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...