10. The language - There are some languages where everything sounds angry. Saying "I love you" in German sounds like "I hate you in any other language. Spanish isn't like that. Saying "I hate you" sounds seductive. I've seduced a couple of women with a well-placed "Te odio."
9. The meat - I didn't even eat red meat before I got here. You guys all know me; I hadn't had a hamburger in 5 years. But it's all better here. Even Burger King is bomb (except you have to get down on your knees and beg for ketchup).
8. The women - Everyone is in perfect shape. It's not that they're any prettier than any other people in the world; it's just that they're all in tip-top shape. You can't walk down the street by day without seeing at least a couple 10's, and you guys know that 10 in the metric system is like a 15.
7. The TV. All the time they show solid movies. Not like classic movies, but solid movies. You know, Paul Walker is the lead in about half of them. Movies like that. I've watched the entire Fast and the Furious trilogy (yes, even Tokyo Drift) and I got myself all hyped up for the 4th one. And, since they're all subtitled in Spanish, it's a learning experience and I don't have to feel guilty.
6. 3.8 to 1 - That's the current exchange rate. Everything here is really cheap. But every time you get a bill, for just one second you think it's in dollars and you freak out. But then you remember that it is in pesos, and you feel really good, and it's all worth it. It's not as fun as in Chile though, where everything cost in the thousands of pesos, and you could go out and get a beer and end up paying $1,200. There's nothing more fun than throwing down a thousand spot on the table. You feel like the monopoly man.
5. The beer - I'm not sure how that got into my top 10. I hate Quilmes. It tastes horrible and it's served everywhere. It's not as bad as Milwaukee's Best or anything like that, but the US doesn't hold up Milwaukee's Best as a national mark of pride.
4. The flush - This is a lie, the toilets in the Southern Hemisphere don't flush backwards, and I don't know why this is talked about so much. I also wonder how toilets right on the equator flush. I guess the same way as everywhere else, since once again, they do not flush backwards here.
3. The little things - The elevators are all those old fashioned elevators that you have to pull the doors closed, our houses' door knob is right in the middle of the door for some reason, and the toilets all have flushers mounted in the wall that are like valves you push into, and all the electronics are second-rate because there's a big tax on them. Sometimes I wake up and for a second think that I'm in America, and then I see all these things and it serves to remind me where I am, and it's great.
2. Stoplights - When you have a green light you drive, then it turns yellow and you must slow down, then it turns red and you have to stop. Just like America right?? Here comes the kicker. When you're at a red light the light will then count back down, turn yellow to let you know to rev your engines and get ready to take off, and then turns green. It makes so much more sense to warn you when the light is going to go green, and it makes everything seem like a drag race. Unfortunately it's also not easy to tell if the light is going green or going red so sometimes our taxi drivers end up accelerating at a red light.
1. The night life - Dinner is at 10, you hang out till at least midnight, you go to a bar till 3 am, and then the night starts. We were drinking with some Argentines one night and there was no sense of urgency about going out until it hit 3:30, and then one of the guys goes "You guys want to think about heading out soon?" This is as opposed to America when people are always getting mad at me for being late to things and not starting the night before 10. I like a country where you can't possibly be late for anything. It does make the mornings hard, but numbers 2 through 10 make it all better (with the exception of number 5, the beer, which definitely makes the mornings much worse).
I know lists of 10 are supposed to have 10 items, and nothing more, but I have to give an honorable mention to two things. The first, Apple Gatorade. That's right, Gatorade has 500 flavors in the US, but they don't have apple, whereas there are like 5 flavors here, but they don't need any more because apple has already landed. The second thing, empanadas. I know what you guys are thinking, they're just glorified hot pockets. You may be right, and I don't care. For all you soon to be unemployed college graduates, hop on it now, and help me start an empanada restaurant in New York City. The empanada was made for New York, and I want to let them know. In five years I see it being bigger than falafel.
And of course I owe a special thanks to the Argentines. They're friendly, they always enjoy chatting, and they put up with my poor-quality Spanish like real champs.
With a special shoutout to wineandbowties.blogspot.com. I gave you a list of 10 good things about Argentina, wineandbowties is an everyday list about everything good everywhere
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Basketball and The Asado
Two weekends ago, as a fun excursion, our school scheduled a basketball game against a city team in Greater Buenos Aires, called the Quilmes Atletico Club. When they scheduled the game against a group of Americans I'm sure the QAC was expecting some really strong competition. After all, we invented the sport. We drove an hour in our van, listened to some inspirational music, and then entered the gym. Anyone who knows me probably already realizes I'm terrible at basketball. I rarely hold my own in pickup games. But the Argentines are small people so I thought I'd be able to at least do alright. During warmups 4 out of the 5 starters threw down tomohawk dunks. One-sided wasn't even a good way to describe the game. They destroyed us. We kept up a lot better than I thought we would, we made some baskets, rebounded, I committed a near flagrant foul, did some heavy duty trash talking, the usual. Afterwards we hung around for a little, made some conversation, and ate empanadas with the team.
Last weekend, for my host-brother Augustin's 36th birthday, me and the roommates headed out to his house in Santa Barbara, outside the city, for an Asado (BBQ). It could have literally been anytown USA. Big houses, wide open winding streets, kids riding bikes and playing around. My first taste of Argentine suburbia. His house would have fit in anywhere in America too except he had a parilla (grill) enclave built into the outside of his house. The asado is just like an American barbecue, but way way more serious. We use gas on a little grill or possibly charcoal; these guys specifically burn down logs and then use the ashes as the coals because it gives off a more even, slower heat. And it's not like they just throw hamburgers on the grill. What do I see when I head over to the grill but a pig's head staring back at me. On closer inspection I also find it's entire body, cut right down the middle and spread over the grill. It is absolutely brutal, and I keep explaining to these guys how much harder it's going to be to eat an animal that's staring back at me. Augustin just keeps going on about how good the neck fat tastes.
It turns out these guys may be better than us at asados, but they're just rookies as well. The real pro eventually arrives. This guy brought his own extra sharp asado knife, in a leather sheath. He sets up shop and everyone clears out of the way. The asadadero has arrived.
The first thing he starts telling me is how to make blood sausage. He gives a super-graphic representation of putting a pig on a table, slitting its throat, and then draining the blood from the jugular vein into a bucket so you can later stuff it into a sausage. It's absolutely horrifying, and my host-mom looks horrified, but I play along and try and act interested. I even go so far as to ask him a question. He had just told me that the pigs make all kinds of noises when they die, so I go for the follow up question. Unfortunately, the problem with the word pig, is that one little mistake really screws things up. Pig in spanish is el chancho. But I get the word slightly wrong, and my question comes out "Entonces la concha hace mucho ruido cuando la matas?" Literally translated, this means "so the vagina makes a lot of noise when you kill it?" (kill it here is slang for sex). This guy looks at me for a second with the most confounded look I've ever seen, and then starts hysterically laughing. He's about to correct me but I've already realized my mistake and have turned a deep shade of red.
We sat down for food, and I don't know why but the conversation immediately turned to women. From there of course it arrived on my other host-brother Ivan's girlfriend situation. Here's the background: Ivan is 29, he lives at home but he never eats here and he occasionally sleeps out on weekends. Everyone at the asado started questioning him on whether he had a girlfriend or not, but he absolutely refused to come clean. I was confused what the big deal was, but then someone explained to me that before Augustin got married he hadn't even told our mom that he was dating a woman. He just came home one day and told her he was engaged. I like this style, so Mom, expect a surprise when I come home... or maybe not.
Everything else besides that was a lot of fun. The family was wonderfully fun and really friendly with us. After the asado was over and the meat was gone the asadero got a standing ovation. That just doesn't happen in America. We traded off some cheek-kisses and then we left.
And now for an update from 5 minutes ago. Our mom has been a little sick lately (I know a bunch of people are gonna connect the roast pig and the sickness, but no, it's not swine flu). She had to get a monitor on her arm for a couple of days to make sure her heart is beating normally. She just walked into my room and asked if I was indeed Jewish. I said yes, and then she pulled open her shirt to reveal a package with a bunch of wires leading out of it strapped to her chest, and yelled "Yo soy un talibano ahora." I laughed for about 5 straight minutes. That's not even the most ridiculous thing she's done in the past week. 3 days ago she bribed me to do her english class homework by feeding me cake and pecan pralines, and then agreed to look over one of my spanish essays for me. She looked over it, made all the connections necessary, and I just got it back and got an 83% on it. I'm real confused.
Last weekend, for my host-brother Augustin's 36th birthday, me and the roommates headed out to his house in Santa Barbara, outside the city, for an Asado (BBQ). It could have literally been anytown USA. Big houses, wide open winding streets, kids riding bikes and playing around. My first taste of Argentine suburbia. His house would have fit in anywhere in America too except he had a parilla (grill) enclave built into the outside of his house. The asado is just like an American barbecue, but way way more serious. We use gas on a little grill or possibly charcoal; these guys specifically burn down logs and then use the ashes as the coals because it gives off a more even, slower heat. And it's not like they just throw hamburgers on the grill. What do I see when I head over to the grill but a pig's head staring back at me. On closer inspection I also find it's entire body, cut right down the middle and spread over the grill. It is absolutely brutal, and I keep explaining to these guys how much harder it's going to be to eat an animal that's staring back at me. Augustin just keeps going on about how good the neck fat tastes.
It turns out these guys may be better than us at asados, but they're just rookies as well. The real pro eventually arrives. This guy brought his own extra sharp asado knife, in a leather sheath. He sets up shop and everyone clears out of the way. The asadadero has arrived.
The first thing he starts telling me is how to make blood sausage. He gives a super-graphic representation of putting a pig on a table, slitting its throat, and then draining the blood from the jugular vein into a bucket so you can later stuff it into a sausage. It's absolutely horrifying, and my host-mom looks horrified, but I play along and try and act interested. I even go so far as to ask him a question. He had just told me that the pigs make all kinds of noises when they die, so I go for the follow up question. Unfortunately, the problem with the word pig, is that one little mistake really screws things up. Pig in spanish is el chancho. But I get the word slightly wrong, and my question comes out "Entonces la concha hace mucho ruido cuando la matas?" Literally translated, this means "so the vagina makes a lot of noise when you kill it?" (kill it here is slang for sex). This guy looks at me for a second with the most confounded look I've ever seen, and then starts hysterically laughing. He's about to correct me but I've already realized my mistake and have turned a deep shade of red.
We sat down for food, and I don't know why but the conversation immediately turned to women. From there of course it arrived on my other host-brother Ivan's girlfriend situation. Here's the background: Ivan is 29, he lives at home but he never eats here and he occasionally sleeps out on weekends. Everyone at the asado started questioning him on whether he had a girlfriend or not, but he absolutely refused to come clean. I was confused what the big deal was, but then someone explained to me that before Augustin got married he hadn't even told our mom that he was dating a woman. He just came home one day and told her he was engaged. I like this style, so Mom, expect a surprise when I come home... or maybe not.
Everything else besides that was a lot of fun. The family was wonderfully fun and really friendly with us. After the asado was over and the meat was gone the asadero got a standing ovation. That just doesn't happen in America. We traded off some cheek-kisses and then we left.
And now for an update from 5 minutes ago. Our mom has been a little sick lately (I know a bunch of people are gonna connect the roast pig and the sickness, but no, it's not swine flu). She had to get a monitor on her arm for a couple of days to make sure her heart is beating normally. She just walked into my room and asked if I was indeed Jewish. I said yes, and then she pulled open her shirt to reveal a package with a bunch of wires leading out of it strapped to her chest, and yelled "Yo soy un talibano ahora." I laughed for about 5 straight minutes. That's not even the most ridiculous thing she's done in the past week. 3 days ago she bribed me to do her english class homework by feeding me cake and pecan pralines, and then agreed to look over one of my spanish essays for me. She looked over it, made all the connections necessary, and I just got it back and got an 83% on it. I'm real confused.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Spring Break
I've been out of town for the last week, traveling Argentina. It's incredible how big this country is, and just how much I still have to see. But I tried to at least make a dent in it. The plan was to set out to Bariloche, check out the Alps, cross them into Chile, and then bus up to Santiago. It went more or less according to plan.
First thing, we head over to the airport. It's a 10 minute cab ride on the highway. But in the tollbooth line to enter the highway, because our cab driver is listening to his radio too loud, the battery drains, and the car dies. It won't start back up. My friend and I are sitting there, dumbfounded, but nowhere near as dumbfounded as the cab driver. After 10 seconds, with nobody saying anything, I finally ask him if he needs us to push the car so he can pop the clutch and get it started again. He starts laughing sheepishly, turns around, and admits that that is what he needs. So we get out, in the tollbooth line, and start pushing the cab. But he's not popping the clutch right, or we're not going fast enough, so it's not working. Now he gets out of the cab and starts pushing with us. Still no luck. I tell him he's not doing it right, and to let me try. He says no, he knows what he's doing, but I tell him I don't wanna push anymore unless he let's me try. He still won't budge, so I go back to pushing. Finally, with a police officer yelling at us, and cars whizzing past us, the car re-starts. We get back in and drive to the airport. When we arrive he apologizes to us, but still charges us the full rate. I made a comment about how we pushed a good distance so maybe we could get a discount, but he just laughs it off. Whatever, off to Bariloche. Funny note. On the plane, I'm sitting next to an older Argentine couple, and get to talking with them. Since Argentina just got spanked 5-1 by Bolivia, I make a comment about the team. This sets this guy off. He starts throwing out excuse after excuse. His two best excuses were that all cocaine that Maradona snorted made him crazy, and that the air is a lot thinner in La Paz and since the Bolivians are used to the thin air they played a lot better. I said all his excuses were pretty weak, and he finally gave in and admitted that the Maradona era may not be going so well.
Bariloche is absolutely beautiful. It's on a lake, surrounded by lakes, surrounded by the Andes. It's raining constantly but it's OK, because it sort of adds to the ambience. The next day we went on an 8 hour hike up one of the mountains. We started in sort of a desert, moved into a tropical rainforest with bamboo, and then climbed up the mountain until it was snowing on us. We finally arrived at the cabin at the top, had lunch, and got ready to head back down. But in the hour that we took to eat lunch, a blizzard has started. We're wearing tennis shoes, there's 5 inches of snow on the ground, and we have to cross a raging river. We somehow made it back down, our shoes soaking wet, and covered in sweat, but it was one of the coolest hikes I've ever been on, and it was worth all the pain.
We spent a couple more days in Bariloche, doing various other things. We checked out the casino, lost some money, but since it was all in pesos our losses weren't nearly as bad as they seemed.
The next day we took a bus across the Andes to Puerto Varas. It was a 6 hour bus ride with at least an hour of waiting in customs lines.
We finally crossed the Andes, and ended up in Puerto Varas. Looking for lunch for the day, I asked a woman in a pharmacy. It turns out that she was a chef, and she took us to the hotel she worked at cooked us all their specialties, which were absolutely incredible.
We stopped at a bar on the way back to the bus-station, to pre-game for the overnight trip to Santiago, and then headed to the bus station. The problem: one of my friends has the habit of falling fast asleep if he's drunk. And he fell fast asleep. We sat there slapping him in the face, trying to wake him up, until he finally came to, but the bus driver had been watching the entire time and was convinced that he was stinking drunk. He wasn't, but we couldn't convince the bus driver, so we weren't allowed to get on the bus. They gave us tickets for the next day, and then for some reason gave us money back. The next day my friend went back to switch the times for the bus, and they gave him money back again, while upgrading him to a 1st class bus. We didn't understand why they kept giving us money but we kept on taking it.
The next day we made it up to Santiago. Santiago is a pretty city, and we spent a lot of time just bumming around the downtown, checking out the scene. The scene was nice. I can't say much more about it. We were only there during the week, and apparently the Santiago nightlife during the week is not super-impressive. We also went up on the Teleferico, a tram that goes up to the top of the highest hill in the middle of Santiago. It provided incredible sights, but I spent the entire time holding onto the handle sweating. I hate heights, and my friend kept reminding me that the safety regulations are more lax in South America. Up at the top we saw the Statue of the Virgin Mary, not quite as impressive as Christ the Redeemer in Rio, but still pretty impressive.
One thing I forgot. When we were in Santiago we were told that the signature drink of the city was called El Terremoto, and it was only served at one bar, La Piojera. This translates as the tick, and it's called that because the customers there suck down drinks like ticks suck down blood. We head over there, and it's about as "authentic" as it gets. By authentic I mean that the place is filthy, we're the only gringos there, and half the people in the bar look like they're sizing us up for our wallets. Whatever, we head over to the bar, and order 3 terremotos. But I get intercepted. This big fat guy latches onto me, tells me I'm his friend, and insists I have a drink of his drink. I don't want any. I explain that I just ordered a drink, but he says I need to try it. I tell him I'm about to try the drink in a second, so there's no need to give it a pre-try. He insists, all while hugging me, and refusing to let me go. He shakes my hand, and when I try and pull it away he just switches handshake positions. When I try to pull it away again he switches back to the original position. We keep going back and forth, like some elaborate dance. It's funny at first, but this guy is insistent, and will just not let me go. We took some pictures with him, but he would just not drop it. So I take a sip, tell him it's interesting, and then go to the bathroom and scrub my hands down. I come back out, and guess who's there? He promptly grabs my hand again and we go back into the back and forth handshake dance. He still won't let me go, but at least my drink is there, and I can sit down. Doesn't matter to him. He won't let me go. He starts in on his lifestory. It's pretty sad. He tells me that he's from a dangerous slum, and he wants to show it to me so I can understand it. I politely decline. Then he starts telling me about the paco-addicts, and the violence, and how I need to see it for myself. I feel bad, but it's not a great selling point to invite someone to your house by telling them how horribly dangerous it is. So this guy won't let me get to my drink, he's telling me his life story, and he has a death grip on my hand. It can't get any worse. Then it gets worse. He starts crying. Starts out slow, wet-eyes at first, and advances to real crying. I really don't know what to do. It's all very sad, but I'm the only gringo in some random bar in Santiago with some guy sobbing in front of me. I just wanna get out of there. I'm making rescue-me eyes at all my friends, but none of them wanna get drawn into this ridiculous scene. Finally I physically pull away from him, tell him mucho gusto (which hasn't worked before because when I shake his hand to leave he starts in on the handshake dance again) and escape to my table. I pound this drink in about 5 seconds (it was horrible: sweet white wine, fernet, pisco sour, and pineapple ice cream. Anyone who was recommended to try a terremoto? Skip it). And I run out of La Piojera as fast as I can, without stopping to look back.
So that was Spring Break. Snowcaps instead of beaches, wet weather instead of wet t-shirt contests, and Escudo instead of Budweiser. Compares favorably with the American version.
First thing, we head over to the airport. It's a 10 minute cab ride on the highway. But in the tollbooth line to enter the highway, because our cab driver is listening to his radio too loud, the battery drains, and the car dies. It won't start back up. My friend and I are sitting there, dumbfounded, but nowhere near as dumbfounded as the cab driver. After 10 seconds, with nobody saying anything, I finally ask him if he needs us to push the car so he can pop the clutch and get it started again. He starts laughing sheepishly, turns around, and admits that that is what he needs. So we get out, in the tollbooth line, and start pushing the cab. But he's not popping the clutch right, or we're not going fast enough, so it's not working. Now he gets out of the cab and starts pushing with us. Still no luck. I tell him he's not doing it right, and to let me try. He says no, he knows what he's doing, but I tell him I don't wanna push anymore unless he let's me try. He still won't budge, so I go back to pushing. Finally, with a police officer yelling at us, and cars whizzing past us, the car re-starts. We get back in and drive to the airport. When we arrive he apologizes to us, but still charges us the full rate. I made a comment about how we pushed a good distance so maybe we could get a discount, but he just laughs it off. Whatever, off to Bariloche. Funny note. On the plane, I'm sitting next to an older Argentine couple, and get to talking with them. Since Argentina just got spanked 5-1 by Bolivia, I make a comment about the team. This sets this guy off. He starts throwing out excuse after excuse. His two best excuses were that all cocaine that Maradona snorted made him crazy, and that the air is a lot thinner in La Paz and since the Bolivians are used to the thin air they played a lot better. I said all his excuses were pretty weak, and he finally gave in and admitted that the Maradona era may not be going so well.
Bariloche is absolutely beautiful. It's on a lake, surrounded by lakes, surrounded by the Andes. It's raining constantly but it's OK, because it sort of adds to the ambience. The next day we went on an 8 hour hike up one of the mountains. We started in sort of a desert, moved into a tropical rainforest with bamboo, and then climbed up the mountain until it was snowing on us. We finally arrived at the cabin at the top, had lunch, and got ready to head back down. But in the hour that we took to eat lunch, a blizzard has started. We're wearing tennis shoes, there's 5 inches of snow on the ground, and we have to cross a raging river. We somehow made it back down, our shoes soaking wet, and covered in sweat, but it was one of the coolest hikes I've ever been on, and it was worth all the pain.
We spent a couple more days in Bariloche, doing various other things. We checked out the casino, lost some money, but since it was all in pesos our losses weren't nearly as bad as they seemed.
The next day we took a bus across the Andes to Puerto Varas. It was a 6 hour bus ride with at least an hour of waiting in customs lines.
We finally crossed the Andes, and ended up in Puerto Varas. Looking for lunch for the day, I asked a woman in a pharmacy. It turns out that she was a chef, and she took us to the hotel she worked at cooked us all their specialties, which were absolutely incredible.
We stopped at a bar on the way back to the bus-station, to pre-game for the overnight trip to Santiago, and then headed to the bus station. The problem: one of my friends has the habit of falling fast asleep if he's drunk. And he fell fast asleep. We sat there slapping him in the face, trying to wake him up, until he finally came to, but the bus driver had been watching the entire time and was convinced that he was stinking drunk. He wasn't, but we couldn't convince the bus driver, so we weren't allowed to get on the bus. They gave us tickets for the next day, and then for some reason gave us money back. The next day my friend went back to switch the times for the bus, and they gave him money back again, while upgrading him to a 1st class bus. We didn't understand why they kept giving us money but we kept on taking it.
The next day we made it up to Santiago. Santiago is a pretty city, and we spent a lot of time just bumming around the downtown, checking out the scene. The scene was nice. I can't say much more about it. We were only there during the week, and apparently the Santiago nightlife during the week is not super-impressive. We also went up on the Teleferico, a tram that goes up to the top of the highest hill in the middle of Santiago. It provided incredible sights, but I spent the entire time holding onto the handle sweating. I hate heights, and my friend kept reminding me that the safety regulations are more lax in South America. Up at the top we saw the Statue of the Virgin Mary, not quite as impressive as Christ the Redeemer in Rio, but still pretty impressive.
One thing I forgot. When we were in Santiago we were told that the signature drink of the city was called El Terremoto, and it was only served at one bar, La Piojera. This translates as the tick, and it's called that because the customers there suck down drinks like ticks suck down blood. We head over there, and it's about as "authentic" as it gets. By authentic I mean that the place is filthy, we're the only gringos there, and half the people in the bar look like they're sizing us up for our wallets. Whatever, we head over to the bar, and order 3 terremotos. But I get intercepted. This big fat guy latches onto me, tells me I'm his friend, and insists I have a drink of his drink. I don't want any. I explain that I just ordered a drink, but he says I need to try it. I tell him I'm about to try the drink in a second, so there's no need to give it a pre-try. He insists, all while hugging me, and refusing to let me go. He shakes my hand, and when I try and pull it away he just switches handshake positions. When I try to pull it away again he switches back to the original position. We keep going back and forth, like some elaborate dance. It's funny at first, but this guy is insistent, and will just not let me go. We took some pictures with him, but he would just not drop it. So I take a sip, tell him it's interesting, and then go to the bathroom and scrub my hands down. I come back out, and guess who's there? He promptly grabs my hand again and we go back into the back and forth handshake dance. He still won't let me go, but at least my drink is there, and I can sit down. Doesn't matter to him. He won't let me go. He starts in on his lifestory. It's pretty sad. He tells me that he's from a dangerous slum, and he wants to show it to me so I can understand it. I politely decline. Then he starts telling me about the paco-addicts, and the violence, and how I need to see it for myself. I feel bad, but it's not a great selling point to invite someone to your house by telling them how horribly dangerous it is. So this guy won't let me get to my drink, he's telling me his life story, and he has a death grip on my hand. It can't get any worse. Then it gets worse. He starts crying. Starts out slow, wet-eyes at first, and advances to real crying. I really don't know what to do. It's all very sad, but I'm the only gringo in some random bar in Santiago with some guy sobbing in front of me. I just wanna get out of there. I'm making rescue-me eyes at all my friends, but none of them wanna get drawn into this ridiculous scene. Finally I physically pull away from him, tell him mucho gusto (which hasn't worked before because when I shake his hand to leave he starts in on the handshake dance again) and escape to my table. I pound this drink in about 5 seconds (it was horrible: sweet white wine, fernet, pisco sour, and pineapple ice cream. Anyone who was recommended to try a terremoto? Skip it). And I run out of La Piojera as fast as I can, without stopping to look back.
So that was Spring Break. Snowcaps instead of beaches, wet weather instead of wet t-shirt contests, and Escudo instead of Budweiser. Compares favorably with the American version.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
One more kick to the groin
I've obviously angered Poseidon, the God of the Sea. My sacrifice to him this year may have been too small, or perhaps it was the hubris I showed when I told everyone that I wasn't so impressed with sea-squalls anymore. Last night, he got his revenge, and I have the feeling this is going to be the start of a very long journey to avoid his wrath; an Odyssey if you will.
Last night, I vacate the bathroom for my suitemate so he can get in there. He goes in there, and when I go back in to take a shower he informs me that the toilet is clogged. Since he was the last one to use it, I suggest he plunge it. He tells me that it was probably my fault, so I should plunge it. We get to really arguing over it. Finally, because I'm a nice guy, I agree to do it, but since I don't want to, I go back one more time and press down the handle to see if we can't just clear the pipes without going to the plunger.
It doesn't clear. Not only does it not clear, the flusher gets stuck down, and starts pouring water. There's water flowing everywhere. Everywhere. Full on flood. I knock my suitemate out of the way, run into the other room where the plunger is, wade back into the bathroom and start furiously plunging the toilet, all while my suitemate just stands there with a shocked look on his face. I'm going at the plunger so hard I break it in the toilet. At this point I'm thinking it done, it's all over, I'm going to cover the entire house in toilet water. But another Greek God, perhaps Aphrodite, intervenes at this point, and miraculously clears the toilet. This is not before the toilet has completely overflowed the bathroom and has run water all the way to the kitchen. Also, I forgot to mention, this all happened at 1 AM.
My host brother wakes up, comes out, probably thinks about breaking my face, and then smiles and tells me its alright. I'm on the verge of tears, and my suitemate just keeps going "Man, at least this is both our faults right. How much would it suck if it was just one of our faults and we couldn't share the blame." I try to explain to him that I don't really want to share the blame at all, but I'm afraid if I start talking a single solitary tear will roll down my cheek. So I just grab some towels, put them down on the floor, and start trying to squeegee the water into a bucket. It's the slowest, most disgusting work possible. Ivan, the host brother, is helping too, using a mop to try and push water back into the bathroom. I'm not gonna go into details, because I'm not sure you guys could handle the details. My suitemate, when cleaning the shower, at one point started almost throwing up. I gave him a deathstare and told him that if he puked and made the whole thing worse I would end his life.
Then in an effort to make us feel better, we asked Ivan if something like this had ever happened before. He smiled at me, slapped my back, and said "Of course not, never, I've never seen anything like this." But he remained cheery the entire time, and helped us out.
So at 3 am, after one of the worst experiences of life, I get done. I finally turned the shower onto about 120 degrees, and scrubbed myself for about 30 minutes. Then I sobbed a little, and then I went to bed. Next week I continue the journey while fate continues to throw more roadblocks in my path.
Last night, I vacate the bathroom for my suitemate so he can get in there. He goes in there, and when I go back in to take a shower he informs me that the toilet is clogged. Since he was the last one to use it, I suggest he plunge it. He tells me that it was probably my fault, so I should plunge it. We get to really arguing over it. Finally, because I'm a nice guy, I agree to do it, but since I don't want to, I go back one more time and press down the handle to see if we can't just clear the pipes without going to the plunger.
It doesn't clear. Not only does it not clear, the flusher gets stuck down, and starts pouring water. There's water flowing everywhere. Everywhere. Full on flood. I knock my suitemate out of the way, run into the other room where the plunger is, wade back into the bathroom and start furiously plunging the toilet, all while my suitemate just stands there with a shocked look on his face. I'm going at the plunger so hard I break it in the toilet. At this point I'm thinking it done, it's all over, I'm going to cover the entire house in toilet water. But another Greek God, perhaps Aphrodite, intervenes at this point, and miraculously clears the toilet. This is not before the toilet has completely overflowed the bathroom and has run water all the way to the kitchen. Also, I forgot to mention, this all happened at 1 AM.
My host brother wakes up, comes out, probably thinks about breaking my face, and then smiles and tells me its alright. I'm on the verge of tears, and my suitemate just keeps going "Man, at least this is both our faults right. How much would it suck if it was just one of our faults and we couldn't share the blame." I try to explain to him that I don't really want to share the blame at all, but I'm afraid if I start talking a single solitary tear will roll down my cheek. So I just grab some towels, put them down on the floor, and start trying to squeegee the water into a bucket. It's the slowest, most disgusting work possible. Ivan, the host brother, is helping too, using a mop to try and push water back into the bathroom. I'm not gonna go into details, because I'm not sure you guys could handle the details. My suitemate, when cleaning the shower, at one point started almost throwing up. I gave him a deathstare and told him that if he puked and made the whole thing worse I would end his life.
Then in an effort to make us feel better, we asked Ivan if something like this had ever happened before. He smiled at me, slapped my back, and said "Of course not, never, I've never seen anything like this." But he remained cheery the entire time, and helped us out.
So at 3 am, after one of the worst experiences of life, I get done. I finally turned the shower onto about 120 degrees, and scrubbed myself for about 30 minutes. Then I sobbed a little, and then I went to bed. Next week I continue the journey while fate continues to throw more roadblocks in my path.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
From Milwaukee's Best to Malbec
This week Buenos Aires got to be too much for me. I couldn't stand the dirt cheap prices, the friendly people, the beautiful women, and the warm weather. I remembered that I could be sitting around in NY, overpaying for the honor of sitting in a crowded bar that's charging 5 dollars to check your coat. But still, the grass is always greener, so we set out to Mendoza, Argentina, to go check out if things could conceivably get better than Buenos Aires.
The bus ride had a couple of good points. The chairs reclined to a 120 degree angle (I didn't make that up, that was the number they gave us, we got in a lot of arguments about what exactly the angle was). They served us champagne, hot food, and played us a movie. It also had a couple of bad points. The hot food was absolutely horrible. They found a way to work ham and mayonnaise into every single thing on the plate. One of the platters was sliced roast beef topped with mayonnaise. Another was a cake, literally cake batter, sandwhiched over a piece of ham, with tomatoes on top. It was beyond disgusting. I was paid pesos to try certain things. I ate an egg filled with mayonnaise, but the person who dared me never payed up. Typical. But the food wasn't the worst part. If you don't like the food on a trip, don't eat it, it's not mandatory. It was mandatory however that during dinner they played 7 music videos from 80's movies on repeat. The playlist was some Phil Collins song (not one of the good ones), A Righteous Brothers song from the movie Ghost, that Carpenter's song about bird's suddenly appearing, and "Lady in Red". I wanted to kill myself before we even got around the rotation once, and when we weren't sleeping that's pretty much all they played.
But as promised the bus dropped us in Mendoza, where the real fun began. Mendoza is incredible. Just like the Napa Valley, nice dry heat, trees everywhere, mountains in the background, and vineyards everywhere. We hit the pool, and then immediately booked a wine tour. We were taken around a vineyard, shown how they crush the grapes, how they ferment it, and how they store it in casks. Only after you understood the process were you then allowed to sample the wine. We learned how to swirl the glasses, check for tears, analyze the color, and spit out a bunch of pretentious bullshit about what kind of nose and aftertone the wine had. At one point the woman literally told us that one of the wines we were tasting had the flavor of red fruit. Not one specific fruit, like strawberries, or a combination like raspberries and persimmon, but literally every red fruit that exists. I was dumbfounded, but I took her word for it. We were on the tour with these Irish girls who clearly had no intention of actually trying to learn about wine, and were just trying to get hammered (or locked in their lingo). They were cool, but I was unimpressed because they failed to get locked, while I obviously must have gotten locked because I bought a bottle of wine in the gift shop afterwards.
That night we headed out to a restaurant, and put all our new wine tasting expertise to the test. Then for my friend's birthday we put our red bull and vodka expertise to the test.
The next morning we got up and signed up for a river rafting trip down the Mendoza river. It's a fast river but the rapids are pretty unimpressive, at least from this seasoned whitewater expert's point of view. But it was nevertheless a great time. Easily the best part was that we didn't have to sign one piece of paper the entire time. In the US you would have had to sign 15 waivers, turned over credit cards and driver's licenses, and update your will. Here we just gave some guy in a van money and he drove us out to the river and put us on a boat.
We went out to dinner at one of the nicest restaurant's in the city. We talked about the merits of the wine, and the demerits of the fact that the waiter didn't bring us about half our order. The owner came over and to make up for it told us that even though there were people waiting, the table was ours for as long as we wanted it. Without food we weren't really sure what we were supposed to do with a table, so we ended up leaving. I know, I know, I'm kicking myself now for not taking more advantage of sitting at a table as long as I wanted.
Final note. The bus ride back had the exact same music videos. And even worse food. They served us champagne on the bus ride, and all anyone did was complain about the poor quality of it. It's amazing what one week in Mendoza can do. Seven weeks ago I'm sitting in a bar in Berkeley ordering PBR because it's the cheapest thing on the menu. I spend a weekend in Mendoza, and suddenly I'm upset because the wine I'm drinking doesn't have the subtle overtones and heady finish that I was expecting. At least it tasted of red fruit.
The bus ride had a couple of good points. The chairs reclined to a 120 degree angle (I didn't make that up, that was the number they gave us, we got in a lot of arguments about what exactly the angle was). They served us champagne, hot food, and played us a movie. It also had a couple of bad points. The hot food was absolutely horrible. They found a way to work ham and mayonnaise into every single thing on the plate. One of the platters was sliced roast beef topped with mayonnaise. Another was a cake, literally cake batter, sandwhiched over a piece of ham, with tomatoes on top. It was beyond disgusting. I was paid pesos to try certain things. I ate an egg filled with mayonnaise, but the person who dared me never payed up. Typical. But the food wasn't the worst part. If you don't like the food on a trip, don't eat it, it's not mandatory. It was mandatory however that during dinner they played 7 music videos from 80's movies on repeat. The playlist was some Phil Collins song (not one of the good ones), A Righteous Brothers song from the movie Ghost, that Carpenter's song about bird's suddenly appearing, and "Lady in Red". I wanted to kill myself before we even got around the rotation once, and when we weren't sleeping that's pretty much all they played.
But as promised the bus dropped us in Mendoza, where the real fun began. Mendoza is incredible. Just like the Napa Valley, nice dry heat, trees everywhere, mountains in the background, and vineyards everywhere. We hit the pool, and then immediately booked a wine tour. We were taken around a vineyard, shown how they crush the grapes, how they ferment it, and how they store it in casks. Only after you understood the process were you then allowed to sample the wine. We learned how to swirl the glasses, check for tears, analyze the color, and spit out a bunch of pretentious bullshit about what kind of nose and aftertone the wine had. At one point the woman literally told us that one of the wines we were tasting had the flavor of red fruit. Not one specific fruit, like strawberries, or a combination like raspberries and persimmon, but literally every red fruit that exists. I was dumbfounded, but I took her word for it. We were on the tour with these Irish girls who clearly had no intention of actually trying to learn about wine, and were just trying to get hammered (or locked in their lingo). They were cool, but I was unimpressed because they failed to get locked, while I obviously must have gotten locked because I bought a bottle of wine in the gift shop afterwards.
That night we headed out to a restaurant, and put all our new wine tasting expertise to the test. Then for my friend's birthday we put our red bull and vodka expertise to the test.
The next morning we got up and signed up for a river rafting trip down the Mendoza river. It's a fast river but the rapids are pretty unimpressive, at least from this seasoned whitewater expert's point of view. But it was nevertheless a great time. Easily the best part was that we didn't have to sign one piece of paper the entire time. In the US you would have had to sign 15 waivers, turned over credit cards and driver's licenses, and update your will. Here we just gave some guy in a van money and he drove us out to the river and put us on a boat.
We went out to dinner at one of the nicest restaurant's in the city. We talked about the merits of the wine, and the demerits of the fact that the waiter didn't bring us about half our order. The owner came over and to make up for it told us that even though there were people waiting, the table was ours for as long as we wanted it. Without food we weren't really sure what we were supposed to do with a table, so we ended up leaving. I know, I know, I'm kicking myself now for not taking more advantage of sitting at a table as long as I wanted.
Final note. The bus ride back had the exact same music videos. And even worse food. They served us champagne on the bus ride, and all anyone did was complain about the poor quality of it. It's amazing what one week in Mendoza can do. Seven weeks ago I'm sitting in a bar in Berkeley ordering PBR because it's the cheapest thing on the menu. I spend a weekend in Mendoza, and suddenly I'm upset because the wine I'm drinking doesn't have the subtle overtones and heady finish that I was expecting. At least it tasted of red fruit.
Monday, March 16, 2009
I haven't posted much lately because for the most part I've just been settling into the routine. Things that once made a big impression on me here now have much less of an effect. I still notice the little things, but I don't consider them to be curiousities now, I consider them a part of my life. Things that were once different for me are now not. Now it's the things I remember from the United States that seem different to me
Not to say I'm a porteno yet. Far from it. But the reality is that I no longer live in New York, or Oakland.
Yesterday I was walking over to a hotel near my house to meet a friend from New York. I walked through the park near my house, over to the hotel, less than 5 minutes away. As I was walking through the park a group of kids saw my wallet hanging out of my pants and surrounded me. They asked for some money, and I told them I didn't have any, which was true. They asked for my wallet, and I explained to them that they couldn't do anything with any of the cards, so it wasn't worth it. They understood that, so they asked for money again. I told them I didn't have any, but one of the kids still wasn't happy, so he opened up his backpack to show me his knife.
I wish I could say I did the smart thing, but instinct just took over. I delivered a lightning fast karate chop to his neck, disarmed him Steven Seagal style, and then smashed his friends heads together. The fourth kid took off running, but I hunted him down, came up behind him, and put him to sleep with an expertly placed headlock. Once I had caught my breath and washed the blood from my hands, I continued on my way, leaving the administrative work to the police.
No I'm kidding. I saw the knife, realized I had 5 american dollars in my wallet, and immediately handed it over. That was enough, and they let me go on my way.
To sum it all up, yesterday I stared mortal danger in the face, eye to eye, and then payed it 5 dollars to leave me alone. But I learned my lesson, and when I told the story to my host mom, she told me it was a cheap lesson at that. I feel like a little kid avoiding bullies by taking the long way home, but that's just one of those realities of being in a city you're starting to get comfortable in, but still don't really understand that well at all.
Not to say I'm a porteno yet. Far from it. But the reality is that I no longer live in New York, or Oakland.
Yesterday I was walking over to a hotel near my house to meet a friend from New York. I walked through the park near my house, over to the hotel, less than 5 minutes away. As I was walking through the park a group of kids saw my wallet hanging out of my pants and surrounded me. They asked for some money, and I told them I didn't have any, which was true. They asked for my wallet, and I explained to them that they couldn't do anything with any of the cards, so it wasn't worth it. They understood that, so they asked for money again. I told them I didn't have any, but one of the kids still wasn't happy, so he opened up his backpack to show me his knife.
I wish I could say I did the smart thing, but instinct just took over. I delivered a lightning fast karate chop to his neck, disarmed him Steven Seagal style, and then smashed his friends heads together. The fourth kid took off running, but I hunted him down, came up behind him, and put him to sleep with an expertly placed headlock. Once I had caught my breath and washed the blood from my hands, I continued on my way, leaving the administrative work to the police.
No I'm kidding. I saw the knife, realized I had 5 american dollars in my wallet, and immediately handed it over. That was enough, and they let me go on my way.
To sum it all up, yesterday I stared mortal danger in the face, eye to eye, and then payed it 5 dollars to leave me alone. But I learned my lesson, and when I told the story to my host mom, she told me it was a cheap lesson at that. I feel like a little kid avoiding bullies by taking the long way home, but that's just one of those realities of being in a city you're starting to get comfortable in, but still don't really understand that well at all.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
My life up until now
It's been a while, so I thought I'd update everyone on some of my adventures. I went to Gualeguachu this weekend for Carneval, and boy did I have a time. I danced on a beach till 6 in the morning. I watched a parade that combined eastern religious symbols like massive buddhas with women dressed in thongs and postage stamps for bras.
I played a game of pool with a crazy guy named Federico. He was really good, but I turned in the pool game of my life, and was somehow up on him, until he decided that he got to have two turns in a row. He talked really fast in Spanish until I got exasperated and just let him have it. I regained the lead, but then he made up another rule about how you can only sink the 8-ball into the pocket in which you sank the last ball. After making that rule up he promptly scratched on the 8-ball. He didn't seem upset however, he just kept telling me that it was all about respect. I told him that I really respected him (I didn't, his rules were bullshit), but that was good enough for him.
But I really wanted to hip you guys to some stuff about life in Argentina. It's not a complete list but I wanna try and hit the main points.
-Beer costs 10 pesos for a liter bottle. That's about $3.50, and a liter here is like a 40.
-You order a coffee, for 7 pesos, and they give you sugar, milk, a plate of cookies, and a small glass of water. It's a small meal.
-Just like in NY, there are 4 ESPN channels here, except they all show soccer. When there's no soccer to show they show highlights of NBA games but only of teams that have an Argentine player. That means the Rockets and the Spurs.
-I have yet to meet someone who likes Christina Fernandez Kirchner. But I'm not sure if that's just because I'm only hanging out with rich people, or if she's really that unpopular.
-Everyone likes Obama here. We had a taxi driver last week who figured out we were American and then yelled "OBAMA, OBAMA." We messed with him and told him we voted for McCain, and he got pretty upset.
-There aren't any black people here. None. The word negro, as in black, actually refers to poor people, not skin color.
-I've seen some of the most appalling poverty here I've ever seen in my life. When you go out for a walk, and you see 4 year olds digging through a trash heap, it really makes you feel like shit. When you see little kids who don't get to have a childhood, and who instead are forced to wander around plazas at 5 in the morning trying to sell flowers, it's hard to think about all the great benefits of the IMF.
-There are no coins in this entire city. They are actually experiencing a moneda crisis. Yesterday, I ordered a coffee that was 6.25. Instead of giving me the change the cashier just rounded it down to 6 pesos, and gave me 4 back in bills. I was excited about that, but this morning when I woke up, I was 50 centavos short for the bus fare, which you can only pay in coins. Because of that discount at the coffee shop I couldn't take the bus, and had to take an 11 peso cab instead.
-All anyone eats here is beef. I've literally had days where I've had a hamburger for lunch, some sort of beef pie for dinner, and then a steak as a late night snack. We made the mistake of telling our mom that we like steak, and she's been making us something beef related every night. They're not a salad eating people, which I respect.
-They also like pasta, but if you get the cream sauce they'll give you this stuff that is basically straight cream. It's not good.
-The Argentines claim they don't speak Spanish, they speak Castellano. It's like Spanish but with crappy grammar and they made up a bunch of words and pronounce things funny.
-Traffic is insane. There are no lanes, but everyone just seems to manage somehow.
-Every chance they get Argentines will remind you that you are an American, and thus everything is very cheap for you. They don't mean to be rude, they just want you to know that while you're celebrating the 3.50:1 exchange rate they're not feeling it so much.
-They love to talk. Yesterday, meeting my friend outside of his building, we accidentally engaged his doorman in a 30 minute conversation. The conversation started with him warning us not to run because it would rain soon. It reached its crescendo when he took his shirt off to show us his scar from open heart surgery, and explain to us why it was good that we ran. It culminated with us reminding him that had we started 30 minutes before it probably wouldn't have rained but after this conversation we were definitely going to get caught in a downpour.
-It's a Catholic country, but Diego Maradona is God. ESPN 2 literally has a report every time he sneezes.
More when it comes to me,
Alex
I played a game of pool with a crazy guy named Federico. He was really good, but I turned in the pool game of my life, and was somehow up on him, until he decided that he got to have two turns in a row. He talked really fast in Spanish until I got exasperated and just let him have it. I regained the lead, but then he made up another rule about how you can only sink the 8-ball into the pocket in which you sank the last ball. After making that rule up he promptly scratched on the 8-ball. He didn't seem upset however, he just kept telling me that it was all about respect. I told him that I really respected him (I didn't, his rules were bullshit), but that was good enough for him.
But I really wanted to hip you guys to some stuff about life in Argentina. It's not a complete list but I wanna try and hit the main points.
-Beer costs 10 pesos for a liter bottle. That's about $3.50, and a liter here is like a 40.
-You order a coffee, for 7 pesos, and they give you sugar, milk, a plate of cookies, and a small glass of water. It's a small meal.
-Just like in NY, there are 4 ESPN channels here, except they all show soccer. When there's no soccer to show they show highlights of NBA games but only of teams that have an Argentine player. That means the Rockets and the Spurs.
-I have yet to meet someone who likes Christina Fernandez Kirchner. But I'm not sure if that's just because I'm only hanging out with rich people, or if she's really that unpopular.
-Everyone likes Obama here. We had a taxi driver last week who figured out we were American and then yelled "OBAMA, OBAMA." We messed with him and told him we voted for McCain, and he got pretty upset.
-There aren't any black people here. None. The word negro, as in black, actually refers to poor people, not skin color.
-I've seen some of the most appalling poverty here I've ever seen in my life. When you go out for a walk, and you see 4 year olds digging through a trash heap, it really makes you feel like shit. When you see little kids who don't get to have a childhood, and who instead are forced to wander around plazas at 5 in the morning trying to sell flowers, it's hard to think about all the great benefits of the IMF.
-There are no coins in this entire city. They are actually experiencing a moneda crisis. Yesterday, I ordered a coffee that was 6.25. Instead of giving me the change the cashier just rounded it down to 6 pesos, and gave me 4 back in bills. I was excited about that, but this morning when I woke up, I was 50 centavos short for the bus fare, which you can only pay in coins. Because of that discount at the coffee shop I couldn't take the bus, and had to take an 11 peso cab instead.
-All anyone eats here is beef. I've literally had days where I've had a hamburger for lunch, some sort of beef pie for dinner, and then a steak as a late night snack. We made the mistake of telling our mom that we like steak, and she's been making us something beef related every night. They're not a salad eating people, which I respect.
-They also like pasta, but if you get the cream sauce they'll give you this stuff that is basically straight cream. It's not good.
-The Argentines claim they don't speak Spanish, they speak Castellano. It's like Spanish but with crappy grammar and they made up a bunch of words and pronounce things funny.
-Traffic is insane. There are no lanes, but everyone just seems to manage somehow.
-Every chance they get Argentines will remind you that you are an American, and thus everything is very cheap for you. They don't mean to be rude, they just want you to know that while you're celebrating the 3.50:1 exchange rate they're not feeling it so much.
-They love to talk. Yesterday, meeting my friend outside of his building, we accidentally engaged his doorman in a 30 minute conversation. The conversation started with him warning us not to run because it would rain soon. It reached its crescendo when he took his shirt off to show us his scar from open heart surgery, and explain to us why it was good that we ran. It culminated with us reminding him that had we started 30 minutes before it probably wouldn't have rained but after this conversation we were definitely going to get caught in a downpour.
-It's a Catholic country, but Diego Maradona is God. ESPN 2 literally has a report every time he sneezes.
More when it comes to me,
Alex
Monday, February 23, 2009
Date Night
The first night we were in BsAs we were at a bar. We approached some local girls, three to be exact, and after a little engaging conversation and some drinks, we number closed. Number closing is hard to do in Buenos Aires because the numbers are all long and confusing and start with different codes. We exchanged numbers and told them we should get together sometime soon. This Saturday we called them up and agreed to take them out to dinner.
First problem of the night: the girls call us up, and ask us how much money we want to spend. This is bad. Even worse, my friend's response is, "money is not an issue." Bad news bears. We're expecting to get absolutely fleeced by some girls who are then going to go out with their boyfriend and brag about how they just gipped some Americans for a fancy dinner.
Second problem: when we go to meet up with the 3 girls, there are three girls. But one is different. Mine isn't there. She has been subbed out for another girl. These girls have gone to the bullpen and brought in the lefty. Doesn't phase me one bit, I just pretend like the new girl was my date all along and start making broken spanish small talk.
Now something good: these girls make a horrible mistake, and instead of taking us to an insanely fancy dinner, they take us to a pizza and beer place. We're all immediately impressed with them. We order up pizzas, beers, and get to talking. Keep in mind that while we are talking with them these girls are furiously chainsmoking Lucky Strikes and Marlboro Reds. My amigo is smoking light cigarettes and this is commented on by the girls as being slightly feminine. These girls are twice the men we are. At this point I'm thinking about asking them what they think about the Patriots chances next year.
Anyways, dinner goes well, we're conversating in a mix of Spanish and English, learning a couple of new phrases (Chenena means "hey baby", but apparently in an extra seductive way). Once i find that out I say it to my girl about 6 times. She's mildly amused.
We're done dinner, and we've all had a great time. So now it's time for the next problem. My original girl, the one I had met Monday night, suddenly shows up. Apparently she just couldn't make dinner but she didn't want me to think she was blowing me off. It wasn't as weird as it sounds, if you can believe that.
It was a great time out. Our first Argentine date, apparently the best way to learn Spanish possible. The next morning we told our host mom that we'd hit it off so well we had made plans to be married. She shook her head, and in Spanish told us "I told you boys these Argentine girls move so fast... so fast"
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Parents just don't understand
A lot of times when I'm in New York foreigners will have interactions with me that I will just find hilarious. I get to laugh at the silly things they say in English and tell my friends about it later. One times these Chinese people came up to me in the subway and asked how to get to the cruise ship docks. I told them, and when I asked where they were going, they told me Florida. Coincidentally, I was wearing a shirt that said "Clearwater Beach, Florida" on it, so i pulled it out off my chest to show it to them. The lead of the group looked at me pulling the front of my shirt out and just yelled "YEAH, YEAH, YOU BIG STRONG BOY." I nodded in agreement, and then went home and laughed about it. I will never again laugh at someone stumbling over language barriers. All I do nowadays is stumble.
The story: I'm talking with my host mother, Teresa. She asks me what I'm doing. I tell her Jose and I are gonna meet up with some amigas. She asks where. I tell her, la esquina de Santa Fe y Paraguay. She asks me para que? (As in, what for?). I thought that she was correcting me on the pronunciation of the word Paraguay. So I pronounce it more like her: Paragay. She responds again, para que? I think that maybe my pronunciation is still off, so i try it again, Paraqay. She looks back at me, and says, "Si, pero para que?" I hit her back with Paraqay. She says back Para que? Paraqay! Para que? Paraqay! Para que? PARAQAY!! We go back and forth for about 5 minutes. Finally, I think she's messing with me and she thinks I'm mocking her. We lock eyes, she picks up a water bottle on the table, and smacks me in the head with it. Suddenly it snaps into my head: Ohhhh, para que?!?!? Para ir al cine con nuestras amigas. She lets out the biggest sigh ever, shakes her head, and walks off. I'm pretty confident it's not the last time I'm gonna take a waterbottle to the head from her.
The story: I'm talking with my host mother, Teresa. She asks me what I'm doing. I tell her Jose and I are gonna meet up with some amigas. She asks where. I tell her, la esquina de Santa Fe y Paraguay. She asks me para que? (As in, what for?). I thought that she was correcting me on the pronunciation of the word Paraguay. So I pronounce it more like her: Paragay. She responds again, para que? I think that maybe my pronunciation is still off, so i try it again, Paraqay. She looks back at me, and says, "Si, pero para que?" I hit her back with Paraqay. She says back Para que? Paraqay! Para que? Paraqay! Para que? PARAQAY!! We go back and forth for about 5 minutes. Finally, I think she's messing with me and she thinks I'm mocking her. We lock eyes, she picks up a water bottle on the table, and smacks me in the head with it. Suddenly it snaps into my head: Ohhhh, para que?!?!? Para ir al cine con nuestras amigas. She lets out the biggest sigh ever, shakes her head, and walks off. I'm pretty confident it's not the last time I'm gonna take a waterbottle to the head from her.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
A short note
Thanks for everybody who has been appreciating the blog. I've sort of been settling into the routine of school lately, so things have been a little less exciting. You know the drill. Homework, classes, having to stop our nights at around 3:30 instead of 6:30 in the morning (Kidding Mom and Dad) (To all my friends, not kidding).
So I thought I would give anyone curious a little taste of my daily routine. I wake up in the morning, go downstairs and grab some breakfast, shower, and then head out to my bus. It's the 152 Olivos a Boca Linea that I grab on Suipacha Street. There's so many buses here that they all have their own specific color coding system. It makes it feel like every bus on your line is part of a specific club or something. I have a lot of 152 Line pride. I've also been considering starting a gang war with the 39 bus line, who have been encroaching on our turf lately. As soon as I can I'll definitely put a picture of them up. (Sorry about the pictures, I'm a little flustered and I haven't had time to do the real tourist thing). But anyways, on the bus line, there are three fares, 1.10, 1.20, 1.25. When you get on the bus you just tell the guy which fare you want to pay. I'm still unclear on why anyone chooses the more expensive fares. It must have something to do with distance but it's bizarre because the bus driver has no way of knowing how far you're going. So I just always tell him "peso diez." The other thing that's awesome about the bus is that the guy never really comes to a full stop. You have to furiously wave him down on the street or he just won't pull over for you. Sometimes he pulls over halfway and you have to run out into traffic to get onto the bus. Sometimes the minute you get on he just pulls away. Yesterday because there was a payment line I just had to hang onto the open doors as he sped off down the street. Anyways, I get to class, spend a good long time at the academic center, and then catch a bus home.
Once I got home yesterday I tried to take a jog. Felt nice but kind of a bad idea. The place I had to jog was down an 8 lane street called Libertadores. There are no smog regulations here so every car spews a tailpipe of smoke whenever they take off. I also had to run by the bus depot, where they leave all the old diesel buses idling all day. I get back from the jog, shower, get fed my daily dinner of some massive meat dish with no vegetables or salad. (Last night it was flank steak roasted in the oven with potatoes). It's like a 6 year old's dream. Then I usually spend 30 minutes arguing with my host-mother about something. Last night it was religion. She believes in God, none of her real sons do, and I tried to explain to her that I don't either. She knows I'm Jewish and Catholic and kept asking me which side did I feel more pulled to. I finally acquiesced and said Catholic, but that the Jewish ceremonies were a lot more fun (sorry Ma).
After my host mom and I have gotten in some bizarre conversation I have to take a nap to recharge the batteries. Sometime around 11, once all the homework is done, we may go out for a little. Last night we got drinks for a friend's 21st birthday. The scene is crazy but you never miss anything if you head home a little early, like 4 or so. Still gives me plenty of time to sleep and be chipper for class in the morning. Once the homework gets heavier I doubt I'll be able to keep that schedule up, but as of now it's been just fine.
One more note; It's really hot here. Like 90 degrees every day. Right now it's 82, but with humidity it feels like 88 (I didn't just ballpark that, it's an official weather.com statistic). And there's just no air conditioning, at least not at the spots I've been hanging out at. Our room is like a sauna. We have one rotating fan, and you guys all know how that is. 10 seconds of sweating, 3 seconds of a little relief from the heat, and then another 10 seconds of sweating, repeated all night. I can't complain though, I'm sure it's better than the New York winter. Hopefully this weekend I'll get to do a little sightseeing, get to take a couple pictures, maybe get to fill you in on something more important than my schedule. Until then.
Alex
So I thought I would give anyone curious a little taste of my daily routine. I wake up in the morning, go downstairs and grab some breakfast, shower, and then head out to my bus. It's the 152 Olivos a Boca Linea that I grab on Suipacha Street. There's so many buses here that they all have their own specific color coding system. It makes it feel like every bus on your line is part of a specific club or something. I have a lot of 152 Line pride. I've also been considering starting a gang war with the 39 bus line, who have been encroaching on our turf lately. As soon as I can I'll definitely put a picture of them up. (Sorry about the pictures, I'm a little flustered and I haven't had time to do the real tourist thing). But anyways, on the bus line, there are three fares, 1.10, 1.20, 1.25. When you get on the bus you just tell the guy which fare you want to pay. I'm still unclear on why anyone chooses the more expensive fares. It must have something to do with distance but it's bizarre because the bus driver has no way of knowing how far you're going. So I just always tell him "peso diez." The other thing that's awesome about the bus is that the guy never really comes to a full stop. You have to furiously wave him down on the street or he just won't pull over for you. Sometimes he pulls over halfway and you have to run out into traffic to get onto the bus. Sometimes the minute you get on he just pulls away. Yesterday because there was a payment line I just had to hang onto the open doors as he sped off down the street. Anyways, I get to class, spend a good long time at the academic center, and then catch a bus home.
Once I got home yesterday I tried to take a jog. Felt nice but kind of a bad idea. The place I had to jog was down an 8 lane street called Libertadores. There are no smog regulations here so every car spews a tailpipe of smoke whenever they take off. I also had to run by the bus depot, where they leave all the old diesel buses idling all day. I get back from the jog, shower, get fed my daily dinner of some massive meat dish with no vegetables or salad. (Last night it was flank steak roasted in the oven with potatoes). It's like a 6 year old's dream. Then I usually spend 30 minutes arguing with my host-mother about something. Last night it was religion. She believes in God, none of her real sons do, and I tried to explain to her that I don't either. She knows I'm Jewish and Catholic and kept asking me which side did I feel more pulled to. I finally acquiesced and said Catholic, but that the Jewish ceremonies were a lot more fun (sorry Ma).
After my host mom and I have gotten in some bizarre conversation I have to take a nap to recharge the batteries. Sometime around 11, once all the homework is done, we may go out for a little. Last night we got drinks for a friend's 21st birthday. The scene is crazy but you never miss anything if you head home a little early, like 4 or so. Still gives me plenty of time to sleep and be chipper for class in the morning. Once the homework gets heavier I doubt I'll be able to keep that schedule up, but as of now it's been just fine.
One more note; It's really hot here. Like 90 degrees every day. Right now it's 82, but with humidity it feels like 88 (I didn't just ballpark that, it's an official weather.com statistic). And there's just no air conditioning, at least not at the spots I've been hanging out at. Our room is like a sauna. We have one rotating fan, and you guys all know how that is. 10 seconds of sweating, 3 seconds of a little relief from the heat, and then another 10 seconds of sweating, repeated all night. I can't complain though, I'm sure it's better than the New York winter. Hopefully this weekend I'll get to do a little sightseeing, get to take a couple pictures, maybe get to fill you in on something more important than my schedule. Until then.
Alex
Monday, February 16, 2009
I'm actually in Argentina
So I'm finally in Argentina. Since I don't call or write or communicate in any way, I'm sure everyone must be curious what I'm doing, and I'd love to fill you in.
First off, Buenos Aires is incredible. To everyone who suggested I go here and gave me good tips about the city, much thanks. To all the haters who told me I wouldn't have as much fun as if I had gone somewhere in Europe, I'm simply appalled by your ignorance.
First off the city itself. First impression is just how big it is. It's also an odd mix between massive metropolitan and small city feel. I live on a block long quiet street called Sargento Cabral, right next to the Plaza de San Martin. The street is one lane, hardly any traffic, and always quiet. Less than two blocks away from there, however, is the widest avenue in the world, Avenida 9 de Julio. I have yet to make it all the way across in one stoplight cycle. I would run but the Argentines frown on heavy exertion.
Second off, the people. Yes the Argentine women are beautiful. This is played out. They all have incredible tans, they are all perfect weight, and they have really cute accents. I can't write about it because I simply can't do it justice. I've never seen anything like it. Hopefully some pictures to come soon. They are also very friendly. Everybody loves to talk to you. Yesterday, trying to find my way somewhere, I asked a couple where the street was that I was going. They spent 5 minutes giving me directions, each decided the other's directions were wrong, and then they got into a full argument in front of us. My Spanish is still a work in progress but I think the woman told her husband that he was such an idiot that he was embarassing himself.
My friend Joe and I live in a homestay with an Argentine woman, named Teresa. She is a gem, there is simply no other way to put it. She serves us amazing dinners every night, and has long talks with me about everything that we can think of. Last night we chatted about finding love. I keep confusing the verbs esconder and encontrar. One is to find, one is to hide. For the last 5 days apparently instead of telling her that I am trying to find love I've been telling her that I am trying to hide from love. When she finally realized what I was saying she told me that my Spanish was so bad that I had no hope of finding love (encontrar) and instead should go hide in my room (esconder). I now understand the difference.
Yesterday I got locked out of my apartment and had to wait on the steps for my hostmom to get home. The doorman of our building came out and decided to engage me in conversation since he knew I had no escape route. He gave me a long lecture on why Americans are cold and are not as capable of love as the Latin Americans. He then told me that Americans like to drink so much because they have an unquenchable thirst, but that because he has such a powerful heart he doesn't have to drink much at all, since he doesn't need the effects of alcohol to fill his heart. Then he told me how his son is 25 and still lives at home. I commented that that must be good for the family but seems like it really would cramp his son's love life. He admitted that it did indeed cramp his son's love life but it was worth it for the fact that he was able to hold his son close to his chest at any time he wanted. He summed it all up by telling me that he had a heart full of fire and passion. The Argentines love to talk so much that they sometimes get ahead of themselves and end up giving out a real line of bullshit, but it always makes for a good story.
I'll try and update this as often as possible, or at least as often as anything newsworthy happens to me
Alex
First off, Buenos Aires is incredible. To everyone who suggested I go here and gave me good tips about the city, much thanks. To all the haters who told me I wouldn't have as much fun as if I had gone somewhere in Europe, I'm simply appalled by your ignorance.
First off the city itself. First impression is just how big it is. It's also an odd mix between massive metropolitan and small city feel. I live on a block long quiet street called Sargento Cabral, right next to the Plaza de San Martin. The street is one lane, hardly any traffic, and always quiet. Less than two blocks away from there, however, is the widest avenue in the world, Avenida 9 de Julio. I have yet to make it all the way across in one stoplight cycle. I would run but the Argentines frown on heavy exertion.
Second off, the people. Yes the Argentine women are beautiful. This is played out. They all have incredible tans, they are all perfect weight, and they have really cute accents. I can't write about it because I simply can't do it justice. I've never seen anything like it. Hopefully some pictures to come soon. They are also very friendly. Everybody loves to talk to you. Yesterday, trying to find my way somewhere, I asked a couple where the street was that I was going. They spent 5 minutes giving me directions, each decided the other's directions were wrong, and then they got into a full argument in front of us. My Spanish is still a work in progress but I think the woman told her husband that he was such an idiot that he was embarassing himself.
My friend Joe and I live in a homestay with an Argentine woman, named Teresa. She is a gem, there is simply no other way to put it. She serves us amazing dinners every night, and has long talks with me about everything that we can think of. Last night we chatted about finding love. I keep confusing the verbs esconder and encontrar. One is to find, one is to hide. For the last 5 days apparently instead of telling her that I am trying to find love I've been telling her that I am trying to hide from love. When she finally realized what I was saying she told me that my Spanish was so bad that I had no hope of finding love (encontrar) and instead should go hide in my room (esconder). I now understand the difference.
Yesterday I got locked out of my apartment and had to wait on the steps for my hostmom to get home. The doorman of our building came out and decided to engage me in conversation since he knew I had no escape route. He gave me a long lecture on why Americans are cold and are not as capable of love as the Latin Americans. He then told me that Americans like to drink so much because they have an unquenchable thirst, but that because he has such a powerful heart he doesn't have to drink much at all, since he doesn't need the effects of alcohol to fill his heart. Then he told me how his son is 25 and still lives at home. I commented that that must be good for the family but seems like it really would cramp his son's love life. He admitted that it did indeed cramp his son's love life but it was worth it for the fact that he was able to hold his son close to his chest at any time he wanted. He summed it all up by telling me that he had a heart full of fire and passion. The Argentines love to talk so much that they sometimes get ahead of themselves and end up giving out a real line of bullshit, but it always makes for a good story.
I'll try and update this as often as possible, or at least as often as anything newsworthy happens to me
Alex
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