Pondering & Exposing the Quotidian

I have yet to post information about my daily life. Perhaps to me, now a fully immersed city dweller with a routine and activities I enjoy and others I do out of obligation, the everyday stuff of life doesn’t seem fit for a blog that consists of the Most Exciting Memories of My Trip to A Foreign Land Called Argentina. What is writing, as an art and a means of communication, if not the act of unearthing the elements of daily ups and downs that merit mention? It’s not only the “what” of my stay in Buenos Aires that I hope to carry with me into the future and transmit to anyone reading these words, but “how” I approach each hour and the method of reflection that influences the next decision to be made determines how interesting, and blog-worthy, my life is. The decision-making is constant, in a city so pulsing with creative, opinionated, resourceful and social people who offer an incalculable number of interesting events to attend, especially given that as a non-working student I have the time to participate in such a rich cultural life. As I am taking five classes but only two for college “credit” (and beyond that, the pressure of grades nearly doesn’t exist given that I only need pass those two academic classes to count them toward my degree) I have given myself the option to demote academics from automatic first-priority down to being valued on equal footing with other opportunities to learn, grow, enjoy and be challenged by life. I am creating my own path, and in the process defining my interests and priorities on a day-by-day, sometimes minute-by-minute, basis. The internet plays an incredibly powerful role in this privileged yet complicated lifestyle, as it invites entrance into a virtual world with limitless access to information from every corner of the globe and the temptation to fantasize about my next step, whether it be the job(s) I dream about getting post-college, the courses I could take next semester, the concert I might attend next weekend or the museum or café I choose to visit today. This dreamworld of graphics, opinions, entertainment, and news opens its sexy pixelated arms to us all, tempting us away from the messy, imperfect real-time interactions that comprise our mysteriously taxing yet thrilling existence on the planet. The web can equal life, nowadays. It often seems we cannot escape it, no matter what it does to us psychologically. It is a vortex more powerful than any other stimulus, with the exception of love I think… But if we spend our lives in front of a screen, obsessing over what could be, decrying what was, and google searching the meaning of life, how will we find that love– whether it be platonic, romantic, academic, artistic, cultural, political, philosophical? Where will the real motivation and drive that propels us out of bed in the morning be found–simply in a pandora’s box of digital consumption? No. We need presence, both mental and physical, to endow our bodies and our minds with healthy energy and a zest for engaging with what is happening now, whether it be horrifying or poetic, beautiful or ugly. How will we know the difference if we do not allow ourselves to be vulnerable and available to the stimuli or willing to work with commitment for the sake of our passions despite the difficulties we may face or the questions that still linger in the air?

Enough musing…this all has to do with my study abroad experience, but as I know my audience, I’ll get down to the more “earthy” details (and the photos…as promised, mom….). I’ll go chronologically through a typical week and describe my activities.

On Mondays, I usually hop on my bike (in reality, it belongs to my lovely housemate Annie, who has returned to the US until August and has graciously lent me her chariot on two wheels) at around 9:30am and head south-east along the bike lanes of Villa Crespo, my neighborhood) toward Caballito, where I take a four-hour class called Historia Socio-Cultural del Arte at UNA, the Universidad de Nacional de las Artes, in their dance building. Each facultad, or “department” of the public universities is in a different part of the city. Attempting to complete simultaneous degrees in dance and environmental studies, for instance, would be a transit nightmare. Luckily, the public universities are free and allow students to complete (or not) a degree in any length of time. So, if you decide to become a doctor and realize mid-forties that you have a penchant for geography or playing the bassoon, you can work 9-5 and those 7-10pm classes once or twice a week will await, free of charge. Yes, there are middle-aged women dancing right along side the 18 year olds in my expresión corporal (modern dance meets physiology meets psychology meets theatrical movement) class at UNA. Because education is a human right, is it not? It is fundamental to a democratic society, is it not? Oh, U.S. academia, I scoff at your plush private campuses inaccessible to the vast majority of education-seeking Americans. Pff. Okay, back to describing MY my daily life…

For Historia Socio-Cultural del Arte, approximately 100 dancers crowd shoulder to shoulder into squeaky desks in a long, echoey rectangular room on the third floor of UNA between 10 and 10:20AM, because starting several minutes late is rarely shunned here in my experience. The mate gourds, bags of assorted fruits and packages of galletitas (anything ranging from a cardboard-like cracker to a straight-up cookie) emerge sporadically throughout the room in preparation for the sedentary Monday-morning marathon of left-brain usage ahead. If the professor is not projecting his or her (there are two teachers who oscillate class sessions) voice or doesn’t swivel like a lighthouse to convey the lecture to everyone in the room, the neglected section will often begin conversing or whip out their hand-held screens in immediate distraction. This doesn’t seem to phase the professor, who might dismissively “shh” the other side or continue lecturing without hesitation. The class traces the evolution of “art” (I place this is in scare quotes because the definition errs on the ambiguous or generalized side), largely within the Argentine, occasionally global, societal context. We discussed the interconnected spheres of art, myth and and rituals in ancient and indigenous Latin American societies as well as during the industrial revolution in Argentina, a country that made various efforts to promote a strong national identity on the international cultural and economic stages at the turn of the century. Buenos Aires, like New York, has a large (and ever growing) immigrant population due to its relatively lax open-door policy that ushered in an especially overwhelming quantity of people at the turn of the century (coming from literally all across the globe, however Argentina is known for its Italians, Jews, Armenians, French, Chinese and more recently Bolivians, Peruvians and Chileans and Paraguayans, whose cultural influences are apparent in the cuisine, vibrant artistic communities and ethnically defined neighborhoods of the city). Unifying a nation with such a diversity of communities without long ancestral ties to the fatherland required some magical myth construction and promotion of symbolic figures through primary education and public monuments. Writers such as Borges approached the disconnect between the life of the countryside (symbolized by the “gaucho,” or cowboy) and the rapidly expanding urban hub of Buenos Aires, whose middle to upper classes were craning their necks toward cosmopolitan cities in Europe and North America and whose working classes were struggling for political rights and a decent quality of life. With an eye toward Western Europe, Argentina built up its architectural profile in the styles of French, Italian, British, and Spanish traditions around the turn of the century in an attempt to solidify its “international” identity in the eyes of future tourists, investors and immigrants. Tango, and a strong (unfortunately often violent) culture of machismo blossomed in the red light districts of the city, as overwhelming populations of largely young male immigrants searched for romance and diversion from long idle days spent in search of steady work. Tango exploded as a full on cultural industry by the 1940s and 50s, inviting the efforts of composers, live musicians, the recording industry, dancers, nightclubs, filmmakers, actors and actresses…everyone type of performer could find something to express through this uniquely Buenos Aires genre that was born out of the melting pot of stylistic influences that invaded the city and the melodramatic existence of being an often impoverished, lovesick immigrant with a need to sing it, dance it, act it or simply listen it off.

Some tango circles now encourage gender-bending but the dance remains, in the vast majority of venues both touristy and strictly hospitable to locals, steeped in the male leader–female follower structure. Though the follower has opportunities in tango to express oneself and detain the leader with “adornments,” (sliding, bending, wrapping or simply protruding a leg around or to the side of the leader), the leader decides and communicates through corporal codes and impulses the sequence of steps and direction the couple will take together. I attended a progressive tango class with a friend I met in my expresión corporal class, in which we used balloons, strings, lack of eyesight or shoes to ease more intuitively into the process of bodily communication. The central challenge of tango, despite myriad step sequences to incorporate into a dancer’s vocabulary and the particulars of how to position each body, is learning to listen and share a moment of vulnerable yet controlled intimacy with your partner, who is often a complete stranger when one goes to a tango class or club (called a milonga). Maintaining your torso parallel to your partner is essential; when a leader pauses and there comes a time for a leg embellishment, it’s easy to lose this magnetic force between torsos; I personally tend to twist and turn, especially as a beginner attempting less than perfectly to read the signals I receive from my partner, which take the form of subtle increases of pressure on my scapula, widening or twisting of the embrace to indicate a change of direction, or deep inhales in preparation for an advance. Usually without eye contact, torsos and cheeks touching. Yes, it’s as sensual as it sounds. In this class, however, we were asked to communicate the same messages but as both leaders and followers who can transition wordlessly from one role to the other through pauses and impulses. Here, the game becomes more obviously linked to fundamental human challenges and pleasures: that of encountering another humbly yet boldly, striving to be both shrewd and direct, yet also tender and observant. For all you folks out there who associated tango with tacky dinner theaters, glitzy tight costumes and austere fedoras, or simply Astor Piazzolla (who is a genius, you should look him up right now if you’ve never heard him), welcome to the wonderfully complicated psycho-physical web of sensations that is the bare bones practice of tango. It’s the alluring mystery and perpetual sense of drama that addicts tango fanatics all over the world, carrying them from milonga to milonga, city to city, striving to improve their technique and ability to connect profoundly with strangers for three tensely beautiful minutes. I will not pretend to ignore the fierce machismo I’ve experienced with male dancer partners, not only in milongas but also while dancing salsa, bachata, swing, and even expresión corporal. I’ve gotten used to shrugging off anything from gag-worthy exaggerated compliments to patronizing remarks about my incorrect technique if they’re peeved that they got stuck with a beginner. The second I open my mouth is inevitably followed by a, “¿De dónde sos?” (“Where are you from?”) and, if this somehow signals that I a) will be more easily manipulated to accommodate their whims on or beyond the dance floor or b) represent an opportunity to practice their basic English and knowledge of American geography, I may unwittingly find myself answering a banal string of basic questions and/or deliberating between offering up my last name to another dude so he can friend me (and continuously message me) on Facebook. I have realized that such treatment may not be the norm and were I not an extranjera I would probably not be subject to most of it. Am I complaining? Maybe a little. It’s annoying to be treated as a naïve foreigner type (especially a woman who gives off unassuming, friendly vibes to most humans she encounters), an automatic representative of an entire country (that I currently have ridiculously mixed feelings about having been born into), and a body to be overtly judged or praised, unsolicited. I am empathizing, I imagine, with the vast majority of immigrants, refugees, passers through, or simply folks with features or qualities or identities that do not fit seamlessly into societal norms. I need not launch into a privilege rant, but the micro-aggressions and misogyny I’ve experienced as a white American girl living comfortably in the westernized, urban middle-class realm of Buenos Aires, is akin to feeling a pea poking your back through a stack of mattresses in comparison to the dire reasons we need intersectional feminist movements to fight domestic violence, racism, classism, all the isms….but it is useful to recognize the presence of machismo and xenophobia in my own fairly cushy and safe quotidian existence, both here and at home…

Well, it seems I only made it through a description of my first Monday class and a (hopefully interesting) digression. I pause, to focus on other things such as an oral presentation on public protests and the life of the street in Buenos Aires, and eventually sleep. The next frontier for this blog is more commentary on weekly activities, the climate of home-life, ideas on what’s to come during my time here, and musings about finding purpose as a transitory foreigner (through art, forming relationships, talking to people who’ve known you your whole life, volunteering, venturing out of one’s comfort zone, and simply observing). Oh, and I have a few words about what’s going on in the US right now. I hope also to share a few sentences about the value of productive and self-loving self-control, and why in life we need to cultivate a “just do it” attitude to avoid developing complacency, laziness and depression. Why is therapy so stigmatized in the US? Everyone and their mother sees (and/or IS) a therapist in Buenos Aires, and their rates of drug consumption for mental illness are way lower than in our prescription-drug-crazed society up north in the Privatized States of America. We’re so afraid to share what’s happening in our internal existences– more often than not caused by a combination of societal factors rather than stemming from personal weaknesses or intrinsic mental problems–that we’ve developed an uncountable variety of prescription drugs to magically realign the synapses in our brains instead of actively recognizing the circumstantial factors that prove inhospitable to a healthy, content lifestyle so that we can develop strategies to confront them ourselves. Home remedies, if you will. For instance, I’m finding that sending my thoughts into the ether, letting go of any anxiety that comes with others’ reading and potentially having opinions about my thoughts, is quite liberating, and therapeutic. The process of striving to be bilingual and knowing that one’s time in a South American city is finite before she has to return to a tiny intellectual and cultural hotbed in the middle of Ohio to finish her undergraduate degree prompts a host of complex thoughts to navigate—simply chatting with friends and family sometimes doesn’t cut it. So here, ether, enjoy my thoughts!

Hasta pronto!

Besos,

Rebecca

P.S. Pictures are worth a thousand words.

Image of “Ni Una Menos,” an enormous protest against sexualized violence in Argentina that erupted a few weeks ago. Planned to be a modest march, the entire downtown commercial district was blocked up by protesters male and female, young and old, human and animal (yes, the dogs came along too). It was inspiring, and also borderline dangerous, for streams of protesters were headed in opposite directions due to lack
of communication about the direction of traffic, creating extremely tight jams. I was detained on a single street corner for about a half an hour, but it was worth it. If nothing else, the march was evidence of the overwhelming demand for societal action and change to address rampant machismo, inequality and recent surge in femicides in this country. FYI: http://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-33001990

Gallery hopping in Villa Crespo with my good pal Nolan, who I will have the pleasure of continuing to explore and make art with at Oberlin our senior year. He and our friend Susannah are organizing a map-themed art show about getting to know a foreign city, being disoriented and learning to navigate, forming relationships and defining this experience emotionally, spatially, and artistically. I’ll be contributing an interactive map project that incorporates audio recordings I’ve been accumulating of my own voice singing, ambient sounds and place-specific soundscapes that I felt I needed to document. This was the perfect excuse to compile them into something cohesive. If you’re reading this and currently in Buenos Aires, COME! Next Wednesday, 1 de julio, Juan B. Thorne 493, 21 hasta 23hrs. There will be FOOD and MUSIC and MAPS and lovely PEOPLE to meet.

Back of my head, Nolan’s forehead. Telescopes and mirrors.

Performance art presentation at MALBA, interesting exploration of identity and movement and interaction with public spaces.

Spotted: breadsticks that are manufactured in the factory where I rehearse with my community dance group, being sold in a cafe in Recoleta. Small world. Glad their delishnessness is being spread all over the city. I will never think of breadsticks in the same way again. Any made by anoother company will forever be inferior, and any made by this company will remind me of the mountains of love that get manufactured by the bodies of Bailarines Toda la Vida every Friday at 6pm.

Un Poco de Todo

De todos los tiempos posibles de estar despierta y con ganas de reflexionar en mi vida escojo ahora, 3:40 de la mañana en una lunes con mi 10AM clase de cuatro horas colgada en la futura temprano. Probablemente era la mitad de bolsa de maíz inflado que tuve en mi cuarto que tiene la culpa de mantenerme despierta en esta hora, sussurándome a comer y escribir mis pensamientos. A veces no puedo explicar las cosas que pasan en Argentina, aún (especialmente) mis propios acciones. Pero adelante.

Cuando vi fotos de piedras preciosas en el libro de geología el semestre pasado mientras sentado en una biblioteca silenciosa dentro mi universidad en el nubloso estado de Ohio en los Estados Unidos, no tuve ningún idea que tendría la oportunidad de ver en la vida real una combinación de colores tan bellísima dentro de una montaña que ningún cámara ni libro de texto de geología pueda capturar. Con un grupo de treinta estudiantes y coordinadores, visité a los pueblos de Tilcara, Salinas, Purmamarca y Humahuaca en solo dos días.

The adventures of Keren and Becca and mountains continue….
Purmamarca, Argentina

Nos quedamos y comimos en una hostería diez minutos caminando del centro de Tilcara por tres noches. Visitamos a un sitio arqueológico de una parte de Tilcara con tumbas, casas, y espacios comunitarios reconstruidos en un diseño apenas exacto a la realidad del pasado, con estructuras elaboradas llamando más atención a la ingenuidad de los arqueológicos que una preservación auténtica de la tierra como realmente era.

(not so) little cacti on a hillside, Tilcara, Argentina.

Nuestra guia nos dijo que la disciplina de arqueología ha cambiado mucho en las últimas décadas en la manera de abordar la intervención de la naturaleza y investigación de historia con la participación y consentimiento de comunidades locales. Había una abundancia de oportunidades de comprar productos artesanales hecho en Jujuy, tal como chompas de alpaca y llama, manteles y tapices tejidos, y varias cosas lindas de cerámica y madera (especialmente un tipo se llama palo santo, que es verde y bonito– compré un mate (gourd) de esta material).

Intricate and precious figurines from Jujuy

Otras actividades notables eran una lección en danza folklórica con una de nuestras coordinadores, una parada en Salinas (un paisaje único que parece cómo ) una visita a una peña con músicos locales en Tilcara. Volví a la ciudad anhelando más pureza del campo, en estado de shock sobre la belleza que había visto, y con el sentido de que había sido embromado con la tentación de conocer mucho más sobre este país en qué vivo por un periodo que ahora me parece tan chico.

La montaña de los siete colores, Purmamarca, Argentina. Breathtaking earth.

La vida continua, y por suerte tengo un blog para compartir con otros este regalo que recibí en mi viaje de la velocidad a Jujuy. Si puedes, o lector por ahí, vaya a Jujuy antes de morirte. No vas a perder.

English now………..

The next topic that I wan to cover, briefly, so I don’t drag this post on for another week (!) is that of running, and the appreciation it brings for public parks and my time here in general. I’m finding that reserving at least half an hour each day to just move– whether it is biking, jogging, improvising in my expresión corporal class, or walking a long distance, is absolutely invaluable, and essential to both happiness and productivity. I speak as if this were a revelation that humanity had not already figured out, but each period in my life in which I find the scheduling rhythm to practice this lifestyle of physical exertion and expression each and every day is marked with a deeper level of understanding about what matters in life, and how to deal with the obligations and choices we face every day. Parque Centenario, a 10-minute jog from my apartment, is a delight. Each time I go, the vibe is different. On Sunday nights, it is HOPPING. Swing dancing, drum circles, outdoor contact improv jams, free outdoor movies and live performances, an abundance of lovestruck couples and entire families drinking maté at all hours of the evening, I have seen it all. Last Tuesday- free yoga, delicious sunshine and the newly present bite of autumn wind facilitating humble reflection and a desire to keep moving; Sunday, live jazz from hip young men and colorful scarves everywhere, countless couples out for a stroll.

Today (Saturday, approximately a week after I started writing this post) my friend Keren and I went to the “Feria del Productor a Consumidor” (basically a farmer’s and craft market) at Facultad de la Agronomía de la Universidad de Buenos Aires (environmental/agrarian division of the public university here). With the exception of spanish and the ubiquitous mate, I could very easily have been in Oberlin, Northampton, or another small progressive liberal arts college town (to my delight). An abundance of wide open sky, a huge garden, sheep cheese, a free African dance class, not a single colectivo in sight, and buena onda (good vibes) were just what I needed to recharge after a week of midterm exams (a.k.a. sitting in front of a computer screen for hours and sleeping not enough). Most importantly, Keren and I ran into friends we had met at a magical house in Belgrano with a backyard filled with overgrown trees, organic treats, silk-screening and sustainable lifestyle workshops and an empty pool used to house a band and dancers, a few weeks back. We had been discussing how much we wanted to return to this delightful space earlier today, and we were lucky enough to reconnect with the residents of this house in a space of a similar vibe. Slowly but surely I am finding the people and places that remind me of the parts of home and college life I am fondest of.

Urban green haven at Casa de la Paz in Belgrano

Finally, I would like to reveal that I just received notice that I received a grant from my college to extend my stay in Buenos Aires by a month to execute an internship-investigative project having to do with building communities through the arts, incorporating the knowledge I am gaining here about Argentina’s literary and cultural heritage (quite the fascinating and still vibrant one). I am currently enrolled in a class through the arts university (Universidad Nacional de las Artes) called Danza Comunitaria, which allows me to take part in a dance troupe called Bailarinas Toda la Vida and participate in a two-hour theory-based lecture/discussion class before rehearsal. The group is open to people of all ages, abilities, body types, and scheduling capacities (meaning the group of bodies present at each rehearsal is always shifting) manages to present works that are choreographed with enough individual leeway such that a fluctuant ensemble make-up doesn’t preclude performing their forever-in-progress works, which tend to have political, narrative and emotional themes having to do with Argentina’s painful history and complicated social present, which they feel as artists a responsibility to address and engage. Rehearsals take place on the second floor of a breadstick factory, recuperated after the 2001 economic crisis as a cooperative. Our discussions about capitalism, movement therapy, sensorial perception and body politics in the theoretical section of the course include the deeply enticing smell of breadsticks, maté, opinionated  men and women from age 20 to 70 , and the director, Aurelia Chillemi, whose wonderfully humble but persistent logic about the link between public health, corporal expression and the community guides the intellectual and physical investigation that takes place each friday afternoon.

Boxes of breadsticks on the way upstairs to the dance studio at the Grissinopoli Breadstick Factory in Chacarita

The thing I love about this class is that the theory and the practice are right there next to each other; the comfortable academic distance easily taken in discussions about social justice and generating creative material doesn’t have time or space to exist, and demands that as a student (despite the language and cultural barriers that I could easily use as an excuse to remain an observer or a passive participant), I take the food for thought I hesitantly munch on during the theoretical class as a foreigner afraid she’s an impostor, with me upstairs. I must process and apply this knowledge in my mind and body when class ends and rehearsal starts, and even when I’m unsure of my purpose or role in the rehearsal space, I almost always find solace in reality that corporal and musical languages are universal, and that I am immediately roped into the web of connections in the space simply through dance.

Bailarines Toda la Vida. (Not a picture I took…found it on the internet but it accurately represents a characteristic tableau in the rehearsal space).

My hope for my extra time in Argentina is to continue participating in the group at the very least, while writing about it, interviewing members, and potentially collaborating as an artistic leader further along in the semester on a project relevant to my literary/cultural studies (and hopefully teaching English on the side to fill in my lack of academic structure/need for supplemental income). There are so many organizations in the city working toward using the performing arts — circus, dance, theater, folkloric traditions, and more — as a means to rebuilding communities who experience social, physical or economic disadvantages in society, and I intend to seek work as a volunteer for at least one of them in addition or in place of the aforementioned project.

I pause, here, to finish making my homemade peanut butter, and get on with my Saturday night. I have to prepare to romper la noche, as my host-dad fondly dubs the process of spending a night on the town in Buenos Aires. After dancing for two hours straight to a Brazilian band at an “afrobeat” festival last weekend and enjoying it thoroughly, I feel the urge to go out in search of another pleasant surprise in this city pulsing with dancers, musicians and thinkers out for a good time.

Hasta la próxima entrada….

BECCA

P.S. I survived my first week of exams in Buenos Aires!! Hallelujah!

Unmentioned in the text, but here’s a panorama of the national library, a wonderful place to concentrate and peer out above the trees at the city of Buenos Aires.

Well, it’s been a while.

So much has happened I can’t even compartmentalize the weeks between my last post and now into discrete blog topics. But life isn’t supposed to be neat and tidy like a chapter book, now is it?

I hereby vow to post more often. For the sake of my grandmothers, parents, sister, friends in Ohio, New York, Buenos Aires…wherever you are, whether or not you’re sitting on the edges of your seats wondering what the heck I’m doing down here, I will make a concerted effort to stick to a regular(ish) schedule. I make this promise also for my own sanity—sadly I do not have a photographic memory, so remembering all the poetic or salient details of an experience four weeks in the past is a task to be reckoned with. I can only imagine what a toll it takes on one’s recollecting muscles to write a memoir! If middle-aged Frank McCourt can describe in detail the ice-cold outdoor showers he took as a five year-old child, I can expound the wonders of Patagonia I experienced with my friend Keren only a few weeks ago. On with it!

We, Keren and I, began at Retiro (BA’s main train and bus station; New Yorkers: think Port Authority mixed with the distinct atmosphere of Chinatown). We survived the trek through cases of sliced meats and cheese, bags of puffed corn and facturas (buns), homeless extended families occupying the sidewalk, kioscos full of gum and alfahores, shelves of stilettos and other bling for last minute purchases on your way out of the city, pick-pockets, super-panchos (ubiquitous, unusually long hot dogs commonly smothered with mini French-fries and sugary mustard [but really, does anything NOT have sugar in this country?]), men loitering against walls launching striking numbers of piropos (cat-calls) per minute at passing female bodies within spitting distance, intentionally (?) unhelpful security guards, and the tiny whispers of “eat me” emanating from tray after tray of medialunas (mini croissants served up in every café in groups of two or three) and arrived unscathed at Via Barloche’s terminal of sleeper buses that transport all aboard to a land blessed with the simple abundance of Earth’s gorgeous, mountainous creations.

Just gazing. And gazing. And Gazing. Who ever said flying was superior?

The bus was twenty-two hours, but they passed easily. I received countless alfahores (cookies paved with dulce de leche gold), crackers, milanesa de pollo (chicken Milanese), and cups of mate cocido (the traditional herbal drink condensed into a tea bag). Sleepy from a mini-bottle of malbec (a common Argentine red wine) courtesy of our overly enthusiastic bus attendant, I cozied up in my bed-esque recliner seat and dozed in and out of watching the strikingly beautiful plains and rolling hills of inland Argentina pass by as we progressed west to the Andes. A thunderstorm more visually arresting against the horizon than any I’ve ever seen formed our nighttime entertainment, and a sunny dawn ushered in four days of perfect weather for our trek through three towns along La Ruta de los Siete Lagos (The Route of the Seven Lakes).

Our first morning in Bariloche, we wandered sleepily into town to discover a stunning view of the glistening Lago Nahuel Huapi from our tenth floor penthouse apartment converted into a hostel.

Lago Nahuel Huapi, San Carlos de Bariloche.

A short colectivo (bus) ride out of town led us to Cerro Campanario, a ski mountain with a steep 40-minute pedestrian side trail to the summit. If I were to choose where to spend my afterlife for the rest of eternity, it may be that very spot. Let the picture below speak for itself. Descending the mountain, we decided to continue on the bus route to catch a glimpse of Llao Llao, one of Argentina’s most famous hotels renowned for its location overlooking Lago Nahuel Huapi. We ended the day wandering the streets of the small metropolis of Bariloche, and nearly joined a Shabbat dinner at a Chabad house (owing to Keren’s Hebrew skills recently refreshed given the surprising ubiquity of Israeli tourists in this area of Argentina….I swear they’re everywhere. Keren and other Argentines we spoke with have theories but I have no clear explanation to offer as to why, at the moment).

We hustled to catch a 1.5 hour bus out of Bariloche the following morning to Villa la Angostura, a bustling but more mellow ski and hiker destination with a mystical halo of dust suspended over the quaint lanes of this mountain town nestled in the Andes on the opposite shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi. Leaving our bags in our charming respite of a hostel a ten minute walk from town, we rented bikes and wandered down the highway to Lago Correntoso, which connects to Lago Nahuel Huapi through the “shortest river in the world,” and graces its shores with tranquil deep green slopes cascading toward the water in an almost perfect perspective composition. After stopping for a generous blackberry harvest, we returned to our hostel and were generously offered our fill of a picante feast (see photo) of common Argentine finger food, organized amongst a group of guests with whom we quickly became friendly.

hostel sustenance at it’s finest

The following morning, we saw a beautiful waterfall and more gorgeous views of the surrounding lakes at Cerro Bayo, a ski mountain we coughed our way up along its car-traversed dirt road that nonetheless offers delightful look-outs. After catching a ride down the mountain (and meeting some gracious, copados porteños in the process—Hola Morena y Martin si estén leyendo esto 😉), we scored another ride to Playa Manzano and touched its sunny shores for a hot second before scrambling back to town to meet the bus to our next destination: San Martin de los Andes. These dreamy two hours brought some of the most soul wrenching combinations of gentle, eccentric mountain shapes and rays of the setting amber sun into my vision. The bus ride conveniently passed the remaining four or five lakes of La Ruta de los Siete Lagos, leading us grandiosely into San Martin, where a new friend on the bus we had met in Villa la Angostura made us an offer we couldn’t refuse: an elegant dinner out on the town. With excellent red wine, fresh trout, complimentary champagne, and a lively conversation in Spanish ranging in topics from Ulysses to anthropology, we saluted our final night in Patagonia with incredulity at our fortune in meeting such a mensch willing to converse with two extranjeras for hours and sponsor quite the feast.

The “shortest” river in the world, connecting Lago Correntoso with Lago Nahuel Huapi. Villa La Angostura, Argentina

Lago Correntoso

Our fourth and final day in Patagonia, we took our cue from one of the couples we hitchhiked with the previous day and sought out the trail to La Mirador de Bandurrias in San Martin de los Andes. Stopping in the tourism office on the way, we learned that historically the economic and cultural ties between communities living on both sides of the Chile-Argentina border fostered an interdependent solidarity between towns in the region of San Martin de los Andes, that predated any externally imposed political tensions along the border between the countries battling for land and resources until the 1990s. (Thought I’d throw in a little history lesson). After discovering the fork in the road with a little hut where we had been told to prepare our five pesos to pay the community members who live in the area, Keren and I found the most breathtaking view yet. We had plans to visit the beach on the other side of the mountain but couldn’t tear our eyes and souls away from such a tranquil, striking vista of earth.

Mirador Bandurrias, San Martin de los Andes.

Keren proudly shadows San Martin himself

Flaura and Fauna, San Martin de los Andes

Our bellies full of leftover lentils (yum? they had begun to ferment at that point….camping on a low budget breeds odd habits), we boarded the sleepr bus back to Buenos Aires that afternoon and toughed out another 22 hours of relentless offers of carbohydrate-sugar combinations that substantiated our complimentary “meals,” dozed in and out of more shocked-silence invoking landscapes, and held on for dear life to what fresh mountain air we had left in our lungs before bracing the trek through Retiro and the subte home to Villa Crespo. (I have no pictures of Retiro for fear of having my gadget snatched out of my hand, but imaginations should serve).

Buen (saludable?) provecho. Love, Via Bariloche.

That’s all for now, folks. Lots to say about life in urban transit and in awe of all that Buenos Aires has to offer, philosophies-in-progress on life in general, Pesach with Porteños, coming “of age” with lovely friends over dulce de leche and red wine in a country where I was already “of age,” adventures on Thursday evenings during and after expresión corporal (my contact improvisation-esque dance class at the Universidad Nacional del Arte), and a glorious discovery of a lush, sustainably minded hippie haven amongst the high rises of Belgrano, but I must pause. I want to get this post up before I leave for my next weekend adventure to the province of Jujuy with my study abroad program this afternoon!

La próxima entrada será en español. Get your google translate fired up, English speakers.

Love and alfahores,

Becca

Buenos Tiempos al Aire Libre en Buenos Aires

Buenos Tiempos al Aire Libre en Buenos Aires

Hola a todos,

I tried to be punny with my title. Did it work? Perhaps I need to begin full Spanish immersion in my literature course at the Universidad de Buenos Aires before I attempt puns en Español. Bueno. Ahora, escribiré en Castellano (la version “porteño” de español).

Aquí estoy, en mi cocina, tomando mi mate (té caliente) a pesar del calor intenso afuera, y me siento un poquito triste. Mi madre anfitriona, Marta, ha salido para Israel por cuatro semanas para visitar a su familia. Marta solo tiene su madre y sus hijos aça (una versión de “aquí” que se usa en este país) en Buenos Aires, y no les ha visto a sus primos y tíos quien viven en Israel por treinta o cuarenta años. ¿Pueden ustedes creerlo? Era su cumpleaños hace tres días, y como un regalo, su familia compró un boleto de avión para que ella les podría ver de nuevo. Estoy muy emocionada para ella, pero ya me siento como una de sus hijas y voy a extrañarla! Bueno, yo podría cantar alabanzas sobre mis padres anfitrionas por días. Para seguir a mis aventuras últimamente…

Primero: Tigre. El “Hamptons” de Buenos Aires, sin duda, es un lugar dónde porteños van para respirar, olvidar a los colectivos (buses públicos), y mirar con fijeza al Río Tigre con su agua el color de arena. Fui a Tigre con el grupo de estudiantes y staff de mi programa por tren una hora al norte de la ciudad, y pasábamos un día en la finca de un hotel al lado del río tomando sol en una pileta y comiendo asado (barbecue), empanadas, y medialunas. Sentí un poco “cheta” (posh), pero admito que en realidad me gustó mucho la carne (es cierto, no tienen bistec con el mismo sabor en los Estados Unidos) de mi primer asado y el viaje me satisfecho el deseo de aprovechar la oportunidad de nadar y tomar el sol en este tiempo de verano. En el paseo en barco, se puede ver casas elegantes rebosante de porteños élites tomando cócteles en el césped así como grupos de cabañas decrépitas y los restos de palacios construidos en tiempos lujos ahora pasados, cayendo en el agua. A mi parecía una yuxtaposición indicativo del pasado rico y oscuro así como una sociedad contemporáneo undulado en este país (como un barco!). Estoy interpretando demasiado de un fin de semana inocente? Probablemente. No Puedo resistir mirando el mundo como un libro a veces.

Río Tigre

No voy a contarles cada detalle de mi vida porque camino por la calle a descubriendo un montón de cosas nuevas cada día. Sería aburrido hacer una lista de mis actividades, así que voy a seguir con mi tema: aire libre. Oiyayoiayoi (como mi madre anfitriona dice en Yiddish cuando esta pensando en comida rica o helado de dulce de leche), como me encanta eventos urbanos, especialmente gratis, durante el verano. El fin de semana pasado, después de una noche de sábado mirando tango en un club muy copado (cool) se llama “El Catédral,” charlando con chicos locales en un bar oscuro en Almagro (al final! No Americanos en mi vista salvo mi compañera Keren), y acostándome a las seis de la mañana mientras el amanecer comenzó, me despertó en domingo a las cuatro de la tarde. Fui a San Telmo al fin de la gran feria con cosas artísanales y música en vivo, y pasaba por el Museo de Arte Moderna (les recomiendo mucho si visiten a Buenos Aires!). De repento, se convirtió en la noche y tenía que descubrir el colectivo correcto (siempre una experiencia diferente, un poco llena de estrés, y satisfactorio cuando estoy esperando mi bus triunfantemente). Mientras estaba esperando el #24 en una esquina, comí la mejor empanada de mi vida (simplemente porque tenía tanto hambre). En el colectivo, encontré dos nuevos amigos– una chica quien vive aquí, y su novio Americano quien esta visitando a Buenos Aires. Irémos a un función de música de tango juntos! Mis habilidades de hacer amigos en cualquier lugar en esta ciudad van mejorando.

Precious knick knack store in San Telmo called “Cualquier Verdura”

Okay I’m going to switch to English now both for the benefit of my english-speaking readers and my own fluidity of thought. I arrived at my destination, Parque Centenario, cell phone number of my new friends from the bus confidently in hand, and immediately began craving ice cream. This doesn’t happen as frequently in the United States. I love ice cream but it doesn’t emerge in my stomach/mind’s eye so vividly, and as seductively, as it does here almost daily, ever since I tried my first helado in BA last week. I went for it: double flavor of rum raisin and tramontana (made from sweet cream, dulce de leche and little crunchy chocolate pebbles….oiyayoiyaoi). I entered my new favorite park (and Buenos Aires is killing it on the green space in almost every neighborhood I’ve seen), to discover a free dance concert taking place in an amphitheater packed with at least a thousand people. As I relished each lick of creamy heaven, incredibly beautiful bodies moved with balletic but contemporary grace, precision, emotional intensity and cultural specificity in front of me. They were accompanied by music by Astor Piazzolla, a beloved Argentine composer of instrumental tango music, and a melánge of Russian, Israeli, Canadian, Argentine and Portuguese composers. Solos, duets, trios and group numbers were filled with both elegant melodrama and whimsical earthiness. Need I explain that I was basically in bliss? I danced down the sidewalks home when no one was looking.

Pause. Power’s out. Today is one of the hottest days of summer, so power usage is maxing out in the city. Yesterday, there were riots on the street led by fruit vendors who have been without power for several days. The minister of urban planning in Buenos Aires is in denial that this is an unusual or urgent issue, and affected citizens are running out of emergency energy in their generators. Ah– there it is, back on. Luckily I will not find myself taking to the streets, but I feel for all the folks in this neighborhood who have no air conditioning or means to preserve their food right now. See image below of street fires.

Fuegos en la calle

 I’ve no doubt made it to a ranting state of blogging. To save anyone reading this from complete tedium, I will pause soon, with one last piece of recent wisdom gained in regard to la vida al aire libre en Buenos Aires. If you like to bike, stroll, or run in this city, BEWARE THE CARS. They are all under the impression that the streets were paved solely for them, will honk at you when you try to cross in an intersection that hasn’t explicitly laid down the law of who crosses when (I’m speaking of the side streets that don’t have traffic lights), and never hesitate to get as close as three inches away from pedestrians while making turns. With the hegemonic running culture and (recent) advent of guarded bike lanes, one would think an air of respect might develop between motors and human legs, but I’m afraid my angry New Yorker face might come in handy on a daily basis as I lessen the likelihood that I’ll get run over and protect my right to cross the street.

No quiero terminar en una nota negativa, así que voy a mirar adelante: la próxima entrada va a ser sobre mi viaje la semana que viene a San Carlos de Bariloche y la ruta de los siete lagos en Patagonia. Voy con mi nueva amiga Keren. Vamos a ir de excursión, ver las montañas en bicicletas y dormir en camas construidos en buses durante la 20 hora viaje, ida y vuelta….Estoy MUY MUY MUY emocionada!

Hasta luego, y gracias por leyendo esta novela sin fin!

Rebecca

Grape Heaven

Has it been two years or two weeks? I feel utterly enveloped in a new reality and feel no impulse to dwell on any particular aspect of my recent past in the United States, which seems so far away, a life belonging to someone else. I have a new set of parents, relatives, a roommate/sister with as much enthusiasm to help me acclimate socially, culturally, culinarily, and linguistically as I could have ever fantasized, and a host of intriguing activities and classes to choose from. There isn’t a moment when I am not absorbing a completely novel experience or envisioning a future exciting activity in this vibrant urban environment pulsing with energy, art and sociopolitical complexity.

Now, regarding the title of this post, I will start with the fruit, and a few other relatively superficial but notable aspects of daily life here in Buenos Aires. My host parents purchase an inconceivable amount of fruit every few days: oranges, apples, lemons, grapes, mini-plums, bananas, plantains, the works. Our fridge is packed with ten to twenty servings of each! For a household of four! Oh, and the sweetest pears I’ve had in my life. After dinner each night, which we typically eat between 8:30-10pm, everyone goes to town with fruit. Milanesa is a favorite dinner staple of my beloved host mother, Marta, a delightful being who was brimming with visceral love and attention from the moment I met her. Everyone in the house kisses on the cheek for every encounter and farewell. My host dad, Osias, has the most useful unsolicited advice in the world at the drop of a hat. We chat for hours about train lines, Argentine politics, our favorite helado flavors, and Yiddish expressions. I am in good hands in this twelfth-floor apartment.

As for the outside world, here are some observations: I walk out on (any) street, go three paces and find a hole-in-the-wall frutería, whispering the sweet alluring calls to purchase another 10 pesos-worth (for a privileged North American traveler such as myself, a mere $.85 on the Blue–a.k.a. illegal but legit–Market for dollar-to-peso exchange) of robust cherries to munch on while I embark on a pilgrimage down an ever teeming Avenida Corrientes to the Subte (subway). I’ll walk three more paces to find a panadería offering elaborate chocolate meringue cakes, cookies, and medialunas (mini-croissants); a few steps more we have a heladería promoting 2 for 1 take-out kilos of serious-business gelato, the kind that has its own magnetic force within each carefully sculpted scoop on your cone. Next, there will inevitably be a bookstore ranging in size from a hole in the wall to that of a grand converted opera house, then an empanada emporium tantalizing passers by with $8 peso baked, buttery, meat and cheese pockets, and of course, the ineluctable Argentine café serving cafes con leche in the utmost civilized fashion (not to be ordered in hopes of either a to-go cup without an oh, you’re a tourist smirk, or a large caffeine-ridden vat of rich bodied dark roast with a splash of milk—nuh uh, Argentines have no conception of caffeine-addicted American portions of café. They stick to espresso and varying quantities of steamed milk in small cups for a kick and a lengthy conversation. Oh, and don’t even think of asking for iced coffee. It exists in the culinary vocabulary of very few porteños except for the inhabitants and visitors of the chic and bougie Palermo Soho, who might as well be strutting down almost any gentrified outdoor shopping and drinking mall in any major cosmopolitan city in their floor-length floral and ray-bans). The final establishments in a classic cycle of commerce on a BA boulevard may either be a unpolitically correctly termed “Chino” (Chinese-owned grocery store often selling already dirt-cheap and delicious wine at rock-bottom prices, among other groceries), a kiosco (Think candy. Think more candy than you ever want to see in one place. Think cigarettes. Boom.), or a shoe store begging unassuming pedestrians to invest in yet another pair of three-inch platform sandals in its end-of-summer liquidación. Reach the crosswalk, run for your life in case a cab driver is feeling particularly insolent at that moment, and begin the same dance with temptation to consume everything in sight anew on the next block. So goes the repetitive average stroll along any major street in Buenos Aires.

I ask myself how porteños pride themselves on their pasteles (cakes), medialunas, asados (barbecued meats of all shapes and sizes), empanadas, incredibly cheesy pizza and red wine and manage to pack themselves like sardines into the non-air conditioned subtes at rush hour looking casually elegant, slim, and lacking any noticeable health conditions that might affect their smooth complexions. Okay, I’m generalizing about a minute portion of the immensely sprawling city I view on my limited commute to and from the city center, but it’s still amazing. There are dieteticas every five blocks or so, where you can buy dried fruit in expensive bulk and vegetarian sandwiches (havens for a tofu and legume-craving co-oper from a small liberal arts college in the midwest such as myself), but they certainly cater to the minority.

Alright, enough about food. I spend enough time reading pickupthefork.com, an addictive blog about the culinary landscape in Buenos Aires. A change in topic, perhaps?

Actually, it is time for bed. My ambitious plans to capture every aspect of the last two weeks in a single concise, non-rambling and eloquent blog post have been shot to smithereens I’m afraid….but there is always next time. Stay tuned for tales of tango lessons, salsa dancing until four in the morning (considered a wimpy bed-time for true blooded porteños who prefer to take the first colectivos [buses] home after a long night at a boliche [dance club] come dawn), attempting to navigate four university systems’ worth of courses (I won’t bore you with too many details, but let’s just say Argentines do class registration a liiiiitle bit differently- *cough* -tardily), discovering the glory of maté, exchanging jokes and stories with my adorable host parents, my first experience climbing silks in a circus class in Spanish, and navigating the city streets on a bicycle for the first time…..at night (whoops? No injuries, I promise). The next post might be in Spanish. I have to embrace the immersion real soon, or else my professors in my literary theory and urban planning courses will surely grant a failing grade to this gringa fumbling through essays and seminars with her Spanglish. Wish me luck!

Besos a mis lectores. Besos a la ciudad. Ciao, ¡hasta pronto!

Biking along Av. Libertador at dusk

Finalmente, he llegado!

No puedo expresar mis sentimientos exactamente, pero voy a tratar de hacerlo, y por las personas quien no pueden hablar en español, leyendo esto, lo siento pero necesito practicar porque quiero ser “fluido” lo más rápido que es posible. Bueno. Google translate va a ayudarles. Mi familia Argentina (prestada, como “borrowed”) es increible. Marta y Osias me recibieron en la sala de mi hotel esta tarde con muchos besos y abrazos y sonrisas. Me aseguraron que van a hablar lentissimo hasta que me sienta cómoda hablando. Sé que voy a hacer errores en mi escritura aqui pero estoy en Buenos Aires y “todo bien,” como lo dicho. Hay tantas cosas de aprender y hacer y estoy tanta emocionada que no sé dónde comenzar. Hay clases de baile, funcionas de teatro, clubs de salsa, cafés que son muy “hip,” viajes afuera de la ciudad……..por no mencionar las clases de FLACSO, la organización dónde voy a tomar clases. En mi casa está quedando una chica muy simpática y experta sobre la vida de una persona joven y energética cómo yo, con interesas en una variedad de cosas. Ella quedaba con Marta y Osias hasta unos años, y ahora está trabajando por una revista de la red en Buenos Aires y está visitando a sus padres largos perdidos. No me siento sola! Ella es una guía personal quien sabe Inglés (solo para emergencias por supuesto, pero entiende la perspectiva de una extranjera muy bien). Es muy inteligente y ya me ha dado sugerencias de cosas de hacer en el barrio, como clases de acrobacia, que he tenido ganas de probar por mucho tiempo! Esta ciudad tiene todo. Estoy ecstatica. Respeto a mi colegio de Ohio, pero el pensamiento que tenía dudas sobre tomando esta viaje parece loco ahora.

Vivo en el piso doce, y porqué me crecía en un departamento en el piso quince, yo me siento en casa. Mis padres son Judios pero no religiosa como yo. Tienen un sentido de humor muy accesible y paciente, y también tiene un grupo de partidarios, como un “following,” de convidados del pasado quien han iniciado un grupo en facebook y vuelven a visitar con frecuencia. O sea, esta familia da mucho amor sus chicos “prestados,” y los estudiantes del programa les encantan también. Siento como gané la lotería con esta familia. Estamos en un barrio seguro y lindo, cerca de otros barrios interesantes y el “subte” (el metro). Acabo de tomar “maté” por la primera vez en su cocina (una tradición codiciada y cotidiana), y me gusté mucho. Quizás me lo gusta más que el cafe, pero no puedo hacer una declaración tan grave todavía. En cualquiera manera, ya siento que voy a disfrutar practicando la vida porteña.

Tengo que mandar un mensaje a mis padres sobre mi llegado en una casa lleno de amor, cuidado, y generosidad. No quiero que ellos les preocupan, a pesar de que tengo miedo sobre cambiando mis palabras a Inglés. No quiero perder mi “flujo”!

Voy a escribir más (quizás en Inglés, por el beneficio de todos mis lectores que no me entienden en absoluto) sobre mi tiempo en el hostel antes del inicio del programa, y voy a cargar fotos también! Por la mañana voy a hacer esto y editar este “post”; ahora hay que descansar después de un día completo con talleres largas sobre como cuidar las cosas en el transporte público, el horario del programa, la cultura Argentina, etc, etc. Tengo que procesar. Hasta luego, todo el mundo.

Besos

Hola…yet?

I still haven’t begun the adventure that forms the reason for my first (!) ***shhhh*** say it in a whisper: blog? No, this is a travel LOG. I’ll come up with a proper title later on in its metamorphosis into a graphic and literary reflection of my approaching life in Argentina. The details I need to remember and resolve to prepare for a five month trip I couldn’t cover this 15th- floor ceiling with. [Note to self: never end a sentence with a preposition. Sorry, Ms. Bordonaro, my grammar guru of sixth grade, I’ll try not to do it again. I digress–] Okay, I am exaggerating about the length of my To-Do list, but it is long and unwieldy. I could easily go on rants about how eager I am to escape this small Chelsea bedroom in which I spent my childhood and adolescence, to embrace the unknown whirl of a culture full of passion, a city peppered with gorgeous green space and newspapers brimming with intense sociopolitical uncertainty in a foreign language, etc….

That would be plain procrastination. I must resist my virgin blogger’s excitement and retire to bed so I can conquer the next few days of running around downtown Manhattan from doctor’s offices to banks to camping goods stores with focus and zeal (qualities I believe are essential in order to accomplish anything in New York in February while not on a fixed schedule). Goodnight!

Hasta que nos encontremos en Buenos Aires.