Return

It was hard to leave. Two days ago I said farewell to my host family, to Buenos Aires, the place where I underwent the challenge of living abroad. The last days were spent at bars, drinking Quilmes, the national beer, drinking cafe con leche on the sidewalk, under umbrellas, under the sun, and exchanging words of appreciation with the family I lived with for 5 months.
I turned in two large bags of clothes to the thrift store around the corner from my house in my neighborhood, Almagro (I had to check a third bag, getting home, i accumulated a lot). I got to know the women who worked there, at this thrift store, at least by name, and enough to exchange words when I would stop in, they would ask about the US and ask me how I was doing. I would go about two times a week to search the vast store, that looked like an old lady's walk-in closet. I found some wonderful things, including a vintage San Francisco t-shirt and one from Martha's Vineyard.
I walked down Rividavia, the main avenue that crossed with the street on which I lived, towards to heladeria, serving the some of the best gelatto in town. I passed by the store and Lydia was there, I told her I was leaving that day, and she immediately asked, "Cuando vas a volver?" When are you coming back? A popular question of all the porteños that I tell I am leaving after five months of living there. I told I didn't know, but that I would. I will. I started crying as I walked away from the store, where I had been able to exchange with these women, wonderful women who share my love for recycling clothes. I found so many cosas hermosas there...
I also had to say goodbye to waiter at the cafe on my corner, where I would go to use wireless internet. He was a cutie, with a smiling face, always asking me how I was doing, leaning in to give me the greeting, a beso on my cheek. The last time I went in there and sat down, as he passed by to greet me, this time he said "Diosa!" And came over to kiss my cheek. I was sad to say goodbye to such a guy. what a boludo!
I got in my cab, teary, said goodbye to Ana María and Eduardo and let it all out. Started crying a lot. My taxi driver, dressed all in white, perhaps some sort of sign sent from God, in the BA humidity, patiently waited for me to catch my voice. I said, "Disculpame, señor," excuse me, I am sorry for crying like this...
He said something like, "Ah, no, por favor, estas cosas son imortales, de la vida...." Así es las vida, así es...Such is life. Hard! Life is difficult, yet beautiful. There was no need to apologize. I loved that he said that, very porteño, and it was the last moment in that country, the last of many, when I felt accepted, I felt like I had figured out how to be. He let me know that it was fine, crying is ok, just like making out in a taxi is ok. Sometimes we can't help ourselves.
I told him I didn't want to leave and that I was going back to the US. He became choked up when he told me that his own daughter was soon going to the Montreal to do an exchange herself. To learn French and Spanish. He said, you are upset, imagine how I must be feeling! To see his 16 year old daughter go so far away! And on the Canadian dollar, even more expensive than the US! She asked that she had no birthday party to save money for her trip and time abroad. Vale la pena.
All I could say, all I could assure him of was, this is the best thing I have done in my life. It is the hardest thing and she will miss her country, she will miss her mother tongue, her family, her friends, but in the end she will feel accomplished and you sir, will be proud.

Happy to home in the States. All that I missed is here, was waiting for me, all is not lost from Argentina, but it is gone, and perhaps I am different, changed, transformed, matured, who knows? Only time will tell me and shed light on the answers.

Fin del Mundo

Two days ago I arrived in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. The mountains are incredibly and wonderfully daunting, peaks covered in snow, the town made to look minuature against the competeing landscape. It is refreshing to be surrounded by such a vast amount of natural space. Amazing that humanity is capable of hurting such vastness....
Tomorrow we are going to El Calafate, the glacier, and an hour north of here by plane.
I am here with five other lovely girls, all studying abroad, all to return home soon. There is a sense of completion and excitement about going home. And a feeling that we are extremely lucky to be here.
I went to the national park yesterday. Saw many birds. Trekked through heavy-duty mud, slipped and fell on my arse and now have nice one on my butt. Deep purple.
Will eat crab tonight, the speciality here. Things feel clear, life is good.

Most of the anxiety I have about returning to the States these days, is about the perspective I have gained from living here. Another experience I had last night brought on that anxiety.
Last night, I was in a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, returning home, when my cab driver asked, in a hostel tone (he had already heard me speak in English) where I was from. I said, "los Estados Unidos," and he kind of bit back, "Los Estados Unidos de America." (that continuing spite harbored by South Americans of the ego-centrism of the northern America.) As we commenced our conversation, he asked what I studied, but I immediately felt tension in the air. He was attacking me and my national identity. As began explaining what I was doing here, I felt embarrassed. Sometimes it hits me hard the level of privilege that I have to be here. And when I start talking about going to university here, but admit that it is more about the cultural experience, the language, etc, than the classes...well, then I get embarrassed.
After I told him that study Latin American History, I felt like I had to explain that I study it because Latin America's history is an important part of my own nation's history. That it should be taught and learned by US citizens because it tells a sad, imperialist story. I knew that I was doing that thing, that guilt-ridden thing: trying to justify myself. Trying to show him that I wasn't just any ignorant American. That I understand. (what do I understand?) I do that a lot here. This comes with this anxiety to get back to the US and get away from this terribly blatant, privileged experience. I am not complaining, but sometimes I wonder what right I have to be here and to simply be having a "cultural" experience. But I need this perspective. All people from the US need it....
As I tried to level with him, he didn't really listen to me, rather just wanted to rail on me about my government's politics. Perhaps was he trying to show off his knowledge, as a mere taxi driver who could take on an American student, a female, who claims to study history...He asked me if I knew about Operation Condor, (initiated by the US to maintain unity and power between the military dictatorships in South America), the Malvinas War and how the US was guilty for that too...He kept saying because of "su país" because of your country, so many terrible things have happened to us. How can you not take that personally?
Again, with my justifications: "I am not a representative of what my government does..." I told him. I am not guilty of what the US has done. I never supported the War in Iraq. I am not guilty for Bush being, as another taxi driver said, "un carnicero," a butcher. But am I?
As this man lectured me, I was on the edge of tears, feeling vulnerable to this huge amount of history and politics boiled down into a taxi ride, this weight, this heavy weight. To what level to I carry that weight? Am I allowed to escape being held accountable for what my government does? Is that how a democracy is supposed to run? Is that a dangerous way to expect our country to run? Yes we bash Bush too much, but with that said, then who should be held accountable? Are we ready to face ourselves?

I met a German girl from Berlin recently and we talked about our respective histories, personal and national, particularly the Holocaust and how that fits into German memory. (Collective memory is showing itself as my primary academic interest) I told her my family's story and she shared her's with me. Her grandmother was raped by Russians, her grandfather admited to her mother on his death bed of killing someone face to face in the Second World War. I told her about my great-grandfather who died in a concentration camp and had also fought for Austria Hungry during World War I.
She told me about the countless times she had to learn about the Holocaust in school, that eventually she just held up her hands and said "are you happy? I feel guilty! I feel terribly guilty! I don't want to hear about it anymore! It could have been me!" In fact it was her grandparents and relatives who were Nazis. Who else were they supposed to be?
Who else am I supposed to be, but American? I am still trying to figure out the responsibility that I have to the rest of the world, to that taxi driver, to my great-grandfather, to myself to admit and take accountability for my national identity.

its december 1st

Sorry to those who read every day, my dedicated followers (I that you are one), but I don´t have much to report right now since school is wrapping up.
I have almost finished my documentary that when finished will be posted on Youtube.
I am going to Patagonia, to the edge of the world, Tierra del Fuego on the 7th. Then to see the glacier.
A lot of what I am thinking about these days is personal, rather than social or political...As these near an end I am assessing. Doing a lot of assessing.

Happy Thanksgiving

I did in fact have a Thanksgiving meal, prepared by the mother of a friend of mine who is visiting and brought, from the States, some integral ingredients. It was a good meal: all the right flavors for the day, five twenty-somethings and my friend's mom, sharing this day far away from the location of its inception.
Recently, the discussions I have been having with friends here, American friends, are really political. Really angry, fed up, clear and lucid. So in the presence of an older generation who welcomed the discourse, we kind of had at it (again) about America. Is it my approaching departure that is riling this all up? Why do I feel more like a conscious citizen here than I do most of the time there? I understand why so many talented authors and artists leave their homeland to understand it with more clarity. To be articulate.
I am scared to lose my articulation. I am scared to return to the States and lose this urgency, this feeling of being enraged. (I'm not walking around with steam coming out of my ears, but you know what I mean). Is it going to be that I return home, return to comfort and security, safety, my own language that this anger will go away? In this experience of having to put myself out on a limb, often feel alone and an outsider, is that when I feel the need for change? This lack of security, mentally, physically, economically, and linguistically, is enraging. It is anxiety-making. When will we ALL start to feel it in the United States? To what level must the water rise for it to affect everyone?

Dowd in the NYTimes on Clinton

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/21/opinion/21dowd.html?em&ex=1195966800&en=030dce02a6a5b361&ei=5070

And when you are done watching that speech, watch John Stewart on Crossfire from four years ago or so. He does a wondeful job and what he talks about, I think feeds into what Obama is saying.

Last night I had the pleasure of having a conversation with an old friend of mine, who I went to high school with, who is here studying as well about the state of our country. Perhaps being here makes things more lucid, I am often having moments of clarity especially on issues concerning the United States. Being here, in a country anxious for democracy to work, yet being from a country that prides itself on longstanding democracy, and continues to despite everything to puff up its inflated view of itself to a point that it willing to let our planet die a sloy and painful death, leads me to believe that the change we need to make in the next year needs to be a slightly more radical one than many people are willing to admit. But I hestitate to use the word "radical," because that riles up conotations of a lost era, rather what I mean by radical is we must return to the roots of our society and government and how we once were. It is radical in the sense that it is so far from what we have now: we have fallen so off the mark, so far off into absurdity that we must unite this country so that we can deal with poverty, healthcare, education.
I want you to take thirty minutes to watch a speech that Barack Obama gave in Manning, South Carolina. I want you to listen to what he says whole-heartedly; he speaks to the idea of transformation, aspiration, hope, return, he speaks to humaness, a sense of person that trancsends politics, and is driven to make the world a better place. And in my mind, from where I stand we would be doing ourselves a disservice to say one more time, "this country can´t elect a Black president" or "he doesn´t have enough experience...." Well for chirstake, we elected the worst president known to the US, with the most heartless, lying team of greedy bastards to cheat the American people along with him, that perhaps it is time we challanged ourselves. We are so far deep, that only a radical change, a shift, a return, a challenge to the institutions that run the United States, will bring us out.

On returning

I´ve lately been thinking a lot about what it is going to be like to return to the United States. I have about a month left here, and to be honest, I´m getting a little tired of it. I like this city a lot, I think I could maybe live here someday (I never say things like that), but right now, mainly I think I just miss home, friends, challenging academics, and just American culture and counter-culture in all its glory. I actually saw a bootlegged version last night of Judd Apatow´s new baby, "Superbad" (which will come out here as Supercool), and well without giving anything away, it is hilarious. But its hilarity is American-born and although the Argentines may find the awkwardness of American high school students funny, there is so much more that is there in our sense of humor (which varies from country to country, but also varies within the US without a doubt), sarcasm, awkwardness, all of it is specific to our culture. It is like we have private clubs that are societies, some people float between and are able to understand and be understood in two or more, but for the most part we stick to our club. It would be great to be funnier in Spanish: I´ve tried being sarcastic and it didn´t really fly, but at the same time, I like using humor as an inside joke. That is to say, the American students that hang out here, we like to laugh together because our senses of humor are like one big inside joke. Many movie references and television references are nostalgically made.
Anyway, those are a few things I will enjoy having back in my cultural fannypack, but I imagine that the novelty will ware off and soon I will miss this culture that got to know. I think I might have written this before, but my dad told me that the culture shock of returning to the US can be harder than the reverse. Mainly because people in the US treat each other so differently than the rest of the world. This will be alienating at first. I will be very sad not to kiss every person I meet or know on the cheek when we greet or say goodbye. The custom gives proximity a chance, it is a warm feeling to be greeted this way, and if you don´t mind, I will be leaning in the first time I see you all again. Don´t hold back!

Yesterday, I was sitting on the subte, tired and worn out from waiting at Migraciones for a couple of hours to get my actual visa, now with one month left (I had a temporary one up until now, I guess they want to make sure you are for real). A man, who I´ve seen before on the subway, particuarly on the line that I ride, came on selling what he is always sellings: pens. But these aren´t the regular pens that people on the subway sell; like the one that I bought a couple of days ago that stopped working a few minutes after I started using it for the first time. It only cost one peso, so I figured no loss to me, and I was glad to have exchanged with the man who sold it to me.
Anyway what struck me yesterday about the man on the subway whose hoarse voice had spent hours and days and years appealing his product over the whurrrr of the subway, was how seriously he took what he was doing. He always begins his schpeil by telling his audience, "I come bringing wonderful news" and then he goes on about these Italian pens, showing them draw on pads of paper, asking passengers to test, to see for themselves. What was moving about it, especially this time, was that I noticed he said, to prove to us his gaurantee, "I have been doing this for six years" which implies that since the crisis in 2001, this has been the man´s occupation. And I bought a pen from him, because not only did I trust this man, I knew that what he was doing was totally meaningful: creating some esteem for himself in a place where little esteem is given, where people are hardly recognized for their effort, that they are trying in a society that his little resource, in a society that fucked over many people 6 years ago. It is a privilege for me to write about people and to have my experience here, to come and then leave, to decide who I give money to and who I don´t give money to, but I felt that I owed this man something, and simply put, I think it was my respect.

Los vecinos, el documental

I filmed for my documentary two days ago. It is amazing to feel in charge of this creative, political piece and to have a clear idea of exactly what I want to express through it. We went to a woman named Alicia´s apartment and I interviewed her. She was really interesting and very welcoming to us, 4 American studients, and very supportive of my idea. Her sister was disappeared at the age of 23, and Alicia is a very active member of the organization. She told me that her daughter looks a lot like her sister did, and in fact studies and is intersted in the same things as her sister was. A very good moment on camera. She also lends her garage to the vecinos to store and make the tiles that they place in the ground for their friends and families. It was an amazing sight: a small room, filled with cement squares that all read different names and dates of when the people were disappeared. The family members and friends of the desaparecido are asked to place the letters in the tile, and help in its creation. As one of the women who I interviewed said, (along the lines) we don´t know where they are, they were disappeared, so we are creating a place for them, that friends and family can recognize as a reclaimed space.

Then we went to this cafe/cultural center nearby Alicia´s apartment and recorded their meeting, where they were talking to this brother and sister (adults) about the ceremony of the tile placements for their parents. Also at the meeting were these two girls, 16 years old, who are doing projects about teachers and students who were disappeared (murals, plaques) in their high school. Interviewed them too. They were so passionate and interesting. It was awesome to communicate with them, especially since, although I am older, I could definitely relate. They will give the documentary so much. I was just blown away by these girls. They were great. They will give my piece a whole different perspective.

Cristina, first woman president...

So to no one´s surprise Cristina Kirschner, the current president´s wife, won the presidenal election. What is so interesting is that she lost by a landslide in Capital Federal, yet in the rest of the country carried the victory. What happens here and seems to be the long standing story, is that Buenos Aires, the city and province votes radically, whether to the left or right, but would never vote for someone as middle of the road, unclear values wise, figurehead as Kristina. The porteños prefered the conservative candidate, Carrió, also a woman, to Kristina, but she couldn´t appeal to the rest of the country. Too porteña. There is a fracture in their national identity...Buenos Aires feels like its own country....

Catch up: Mendoza

I was just in Mendoza for the last four days. Era divina! The city of Mendoza: tree engulfed streets, clean air, a siesta, wonderful parks, tranquilo gente, etc etc...Mendoza is the western most province that boarders Chile and the home to the highest peak in the world, outside the Himalayas. The Andes are amazing. And the home of the Malbec wine. Now I`ve seen teh Andes from Jujuy and from Mendoza and I plan to go to Peru, to get yet another view of this monstrous landscape.
On one day, Katherine and I rode bikes through the town of Maipu to see bodegas. I was really hungry when we started out so we went straight to the restaurant, really chi-chi, created for tourists like ourselves. I would have prefered a pit stop to eat choripan (sausage on bread for 2 pesos), but nothing was open, probably because everyone was siesta-ing...We rode our poorly fitted hybrid bikes along bumpy roads, and since Katherine is blond, and since we are girls, the common sounds of a sloppy kiss was puckered our ways multiple times. "MMMWWYA, chicas!" When we were eating at the restaurant, Almacen del Sur, that apparently grows all its own produce and makes special gourmet things, we happened upon these two women, one Canadian and the other French who were quite sloshed at the point since having been to a few bodegas before. They were laughing and making that kissing sound, and mockingly saying "chicas!" We couldn´t help but laugh with them, a relief since the ride there had been well, not so pleasurable. We shared a wonderful bottle of wine there, their cheapest best one, recommended by our sweet waiter, it was called San Felipe.
We had the best wine I had ever had in my whole 5 or so years of imbibing alcohol...The Malbec is a treat, a speciality of Mendoza. After the over priced, but deliciously fresh meal, we did make it to a bodega, where we met a really nice man, Christian, who served us an aged or "añejo" wine and a newer one. We bought a really good wine from him for 15 pesos. (Yes thats 5 American dollars. Despite the economy´s instability, Mendoza looked pretty good, a lot cleaner than Buenos Aires, a steady economy based on vino? perhaps.)
Met several characters here and there: A man named Oscar found us when we were wandering through Uspallata, a town outside of the city Mendoza, and took us on a personal tour of the Andes in his SUV. He took us to this look out of the 7 colors, litarlly a mountain that was orange, green, blue, yellow, and three others. And wehn we had our lady time: manicures, pedicures, facials, we met a Syrian woman Dibe, who wouldn´t stop giving me shit for having short fingernails. She said she worked miracles on my fingernails. She also made us bleed and had bad aim with the polish...There were the several different pairs and groups of people passing through our hostel, staying there as well. Many of them had been to Buenos Aires and hardly any of them had anything good to say about it. To my surprise, I kind of took that personally. Yet the only couple who said that they loved it was a couple from Mexico City, with whom I talked Mexican politics...They had a good saying "cuando paga, el perro baila" that is to say: when you pay, the dog dances, basically it means "money talks" which is how there government seems to work these days... Perhaps this couple was more used to the dirty, overwhelming beauty of Buenos Aires, that is a bustling, poor, metropolis, than many other travelers (mainly Western Euros and Americans) with whom we spoke are not. Buenos Aires is a lot to get used to coming from the United States. All we could tell them is that it really grows on you....and time has helped us to love this city.

Reading my last blog entry, well, it sounds a bit naive especially since I am guilty of not following the US news as much as I should be (since I consider myself a member of the alert public and I enjoy ranting about my country to my host parents). Elections here are on Sunday (what a great idea to vote on a Sunday! why is it not like this in the States? Also here you are not allowed to by alcohol on voting day...). I spoke to some people at CLAYSS about it they were complaining about the polls that project that Kristina will win...similar problem in our country that polls can influence the public´s perception...anyway:
A few interesting things to report....
I will be making a documentary for my doc film class with a few other Americans (I still use this term with hestitation since here one of the many reasons Argentines, and Latin Americans for that matter dislike yanquis is because of our arrogance and that we would call ourselves "Americans" without consideration for the rest of the Americas), and I will be directing. My proposal or treatment is about a particular plaque that the same group placed that is responsible for the plaque of my host mother´s first husband (read and earlier post that talks about that) that is in the entrance to the subway stop in a very busy area. My idea it to interview people from the organization, los Vecinos de Almagro and Balvanera and to interview people passing by this location, asking about collective memory essentially (this is a simplified explanation). Anyway, my host parents are a wonderful resource; they have really given me a unique experience here.
My Spanish, as I said earlier is getting better and better, and people here have been telling me that too. Which is like, "heck yes!" I feel very happy (but not necessarily certain) that I will have this second language for a long time. How wonderful to know that I will have an easier time connecting with other people cross cultural lines.
I met a girl last night named Almendra, which means almond (she told me that her parents were hippies) who had a little bit of English, but for the most part we spoke in Spanish about why Latin Americans don´t like yanquis. We were at a bar, called the Alamo, a favorite of North and South Americans, to watch the Red Sox game. Needless to say the bar was full of rowdy Red Sox fans, perhaps a redundant statement, and we could agree on having a distaste for a certain type of American, the drunk, rowdy type. The type that hasn´t necessarily had to be aware of their surroundings nor be culturally sensitive. We are not all like that of course, and Argentines, although civil in their sports watching can be just as rowdy about soccer as our lovely baseball fans.
What else...I found out that the maid that comes here about four times a week is actually still in high school and travels more than two hours to get here. As someone said, it is probably not a question whether she has to work or not. She does go to school. She is really nice and I try my hardest to be as respectful to her and ask that she doesn´t really do anything in my room. Is that insensitive or rude? My rationale: I´d rather be considered a peer than an authority by her.
I chatted online to my friend Danny today who is in St. Petersburg for the semester. It was interesting talking about our experiences, very different, especially since he is Russian, but still sharing the struggle to adjust and the admiration for our the respective cultures we are in. We both seem to agree that people are generally more connected vis a vis friendships and the human connection. My father told me when he was here that the hardest thing for him when he came back from India in the late sixties after being there for seven months, was the culture shock of the United States and how people relate to each other there versus in India, or Argentina or even Russia. There is a social code of conduct, reminds me a bit of the solidarity amongst New Yorkers, that people treat each other here with respect and treat strangers as friends. People are aware of one another and even though I am yanqui through and through, they show visitors here the utmost respect so as to give a good impression...or maybe because despite everything our country has done, they can still muster respect for any human no matter where they come from.

My parents just left after visiting me here for nine days. We had a good time, hung out and ate at good restaurants and I tried to show them as much of the city as I could. It was weird being a guide, and showing a city that I only have known for three months, but it was good because I felt adjusted to my surroundings and like I really knew Buenos Aires. What a relief!
The first two months were hard, I can say now, since it has gotten easier, and now I don´t feel like such a martian. I am a lot less self-conscious in the streets, interacting with other people, perhaps this mainly because my Spanish has improved tremendously. I don´t think as much about how what I want to say, words come so much more easily.
When my parents were here, it was interesting to see their reactions to the culture, especially the poverty...being from San Francisco I thought they were used to the presence of homelessness, but the children who beg all over the city, you see every day, drive home the feeling of being in a poor country. We saw this seven year old girl toting an accordian, playing and asking for money, she walked like a middle aged woman. The children who beg in general walk and talk much older than they are.
I´ve thought a lot about the US here and it how we pride ourselves on our level of development, but goddamn, our country has so many poor people, and as the gap widens between rich and poor, our politicians still pretend to cater to the middle class. It feels like our society is on its way to becoming a lot like a one with a developing economy.
No one here really trusts the government, especially the vast middle class. As the presidential election nears, everyone accepts that the current president, Kirschner´s wife, Kristina will win. She has the most money and the most botox of all the candidates. It isn´t really clear what her values are, in this sense, the candidates don´t take platforms, her posters say ¨we know what we need, we can do it together...¨something like that, very vague.
This sounds a lot like a certain situation in our country: people accept that Hilary will win (although I haven´t) and why is it this way? And what does she believe anyway? What is she going to do for our messed up country? Somehow I just don´t know....nor can I trust her.
Can we be candid about the crooks, the corruption, or are we pretending as we lie in the hammock of comfortable capitalism...dreaming that we still have a true democracy (that we ever did)?
Being here, seeing how the people relate to their government (with a lot of trepidation), makes me more and more and more critical of my own government. Bush recently vetoed an iniciative that was going to provide for poor children! Poor children! No child left behind actually means the US could care less about poor children. Unbelievable. This war must end, this administration must change and my faith in America must be restored.

Solidaridad

I just started volunteering for this organization CLAYSS (Centro latinoamericano de aprendizaje y servicio solidario) which promotes service learning in Latin America. The way they talk to us about service learning is interesting because it seems like Argentines don't think we Americans know what it is. It is a newer concept among educators in America and maybe it is because of where I come from (hippy-dippiness), but I felt very familiar with the subject. This type of education works well here because it promotes leadership, self-motivation, problem solving, etc. Perhaps is the solution to that banking style of education that our friend Paulo Freire talks about.
Also exists a very different concept of what the word solidarity or "solidaridad" means, and this too they like to flaunt in Americans faces like we have no clue as to what this word means in Spanish. Well, they're right. Solidarity here means any action with the community, any good work done to help society. For me, in English that word brings to mind images of that idealistic, Marxist kid with a silkscreened hammer and sickle on his studded sweatshirt. It makes me think of radicalism. Also I think of the magazine that my parents get in the mail from some union or other (not sure which one), which is called "Solidarity."
Anyway, I think what doesn't translate is this universalist, human interconnectedness that is felt amongst people here, since life here (not for all, but for most) is considered a struggle, for the most part because life is not secure, things change, money becomes unavailable, you step in dog shit now and then. Solidaridad in Spanish could mean for us could mean community service, but it isn't isolated or compartmentalized here nor does it have conotations. As with "tranquilidad," Americans don't really live in a society in which "solidaridad" can exist. This isn't a sad thing, just different, although I wish Americans could live in a more interconnected way, in the sense that empathy wasn't a trait, but a way of life.

Rev. Christian von Wernich receives life sentence

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/10/world/americas/10argentina.html?_r=1&ref=americas&oref=slogin

Things I Will Miss

There are plenty of American things I miss being in Argentina. But I've been thinking, as I've reached close to my half-way mark, that there are many things that I will miss about this culture. As I've said, the Argentines are terribly refined. It isn't terrible though. It is just over the top for someone who comes from such a society as my own. When you go to have a coffee here, with a friend, or just to have a coffee, no matter the casualness of the situation, no one cares, you will be brought: your coffee, a small glass of water, a couple of sweets (small cookies), and sugar. It is a process, it is a celebration, or rather a moment to enjoy yourself. Eating here is not really the point, rather it is the company you share, and that you will be relaxed as you do so. The McDonalds here has a McCafe, a wonderful invention, a great cafe, with waiters, clean bathrooms, good coffee. Something like this wouldn't really fly in the States. This is why I don't think that Starbucks has infiltrated (there is NO Starbucks here), because they have no use for the coffee to go. This bothered me at first, but it makes me realize that perhaps it is better to sit and have your coffee, to be here now, to be aware of what you are doing as you are doing it. And be "tranqui" or "tranquilo," this is said a lot, especially to us Americans who are not. I can't really translate this word, although I'm sure you understand the literal meaning, because I don't think in the States we have it in us or our society isn't tailored for such a word to exist.

Bus Ride Stream of Consciousness

Today, I pulled myself out of bed. I don't like sleeping into the afternoon because I miss the daylight. The days are getting more beautiful here as spring has sprung. They say that argentines "viven entre la rezaca y la responsibilidad." Which is to say they live between a hangover and responsibility. It has more of a ring to it in Spanish.
So I took responsibility, and got on the bus to meet a friend in the botanical gardens. It was a rough, too bright walk to the bus, and I got a seat which was a good thing. The buses here are wonderfully dangerous. It hard to hold your ground if standing. The buses swerve and hastily move through the streets, they barely stop for you to get on: if you are the only one getting on at the stop and it is a green light, you are sure to have to jump swiftly onto the bus to catch your ride. It hardly feels unsafe, the porteños have it down to a science: as they move through the busy streets or the subway, they aptly keep their bodies to themselves, they move with a lot of grace.
After I sat down, a large man, with a graying beard and two sets of eyeglasses sat next to me, whistling. This isn't odd here. Men sing on the streets all the time. Not really to themselves, and it isn't humming, but singing. Like Gene Kelley. Of course it strikes me as a little odd, as my American sensibility tells me that this man is invading my personal space, but I let it go. He continued whistling and we must of passed a church or a nun or something (qué sé yo?) and he crossed himself to the rhythm of his tune. I guess the strangest part was that towards the end, and I wondered if this was directed at me, he began to sing a familiar song. The Star Spangled Banner. How odd. I wondered if he knew I was American and he was jabbing at me, but again I had to catch my American-selfishness or rather, my self-consciousness of being American, and think that this man was probably whistling just to whistle. Just to enjoy the day and pass the bus ride.

It has been too long....
I was in Cordoba last week. It is a landlocked province, a 12 hour bus ride from Capital Federal. We went swimming in these amazing rivers (pictured). The water was chilly, but it was hot and worth it. We took hikes along terrain such as this one and walked on an ancient aquaduct, that still has a maintained form. The people, los cordobeses, were extremely nice to us. I imagine they are used to the tourism, in general people seemed happier than they did in Jujuy. The climate there was more arid, farther from the city. Perhaps this is why I think this. We rode horses, which I have actually never done. I got to ride a horse that looked as much like a hippy as I do, with these strange hand made stir-ups that a child had decorated. We rode out on these rodes where there was little human presence. And just miles of green hills. Reminded me a little of my second home in Ohio. It is funny how much I can be reminded of things from home that I know so well in this far off place.
The highlight of the trip was the Museo Rocsen (pictured). A museum founded by a Frenchman, Rocsen, in the 1950s in Nono, Argentina. It is just his collection of stuff. It is rooms and rooms filled with various collections of geos, bicycles, clothing, bones, birds, beetles, cameras, car engines, whatever your heart desires. And the facade of the building is this row of 30 some statues of historical figures, arranged chronologically. That's Jesus pictured there in middle. Buddha's in there, the last one is Martin Luther King Jr. It was a pleasure. And if you ever have the chance it is worth the bus ride to see this unknown, but incredible museum in Nono.

An American in Buenos Aires (A messy, rude one at that)

Today, we talked about cultural differences in my Spanish class. I have Spanish four days a week. We're an awkward, but interesting bunch: a tall, lanky and very tan French girl, two Korean girls, a Japanese guy, who is actually half Argentine, but grew up in Japan and sports an extremely long dreadlock, just one that is, and another American girl who is actually from California and went to UC Berkeley.

Practically every class we go around and talk about our respective countries. For example we read an article about how Argentine youth are lazy and not doing anything particularly good with their lives, then we each went around and talked about how the youth are in the States, Japan, Korea, and France. Needless to say, there are lazy youths in all parts of the world.

But today, I had the chance to vent a little bit about the things I notice here, that I notice because they are things that make me feel like I stand out. First off, I had to complain about how no eats in the street. Mainly, because I have to convince myself that "its okay" if I want to eat an apple in public (also they cut all the fruit they eat rather than just gnaw away like I do). Not only that, but to consume a beverage on the street you must use a straw as to not offend anyone by opening your mouth too wide (I guess). This must be why there is home delivery. FOR. EVERYTHING. Ice cream, Chinese food, groceries. Good forbid, you'd have to eat on the street.

The next thing I noticed when I went to see a documentary this past weekend and was sitting in an overheated theatre. I had to remove some layers and as I shifted in my seat I noticed that everyone was completely still. So still. Not even uncrossing their legs. The documentary wasn't even that good! I shifted so much in my seat due to the heat, due to my nature and this woman just sat so calmly next to me that I thought she might have died.

I must say I write with a bit of tenderness since in these past months I have come appreciate even the quirkiest of Argentine custom. Although the ones that I write about aren't drastically outstanding, they are every day reminders that I am not from this place and I'm far away from home.

Salt Flats in Jujuy, Northern province of Argentina

A Complex and Perplexing Tattoo

I've seen strange ones before: one guy with the Ramones logo on his shoulder, a Rolling Stones logo peaking out from a girl's waistline, etc. And I ask, why? But who am I to judge?
A man's calf caught my eye: the Rolling Stones lips on an Argentine flag, all superimposed on a large marijuana leaf. All in color. Must I say more?
It can be confusing in these parts.

To Study Abroad

I don't really accept that I´m ¨studying abroad¨ (don't tell Oberlin) since my experience so far, in these last two months, has had little to do with school and studying, but adjusting to life in a different country.

Adjusting completely just does not seem plausible since I hold onto many things that make me American, and a distinct pride for my country comes out of this. Every day I know this place a little better, but out of that I miss the States. There is so much richness in our own culture that is easily overlooked. And the critic that I am of the United States, I'm surprised by how much I appreciate.

I've said many times to peers that my experience here happens much less to be about learning what it means to be an Argentine, than what it means to be an American. (By the way, here you aren´t supposed to refer to yourself as ´´americana´´ if you are from the United States because South Americans are also Americans.) I have had to articulate to myself and others what I represent or what I believe and then in turn analyze what about this makes me American. I think this is why I study Latin America : how do I reckon with my country, as it has perpetually messed up the entirety of Latin America for its citizens, while it grants me so much freedom?

My first impressions

My first mass email:

I've been in Buenos Aires for more than three weeks now and I wanted to get in touch with you and give you a little taste of how things are going down here...this is a bit long...you can skim:

Not only has school started already, it is winter down here! Rainy, then sunny, foggy, one day they had snow, a historic occurrence. I live in a nice apartment a little far from the center of town, but the subway is right nearby. The A line, which I ride, mostly runs old subway cars, wooden interiors, doors you have to pull open, leather straps on the windows to open them...Also people step out as the train is moving and the doors basically shut again barely after the train has stopped. Despite a pace and rhythm that is slower and more drawn out, there's lots of urgency.

I'm taking a couple classes here and there, a couple at UBA, the public, free university that 300,000 Argentines attend. At UBA, the facades of buildings and the insides of classrooms are adorned with graffiti "YANKEE GO HOME!" "US FUERA DE IRAQ" and the like. When you enter the buildings, there is a line of people handing out propaganda. Someone told me that during a lecture, two different sets of students came in and put political posters up on the board behind the professor. The university is totally disorganized, dilapidated, strikes are common, yet maintains itself as the MOST prestigious university in the country. It was only 20 years ago that this country got rid of the military dictatorship; its a young democracy and they take freedom of speech seriously. Evita and Che are far from forgotten and their names are everywhere tagged on walls.

I'm also taking a couple of art classes through UBA's cultural center. This is interesting because old ladies and students and adults, anybody who wants to comes out to register and take these classes. There is so much culture here, it is overwhelming. The government does a fantastic job of funding the arts, music, theater, there is SO much to do!

The city is CRAZY. Literally, emotionally, physically. So many people everywhere, dogs are really popular, so is not picking up their poop. Stepping in poop is so common people say that is good luck. I like the people. Buenos Aires has a huge per capita or whatever you say of people seeing therapists, they really want to be European, it is just as Jewish as it is Catholic and the people are extremely good looking. The men wont stop with their stares and with the comments, "hay que linda," but people are friendly and eager to know where I'm from and my political stance on things. They are not so quick to consider themselves Latin Americans, although they certainly live within the Latin American unreality.

The language is tough, was really hard at first. I still can't understand what people are saying sometimes. All the double Ls are pronounced "shh" and the y's are pronounced similarly. They say "vos" instead of "tu" and they even decided it would be funny if they had their very own tu form of verb conjugation! But I'm getting by....

This last weekend, I went to Iguazu, northern Argentina, boarders Brazil and Paraguay. AMAZING! The cataratas, the waterfalls, there are something like the biggest in the hemisphere. I've never seen anything as immense, threatening, beautiful.

Justicia y Memoria

My second mass email:

Two Sundays ago, I accompanied my host family to a ceremony to commemorate my host mother's ex-husband, Julio Cesar, killed in 1974 (this was two years before the military took hold, Perón was still president). My host mother, Ana María says, "Fue primero" as in he was the first disappeared. His body was found two days after her was kidnapped and soon afterwards the matter was all over the news. Nothing like this had happened before: the Triple A hadn't appeared yet, there were acts of terrorism by anonymous groups loosely tied to the government, bombs and so forth, but disappearances weren't rampant.

Julio was the father of my "host siblings", Leo and Mariela, who were 4 and 3 at the time. Julio Cesar was a photojournalist who had been at a socialist event, taking a photograph that led to his arrest. Nothing until now has ever been done to investigate or even commemorate what happened to him. There is a group of people who call themselves Los Vecinos de Balvenera and Almagro, two districts (I live in Almagro) in which it is estimated was the home of 200-300 desaparecidos. Julio Cesar grew up a few blocks from out apartment.

My host mother told me about this a couple weeks ago because she wanted to invite me a ceremony in which they were going to install a plaque in his memory. Not to gloat, but my my host mother told me that she had never told any of her previous exchange students about this, but she felt like she could because she sees the way I speak about things and that I have a "mente amplia."

So on Sunday, Leo and his girlfriend came over for lunch and then around 4 o' clock my host parents, Ana María and Eduardo (her second husband, adopted father to her children) and Leo and Claudia and I walked to Julio Cesar's house. There, people gathered in front on the sidewalk where a plot to place the plaque to mark his memory. People spoke about Julio Cesar, who he was, what he enjoyed: Neruda, Lorca, Mercedes Sosa. We all wore small photocopied pictures of him that were stapled to little red paper cranes. People spoke about how this does not mark an end or a goal, but stressed that we must continue to remember and make statements that recognize the disappeared so that this never happens again. ¡Nunca más! Afterwards, the family and others came back to the apartment and chatted and laughed and spoke softly of this lovely, simple, poignant ceremony.

A few nights prior to this event, I told my host parents about my father's parents who were communists and investigated by the FBI. As I told them this, about how my grandfather was essentially forced to stay in Phoenix, AZ where he felt protected, but dissatisfied nonetheless, a glimmer of recognition passed across Ana María and Eduardo's faces. The morning of the ceremony when Leo came over, Ana and Eduardo bragged to him, "su abuelo era comunista!" and then they told me, "Leo es comunista, también," and they all smiled at me in approval. And after the ceremony for Julio Cesar, I stood alone observing everything and Ana walked up to me and said, "Era, comunista, ¿sabés?" pointing to the plaque for Julio Cesar.

I never knew that I could ever feel as accepted as I did on that day, welcomed into a different culture, a people, and a family. They recognized me and let me in, into Argentina.

Buenos Aires: 1

I have been in Buenos Aires now for two months and all my thoughts on being a foreigner in this country have finally found an arena.