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.