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.