need of a blessing, you are recommended to sacrifice a llama. Luckily, it was never necessary for us to resort to such drastic measures.

The bus ride (throughout the entire trip, in fact) was incredible, and I stared transfixed out the window at the majestic mountains, and the diverse flora y fauna.





Next stop: las Salinas Grandes (the great salt flats). I had never seen anything like it before, except snow I suppose. Unlike a snowy field though, these seemingly endless plains are made of pure SALT. Las Salinas Grandes used to be enormous lakes that at some point in history dried up, and were converted into these infinite white fields.





Here I am licking the salt.



Ok, so I didn’t actually lick the ground, but I did taste the salt water from one of the hundreds of manmade pools.

Next, we made our way to Purmamarca, the town tucked alongside el Cerro de los Siete Colores, or the hill of seven colors. Painted majestically by the passage of time, these hills used to be under water thousands and thousands of years ago, and the minerals from the water left behind a hillside flaunting a range of striking colors. I didn’t do so well in my seventh grade Earth Science class, and can’t elaborate much more than that, but I do know that Pachamama must have been at work here.





We also learned about the Carnaval festival, which the natives celebrate every March. According to the guide, basically every sort of social contract, including marriage, goes out the window during the celebrations. People dress up like the devil and go completely nuts. She explained that unlike the famous Carnaval of Río de Jainero, Brazil, which is “para mirar” (to watch), the Carnaval in Jujuy is “para vivir” (to live). What exactly "para vivir" entails, she left up to the imagination.

It was hard to believe that in a single day I had travelled to two such distinct landscapes, each completely unique, and remarkably beautiful.

For the final night, our scarily large group of flacsitos, as well as the coordinators, went into town and basically took over a local peña, a place with folkloric dancing and music. We got our groove on and made fools of ourselves attempting to dance a dance we did not know, and had a really great time of it. I was sorry to leave Jujuy so soon, but I’m pretty sure the spirit of the llamas, and Pachamama, will stay with me.

Gatos que bailan, locos que actúan, y poetas que enseñan

I have met some characters in Buenos Aires, and luckily for me, some of them happen to be my professors. Here is a snapshot of some of the really quirky ones:

My Argentine literature class is taught by an extremely tiny, eccentric, chain-smoking poet who we call Gaby. (I call all my professors by their first name, and even greet some of them with a kiss on the cheek. I like this aspect of the academic culture here, and have found that there is still the same level of respect without all the formality.) She is usually drinking mate during class, which actually is not uncommon for professors to do. It’s as if they cannot make it two or three hours without their beloved mate. Every English teacher I’ve ever had had an author love/obsession, and Gaby’s is Julio Cortázar. She owns something like 13 pets, including several species of reptiles I have never heard of. Her hands are usually trembling, if out of excitement or about the class material or caffeine, I’m not sure. Gaby’s style of teaching is what you could call abstract. She’ll start out talking about a poem by Borges, and the fleetingness of city life, and suddenly she’s talking about making eye contact with a man in a bookstore and falling in love, and how bookstores are the best places to fall in love, and how you have to lose yourself completely in order to find yourself, and suddenly we’re back to Borges, and while I’m not exactly sure how it all fits it makes sense in a very poetic sort of way. Something else cool about her class is that we get to do a lot of creative writing. Although I’m an English major, I’ve hardly spend any time writing creatively, and I’m really enjoying the opportunity to write my own poems and stories.

In the spirit of trying new things and stepping out of my comfort zone, I decided to sign up for una clase de actuación (acting). Considering that my previous acting experience can be summed up by my fourth grade role as vulture #27 in the West Mercer production of The Jungle Book, I can safely say this is something new and different. Originally though, I did not sign up for acting. Instead, I chose a knitting class. Looking back, I have not the slightest idea what I was thinking. I stepped into the classroom expecting to join a group of young Argentines (once again, no clue why I thought this would be the case), only to find a room filled with about fifteen elderly women. The teacher asked me “estás en esta clase?”, and taking full advantage of my foreigner I-don’t-understand tactic, responded no, fled the classroom, and signed up for acting instead. So that is how I ended up in Martín’s acting class. Martín always looks a little disheveled: he consistently sports two different socks, a pair or wrinkly cargo pants, and a shaggy head of hair sticking out in several directions. He has very intense eyes, and his face has always struck me as that of an eagle. Shortly after arriving to the first class, I found out that not only was I the only foreigner in the class, but also that it would be all improvisation. So needless to say, I was a little bit terrified. The good news is that I am learning to embrace the ridiculousness of the situation. We do exercises where Martín will count to ten and on each count we have to do a different facial expression (very exaggerated, of course), or we will walk around the room pushing of the wall and each time we push away from the wall we have to change mood. I’m convinced that Martín’s role of choice is the crazed madman, because the majority of the exercises we do involve acting like a crazy person. For example, once we broke into partners and had to act out a situation in which we were ranting at an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend. Instead of talking face to face with our partner though, we had to stare at and speak to our raised hand. In the middle of the exercise, Martín came over to me and informed me that I needed to tense up my hand, contort my face, widen my eyes and bear my teeth. (Sara, the image that comes to mind is the face on the back of my dilatory shirt.) It’s pretty amusing because sometimes when a group is doing a skit, which of course involves characters who are insane, I will look back at Martín. He will be standing in the back of the room making his favorite crazed face. He is an actor, and I think it takes everything he’s got to restrain himself from jumping into the scene and showing us how it’s really done.

My tango class is taught by Marcelo, a fifty something year old man with an enormous, bushy mustache. Marcelo always wears the same thing: black pants and a white button-up shirt. There isn’t however, a whole lot of buttoning-up going on, as he opts to leave a large portion of his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his extremely hairy chest. Perhaps once you are a tango master you are entitled to do those sorts of things. Qué sé yo. The class has about 40 people in it (half Argentines and half exchange students), so I hadn’t really interacted much directly with Marcelo. A couple weeks into the class, I was standing over by the wall, practicing my ochos, when Marcelo approached me and said, “Necesitás caminar como si fuera un gato.” (You need to walk as if you were a cat.). Despite the undoubtedly very perplexed, I-have-not-the-slightest-idea-how-to-walk-like-a-cat expression on my face, he seemed satisfied and sauntered off. Marcelo will also randomly choose a girl in the class to demonstrate a new pattern. I managed to successfully evade him for the first few weeks by slinking off and hiding in the back during these moments, but my time finally came. I was concentrating so hard I must have been frowning, because Marcelo pushed my mouth into a smile, kicked the ground loudly to signal we were starting, and whisked me off into a giro (move where the man rotates in one spot and the woman spins around him). I think I missed a step, and maybe forgot a gancho or two (a sort of hook/kick thing between your leg and your partner’s leg), but I was relieved to have completed the pattern, and to not have speared him with the heel of my shoe (which I’m sorry to say, has happened before). There are also two assistant teachers. One is an Argentine woman with bleach-blond dyed hair, who wears hot pink velour outfits and matching hot pink heels. When we do ganchos she laughs hysterically. I’m not exactly sure why, but I suppose she finds our terrible technique amusing. The other assistant is a tiny little man, shorter than me in fact, who has a curly little pony tail and wears all black. He does not speak. I’m pretty sure that he walks as if he were a cat.

Bicicletas y Bodegas: Mi Viaje a Mendoza

Last weekend I took a wonderful trip to Mendoza, the Napa Valley of South America. Bag in hand and excited to become a wine connoisseur, I boarded the bus with my two friends, Elsa and Sarah. Despite my enthusiasm, I was not exactly looking the part of a stylish Argentine vineyard-goer: Once we took our seats, Sarah asked me, “Ali, do you know that you have makeup on only one eye?”. Sure enough, she was right. After retracing my steps that past hour, I remembered that I had gotten an eyelash in my eye on the bus, and rubbed all the makeup off one side of my face. I considered evening it up, but ultimately decided that as I was already looking quite frumpy in my sweats and tennis shoes, any attempt to improve my appearance would be pointless. I little later we were each served an alfajor, a favorite Argentine dessert/snack which is a sort of cookie sandwich filled with dulce de leche and covered in chocolate. Suprisingly, the bus alfajor was magically delicious. It was however, extremely crumbly. By this point, I was in my seat, makeup on one eye, covered in cookie crumbs. Though I was not looking my best, I was feeling great, and had a great time on the bus hanging out with Sarah and Elsa. When I woke up the next morning, we had arrived in Mendoza, the land of vino.

On the bus:



Our first day in Mendoza was very chill. Mendoza is a very small city, more like a town in fact, and it was a refreshing change from the craziness of Buenos Aires. We spent the majority of the day wandering around a huge, very beautiful park full of fountains, statues and a large lake. We sat alongside the lake relaxing and taking into the gorgeous scenery. I was really excited because I saw a dog scampering around the park that looked exactly like Doug from the movie Up. I was tempted to dog-nap it, but ultimately refrained.



We had a really nice lunch sitting outside on the street our hostel is on. We hardly could contain ourselves when the waitress put a little bowl of peanuts on our table. This may not seem like anything extraordinary, but Argentines do not eat peanuts. I had not seen the sight of peanut butter, let alone a peanut, in months, and the sight of this salty treat was cause for celebration. Another culinary difference is Argentines’ lack of appreciation for ketchup. Though they add copious amounts of sugar to everything, they have yet to discover the joys of ketchup. Therefore, it was not cutting it when we ordered fries and the waitress brought us one single packet of ketchup. We finally managed to scrap up a bunch of packets and enjoy our French fries. I’m pretty sure an Argentine waiter knows the moment you ask, “More ketchup please?”, that you’re from the US.



That night we had an asado at our hostel, where we sat outside enjoying wine and a variety of meats with a bunch of British travelers. It was a little chilly, and the nanopuff made it's first big appearance. We went to bed fairly early so that we would be fresh and ready to go for our big recorrido de las bodegas (vineyard tour) the next day.



We had been hearing great things about this vineyard tour for weeks, and I could hardly wait to experience it for myself. We set off with a British couple we had met that night, and two Canadians we had met in our hostel room. After a bus trip outside the city, into the heart of wine country, we arrived at Mr. Hugo’s bike rental. By word of mouth, we had learned that of all the rental places available, Mr. Hugo’s was THE place to go. I had been expecting some sort of bike rental store. Where we showed up however, was actually the driveway of a house. Mr. Hugo emerged, with a huge smile on his face and a bottle of wine in his hand. After serving us a glass of wine and chatting for a while, Mr. Hugo set us up with our bikes and our map, and sent us on our way.



I love bike riding, and though this bike was what you could euphemistically call an antique, I could not have been happier. It was a perfectly clear, sunny day, the cool breeze blowing in my face. Grapes hanging heavily from the vine filled the air with their sweet perfume.



At the first vineyard we enjoyed a glass of wine and asado for lunch. The wine tasting technique got advanced very quickly. We learned about lágrimas (tears): if you swirl the glass around and the “tears” fall slowly then it is a good wine. Naturally, I found it essential to swirl my wine around and stare intently at my glass before each sip to evaluate the falling velocity of the lágrimas.





At the next vineyard we had our first wine tasting. The guide would say things like, “Note the smoky, woody, tobacco flavor,” and tasting neither smoke nor wood nor tobacco, I would nod my head knowingly and say “Ah, sí, sí claro.” Though, I did discover that I like Malbec wines the best, and prefer the older wines stored in oak barrels as opposed to the younger wines. We also did a tour inside the vineyard, and then explored outside as well, where I hunted for, and feasted on grapes.





After going to one last vineyard, we realized that the chocolate factory was closing soon. Elsa and I, our hearts set on going, hopped on bikes and booked it to the factory, where we arrived just in time to sample tasty chocolates, olive oils and of course, different kinds of dulce de leche. We headed back to return our bikes, where none other than Mr. Hugo was waiting for us with, you guessed it: more wine. I had been looking forward to this bike tour for weeks, and it ended up being everything and more than I had anticipated.

Us with Mr. Hugo:





We spent our next, and last, day in Mendoza chilling by the pool and exploring a nearby art fair. Our relaxing day took a mildly stressful turn when we were at the bus station preparing to head home, and five minutes before takeoff we realized our tickets were for four days earlier. After sprinting to the ticket office and buying new tickets, we made it onto our bus with hardly three minutes to spare. Though I was glad to make the bus, I probably wouldn’t have complained if I was stuck in Mendoza for a few more days :)

Veintiuno

My 21st birthday was a mighty success. After a midterm and class from ten until 9, I could hardly wait to relax and begin the festivities. My Austrian housemate Veronica’s birthday is the day after mine, so we decided to plan a little party together. We each invited our friends over to the house, and it ended up being a wonderful international affair, of (North)Americans, Argentines, Austrians, Germans and una francesa.







Natalia put up balloons outside the front door, and all over the living room and we sat chatting and laughing around a delicious spread of food: una picada (meat/cheese/bread/olives etc.) and empanadas. Anna (my French housemate) made caipirinhas, which is a traditional Brazilian drink, and we had a lot of tasty wine as well. Eli, Natalia’s friend/co-worker, made guacamole. I forgot how much I missed Mexican food until I took a bite of this guacamole.



Natalia also made a delicious apple pie for dessert. You can gather how good is was from the pictures :)





For a birthday present, Natalia gave me a shirt that she made herself. It fit perfectly, and I ended up wearing it that night! Veronica and Anna gave me a tango CD for me to practice my new moves with. Then the four of us had a big group hug. I felt, and feel, so incredibly lucky to be living with Natalia, Veronica and Anna. I couldn’t have asked for a greater family to be living with for my time abroad.

Here is me, Anna, Veronica and Natalia:



This is me with Eli and Natalia. Eli, by the way, is hilarious. She is over at the house a lot, because she works with Natalia, and I can always count on having an entertaining conversation with her. Eli speaks ridiculously fast, and every other word is either a lunfardo (Argentine slang) or a swear word, so sometimes a lot is lost in translation. She calles Luz, the cat, Senora de Chorizo (The Sausage Lady, roughly), which I never fail to laugh at. She is also, according to Natalia, very flaky. Natalia will call Eli, who will say she'll be over in a half hour, and then she will go back to sleep and show up at the house three hours later. Once Natalia snapped and got angry at Eli. When Eli showed up later, she slinked into the house bearing Natalia's favorite chocolate.



Later that night my group of friends and I set off to go dancing. I was reluctant to leave, because we were having such a fun time at the house, but I knew the night would not be complete without a little dancing. Per usual, I had a fantastic time at the boliche (club where you can go dancing) with my friends. Unfortunately someone dropped (and broke) my camera right when we got there, so I have no pictures. The night however, will be forever imprinted in my memory.

When I got home early that morning, I found that the girls had hung up the balloons all around my room. I thought to myself, it is good to be 21 and in Buenos Aires.

Exploraciones Culturales

Last week an anthropologist came to my class as a guest speaker. After he spoke for a while about his research, we ended up having a discussion about some cultural differences between Argentina and the United States. Here are a few things that came up in the discussion, as well as some of my own observations:

1) La moda: as a general rule, Argentines are extremely fashionable. There is however, one exception:



These shoes are very stylish here. They kind of remind me of Crocs, except that I'm pretty sure people recognize that Crocs are ridiculous. Argentines on the other hand, consider these shoes to be high fashion.

2) Los Deportes: There are a lot of things that can be said about fútbol, which if we’re being honest is really the only sport in Argentina. One interesting cultural difference is that women do not play fútbol. Every time I tell someone that I play soccer, they almost always think that I am joking. I actually shared this difference myself during the discussion, to which the anthropologist responded, “Para mí, una mujer quien juega el fútbol es como un asado mal cocido.” Translation: for me, a woman who plays soccer is likely a badly cooked barbeque. Yes, from the mouth of the anthropologist.

3) Una Cultura de Café: In Buenos Aires, going to tomar un café, or getting coffee, is as much a part of the daily routine as sleeping or eating. Cafés line the streets, and are teeming with porteños, who will spend hours chatting over a café con leche and media lunas (delicious Argentine version of a croissant.) More than anything, going to tomar un café is an opportunity to spend time with friends and to talk, talk, talk. As the anthropologist said, “La discusión es un deporte nacional,” or discussion is a national sport. To give you a sense of the café culture here, note that there are only three Starbucks in the entire city of Buenos Aires. Three. The reason is because it doesn’t make sense to the porteños. While they have undoubtedly embraced McDonald’s and Burger King, they continue to reject the idea of to-go coffee. Coffee without conversation to go with it is practically unthinkable.

4) El Beso: Argentines always greet with a kiss. Until recently, I always considered this to be a more personal greeting than in the US. As a general rule I guess it is, at least between strangers, but the other day I realized that I really miss big, tight, it’s-hard-for-me-to-breathe hugs. Kisses here, while on the surface imply a lot of physical contact, are in reality very delicate. I’ve gone into huge withdrawal, and the other day I think I frightened Natalie when I gave her a huge, fuerte abrazo.

5) Lo Politcamente Corecto: I may have mentioned this earlier, but the term political correctness does not exist in Argentina. After talking about ethnocentrism and race as a social construct, the anthropologist (an anthropologist!) went on to refer to los chinos, pulling his eyelids and bowing down in a stereotypical, and what we would consider a pretty racist way. In Argentina anyone who is Asian is un chino, including Japanese and Koreans. The class was flabbergasted, but the crazy thing is that they don’t see anything wrong with saying these sorts of comments.

6) La Comida: What would you like on your sandwich? Jamón y queso o jamón y queso (jam and cheese)? Apparently turkeys do not exist in Argentina.

7) La Cultura Pop: Argentines are obsessed with the Simpsons. I watched an episode, all of which are dubbed over, and Homer’s voice is one of the funniest things I have ever heard. There were hundreds of Bart dolls at this feria:



They are also really into Spongebob Squarepants, or Bob Esponja. My Brazilian friend asked me once, “Do you like Bobby Sponge? Do you like Bobby Sponge?”. It took about fifteen minutes to figure out what in the world he was talking about.

8) Los Conductores: drivers in Buenos Aires are insane. Fact: Argentina has the highest number of road deaths, at a whopping 8,000 per year. Swerving, honking and shouting characterize a typical taxi ride. The drivers here make LA drivers seem like sweet little old ladies. In response to a comment about the apparent disregard for lane divisions, the anthropologist said jokingly (but not really), “oh, those are there for a reason?”. Here is a picture of my taxi driver the other night, who did a lot of shouting during the drive:



9) El Ojo: It took me weeks to figure this out, but in Buenos Aires there is something called “El Ojo,” or The Eye. What people do is they will say “ojo,” and then grab the skin under their eye and pull it down. I never knew what this meant, and would usually just look at people and smile when they did it, figuring it was some random gesture. I discovered however, that it actually means be careful. Good to know.

The same taxi driver pictured above was so into El Ojo that he actually had El Ojo in his taxi, so that he could simultaneously pull underneath his eye and point to the glass Ojo, for extra emphasis I suppose: