Waterfalls and Walking, a lot

Before I got here I thought I walked a fair amount, maybe not a TON, but I definitely walked places. Estuve equivocado. Since arriving in BsAs I have walked my way through three pairs of shoes and am making quick work of several other pairs. The first pair to go was a cute pair of black Mary Janes with white checks that I got at Bata in 10th grade. They were never quite the same after I wore them to The Hives's concert in Vienna... (note to self: being in a large crowd of excited moshers in flats = black and blue feet the next morning)

The next pair to go was my beautiful pair of purple satin Indian flats that I got on the spur of the moment in London on Adriana and I's "Senior Trip". I can't begin to count the miles I must have walked in them, and though they have required repairs once already, I just can't let go. There is nothing like the relationship between a woman and comfortable pair of cute flats. Nothing. Maybe the cute old cobbler on the corner can fix them...

The most recent casualty was this afternoon as I walked the 10 blocks between the bus stop and the apartment where I tutor. Halfway there my fake Birkenstocks broke, and I limped the remaining blocks until I could get my hands on some superglue. Though they feel pretty sturdy now, I would rather not find myself with broken shoes and a 45 min. walk home. It would appear that it is time to go shoe shopping. What a tragedy. :-D Now the only question is to get a pair of the ubiquitous Converse sneakers, some pointy metallic flats, or pretty sandals. Decisions, decisions...

One of the contributors to the death of my Birks was most likely the 4 km hike in Iguazu to the waterfall under which we spent some time swimming before hiking the 4 km back. And thus I arrive at my weekend trip to Iguazu. Though it was only the first week of October it already feels like an eon ago. And as, according to Wiki, there is no specific length of time designated by the term 'eon' I feel pretty secure in my assertion that the psychological time that has passed for me since the first week of October is equivalent to an eon, más o menos.














Iguazu was my first trip out of the city as well as my first micro ride. Though not miserable, 17 hours on a tour bus is not my idea of a good time. And apparently I have fallen into the role of the girly girl as the majority of my travel companions were ready to step off the bus and head straight for a tour. I don't know how they do it. 17 hours on a bus and all I can think about is exfoliating about 17 layers of skin and bus off of me. Blech, it gives me the shivers just thinking about wandering around like that. So, after a quick shower we were ready to head to the park, and what a park...



Everyone says that the view is more impressive from the Brazilian side, but I have a hard time believing anything could be more impressive. After a short trolley ride we arrived at the beginning of the path to La Garganta del Diablo. Everyone says that the view is more (The Devil's Throat). And this is where I find myself at a loss, because as much as I love words, the sensation of standing looking down over the edge of a waterfall so high that you can't see the bottom for the mist is something quite indescribable. The first thing you notice is the noise. You can hear the dull roar before you can see anything. Then there is the mist. You turn a corner and see this cloud of mist rising in the distance. Standing at the top of the falls is a rather damp experience as any time the wind shifts a cloud of mist comes swirling out of the depths straight for you and your digital camera. But with the mist come the rainbows, and the rainbows are pretty much completely lovely.

You know what else is lovely? Waterfalls that you can swim under. Like the kind you might imagine Tahitian goddesses bathing under, except instead of Tahitian goddesses it was 7 sticky college girls who had trekked several kilometers and climbed over several ant infested rocks (eeeewww, think Discovery Channel trails of ants.... everywhere). But the waterfall took care of that, and any illusions we might have had about the joy to be found under said waterfall. Of course it was great fun. However, falling from many many feet above one's head is not the softest thing and the slippery rocks beneath are pretty good at limiting one's ability to move gracefully, assuming one had such an ability in the first place.

Grace was definitely not a problem for the two Brazilian dancers who showed up at our hostel barbecue to run the limbo stick that night. And considering what they were wearing (or rather, what they weren't wearing) and the heels they were so precariously perched on, just standing would be a noteworthy feat for most women. So aside from learning about infantile literature, Spanish grammar, and intemperie in recent Argentine literature, I have also learned some bizarre facts, for instance: Brazilian women don't have cellulite. I'm sure that some poor soul is the exception to this rule, but in general, it seems to be a well-known and widely accepted fact. When I told Gaby that there had been Brazilian dancers her first question was how their bums were. I had barely managed to say that they were pretty impressive when she continued on to inform me of the notoriety of Brazilian bums. The funny thing is, a girl I traveled with had a nearly identical conversation with her host mom. I am sensing an inferiority complex going on here, which would perfectly explain the 100 different products available for purchase in BsAs that promise to make you as smooth as a, well, as a Brazilian's bum.

And you can all thank Mandy for asking the question, "Where is that blog post?", that got me off my bed and finishing this entry. Glad you are back in the land of internet! I missed you!

The butterflies are all for you Gramma. :)

Manson and so much more...

Whoa, so a lot has happened between now and my last blog. In the past three weeks I have: moshed with hundreds of people dressed in black, swum under a waterfall, done the limbo under a stick held by two Brazilian carnaval dancers, gotten quite sick, been to the forest that Bambi was based on, picnicked by a mountain lake, and so much more. In order to keep from overwhelming you and myself, I am going to divide this week by week with an entry for each over the next couple of days. And thus I begin with Week 1: Marylin Manson.

Saturday the 29th of September dawned a beautifully sunny and very nearly hot day, perfect for a day of outdoor music festival going. Somehow I had managed to convince 4 other people that going to see Marilyn Manson was a good idea, and we all met up for a picnic outside the grounds before hand. I was shocked to find, upon meeting up with my companions, that only myself and Courtney had worn black. Now, I don't know the degree of your knowledge about Marylin Manson, but I would have thought that black was the obvious color choice for his concert. (This turned out to be an accurate assumption once we got inside.)

After our picnic and getting past the street preachers outside who were trying desperately to save our poor souls (I felt bad for them; they were so earnest) we entered into what could have accurately been called Goth Convention Buenos Aires. I have never seen that much black eyeliner, even as a 9th grade girl. :-D Though my lack of skin pigmentation, black shirt, and a little black eyeliner of my own helped, I still felt pretty conspicuous. Next time someone please remind me to pull out my leather pants with buckles down the side and 4 inch platform boots. I knew my look was missing something that morning.

There were several small stages to choose from, but we mostly switched back and forth between the two main stages. The first band we watched was Cuentos Borgeanos. Their music was not bad and their stage presence was amusing, but I would have to say that the most impressive thing about them was precisely how low-slung and tight the lead singer's pants were. There must have been double stick tape involved. Carajo, an Argentina hard rock band, was GREAT. And I met the guitarist later who was a very cool guy. I believe there is a photo of me with him on facebook somewhere. The lead singer of Cabezones was in a wheel chair, and at one point his tiny daughter came out to sit on his lap as he screamed/sung something vaguely similar to a ballad.

And then there were The Locos, a Spanish ska band. They are tied with Carajo as my favourites of the pre-Manson bands. When they came out and yelled, "¿Comó estais?!!!!" everyone laughed at their Spain-Spanish. :-D At one point they had everyone in the crowd make an ENORMOUS circle so that hundreds of people could begin skipping (yes, skipping) as fast and high as they could around the circle. What a sight. Another fun sight was when the large blow-up figure of the Grim Reaper of Liberty (think Statue of Liberty.... but not) was pulled out. The lead singer yelled (en castellano), "Does anyone here like the United States?!" Again, my companions seemed to have missed the memo as a couple of them started to yell "Yes!" before realizing that everyone was booing. Whoops. Apparently one of the things that living overseas taught me that I have taken for granted is a little perspective. It wasn't that these girls didn't know that a lot of people are not huge fans of the States, they had just never come face to face with it en mass. Their reactions ranged from indignant to genuine confusion and interest. Though not everyone appreciated their political stance, I think it is safe to say their music was universally enjoyed.

And so we arrive at Marilyn. By way of my general sneakiness in crowds and some outright pushing Donna and I managed to get quite near the walkway that projected out into the crowd. Those of you who have been to similar concerts will know that as it gets closer and closer to the moment the band takes the stage people get closer and closer to one another until the inevitable instant that the desired star comes into view and the entire crowd of hundreds and hundreds of people crush ever further forward. Unfortunately for Donna this meant that after one song (luckily it was the one I had told her to download, "If I Was Your Vampire") of a jumping sea of people she was feeling sick and had to fight her way out. Easier said than done. I stayed. Complain though I might about being tall, this is one of those occasions that I thank my lucky stars it is my shoulder blade that some poor girl's face is smooshed into and not the other way around. :-D

What can I say that will give you any idea of what it is like to be at a Marilyn Manson concert? I mean, it was amazing. I left smelling like pot (not mine) and sweat (also, mostly not mine... ewww), but it was worth it to spend an hour and a half in a huge crowd all jumping in perfect unison and shouting..... well, lyrics. ;-) I do have a couple of complaints to lodge though:

1) He spent a lot of time writhing on stage which I'm sure was effective for the video of the concert, but it was not particularly enjoyable for those of us in the crowd as we couldn't see a thing.

2) For someone who claims to be annoyed by bad grammar, "If I Was Your Vampire"? Please, it should obviously be "If I Were Your Vampire". Granted, the imperfect subjunctive is really more of an option than a necessity these days, but I still would have expected better. I am considering writing him a letter to tell him so.

That is about it, except that he has a double chin. But he can't help that so I shouldn't complain. He does look far better in 4 inch platform boots and tight pinstriped pants than I'm sure I ever will so that must be of some consolation to him. However, when we were treated to a view of his naked bum at the end of the show I felt a little smug as I am quite sure his is whiter than mine... but it might be close.

I found Donna the end of the concert only to discover that her phone had been stolen along with another girl's camera. Another benefit to being tall? I guess I looked too scary to try to take something from. After peeling off our sweaty concert t-shirts we followed the crowd to the exit and the nearest bus stop where all of us must have been quite a sight. I'm sure we frightened more than a few old ladies and small children, a huge line of sweaty people clad in black and sporty streaky make-up can do that. Anyway, my story ends at a pizzeria near my apartment where Donna and I shamelessly polished off a large pepperoni pizza in record time before heading straight for our respective apartments and showers. Soap has never felt so good.

More on las cataratas de Iguazu in a couple of days...

Subtitulos and salsa classes

Today was a good day. Not only did I tutor a lovely girl named Stephanie for the first time, but I also bought two tickets for Día 8 of the Pepsi Music Festival. Or as the ticket vendor said, el día de Marilyn Manson. Yes, that's right folks, I am going to see Marilyn Manson! I'm not really a huge fan of his music, but ever since reading an interview where he complains about bad grammar and the mindlessness of the American entertainment industry, I have been intrigued. So that combined with gorgeous weather, about 5 other Latin American bands, and decent ticket prices had me queuing for tickets today. Don't worry though, if I have any sudden urges to join a cult, you will all be the first to know.

Aside from dear Marilyn, I am cultivating another new hobby during my time down here... rugby. Not playing, watching. Last Saturday I spent the afternoon with 3 girl friends in a sports bar enjoying the 2 for 1 beer special and yelling at the big screens along with a couple of hundred Argentines. The yelling was mostly happy though as the Pumas soundly trounced Namibia 63-3. Though obviously we have allegiance to the Pumas, we decided that we would have wanted them to win anyway because they are just so attractive, and when they aren't playing, they all wear suits with pale pink ties. Fantastic.

Fun fact: whenever the Argentine announcer said Marseille it sounded like "Mar-sei-sha"

So, subtitles. The other day I went to go see a great film called Zarte Boek, or Black Book, or El Libro Negro. That should give you some idea of the language mess I was in for. The previews had given the impression that there was a significant amount of English in the film. Well hooray for false advertising. :-D It was almost entirely in a combination of Dutch and German with about 5 minute segments at the beginning and end of Hebrew and English respectively. So between hearing Dutch (which sounds remarkably like English some times), reading Spanish, and trying to make it all make sense in English... I left the movie with a headache. However, I also left the movie with an understanding of almost the entire film. Or at least I think did...

Speaking of things lost in translation, I really need to figure out how to convey disinterest and/or distaste en español. Apparently not smiling and looking away just don't cut it. Or at least they didn't at salsa class last week. Somehow, unbeknownst to me I seemed to have given this guy the impression that I wanted to dance with him. Which I most certainly did not, not only because he was utterly incapable of leading, but because of the fact that the chest bared by his half undone shirt bore more resemblance to Austin Powers than Fabio, complete with gold chain and all. Ewww. Luckily I had come with a guy friend who quickly rescued me before I was caught a third time. Thanks Chris!

Besides fending off bad dancing partners, watching rugby, and watching a Dutch film in Spanish, I have also been spending inordinate amounts of time at a place called Mark's Deli. Though I would say it is more of a bistro than a deli, diction is the only complaint I can make about the place. They serve HUGE salads and equally enormous cookies, which, amusingly enough they don't translate and as a result ends up sounding like "kooky". I have yet to ask for one with a straight face. Oh, and miracle of miracles, they also serve... okay wait for it..... ICED COFFEE! And in 10 oz. glasses no less. Amazing!

I may actually be spending even more time at Mark's in the future considering the fact that I am now making a bit of money instead of simply spending it all. Three days a week I will be tutoring a lovely 10th grade girl named Stephanie in Biology and whatever is a priority at the time. She is a huge fan of organization and Post-It notes but just doesn't have any idea how to get started... that's where I come in. I think we were meant for each other. Hey Mom, would you mind sending me a couple more post-it tab things? I gave her my last ones.

Spring has, at last, come to Buenos Aires. The trees are that lovely spring green and the flowers in the Japanese Garden are stunning. The wisteria is in bloom too. I just can't walk past wisteria without thinking of Rhett Butler. Maybe if I go to grad school in Charleston I will get it out of my system... probably not.

This church sits at one end of Plaza Güemes, a small plaza about a block from my host family's apartment. Once it gets a touch warmer I plan to spend a lot of time on the benches there. It's about 2 blocks away from a fabulous bakery and a coffee shop that does to-go cups. Picnic!

Paros and Pancakes

Argh, I just managed to lose half a blog entry, which is pretty frustrating as I had done some serious editing and recrafting of my sentences to get them the way I wanted. But all of that effort was for naught as I am now left with nothing. So I will try to recreate the previous version, but I make no promises, not that any of you know what you will be missing. Anyway, here goes.

As of 5:30 Friday afternoon I had been awake for 11 hours straight. 6 of which I had spent sitting on a white plastic chair in a large room in the Dirección Nacional de Migraciones. Arriving at 7:30 on that grey morning I walked into a covered passageway to the courtyard to escape the rain. As my eyes adjusted to the shadows I saw walls lined with faces. Faces waiting for their chance to study, work, or just simply live in Argentina. I made my way through them to the back where I first heard and then saw the group of brightly clothed COPA students. When the office finally opened at 8:00 and the line began to snake forward we joined the end like twist in an M. Night Shyamalan movie. He's dead?! What?! Oh.... well, I suppose that makes sense. American students need visas too.

Once inside the fun really began, and by fun I mean sitting on a supremely uncomfortable plastic chair in a room full of other people sitting on supremely uncomfortable plastic chair as we waited for the women wielding the official stamps to notice us. Behind desks on dais like queens commanding a kingdom they sat looking disgruntled and ever so slightly Slavic. But maybe that was just the wealth of paperwork on their desks and variety of stamps at their disposal. Somehow I had the luck to be among the final six students to meekly present my offering of paperwork to the visa goddesses. I'm mixing my metaphors I know, but after 6 hours the lines between queens, goddesses, and government officials had been significantly blurred. Either way, after presenting her with my paperwork I watched as she stamped each photocopied page of my passport with three separate stamps. I was then sent on my way to await the cashier's two stamps recognizing my payment. This step completed I returned to sign 7 separate forms, reading none of them. I could have very well been signing myself into eternal servitude to the Argentine Agricultural Ministry. It may yet turn out that I have. All forms signed I was sent back to my seat to wait, again. A half an hour later my official document was ready, and I was free to go. Like a domesticated animal being returned to the wild I paused for a moment, not knowing what do to, before making straight for the rectangle of open sky, blinking as I reached the grey afternoon light.

But of course, my piece of paper is only good for 40-65 days, at which time I have to return for the real thing and some more stamps. Of course.

I am officially declaring pancakes to be one of the best foods on earth. Why, you ask? First a bit of back story... Gabriela, Lorenzo, and Gustavo are probably flying down the slopes of Barriloche as a type this which means several things,. 1 - Nunzia (Gabriela's mom who is Sicillian and a snob, but in an amusing way) has been coming over to have dinner with me. 2 - When it was disgustingly hot and sticky a couple of days ago I had no qualms about stripping down to my underwear while watching tv. And 3 - The kitchen is almost completely at my disposal. I say almost because Rosi is around to make me dinner and sometimes during the day to do a bit of spring cleaning. However, for all intents and purposes, I can mess around as much as I want. And here come the pancakes...

The heat broke a couple of days ago resulting in much raining, thundering, and general grossness out of doors. It also made the idea of walking to the supermarket less than appealing. After examining my store of ingredients, doing a little investigation the web and some more to find the missing pieces of my recipe in the kitchen, I settled on oatmeal pancakes. Wow. They were delicious, easy to make, and should be easy to adjust to whatever ingredients I want to add, subtract, or substitute. And, when eaten with fruit they are acceptably healthy. Thus, they are the perfect food.

So aside from Gaby and company, the professors are also on leave. Though somehow I doubt that they will be flying down ski slopes. Aside from my Tuesday morning professor who chose not to take part, there is a paro (strike) going on at UBA. I believe it is for better salaries, which, considering it is a completely free university that educates tens of thousands of students, isn't terribly shocking. I am continually amazed that one can get a respectable degree without paying for more than photocopies of the material. While being in favour of the idea, I am also in favour of paying professional educators a fair salary. And if I have to miss class for that to happen, so be it. I will happily find some other way to occupy myself this coming Wednesday. :-D

The photo is of Chris (or Chirstopher according to his passport, thanks U.S. government) and Avigail. Chris was also among the last 6 to get his visa. To kill some time I taught him to count to ten and be sleazy in Polish.

Also, for those of you who haven't noticed, I have made an addition to my blog: links to my friends' blogs. Apparently I have started a trend as a couple of my friends who are also studying abroad have started their own blogs detailing their adventures. "A Young Man's Adventures in Mother Russia" is written by Charlie who is studying abroad in Yaroslavl, Russia. "Ben in Barcelona" is, well, by Ben, who is in Barcelona. And "Life in Translation" is written by Morgan who is studying on both sides of the border between El Paso, Texas and Juarez, Mexico. If you've some the time you ought to check them out.

Coffee, Class, and a Cigarette

No no no, I have not taken up smoking, but the rest of the country has. One of the more amusing (and disturbing) priority differences when it comes to porteños is perfectly exemplified by acceptable in class behavior. Coffee drinking: acceptable. Cigarette smoking: acceptable (though common decency dictates that you go stand outside the door). Eating: unacceptable. I guess the hunger pangs are what the coffee and cigarette are for. During a four hour class is there always a break in the middle of about 15 minutes at which time half of the class (20-40 students) file into the hallway and into the line for the mini coffees that are sold for about a quarter. The other half of the students mill around outside the door as they take desperate drags from their cigarettes, holding on for dear life as though it were a friend they thought was gone for good. And so here is my quandary, which is worse, a smoking epidemic, or a fat epidemic?

As I ran around doing errands, going to class, and getting my certificate of residency taken care of why I have been feeling so lost in the past weeks. I don't have enough to do. I came to Argentina with the knowledge that I tend to overextend myself when I first arrive somewhere. I remembering the infamous 8th grade awards ceremony where Jim Matter just kept reading the list of my activities, or the perpetually full inbox of my first semester of college (I had given my e-mail address to about 15 different student organizations). And so, with this knowledge I purposefully refrained from involving myself in very many things, except now.... I have nothing to do.

I took my first step towards remedying my excess of free time by signing up for a free trial pilates class. I'm actually pretty impressed that I signed up because, well, it looks scary! Pilates here is not just your nice and easy, "Okay ladies, feeeeeel your core tightening..." tv pilates. There are machines involved, and this machinery looks more like it was designed to be in The Bad Guy's basement than in a dance studio. Another prospect that has almost eclipsed the scariness of the being in various contortions facilitated by machinery is the idea of being in various contortions facilitated by machinery wearing stretchy workout leggings that are essentially glorified spandex. The horror, the horror.

Did Conrad write that as two separate sentences, or with the comma? Drat, I am going to have to look this up before I have even piece of mind to move on... Yes! Though Spanish has effectively killed my spelling and ability to piece together a sentence in either language, my ability to perfectly remember useless bits of literature is in tact!

I am happy to report that the post offices here are as delightfully hectic as my favourite Sadyba haunt. For those with confused looks on your faces, I should let you know that I adore post offices, old ones, new ones, dirty ones, clean ones. In fact, I love post offices so much that I wrote my college essay on one particular post office in Sabyda that was generally unremarkable, but that I loved anyway. There is something about the idea of so much mail carrying so much thought, information, emotion passing through one place on it's way to another that touches my sense of connectivity. Or maybe it is just all that paper.

I was having coffee with two American girls at our university. I had my English-Spanish dictionary out and was randomly finding fun words. Like 'escalofriante', it means spine chilling or creepy. What a great word. Anyway, I suddenly burst out with, "I just love dictionaries." They started laughing. I had forgotten that an entire world of people exists who don't find existence of the word 'bellaquería' (roguery or wickedness) positively delightful. Whoops, maybe I should get out more... But back to the post offices.

As in dear old Poland it is quite necessary to take a number, unfortunately porteños love of lines (ex. at a bar you have to first queue for the cash register, get a ticket, and then queue for the bartender, even if you just want a water) has not reached their post offices as there is only one choice. It is entirely possible that I am the first person to be disappointed by that. My favourite part comes next though. It is the game of How Many Numbers Are There Between Me And Sending My Letter. Last time, it was 40. I choose a seat in the sun and had myself a nice long nap. Next time I might go run a couple of errands, depending on sun position and seating choices. Once one does reach the counter those who have experienced the wrath of a Polish postal worker (or the scary lady in the Macalester basement) will be pleasantly surprised with the geniality exhibited by porteño postal workers. So between the naps and the happy elves manning the desks, mailing you all postcards has been quite an enjoyable experience.

p.s. the photo was taken outside the Biblioteca Nacional which looks more like a poorly constructed space craft than anything resembling a place where you might store books. But that is beside the point, the photo is of a woman who 1) was wearing a beret, 2) had combined that beret with black leggings and ankle boots, 3) was speaking to the cats (lots and lots of cats), and 4) was smoking a cigarette with a Cruella de Vil-esque holder. It was a Kodak moment.

I'm back!

I know, I know, I'm sorry I abandoned you. And the fact that my internet was taken away and my battery had only 7 minutes of power is not an excuse for ignoring all of you, my faithful readers, for nearly 3 weeks. But Heather arrived with my router and a family size box of Cheez-its last week. The Cheez-its are gone, but the router and I are just beginning our long and promising relationship. After scouring every electronic store in a 10 block radius I went to a galeria in Calle Florida that specialized in tiny kiosks that literally oozed cords and other technological looking things. This was obviously the place I was looking for.

Desafortunadamente, the place that I was looking for consisted of 200 of these negocios, and I had to find the magic one that had a transformador. The first guy I talked to told me that the primero piso (1st floor) would have them, the guy on the primero piso said that the planta baja (main floor) would have them, then I was told the shop in the corner, ElectroStar, the yellow shop upstairs, the shop at the end of the hallway, shop 470, shop 364, and finally, the electricity shop in the far back corner of the galeria where the owner seemed to think my desperation was ridiculous as, obviously, he has several to sell me. I could have kissed him, but I thought that that could have created a slightly awkward situation when all I wanted was to get my transformer home and plugged in to my router. (Thanks Mom!) And now, thanks to the combined efforts of my mother, Heather, and the transformer man, I am back. It's good to be back.

.... 6 hours later....

I should have known it was too good to last. My internet is gone. With any luck it is simply a minor problem that Gabriela (host mom) can fix when she gets back. Somehow I doubt that there is very little that she cannot do or get done. And so I press on...

It should come as a relief to all who know the agony and ecstasy of scheduling (the rest of you are missing out, the satisfaction of a perfect schedule... well, I guess you just wouldn't understand) that I have a fixed schedule! And what a schedule it is. Though I do have to wake up at 7:00 a.m. (I am still a little shocked at myself) before taking an hour long bus ride to my Tuesday class, the fact that I begin my week on Tuesday and then promptly end it at half past noon on Thursday is sufficient incentive to rouse myself. My three classes are Gramática, Relatos en imtemperie, and Literatura infantil y juvenil. I sure it will come as no surprise to my fellow Macalester students that I find the lectures and discussions about "semiosis o no semiosis", the ideology of gender compared to that of class (and their relations, of course), as well as literature as a construction of societal codes to be significantly more comprehensible than the ticket seller at the movie theatre asking if I want any soda or candy. You know you go to Macalester when you can discuss "the real" in two languages but everyday human interaction causes serious mental duress.

Sometimes I forget how much I like buses. But I always remember eventually. Like today, with my iPod on shuffle and rain drizzling not half and inch away, I wished I could just sit on the bus for an hour or two and let the people and streets stream by and my iPod shuffle seamlessly from Julie London to Jack Johnson and the Gotan Project. As I watched the old man with the tweed hat and burgundy neckerchief offered his seat to the young woman with a baby I wished that everyone would just stop and take a moment to chill, maybe have a cup of coffee without being concerned that the waitress will never bring the check. I would hazard a guess that I am happier than the portion of the population that gets terribly concerned when they go a couple blocks too far on the bus. Granted, the friends waiting for me at the coffee shop the bus just passed might not be...

I am having a hard time remembering if I only thought out how I was going to write about things that have happened, or if I actually wrote about them. Like the vegetable man down the street. One sunny afternoon a couple of weeks ago I was lost in thought on the bus and missed my corner. But it was a beautiful day so the extra 5 minutes of walking had me smiling as I paused to check the price of some avocados. This turned out to be just the invitation the man was looking for to strike up a conversation. .... "Yes, I am from the States." ..... "No, I am studying here." ..... "Hahaha, yes, 6 months is enough time to find a boyfriend." ...... "Ummm, what? How much money I would pay to marry you or how much money you would have to pay to marry me?" .... "No, no, thank you! I have to go.... hahaha, bye!" I'm still not sure if he was suggesting that he pay me or I pay him. Amusing and nice though he may have been, I will be purchasing my avocados at a different verduleria in the future.

What is it about American women down here that seems to shout "Why yes, I would love to date you"? Perhaps it is something to do with supply and demand? But then one would assume American men would get the same treatment which, poor things, they most certainly do not. So then does that put us somewhere in the realm of luxury goods? The econ majors will have to answer than one. Until then I will just blame American media and shows like The Bachelor for making us look plentiful and, well, desperate.

One thing I am desperate for is sunshine. There is the occasional beautiful in amongst the gray, but there is only so much longer I can resist the pull of my *NSYNC Christmas album if there is no sunshine. It's not my fault that it's only August; the weather is telling me it's time to get ready for Christmas, and my iTunes is undermining my every effort to suppress these desires. Every time I let it shuffle my songs I find myself unable to skip past Bing singing "White Christmas" or a boy band harmonizing "Little Drummer Boy". What's a girl to do?

And now I must be off for it is Sunday night, and I have plans to spend it dancing the night away with a tall curly haired girl from Minnesota. Her younger brother's name is Joe, and he spends his time bumming around SCSU while she attends a small liberal arts school and plays rugby. Her name is Maggie.... Maggie Tucker. Creepy huh?

Thelonious and McKosher

I have come to the conclusion, in my 3 weeks in Buenos Aires, that people tend to be less intelligent than I give them credit for, more specifically, American study-abroad students. We got another mass e-mail about a week ago reminding us of the long list of Do Not Do's that they lectured us on when we first got here. These are things like, "be careful about where your bag is in clubs, cafes, and restaurants" and "don't cross the train tracks that go through an empty industrial wasteland by yourself". Things that one would assume are simply common sense are, apparently, not. Already 5 girls have been robbed. One of them was on a subway with her bag open. Really? I understand that Podunk, Midwest is not the same as 7 million person South American city, but when someone spells out for you exactly what you shouldn't be doing, and then you do it? Really? What did you expect? Okay, rant over. It is just so frustrating to realize that the rest of the world has very good reason to hold the Dumb American stereotype to be true. Maybe I will tell people I'm Finnish. I could pass for Finnish.

As the weather has been somewhat miserable for the last two weeks it has become a daily struggle to find something to do out of the apartment that does not actually involve being outside. Thus far I have come up with museums and malls. But museums cost money except on Wednesdays. And there is a limited amount of time that I can spend looking a piece of art that can only be the result of an LSD trip before I have to either leave or go get an overpriced coffee from the museum restaurant as I wait for, well, who knows, time to pass, classes to start, Prince Charming, a routine. Oh to have a routine... Anyway, I know, malls seem like a lame thing to occupy ones days with whilst living in Argentina, but I have 5 months left, weather is like Warsaw in March (grey and rainy) and though I'm just as excited as the next girl to wander through a maze of mausoleums (probably more actually), I think I'll wait until the chances that the Phantom of the Opera is holing up in one go down to a mere 50%.














That said, the malls here can be pretty spectacular. The other day I went to Abasto, a mall housed in a converted market building. It is spectacular. The photo cannot do justice to the awe-inspiring architecture. Abasto is also home to a children's museum and arcade thoughtfully named "Neverland"... Maybe a name change wouldn't be completely out of line. Oh well, the ferris wheel and merry-go-round are more than enough for me to overcome my reservations. Abasto is also home to the only kosher McDonald's outside of Israel, the McKosher you could say. Though I am generally opposed to McDonald's, I think I might just make an exception for this one.

This past week has been the week of discoveries close to home. I discovered a vibrant Jewish neighborhood mere blocks from my apartment, the only McKosher outside of Israel, the 3D realization of an unfortunate stereotype, and a jazz club called Thelonious Bar that is literally 3 buildings down from my apartment. It is a longer walk to go do my laundry than it is to go listen to really good jazz. According to my guide book, "if you are looking for the best local jazz, this is the place." Though it is the first jazz club I've been to in BA, the others would have to be pretty fabulous to top this one. The couches are cracked black leather and the defining lighting fixture involves about 40 individual light bulbs hanging from the ceiling like a bouquet of dried roses that are all dying at different speeds. BA is recently smoke free indoors, but every time I visualize Thelonious Bar my imagination adds a smoky haze. It is just that kind of place.

I start my first full week of classes today and am a little frightened. Last week I went to two classes and found that in one of them I understood about 15% and in the other about 85%. I don't feel that bad about the first one though as one of the Argentine students told me during a break that even they can only understand about half of what that particular professor says. I had forgotten that English isn't the only language that can be mumbled. He also looked a bit like Vernon Dursley, so it's probably for the best that I don't take that class. My ideal schedule would involve one 4 hour class at UBA on Tuesdays and one on Wednesdays and then one mandatory Spanish class with the program on Thursdays. Can anyone say "four day weekend"?
Here's to crossed fingers that I can understand 2 of the UBA professors.

After my challenge last week I am proud to say that Gramma was in fact the first non-undergrad to comment (yay Gramma!) followed closely by.... and this one's a shocker.... Dad! (Though how your comment wound up on the first entry I'll never know...) Anyway, just in case anyone else is curious, here is the easiest way to do it. Click on the link that says "__ COMENTARIOS". This will bring up a window with all other comments at the bottom of which is the option to leave your own. :-D Mystery solved.

Soul Patches and Socialists

In case you didn't know, soul patches are in. At least in Buenos Aires they are. The sheep parader at La Rural (the Argentine equivalent of the MN state fair, except without the food on a stick), the bartender who fed us potato chips and empanadas while we waited an hour (until 11:00 p.m.) to get a table, the dj at "BA's best live music venue". The soul patch is everywhere. And I think I speak for people everywhere when I say, really?

Unfortunately for the dj, his soul patch wasn't my only complaint. I can't say that he was particularly bad, his transitions were smooth and his beats were interesting house/latin stuff. But (Joe, Adri, Domi, Mom, you will all understand this) he was completely lacking in the crescendo that always brings to mind mental images of Mateusz, Thomas, Dre, and Piers, fists pumping, jumping like there was no tomorrow. Without that, even a soul patch can't save you.

WARNING: The following two paragraphs contains some painful descriptions of leg waxing, but don't worry, it's all below the knee.

So, this all begins with the fact that I have very little hot water in the morning which means that there has been some shower routine reorganizing. And one of the things that got cut was shaving. At this point it had been so long and there are so many signs around for "depilación" that I thought I would just go into this place near my apartment and ask how much it cost. This is how I accidentally got my legs waxed.

The second I walk in the door the nice older couple running this place have me bustled into a "room", and about 30 seconds later my waxer had me pantsless and on a table. At this point I am in a stall that looked like a bad department store changing room with a jar of wax was oozing into a warming pot in the corner. It was just so menacing and without subtlety; I'm sure that Polish knights felt something similar when they faced Swedes with morning stars. I am proud to say that I did not flinch. Well, maybe once or twice when she got my ankles. Apparently I have very sensitive ankles. Considering that about 15 minutes and $4 dollars later I was sent on my way, I'll probably go back. But next time I'm wearing a skirt.

Speaking of skirts, now that I can wear one in public that is, I am going to join the Jane Austen Society of Buenos Aires, or JASBA. I even have a personal invitation addressed to "Miss Margaret, 5 A". This all began last week when I held the elevator door in my apartment building for a mujer grande (the Argentine euphemism for an older woman, vieja would be terribly insulting). She got in and asked if I was new, what I was doing here, etc., all in Spanish of course. I tell her that I am studying letras (language/literature) and in the blink of an eye she has switched into flawless and faintly British English (but of course) and is asking "Have you ever read Jane Austen?" (It is much better if you imagine Maggie Smith as Prof. McGonagall speaking.) Obviously I have, and we chat all the way to my floor where she promises to leave me the information next time she goes out. I was expecting a flier under the door, but of course not. Two days later my host mom brings me a sealed envelope addressed to Miss Margaret from Prof. Nadine Aguilar from 6 A. I am having visions of Jane Austen themed debates over cafe con leche and medialunas. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. (Yes Heather, I will introduce you. :-D)

I also recently met my portero/encargado (doorman). We had spoken before, but it was mostly about my inability to open the front door. Whoops. Anyway, yesterday I introduced myself and learned that his name is Jose and that since I like Argentina and will be here for 6 months (plenty of time he says) I should get myself a porteño novio. I'm guessing I don't need to translate that one. ;-) I should have asked him if he has any available sons, but he's about 5'4" so maybe not.

Classes are starting soon, like, Wednesday soon. This is actually coming as a huge relief (okay, enough shock and awe people, I never said I was excited about doing the homework on time) since, after being here for 2 weeks, I still have no routine. It is really messing with my mental clarity. But classes start soon, so all is well. Yesterday a bunch of us went and registered at UBA - FILO (Universidad de Buenos Aires - Facultad de Filosofía y Letras). UBA is the largest university in Buenos Aires and also one of the only public ones. Public meaning cheap, not $20,000 vs. $40,000 cheap, free except for your materials cheap. Even for foreigners. You can say whatever you want about their economy, but if they can manage to send 308,594 students to university for free... they've got to be doing something right.

While the Law School and Engineering School are located in buildings that rival the Palace of the Parliament in Bucharest, FILO is located in what appears to be an old warehouse. But of course, poets don't want columns or clean windows, right? Actually, FILO is kind of like Macalester, if you added about 25,000 students and 2,000 brightly painted posters (except now the writing on them will be advertisements of socialism and student revolutions instead of school dances and student org fairs) while taking away all the money and the Econ and Science majors. Sorry Joe, Brandon, Charlie, you'll have to settle for 5 story stone columns.... think you can manage? Needless to say, I love it and hope that I love two of the four classes I registered for so I can drop the other two and happily establish my routine. Maybe even join a socialist revolution or two.

p.s. I will let you guess which is for Econ and which is for poets...

p.p.s. the poster at the top is for the leftist collective... Apparently resistance is not futile.

One last thing, I know this is getting long, and I apologize. However, I have been meaning to let everyone know that you can comment on my blog. Not only that you can, but that I encourage it. It nice to know that I have an audience (it is my theory that all blogs start out as "for the people" and then quickly become yet another method of self-aggrandizement, resistance, in this case, is futile), and I like the feedback. Thus far, and not surprisingly thanks to facebook photos, it is only the undergrad crowd who has figured out the comment button. And so I hereby challenge all of my older and wiser readers to break through the technological and language barriers and make a comment. Grandma, I'm rooting for you to be the first one. :-D

Brushfire Fairytales and bodegas

First of all, before I forget again, (sorry Heather and Deo, I know you asked a long time ago), I have a mailing address. It is:




Margaret McCarron
San Martin 948 1º
(C1004AAS) Buenos Aires
Argentina

This is the address of COPA where I will be at least once a week so I will get anything you send me. You know, postcards, letters, packages, Cheez-its, messages in bottles (so long as they are properly addresses with correct postage obviously), love letters, or magazine clippings. Well, customs might eat the Cheez-its...

I am trying to go by Margaret down here because it is easier to understand upon initial introductions and just for kicks and giggles to see if I like it. It is a lot harder than I thought though. Answering the phone, realizing when someone is talking to me, introducing myself, everything takes an extra second of thought to get it right. This combined with having to speak and listen in a second language all day is exhausting. I have so much more sympathy for my friends who speak English as a second language. (Urvashi, Domi, please tell me it gets easier? :-D)

Wine, vino, whatever you want to call it, I didn't like it. I just wasn't a wine person. In fact, I was actually somewhat opposed to drinking it. That was before I encountered Argentine wine. I am now working on developing enough knowledge to be sufficiently pretentious when drinking wine back in the States. For example, I know understand the difference between a Malbec and a Cab Sauv (snobby wino slang, I love it); they are different kinds of grapes. Who knew! And apparently Argentina is like heaven for the Malbec grape, which results in some pretty fabulous wines. This I can attest to. I would recommend the Newen Malbec from bodega del fin del mundo, a new vineyard at "the end of the world" in Patagonia. It's better if you say it with your head tilted slightly back and to the side displaying your fabulous bone structure and flawless taste all in one.

In just under two weeks I have come to appreciate wine as well as something else (much more surprising) that I used to detest... moustaches. That is not to say that I think all men should grow moustaches, heavens no. Only that my time here in Buenos Aires has exposed me to the range of possibilities implied by the word. For example, I have come to firmly believe that if you are a man along the lines of Clark Gable and can pull of a three piece suit, a cigar, and a coffee the size of the tea-party cups of my youth at 10:00 a.m., then by God man, grow a moustache! However, if you happen to be at the blonder end of the spectrum (a la Paul Newman or Owen Wilson) you should stick to the all or nothing approach to facial hair. It is very nearly impossible for a blonde man to grow a moustache without looking like a misogynist wanna-be cowboy or, alternatively, a porn star circa 1970. Neither is a look that I would recommend. Fortunately for porteños (and porteñas!), about 96% of them sport hair that is Brylcreemed to a shiny black or going a distinguished salt and pepper before reaching Richard Gere silver. And moustaches abound.

p.s. the photo is of me and Avigail in a restaurant in Plaza Cerrano, about a 15 min. walk from my apartment, fabulous! And the Brushfire Fairytales is because they were playing Jack Johnson while we ate enormous steaks and provoleta (grilled cheese, yum!) with the program coordinators tonight. Again, fabulous!

Jaywalkers Unite!

If jaywalking were an Olympic sport, Buenos Aires is where they would train. And my friends (ahem...) think that I cross streets like a mad woman. Porteños jaywalk like it is going out of style. Except that obviously they would never subscribe to anything going out of style. Old people, young people, families with children, people with strollers, everyone jaywalks. If traffic slows to under 10 mph or the vehicle is a half a block away, the street is fair game. The other day I saw two guys blithely walk across 6 lanes of traffic. Blithely. That is not to say that BA is not a pedestrian friendly city. I can cross Avenida 9 de julio (the widest street in the world, or so they tell you here, either way, 12 lanes of traffic is impressive) and the streets that run parallel on either side in two lights. That is 18 lanes of traffic; you can barely get from the Macalester side of Snelling to the Jamba Juice without the little red man blinking a warning at you. In Buenos Aires the street is for the pedestrians, and the cars merely borrow the space.

For some bizarre reason I have always wanted to live in an apartment. I can't pinpoint exactly why, but there was just something that always seemed a little romantic about apartment living. This morning when I was awoken by the tap-tap-tap...... tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap .....tap-tap of the neighbors next door who must be doing some remodeling, romance was not in the air. Romance is also not in the air when a phone rings somewhere in the building and I wonder if I should answer it. However, at this very moment I am sitting in front of my window looking out at what is really a glorified air shaft (maybe 5 meters across) and can see (and hear) an animated dinner discussion involving much gesturing. It is set to the soundtrack of an obviously inexperienced sax, trumpet, and trombone trio practicing "Summertime and the Living is Easy" somewhere above me. At this very moment, the romance of apartment living is clear.

We are beginning the universidad portion of orientación this week which means we are touring the 4 universidades that we can choose to take classes in, and we are even registering for some. Thankfully, we have been assigned our "tutors", which happens to be a false cognate. En castellano "tutor" means something akin to academic adviser. I have been assigned to Diego. He is gorgeous in that smart, grown-up skater boy sort of way that Pan Adam seems to have mastered. He also happens to be one of the COPA staff members who is there to help students with literature questions. I foresee myself having lots of questions. There are downsides to his attractiveness though. Usually I can multi-task pretty well; for example, I can stare at someone and understand what they are saying at the same time. Apparently this is not the case when they are speaking Spanish. I missed probably 5-7 minutes of his lecture yesterday; fortunately, it was about a university I will not be attending... at least I'm guessing it was. ;-)

.....

I just taught my host mom the phrase "channeling surfing" complete with surf movements and everything. If she doesn't think I am crazy, the neighbors across the street probably do.

Also, the photo is from the barrio of San Telmo (where we had our steak dinner). It is just a regular pharmacy, but I think the name is marvelous. Pharmacy of the Stars. Cultural Fact: the art of sign painting originated with Sicillian immigrants and is called filete from the Italian filetto, which means a strip that separates moldings.

p.s. I just learned that Gustavo used to play professional basketball.... Seriously? Seriously?! I feel like it is entirely possible that my host mother is a figment of my imagination.

Enter Gustavo...

It is 2:20 in the morning, and I just got home from dinner a half an hour ago. And what a dinner. The phrase in Spanish is "que rico!", which means, "how rich!" It has never been more apt. No Thanksgiving can ever compare to the A$13 of wine, blood sausage, tenderloin, french fries (with lots of vinegar), flan with dulce de leche, and espresso with milk that I just consumed. Three other COPA girls and I went to a restaurant called DesNivel in San Telmo (the oldest barrio in BA) that is famous for having good meat and good prices. When we arrived 10:00 p.m. it was packed. I'm talking two levels, 3 rooms on the main floor, tables in every free corner packed. We waited in line until 11:00 when we finally got a table and commenced one very serious supper. The paint was a little cracked and the floor was a little dirty, but the food was delicious and the waiters all looked like they could be cousins of Antonio Banderas. Nice as the cute college girl waitresses are in Minnesota, it's just not the same as having Antonio Banderas's cousin ask you if you want dessert.

But I was going to write about Gustavo. Now, if any of you were thinking that in 6 days I have somehow managed to procure some handsome lover, please people, who do you think I am? To be honest, Gustavo is a handsome Latin lover, but not mine. He is my host mother's boyfriend of several years that I met the other morning while brushing my teeth. I'm sure I made a great impression, mumbling hello in broken morning Spanish. At least I was showered and dressed. He, on the other hand, was impeccable. Tall, dark, and classically handsome, like a 40's moving star (not unlike my host mother, half Sicilian and, well, she's hot). He was dressed to the nines and upon being introduced ignored my extended hand and went for the two cheek kisses. I really wouldn't mind growing up to become my host mother, tall, beautiful, no job that I can figure out, an apartment in Buenos Aires, and a man with good manners.

Speaking of men, I hate to be so superficial, but not a day has gone by that I was not floored by the sheer beauty of people here, men, women, children, just beautiful. The women are beautiful in a different way than Polish women, with hips and shiny black hair that they wear past their shoulders. The men have serious cheekbones and eyelashes like those of a baby animal. I saw a 12 year old girl today in skinny jeans, Converse shoes, and a cute top. I have never looked that stylish, and certainly not when I was 12. Those were the days of plaid button down shirts, oversized white tennis shoes, and large Champion hooded sweatshirts, one in every color. It must be encoded in their DNA somewhere. The Style Gene.

The photo is of an old theatre that has been converted into a book store with a cafe where the stage used to be. The picture doesn't do it justice, but just imagine 3 balconies of bookshelves with all of the ornate decorations of an old theatre. It is 4 Subte stops from my apartment.... need I say more?

The day on which I learn the meaning of 'medialuna'

The medialuna, apparently a staple of every self-respecting porteño's diet, literally means 'half moon'. The reality is much more delicious. They are croissants, small croissants, that can be either sweet or salty but are delicious either way. And for a mere A$6.50 (that's Argentine pesos, they use the dollar symbol, go figure) which equals approximately $2.20 in the States you can get a cafe con leche and 3 medialunas. Take that Starbucks.

Aside from medialunas, I have encountered another interesting cultural phenomena. The staring. And when I say staring, I mean staring. This is not the Polish moment of eye-contact and immediate glance away with a possible second glance, this is 20 ft. away staring until you pass. Apparently it is common practice among los sudamericanos, and they find that los norteamericanos tend to be very unaware of what is going on around and very focused on their destination. Okay, I can agree with that, but something tells me that my stature and general appearance aren't really making me inconspicuous. At the moment I'm not sure if I should be staring back or haughtily pretending I don't see them. I'll have to stop some absurdly stylish porteña and ask her.

I am happy to report that some of my favourite eccentricities of Warsaw are wholly intact in Buenos Aires, though with somewhat more flair. For instance, the bus hierarchy that never fails to make me smile. The scolding the colectivo (bus) driver got this morning when starting to pull away before a woman with a baby got off made me feel right at home. As did the scolding I got when I only had a A$100 at the farmacia. In fact, I felt so at home that I replied with "nie". This was obviously not an acceptable reply, and thus the helpful clerk repeated her question which, much to my dismay, I continued to answer in Polish. Eventually the clerk, now exasperated, said, "Do you have any change?" I apologetically shook my head no.

This afternoon we were led on a walking tour of Retiro, the swankiest district of Buenos Aires which is the cause of the nickname, "The Paris of South America". Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of our guide's outfit because it was pretty extraordinary. This man had managed to match his sweater (dusty rose and brown), his striped button down shirt underneath (white, dusty rose, and brown), his tie (dusty rose), and his pants (brown). Whoa. I would love to see the Minnesota man who would dare to wear that ensemble and manage to pull it off. The horrifying thing is that, compared to other porteños, he wasn't really that stylish.

The tour was pretty much architectural, which was fun as I can now tell you that the building in this photo is classical French architecture. You can tell because there are three floors, the first for the social appearance, the second for the family to live on, and the third for the staff. Also, it has the steep roof tiled in black. Whoohoo, now I can impress... um, architecture majors?

Alas, I must go as Grey's Anatomy calls. I am fully aware of how lame it sounds to be watching American television in Argentina, but the hippy doctor named Pete is really attractive. If you are too disappointed in me just remember that I can now identify French architecture at a moment's notice.

Medialunas, colectives every 1-5 minutes, cafe con leche for A$4 or less, Grey's Anatomy in English, what a great country.

Bienvenida a Buenos Aires!

Hokay, so, this is my blog. Pretty sweet blog you might say.

Since Sami suggested that some friends of hers use blogs to keep people updated when they travel and Mom and Dad asked for daily updates, I have decided (despite my many technologically related neuroses) to create a blog. Though I will try to write a little something everyday that is certainly not a guarantee.

After 10 hours and 15 minutes of flying from Atlanta to Buenos Aires (somehow I missed the memo that this city is on the other side of the world) I arrived a little after 8:00 a.m. I'm not sure why, but in my head I imagined a glowing vision of Emily Keene awaiting me with open arms. Instead I met Mario, Jaime, y Maria whose rapid-fire castellano (porteño version of Spanish, pronounced "casteh-shano") was well meant but completely horrifying after zero sleep and bad plane hair.

Just as I was about to begin questioning how on earth I ended up here, I saw a Zara bag sitting on top of the nearest trash can. And thus, with visions of extra long pin stripe pants and electric blue shoes dancing in my head, all was well again. :-D A taxi was found and my luggage put in the trunk as I fought the urge to thank him in Polish. Jaime paid, gave the driver a slip of paper with my address, and I was on my way.

Traffic in BA is like one huge city sized tango floor with cars, scooters, and buses drifting here and there as though choreographed. Lanes are a suggestion at most and indicators are used only if you are feeling festive. The rule seemed to be, stay in your lane until you come within 2 feet of the car in front of you or until the car behind you fills your entire rear view mirror. At this time, drift smoothly around or out of the way. It's chill even when they are honking at each other as no one pummels their horn repeatedly. One drawn out honk of disapproval is enough, as if to say, "Clearly you are the ass in this situation; however, I am so fabulous that I refuse to allow your ineptitudes to mar my day."

My arrival was greeted by Rosi (¿Rossi?), the live-in maid... Yes, that's right, the live-in maid. So apparently my concerns about laundry were for naught. The apartment is beautiful. 3 bedrooms and 2 baths, not including Rosi's private bed and bath. I have my own bathroom which is also the "reception bathroom" so I have to keep my sink-top stuff in a box underneath. What a hardship. ;-)

Gabriela (my host mom) came back about 20 minutes after I arrived, and she is fabulous. Probably upper 40's, maybe 50, and way more hip than I am. She has a Zara bag sitting on the floor of her bedroom; this bodes well for my happiness. She is quite tall, maybe 5'10" and has hair like mine after my haircut. As she is Italian she wanted to make sure that I liked pasta. The last girl she had didn't, apparently that was a problem. :-D

Lorenzo is her son, 11 years old. She is no longer with her husband but has a boyfriend of several years. Lorenzo hasn't really spoken to me yet, but he seems pretty cool. Right now he is on his computer doing something and asks Gabriela a question every 30 seconds. They were talking about Harry Potter before. I think Lorenzo and I will get along delightfully.

Oh yeah, did I mention that I have my own television and that we have wireless? :-D Aside from my lack of speaking ability when it comes to castellano, things are perfectas.


P.S. The black background is for you Joe. I still think the white looks better, but I suppose I could make one sacrifice for the environment. If anyone has any trouble reading things let me know. I will try to change the colors to make it easier.