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.