Las Buenas Ondas

LIfe on the Other Side of the World. Adventures in Argentina. 24 Hour Pursuit of Fun.

[lasbuenasondas33]

So a couple of weeks ago, my program director came to Buenos Aires to pick up the new bunch of interns. We met up to hang out for the day and she decided to show me a classic old  time Buenos Aires lunch location.  She took me to this huge pizzeria called Pizzeria Guerrin and explained to me that this was the kind of place where old Italian men used to meet up to talk, smoke cigars, and get drunk. To put it simply, I pictured a scene from some mafia movie (because let's be real, porteños take a lot of culture from their Italian roots).  Nowadays it was more of just a hip pizza-by-the-slice place, but it was still more or less and "cultural monument," if you will.

Along with it being a physical cultural monument, there was also a cultural tradition to these places as well.  Apparently, the porteño way of doing pizza is not only to do pizza (or even pizza and beer, as I would do it), but rather to have an uncompromisable combination of pizza, faina, and moscato.  Let me tell you, pizza here is incredible...it's not like Italian pizza, but I suspect that the prevalence of pizza here is definitely due to Italian roots.  The pizza here is thick and SMOTHERED in cheese....it's absolutely to die for. Traditionally, people eat a pizza called fugazetta, which is pizza with mozzarella, a white sauce, and onions...that's all.  With this pizza, you slap on a portion of something called faina, which is basically another crust that is made out of chickpeas instead of flour and it's ABSOLUTELY delicious as well.  Finally, to wash it all down, typically you drink a glass (or a few glasses) of moscato wine.  But just like the pizza, this isn't just any moscato - it's dark and thick moscato, even sweeter and hard-hitting than normal.  I hate moscato to begin with, so this stuff turned me off right away, but I was all for the rest of the tradition.  After the meal, I was absolutely stuffed, but determined to return on day.

So a week later, one of the interns from my group is heading through Buenos Aires on his way out of the country so I take him back to Pizzeria Guerrin to share the cultural experience of pizza, faina, and moscato.  Little did I know, we were in for more than that. We were seated next to a huge porteño family who was quite clearly of Italian descent (they spoke like Italians, they were loud like Italians, and they were proud like Italians).  Soon enough we find out that it must be someone's birthday because the whole family bursts into song...but it's not just any ol' "Happy Birthday."  This was the most intense and beautiful rendition of Happy Birthday that I had ever heard because it was all in opera voices.  After Happy birthday was over, the singing did not end though....they just kept singing.  Soon it turned into an impromptu show of this family singing Italian Opera to the entire thirds floor of the restaurant.  About two songs in, the apparent "lead singer" pointed to another member of the party at a separate table and this new man burst out singing the woman's part of the opera....in a perfect voice.  The entire show was incredible and went on for about 10 minutes of them singing and everyone in the restaurant clapping (or singing) along.  Afterwards, they paid and just stood up and filed out of the restaurant with a standing ovation.  It was so classically porteño and probably the best thing that has happened to me in Buenos Aires.  I'm not even sure if this blog post does it justice, but I hope it does.  Enjoy the video and remember, the show's not over until the fat guy sings the part of the proverbial "fat lady"

[lasbuenasondas33]

Multiracial in a non-multiracial world...

Just forewarning, this isn’t necessarily having to do with my trip to Argentina.  I’ve just been thinking a lot about ideas of multiracial identity lately...it’s been something that has struck me since arriving here in Argentina and I’m feeling like unloading, writing, and expanding on it here...

Childhood: When I was a kid, I never considered myself to be anything but white at all...I just had no concept of being asian, of asian culture, or of being multiracial.  In fact, I’ve been told stories by my parents that I would often come home and tell jokes that involved tugging at the edges of my eyelids to make them squinty (which is ironic considering I already had “squinty” eyes...I just didn’t realize it yet).  I very obviously considered myself to be of the majority, white population that surrounded me in the Tri-Cities.

High School: This time was interesting because I had a slightly more informed concept of race and identity, but it still wasn’t something that was salient for me at the time.  I still very much considered myself in the “white” category, unless I wanted to claim something only available to minorities.  It was very much an “asian by choice” stage of my life.  It was always interesting because my most immediate friend group during Senior Year was one of the most racially diverse in a school dominated by students of hispanic descent.  In our usual group of four (Michelle, Deandra, Patricia, and I...with others mixed in throughout the day), we were one white, one mexican, a “blaxican,” and a “whasian.”  Despite my everyday clinging to being white, it was always funny to point out my role as the “token asian” of our diverse group.

Freshman Year, Seattle University:  While studying down in the basement one evening, one of my incredibly good friends, Bradley said “I have a super random question for you Chris.  Um...errrr....hmmm...uh, do you consider yourself a minority?”  At first, I was taken aback; I mean, I had never really thought of it before because it had never been a question to me - I was white, right?  Well maybe not.  I mean I am multiracial, but I knew absolutely nothing about Korean culture and was raised purely in American culture...which is white culture, right?  Well no.  But I didn’t really have an answer for Bradley at the moment...so I stuck with what my subconscious had always said and simply explained that I didn’t consider myself a minority because I didn’t know anything about Korean culture, therefore I couldn’t REALLY consider myself Korean, right?

6 Months Later: I’m in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala greeting my host mom, Elmentina, for the first time.  The first thing she says to me is “Wow, you have beautiful eyes.  What are you?  Chinese? Japanese?”  I reply that I am Korean and she says “Oh Korean.  But your eyes are so beautiful...they are not dark at all like other asians...you aren’t just Korean, no?”  So I explain that I am half Korean and half white.  It’s probably the first time that I explain this and it registers in my head that maybe I can be more than one thing - maybe I can embrace both sides.

Present Day: Near the beginning of our internships, the other interns and I are at an asado with a bunch of other Argentines.  We begin having a conversation between each other about who stands out the least in Argentina.  We can’t decide, so we ask the Argentines what they think.  My money is on the intern who was adopted from Guatemala or the intern from Oman.  But no, they say that the white gringa intern from Iowa fits in the most because there are so many Italians in Argentina.  Then, out of curiosity, we ask who fits in the least.  It’s me - not because their aren’t any asians (although there aren’t many), but more because there aren’t asians that look like me - i.e. half-asian, half-white.  It was an interesting discovery...I in no way thought I would be the one to fit in the most, but I also didn’t necessarily think I would be the last - or at least for that reason.

Those were just a few of the moments throughout my life that really stand out to me as being representative of my own journey through “defining my racial identity.”  It’s funny because our old Sullivan advisor was SOOOO into things like this and I was SOOO not into it - yet here I am two years later, diving into this topic on my own.

So here I am, sitting here in Argentina.  Again and again I have been confronted with ideas of multiracial identity here.  Ever since I landed in Buenos Aires, it was something that I noted because it is a city that doesn’t appear to be as the typical American would expect it to.  It’s not the stereotypical Latin American city - it’s both modern and colonial with a lot of European inspiration in its architecture.  The people are the same: very modern and, more than other Latin American cities, European looking.  This is due to the long history of immigration in Argentina - something I’m not going to get into right now, but it’s something that you notice on your first time here.  Something else that I noticed here: even in a place that defies expectations, I still don’t fit in.  Even if I magically spoke like a porteño and you switched my clothes so I didn’t look like a tourist, I wouldn’t fit in.  It’s something that struck me pretty intensely, to be honest: the fact that I can’t fit in anywhere.

Although it has really seemed to stand out to me while I am abroad, I think what I am realizing is that this fact applies no matter where I am, even in the US.  Being multiracial is a racial identity in and of itself.  It’s an interesting one because often times, multiracial individuals are stuck between two places, unable or sometimes not wanting to gain full acceptance into either group completely.  For example, however much I identify as being white (i.e. in high school), I was and always will be known in a white friend group as the “asian” or at least the “half asian.”  On the other side, I will never be fully integrated into an asian or Korean circle of friends because I would always be the half-white one.  I’m definitely not meaning this in a “I have no friends and am incapable of having friends” way, but it’s just an observation.  In fact, I think this might even account for the fact that I keep such diverse friends, but I feel like that’s diving too far into subconscious psychological motives for me at this point.

Hapa used to be a derogatory Hawaiian word for someone of mixed Asian/Pacific Islander ethnic descent.  In recent years, it’s moved from a derogatory word to being completely acceptable and widely used by the Hapa Community.  I like it and I use it.  It’s funny because I’ve been coming to realize that no matter where I go, I will seemingly never look like I belong - in the US I will always be the hapa yet if I traveled to Korea, I would still be the hapa because I am not and do not appear to be fully Korean.  Last summer, I remember having a number of conversations with my friend Noel (a fellow hapa) about being multiracial, half-white and half-asian.  We both concluded that we needed to unite all of the hapa people in the world and found what we dubbed the “Hapa Nation,” where hapa people can fit in, live together in peace, and preserve their “halfness” thereby creating a “hapa race.”  Now as silly and out of control as that sounds (*Note* we are not actually planning on trying to create a new race-based nation), it was an interesting topic of conversation and train of thought.

I recently read some interesting stats about multiracial demographics in the US.  Only as of 2000 have people been able to mark more than one race when registering with the US Census.  As of the most recent census, the multiracial population of the United States was numbered at only 2.9% of the entire population, or about 9 million people. That's a really small number.  The number is most likely larger because some people still only mark/identify with one race, but even so, the numbers would likely be super small in comparison to the entire population. President Barack Obama has been an interesting example of those who are actually multiracial, but identify as one race; being half-white and half-black, he is not only the “first black president” as he identifies but he is also the “first multiracial president.”  This just proves how complex the idea of “race” is and illustrates how it is purely a social construct.  While I now would always refer to myself as biracial, I did not always, as the stories above illustrate.  The same goes for other people; while they may identify with one at one point in their lives, it may change as their experiences change - or it may not.

Anyway, I think I have ranted on long enough about this.  It’s just been something that has been on my mind since coming to Argentina and I have not felt up to really diving into until now.  It’s been an interesting exploration into my own journey from feeling completely white to being a proud multiracial citizen.  I in no way mean this to be a whiny “I don’t fit anywhere” blog post because I feel like I do fit; I have some of the best people in my life and belong to some of the best communities - yet at the same time, it’s an interesting realization when you figure out that you will always be (or maybe “appear” is a better word) different - but then again, aren’t we all different?  Who knows, maybe one day that will change though.  According to some articles that I read, multiracial is the fastest growing “race” in the US (which seems obvious when you realize A) that the US only legalized multiracial marriages less than 50 years ago and B) the US Census has only allowed people to mark multiple races in the last two censuses).  But at any rate, it seems that I’m in the right country to be multiracial...Hapa Nation may happen after all!

Oh and the my good friend, Bradley Jackson, I think I finally have a more solid answer for you.  Yes, I would consider myself to be a minority, and a proud one at that. :)

[lasbuenasondas33]

I've been pretty into this manifesto for the past few weeks as I've been reflecting on leaving Salta and Argentina.  It's been a wild ride and I think that this has been a good lens through which to start processing what I've learned.

The Holstee Manifesto

This is your life. Do what you love and do it often. If you don't like something, change it. If you don't like your job, quit. If you don't have enough time, stop watching TV. If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be waiting for you when you start doing things you love. Stop over analyzing, life is simple. All emotions are beautiful. When you eat, appreciate every last bite. Open your mind, arms, and heart to new things and people; we are united in our differences. Ask the next person you see what their passion is and share your inspiring dream with them. Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself. Some opportunities only come once, seize them. Life is about the people you meet, and the things that you create with them, so go out and start creating. Life is short. Live your dream and share your passion.

[lasbuenasondas33]

A donde el corazon se inclina, el pie camina

“When you travel, you experience in a very practical way, the act of rebirth.  You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys, you don’t even understand the language the people speak.  So you are just like a child, just out of the womb.  You begin to attach much more importance to the things around you because your survival depends upon them.  You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you in difficult situations.  And you accept any small favor from the gods with great delight, as if it were an episode you would remember for the rest of your life.”

-Paulo Coelho, excerpt from “The Pilgrimmage”

So here’s the dealio: I’ve been stalling hardcore on writing this “ending” blog post of my time in Salta.  I put “ending” in quotes because at this point, I can’t rule out going back there someday because it will always have a special place in my heart now.  My plan had been to write this the day that I left while I was flying to my next destination, but unfortunately a wrench was thrown in that plan because I couldn’t even think about Salta without tearing up...seriously.  As another intern once said on her blog, “Salta, you’re a sneaky bitch.”

Seriously though, when I left the solid ground of the US almost 5 months ago, I was not expecting to become so attached to this strange place on the other side of the world.  When I realized my house didn’t have internet and I had to use a POS cell phone that lasted five days on one charge, I was not expecting to become so attached.  When I was frustrated with my organization’s lack of organization and my host family’s lack of attention, I was not expecting to become so attached.  When I was lamenting in the fact that I didn’t have any Argentine friends and I couldn’t wait to go back home to my own friends, I wasn’t expecting to become so attached.

But at some point or another, that all changed.  It was very much like the quote from Paulo Coelho...at some point, it must have been like a rebirth.  I’m not sure what made it happen...all of those things that I just outlined happened at random times THROUGHOUT my entire experience so how could there be just one defining experience that made me love Salta?  But alas, through it all, somehow, I became attached.  I adapted.  I found ways to make up for things I was missing.  I found ways to organize my own life, even when other things were not.  I found ways to wiggle my way into the social lives of Argentines.  Most importantly, I found out how live in the moment and to make Salta my home (no matter how temporary I knew it would be).

I think this fact is the reason that my last few moments were the most heart wrenching moments I have been through in a long time.  I got a taste of it when I had to say goodbye to my co-workers (see photo), but mostly I didn’t really realize that I was leaving until the very moment that I was leaving.  I had finished packing up my room and was carrying all of my stuff out when I turned around to take one last look. Bad idea...I could feel emotions bubbling up...and that doesn’t happen to me.  Sometimes I think it’s physically impossible for me to cry.  Sometimes I think I’m just heartless.  But that day, once I had moved all of the stuff out of my room things happened. It was like a sappy movie...tears when packing, tears in the taxi, tears on the plane...Bah so sad.  I told my director the day after that I had learned that I in deed had a heart.  She replied with “I’ll be sure to put that in your final report.  That’s a big accomplishment.”  As funny as that was, it’s kind of true.  I found out that somewhere in Salta, my heart had latched on and was not going to let go without a fight...maybe it was the people, maybe it was the sights, maybe it was the food and wine. Qué sé yo?  Maybe I’ve just found out that home really is where the heart is...yes, the Tri-Cities, Washington will always be my HOMEtown, but more than ever, now I feel like home is something a little more transcendent.  Maybe home is more...or even better, maybe home is less: maybe it’s less than a city or a physical place.  Rather, maybe home truly is where your heart is.  But that now begs the question, if home is where the heart is, where is my heart?  Well I can honestly say, home is in a lot of places for me; it’s where my family is, it’s where my friends are, it’s Salta, it’s summer floating down the river, it’s lounging on the grassy knoll outside of the SU library, it’s at a folklore festival and Quadstock, it’s seeing the Milky Way in Cafayate, and more.  Maybe I just have a nomadic heart...or maybe it’s split into some Voldemortish version of a human horocrux (that would explain the lack of emotion, right?).

But basically, I guess what I’ve come down to at this point is, Salta, you got me.  You had me going for awhile, you big trickster, but in the end, I have no regrets or ill-thoughts toward you.  That’s about all I can say for now because it’s only been a week since I left...I have no profound discoveries that I made from my time abroad.  On one hand, it was just me, living in another country....it was life, plain and simple.  But on the other hand, it was so much more...I just don’t know what so much more is right now.  All I know is that I’m ready to go home to the US...but at least part of my heart is not.

[lasbuenasondas33]

Hola! I'm procrastinating and came across your blog...I lived in Salta until I was 14 and moved to California. I miss it so much! I was wondering if you have tried patinesas after a night of dancing&drinking. If you haven't, you should! I miss all my friends and all the food there!!

Hola! I just found this in my inbox...it never showed up when it was sent! Now that I've lived in Salta and I left, I can definitely see why you miss it...I DO TOO! I can't believe my time there is already over.  I'll be back there someday! And patynesas...so so good after a night of craziness.  Mak Lucas = I new best friend. :)

[lasbuenasondas33]

I can't believe today was my last day as an intern in the Subsecretaria de la Juventud.  I've been through so much in this office that today was much more sad than I ever would have imagined.  As another intern said, "Salta, you're a sneaky little b*tch!"  I never thought I would hate this goodbye as much as I currently do.

Today we had a little going-away party for me and this song came on the streaming radio.  I asked what it was and was told "La Despedida por Daddy Yankee."  If I was capable of crying, I probably would have burst out right then because, for you non-Spanish speakers, "La Despedida" is "The Goodbye."  Qué Causalidad.

Salta, I will miss you.

[lasbuenasondas33]

The Crazy Day to Rule Them All.

You know those days that seem to encapsulate or epitomize a certain experience or time period? Well, yesterday was one definitely one of those days. So without further adieu...

The day began fairly normally.  It was a day when I would normally be scheduled to be working in the afternoon, but the previous day, my co-worker Marina told me that I did not need to come in after all.  So I slept in until about 10:00.  I had planned on meeting up with another intern for lunch, so until then, I was just farting around the apartment. (*Fun Fact* I love the phrase “farting around.” Turns out, so do the Argentines because to be “al pedo” literally means “to the fart,” which colloquially means “to be doing nothing.” When I found this out, I couldn’t have been happier.) Around 11:00, Andrea texted me “Victoria is going to give you some money for me. Can you please bring it home?” I replied “That’s perfect because I’m going into the center this afternoon so I’ll pick it up then.” I then followed up with Victoria with a text saying “I’m going to be in the center this afternoon, can I just pick up the money for Andrea from you then?” Within minutes, I had a reply that stated “How about I just give you the money at the meeting today at the Ministry.”

This is where things began to get crazy. To my knowledge, I was told that I didn’t have work, but here I was being told that I would be given money a meeting at “the Ministry,” something I honestly do not understand. Logically I ask “What meeting are you talking about? Is it at the Subsecretary office? Because I’m not working today.” A good ten minutes pass before I get a reply, during which I later learn that Victoria was talking to the other director, Jen, saying “HE DOESN’T KNOW ABOUT THE MEETING!” Finally I get a reply that just says “we will call you.” 

I wait for a call and in another 10 minutes, I get a call from the Subsecretaria de la Juventud Office.  We talk, exchange the usual greetings, and then I am told “Romina says you have a meeting with Victoria, Jen, and Evita at the Ministry. It’s at 12:30 and the address is 2065 Belgrano. Be there.” Now I think is a good time to note that I am freaking out a little bit. It is about 11:20 by this time and I have a meeting with my directors in about an hour at a place that I don’t know how to get to, but sounds fairly intimidating. Not only is the meeting with my directors, but it’s with Evita - Evita is the Subsecretary herself, the head honcho of my entire office and a public official.

I run and tell Andrea that I won’t be eating lunch at home today because I have this surprise meeting that I have to leave for in 30 minutes. It’s also worth noting now that I still have not showered or gotten ready for the day by this time. Of course Andrea decides this is a good time to have a conversation about cualquier cosa, and so I tell her I really need to go shower!” She then says, but “what are you going to eat?! At least drink something hot before you go!” Hot drinks are apparently the substitute for a full breakfast in Argentina - not that breakfast is usually much more than tea/coffee/mate and break. I go jump in the shower and get ready in record time while she makes me some tea.

She starts yelling my name and saying “YA ESTÁ,” meaning “your tea is ready!” So I run out to the dining room to find a feast that she has prepared.  On the table in front of me is not only tea (without sugar since she has learned I prefer it that way), but a couple of pastries and A HAM AND CHEESE OMELET. I have the best host mom ever...apparently I should have surprise meetings more often because this was not only the most elaborate breakfast that I had eaten while in Argentina, but it was the first breakfast she had cooked for me and the first egg-dish that I had eaten here. I was so happy. SO HAPPY.

Once breakfast is finished, I ask Andrea how to get to this mysterious Ministry (which I can’t help but equate to the Ministry of Magic in my head). She tells me to ride such and such bus all the way to where it end and starts turning around and assures me that I have enough time. So I run out the door, get on that bus and hope that I will get where I need to go. But alas, no such luck...I find out that at some point throughout the day, busses change route so we start taking the extra long route to where I need to be. The bus doesn’t even arrive to the city center until 12:25 and I still need to get to the other side of the city center, so I hop off and quickly hail a taxi.

I tell the taxi driver where I need to be and she repeats it back to me perfectly so we’re off!  I can tell we are getting closer because I know the general location of this place, but I’m leaving the navigating up to the taxi driver. Eventually we get pretty far and the taxi driver asks me again for the address. I tell her “2065 Belgrano” and she replies “oops. My mistake. I thought you said 2665 Belgrano.” So at this point we are 6 blocks away from where I need to be and I’m already 5 minutes late. At that exact moment, my phone rings and it is the Subsectretaria Office calling to make sure I am going to the meeting. I reassure them that I am almost there, hang up, and right away I have another incoming call from my director. She asks “um...are you here? We are waiting for you.”  Luckily while I was handling phone calls, the taxi was on it’s way to the correct address, so I can honestly tell her “yes! I’m right outside!”

I enter the building (which turns out to be the Ministry of Labor Office) to two confused looking secretaries. I tell them my business and they make a call to confirm I’m supposed to be there. One of them escorts me halfway up to the next floor and tells me to turn left. I am immediately met by another secretary who ushers again double checks that I am supposed to be there. Finally she ushers me to a meeting room. I enter and see a long conference table with my two directors on one side, Evita the Subsecretary on the other side, and an older gentleman that I do not recognize at the head.

By this time, I am beyond frazzled, but I accept the offer of a cafecito because who can turn down free espresso. I keep mulling over the facts (which aren’t really facts at all): I have no idea what I’m doing in this building, I have no idea what this meeting is about, and I have no idea who this important looking man is.  But soon enough, the man and I are shaking hands and we are introduced. I am Chris Clem, the clueless intern from the United States. This man in front of me is my boss’ boss and the Minister of Labor for the entire province of Salta. Okay, I’m really freaking out now...and the espresso shot is not helping. WHY AM I IN A PERSONAL MEETING THIS THE MINISTER OF LABOR?! Who knows? But I’m going to find out.

Well, it ends up being a meeting all about me. Yes. A meeting just about me. But luckily, it was a positive meeting about me.  After taking our seats, the minister takes a quick glance over the general reports and other data that I have been working on gathering during my time here.  He’s obviously read it before, but takes another glance before setting it in front of him, and addressing me, says “These reports are really good. You’ve been doing good work.  Thank you. Has it been a good experience for you?”  Thanks to being still slightly confused as to why I’m in the room, frazzled by the occurrences of the morning, and stimulated by the coffee, I was barely able to process things in Spanish so I could only muster a “Oh yeah, it’s been a really great experience.” The meeting continues with the Minister talking about the benefits of an Argentine-Japanese exchange program that he knew about and the current political atmosphere in the US about corporate social responsibility and heavier taxes on the wealthy.  Occasionally there would be a question or two to me, as one of the resident Americans in the room - questions such as “do you think this kind of microfinance program would work in the US?” 

In the end, Evita explained that we were just there to introduce me to the Minister because I had been doing such good work and they have really enjoyed having me in the office.  They’ve really appreciated having their first intern and have apparently been begging FSD to send them more and expanding it to other parts of the government, possibly even in the Ministry itself.  By the end of the meeting, to be honest my nerves about what were going on were gone and replaced by the “warm fuzzies” and we were all laughing about the mix up.

Basically, this whole morning has encapsulated and summarized my entire trip working with the Salteño government and what perfect timing considering I am nearing my end here. It was Classic Chris in Argentina...never sure about what is going on. At times, things are unorganized, confusing, and just plain frustrating, but throughout it all, there are wonderful hidden surprises and all turns out for the better. Whether it be an omelet or the Minister of Labor telling me that he appreciates my work, my experiences in Argentina have never let me down, no matter what the challenges.  It’s all just been an adventure in flexibility, persistence, and pure adaptation.  I can’t begin to say what it will all mean when i get back to the US in just 5 weeks, but I know that the experience has shifted certain parts of myself.

[lasbuenasondas33]

High Highs and Low Lows

So sorry it has been so long since my last blog post. Although I’m starting to feel like I’m repeating things in life and the novelty of all of my experiences has worn off, that hasn’t stopped the personal emotions from running. The last weeks have been filled with so much on both sides of the spectrum that it’s been hard finding time to just sit down and process it all. It’s been a lot of high highs and low lows, but I suppose those just come with the territory of living abroad.

Let’s just start with the beginning. A few weeks ago, I hit the lowest part of my trip to far. Things just were not working out for me on the work front or the family front. In terms of work, we had hit the half way point of my internship, but we were in no way half way through the project that was supposed to have already been done one or two weeks prior. I went in on Monday only to be told that we didn’t have a car to take us around for the interviews, so I was just sent home; this wasn’t the first time this had happened, but it was more like the “straw that broke the camel’s back” because at some point, riding a 30 minute bus into work just to be told to go home gets old. So I come in the next day in the morning because they are planning on there not being mobility. Good news: they let me know beforehand. Bad news: Marina, my co-worker on the project, is sick and my supervisors are all in Buenos Aires, so nobody knows what to have me do. I decide to attempt to write some reports just to keep myself busy, but in all reality, I have no idea how to write these reports since it’s the first round we are writing! STRUGZ.

On Thursday of that week, Hockey Para Todos, a program sponsored and run by the Subsecretaria de la Juventud, was going to happen. I had been asked if I could attend and I said of course I could, so I was told to come to the office at 3:00 PM that Thursday and we would all go to the event center together. I double checked this plan on Wednesday and was told if the plans changed, someone would call me. Well Thursday arrives and I receive no call. I go to the office at 3:00 PM, as directed, and guess what? Nobody is there. I spend an hour walking around the city center trying to call people to figure out where this thing is being held and nobody answers me/I have the wrong number. The next day, my supervisor asks what happened to me so I explain the situation and she giggles and says “Well don’t let it happen again.” LOWEST/MOST FRUSTRATING POINT OF THE TRIP.

On the family front, things were not going any better. For some reason, Andrea was a little short on patience and sociability. There were several times when she would tell me that we needed to talk, only to get angry at me for something like leaving a puddle in the bathroom, not washing my breakfast bowl, or not telling her when I would be coming home outside of the eating schedule (which doesn’t exist). On top of those “conversations,” whenever I was home, she almost exclusively stayed in her room. Even during the novela, Graduados, which we always watch together, she stayed in her room to watch it. This made it kind of an awkward week since whenever I came back from a frustrating day at work, I was being scolded or ignored at home too. TOUGH.

But then came the following week and suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, everything turned around. At work, Marina finally came back to work and those reports that I was unsure how to write paid off. She came in and the first thing on her list was to read over what I’d been working on. After reading them, she looked at me and said they were awesome site reports and even decided to read a section out loud to the rest of the office...it was like I was the model student in my high school English class...except mostly I think she was just impressed that I whipped out 10 official site reports in Spanish while she was gone. Besides loving my reports, we also started actually regularly going out to interview people as well; instead of going out once per week, we actually started going out the scheduled 3-4 times per week and we were even going overtime. Way to be proactive...finally!

Family life suddenly got better too. Instead of coming home to scolding and loneliness, I came home to laughs and mate-drinking again. Something had happened during the weekend that made Andrea come out of her shell again and I was so appreciative. We reestablished our nightly Graduados screening, drank mate together in the mornings, and joked around (often about bad words in Spanish/English) while eating lunch. I was so happy to have the old sassy Andrea back that I spent almost all of my free time for the next week or so at home rather than doing things in the center.

And so there is a basic recap of the emotional rollercoaster that I have gone over in the past couple weeks since my last post. Again, I feel like this just comes with the life of living abroad...especially when the novelty of travel just wears off and I’m settled into just living. Maybe this was my second little bout of culture shock or maybe not. But either way, I’m glad it’s over and things are back to “normal,” whatever that may be here in Argentina.

Chao, Chris

UPDATE: I was going to write a whole blog post about this story, but luckily one of my fellow interns wrote it for me. Check out this interesting little development and culture anecdote that I learned while here. It's all about a goat herder and a tourist.

[lasbuenasondas33]

I know it's been awhile since I've posted anything...things have been going crazy here lately.  I'll have a post or two or three up sometime soon, I promise.

But until then, enjoy this song. There's no meaning to it...I just liked it when we listened to it during an office birthday party.  GET UP AND DANCE!

[lasbuenasondas33]

We heard this song in the car on the way back from our midterm retreat.  I was tired, I was delirious, and it made my entire night.  Just listen to it.  It will blow your mind. YES.

[lasbuenasondas33]

Wine Snobs and the Milky Way...

This past weekend marked the halfway point in my internship here in Salta.  As part of the program with the Foundation for Sustainable Development, at the midpoint of the internships, all of the interns participate in a midterm retreat.  So even on the other side of the world, it looks like I can’t escape reflection, discernment, and all of those other things that are so very Seattle University (not that I don’t love me some discernment).  For the retreat, we went to the wine-making region of Cafayate.

The entire trip began with the earliest start that I’ve had since arriving in Argentina.  We had to meet in the city center at 8:00 AM, which meant that I had to wake up at 6:30 to have time to get ready, throw some things in a bag, and catch the bus to the center.  Not that I haven’t been up at 6:30 before, but so far it has only been because I was getting out of the boliches at that time and I have been dancing the night away...it’s a whole new story when I have to wake up at that time without the luxury of to-go coffee at my disposal on the way.  Needless to say, I was super tired.

But once I got to the rental car place, there was no room for being tired because I (foolishly?) called shotgun and therefore felt it my duty to stay awake during the trip.  Luckily for us, we had to stop at a gas station where they had sub-par gas station coffee, but coffee nonetheless.  On top of the coffee, we drank mate, which has its own caffeine-like properties, so in no time I was ready and raring to go.  Soon enough though, I was cursed by such a huge intake of fluids and caffeine...nature called.  We drove as far as we could and then pulled off on the side of the road to do our business.

It was only once I had answered nature’s call that I actually noticed the full scope of nature’s beauty.  During the drive we had passed from Valle de Lerma into the Quebrada de las Conchas and to me, the Quebrada was the winning geographical and geological feature.  We had suddenly moved from lush green landscape to rusty red desert.  The jungle filled hills had been transformed into multi-layered rock formations, while the sprawling tobacco farms had changed into bare red dust, dotted with scraggly shrubs and the occasional cactus.  It’s hard to describe the pure beauty of this area in words, so you’ll have to refer to the pictures, but I do believe that it is very likely the most beautiful natural landscape that I have ever seen.  We made four stops on the journey through the Quebrada to look at the amazing rock formations and outlooks: La Garganta del Diablo (the Devil’s Throat), El Anfiteatro (The Amphitheater), Las 3 Cruces (The 3 Crosses), and El Zapo (the frog).

After hours of “OOHs and AHHs,” we finally made it to Cafayate, hungry beyond belief.  Our director, Jen, took us to her favorite comfort food restaurant, La Casa de Empanadas, to calm our rumbling bellies.  As the title suggests, this restaurant had the widest selection of empanadas that I have seen here.  Besides the classics that are everywhere (carne, jamon y queso, arabe), they had un montón of others, including Don Coro (4 cheeses), Cafayateña (corn, caramelized onion, meat), and Calchaqui (my favorite, but I don’t remember what was in it).  By the end of ordering, we all came out with much more than we normally would order because we were all just too curious and could not decide between which ones to order.  After stuffing ourselves with empanadas, we went to the ice cream shop in town that is famous for having some unique ice cream flavors (I can only compare it to Molly Moons, for you Seattleites).  This tiny store was run by a crotchety old man who apparently like to be grumpy, but sing songs while doing it...in the 10 minutes that we were there, he managed to insult women and get mad at me for wanting to try an ice cream flavor.  But after surviving this man’s sourness, we each had in front of us an array of unique ice cream flavors: Cabernet Sauvignon, Torrontes, and Tuna (which is prickly pear/cactus fruit...not the fish).  All of the flavors were pretty good, although I’m not sure I would buy a carton to eat every day like I would other flavors of ice cream.

After ice cream eating, it was time to hit the wineries and dive straight into what the region was famous for.  After an initial scare because the first three wineries we stopped at were closed (it was a holiday), we spotted a man outside of one of them who told us they would be opening shortly...we were once again the silly tourists being tricked by the siesta time.  We found one winery that was open so we toured and tasted there.  This particular winery happened to be Domingo Hermanos, which is a winery that is most famous for their wine that comes in a dama juana: a six liter jug of wine that sells for about 50 pesos, or about $12!  From Domingo Hermanos, we visited El Transito, a small “modern” winery, and Vasija Secreta, a much larger tourist winery.  After these, we met our program director at Nanni winery, an small organic winery at which she used to work before she began working for FSD in Salta.  She gave us the tour, told us all about the organic process, and then took us to the tasting room where I learned more about wine than I had ever imagined I would.  Besides learning a ton there, Nanni also offered us the best wines we had tasted all day.  Among these wines were the three wines that the region (and Argentina as a whole) are known for and all of which are so so so good: Torrontes, Malbec, and Tannat (my favorite).  After leaving this winery, all of the interns agreed that we were now wine snobs in the making after all that we had just learned.

After wine tasting, what would be a better way to end the day than an asado? Well the answer is absolutely nothing, so that’s what we did...we had another amazing asado and I stuffed myself far too full with all kinds of meats.  After tasting, we headed to the house of Jen’s friend, Dani, where he demonstrated how to make the perfect asado and then we began the marathon meat-eating.  Although in general, it was the typical asado, I do have to mention that the chorizo in Cafayate is the best I’ve ever had.  Also a great addition to this asado was that a ton of Dani’s family (and a French couchsurfer) came to join in on the feast.  In the end we had at least 14 people talking, eating, drinking, and being joyful.  After dinner, Dani and his uncle began telling me ghost stories because apparently out in the country, there are a lot of strange creatures, such as the duendes, or elf-ish people.  Another thing to add about the natural beauty of the area was that being in Cafayate meant that we were in a more rural area and on top of that, Dani’s family lived further in the country.  Several times that night, I just went out into the backyard to look at the sky because it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen in my life - never before had I seen so many stars so clearly.  Not only did I see stars, but we even identified from constellations (Orian and the Southern Cross), saw a ton of shooting stars, and I even saw the Milky Way, which is by far one of the most awe-inspiring sights in the world and one of my favorite parts of the trip.  It was just one of those “ah-ha” moments when I felt as if this were the perfect place to gain some perspective.  It really was magical, if magic exists (which I insist that it does and I’m still waiting for my Hogwarts letter).

The next morning we all woke up and began making our own empanada-making marathon.  Let me tell you, empanada making is hard work and takes FOREVER, especially when you are making as many as we were.  We began making the empanadas at 10:00 and finished them around 2:00 (and we could have kept making more because there were a ton of ingredients left).  The process involved chopping things, making the filling, making the dough, flattening the dough, cutting out circles from the dough, filling the empanadas, and closing them up nice and tight.  Closing the empanadas was the hardest thing ever - I was not very good at it...but I wasn’t the worst either.  After all was said and done, I believe we had about 200 empanadas ready to be eaten, and so we ate them.  We had decided to stage an empanada eating contest between Jen, another intern Alejandro, and myself, but Jen didn’t make it too far, so really it was only Alejandro and I.  I ended up eating so many empanadas that I’m not sure I ever want to see one again...18 empanadas was far too much for any sane human being.

After some folklore dance lessons (which I was too full and tired to participate in), we ended the retreat with some reflection.  It was nice to have a time to reflect with the other interns about how our experience here has been going so far.  In many ways, we are hitting many of the same obstacles and challenges, but also we are having the same consolations as well.  It was certainly nice to hear that I was not the only one that often feels how I do...which is more or less that I never know what is going on because things here are more laissez faire, which often leads to disorganization.  Not only was I able to kind of let go of any frustration I may have been feeling, but it was also nice to just think about how this experience is changing or reinforcing myself, my identity, or whatever else (although I think that the full scope of this realization will not even come by the time I’m back in the States, let alone if it ever comes to me).  I’m not sure I will ever get over how wonderful retreating and reflecting feels.  In a way I felt as though coming to Argentina was a retreat and reflection, but even retreating a reflecting further is a consolation for me.

All in all, the midterm retreat was wonderful.  Not only did I get to drink a ton of delicious wine, eat a ton of scrumptious food, and participate in so many activities, but I was able to partake in some really wonderful conversations and relax in one of the most naturally beautiful places I have ever seen.  If anyone ever has a chance to come to Cafayate, I would strongly encourage it...and probably volunteer to go with you!

[lasbuenasondas33]

Boliche-Boogie!

Now, as many of you probably know, I love to dance.  If there is music and some flashing lights, I’m there having a good time.  I knew that Argentines loved to go out, but I don’t think I was quite prepared for what the typical night out would be before getting here.  I’ve already mentioned that Argentines like to stay out late......I’ve been to a boliche now three times, and although each time brings it’s own adventure, they generally tend to follow the same pattern.

Since no Argentine even thinks about going out until at least 2:00 AM, the preview (AKA the pre-game, pre-funk) always comes first.  Now although in college terms, pre-game has the strict connotation of drinking heavily before going out, here the term is much more all-encompassing and basically just means “whatever you do before going out.”  The first time we went to a dance club, we first went to an asado (one of those heavenly Argentine BBQs), had our fill on food and wine, and then went out.  The second time, I didn’t even know we were going out until Andrea texted me at 8:30, saying “Chris bolicheeeeee hoyyyyyyy....a mover el esqueletooooooo,” with the rest of the message being incomprehensible.  From there, I went home and watched the music video channel just waiting for Andrea to get ready for hours...WOO PRE-GAME!  The last time, just a couple of the interns and I went out to celebrate St. Patty’s Day in style, so our pre-game started with a “food pub crawl” where we just hopped around to a bunch of different restaurants to stuff ourselves with empanadas, fries, pizza, and of course, Salta beer.  If you time things right, you usually finish eating between 11:00 and midnight, with a couple of hours for digestion before you hit the dance floor.

The boliches don’t even open until 2:00 AM, as I’ve said.  However, since we are not quite accustomed to this new schedule and we are antsy to get going, we arrive right at opening time, something we would probably never do back in the U.S.  Well, just as it would be in the U.S., the boliches are pretty empty when we arrive just after opening time.  In fact, the first boliche that we went to hadn’t even opened the entire space yet...there was an entire room that we had yet to discover.  Although it was fairly empty at first, by the time 3:00 rolls around, the club has usually filled up to the brim.  It’s at this time that they also open up he extra room...which to my surprise was HUGE! It was probably double the size of what the club had been before and it was terraced so that there were multiple “levels” if you will...perfect for crowd watching, as I like to do.  There was also a huge wall with a visualizer and lights all over the place.  It was perfect for this guy!

There were a couple of things that really stood out to me at these boliches: the styles of dancing and the styles of music.  At one point throughout the trip, Andrea’s mom and sister (AKA my “host grandma and aunt?”) had asked me how we dance in the U.S.  Unsure how to answer, I tried to think of a way to explain it, but before I could, Andrea’s mom was demonstrating how she thought we danced.  Needless to say, it was funny watching a 60-some-odd year old lady try to demonstrate freak-dancing by herself.  But she was more or less spot on...by contrast, that is definitely not how the majority of people here dance.  My nights at the 18+ Out & About Nights were completely misleading in how I thought Latin Americans (Mexicans in particular) danced in the clubs.  Instead of grinding and freakdancing, pretty much every is face-to-face...no matter what style of music is playing.

Music was the other interesting matter.  There is no Hip Hop, R&B, or Rap music here.  The evening always takes the same route.  First, the DJ bumps some electronica.  This always gets me going...put on some Avicii and I am the happiest person in the room.  However, it never fails that about half way through the night, the mood switches and the music choice becomes progressively more Latin feeling.  Instead of Avicii’s “Levels,” I hear some Don Omar’s “Danza Kuduro,” which to be honest is also pretty welcome because I do love my Reggaeton.  But then we get into our Cumbia beats and I get a little lost.  Now I’m no newbie to Cumbia just from growing up in Pasco and having been a guest to my fair share of quinceñeras, but that doesn’t mean that after a certain point of hearing the same beat, I get a little tired...especially considering I have no idea how to dance to it.  It’s a problem.  But luckily, at some point, we usually end the night back on some EDM (electric dance music!), so I don’t have to suffer trying to learn Cumbia for too long.  I’m sure it won’t be long before I pick it up though considering I probably have many more boliche-boogie nights in my future.

[lasbuenasondas33]

This song is one of the catchiest songs that I have heard here in Argentina.  This was the band that I had mentioned our program director has been trying to see for over a year.  The band is called Los Izkierdos de la Cueva and they were super fun to jump around to at the Chicha Festival.  I’m guessing that this song, “Fué” is their biggest hit so far because it was both their opening song and their closing song.

If you watch the video, you can a few glimpses of the dancing that’s going on in the background.  The music has a Tinku feel to it, which is a predominantly Peruvian style of music.  The dance is also Tinku and traces its origins back to the Incans as a dance praising the sun god, the main deity of the Incans. this song is one of the catchiest songs that I have heard here in Argentina.  This was the band that I had mentioned our program director has been trying to see for over a year.  The band is called Los Izkierdos de la Cueva and they were super fun to jump around to at the Chicha Festival.  I’m guessing that this song, “Fué” is their biggest hit so far because it was both their opening song and their closing song.

[lasbuenasondas33]

Here is a video of the wonderful folklore dancing that I have talked about a couple of times so far.  This video is from the Chicha Festival, during one of the dances that happened to fill time between sets.  I just love the stories that seems to accompany these dances...always the same Boy-Chases-Girl theme, but each one unique.  For example, I love how the end pose in this dance has the handkerchief hiding what can only be a sweet little kiss.  Oh how romantic.  I can only hope to pick up some of these moves and bring them back to the States with me so you can all enjoy as well! haha

[lasbuenasondas33]

It’s like the Salteño Sasquatch Festival...

Each summer, the Argentine folklore music scene hits it’s busiest time of the year.  The music festival circuit opens up and famous folklore bands just travel around Northwestern Argentina playing at various festivals, sometimes hitting up several in one weekend.  This last weekend, it was the Festival de la Chicha here in Salta.  It was the last festival in the summer folklore music circuit, so of course we had to check it out.

The festival was actually held in a smaller town called La Caldera, outside of Salta Capital.  It’s about an hour bus ride, so all of us interns met up at the bus stop at 8:30 PM, which is ridiculously early, by Argentine standards.  Regardless, there was a huge line, mostly consisting of a younger crowd since older people go in style an drive themselves to the festival.  We finally get on the bus and our group is right next to a group of incredibly young looking boys.  After a long conversation about how old we all thought these kids were, we decided on “hitting puberty, but not quite there yet.”  So it was settled...Argentine tweens love the folklore too!

The bus ride was fairly painless on the way there.  Other than an incredibly twisty road that sometimes threw me into the bus door or onto another intern (we were all standing), the trip was pretty uneventful...until we were just right outside of La Caldera.  Once we had survived most of the windy roads, we came to a stop outside of this ranch-y looking house and the doors to the bus opened.  Being clueless foreigners who haven’t been to this festival before, we ask if we should get off.  I’m especially nervous as to when I need to get off because I am directly in front of the door, so I will have to be the first one off or else I block everyone else.  One of the tween-age boys says yes, this is where the bus stops for the festival, so I jump off.  It doesn’t take long for me to realize that no one else has made the same move, so I turn around and everyone is looking at the foreigner on the side of the road by himself.  The bus sounds like it’s revving back up, so I sprint back and hop on the bus just before the doors close and I’m greeted by the entire bus laughing.  Later on in the festival, I ran into a couple of the tweenagers where they asked in a puberty-cracking yell “Cómo está el bondi?!” (translation: “how’s the bus?!”)...I laughed, we exchanged high-fives, and I thought to myself “Qué Boludo!”

After having a laugh on the bus, we finally arrived at our actual stop...this time I was a little more hesitant to get off, but I saw people flooding out of the other doors so I thought it was safe. First thing we did was find food an drink. All of the stalls had the same food more or less: typical regional staples such as empanadas, tamales, and humitas.  Luckily, I can’t get enough of these regional specialities, so I chowed down (at two different stalls) on humitas, tamales, and even some meat grilled on the parrilla.  

The thing that really should be noted however, is the reason for the festival: the Chicha.  Chicha is a regional drink that is typically made of fermented corn.  Traditionally, chicha is made by chewing the corn and spitting it back out, using your own saliva as “fermenting juices,” if you will.  Generally, chicha is not made that way anymore, but let’s be honest, I wouldn’t put it past it since it has enough of it’s own sketchiness by looking like straight up septic tank water.  Whether or not it was sketchy, chicha was delicious.  At first, I felt as if it was pretty underwhelming...I had been so excited to taste this specialty drink that inspired an entire folklore festival, but upon first contact, it tasted like nothing more than slightly sweetened water.  However, it definitely grew on me as I enjoyed it with my dinner; it tastes like a delicious juice and honestly, it’s probably one of the closest things to juice that I’ve had here.

As with all festivals, there are those festival goers that make things uncomfortable or unpleasant in some form.  Our director told us that this was one of the more wild festivals that she had been to - even the Serenata, which is 6 times bigger than the Chicha Festival, is pretty calm apparently.  But at this particular festival, it was the bathroom situation that tainted our rose-colored glasses of the experience.  The port-a-potties that were supplied for the event were located behind a small area of bleachers, where you as the bathroom goer could look up at the people in the bleachers and they could in turn look down at you.  Apparently, at some point during the night, drunk males decided that it was a good idea to start urinating on off the back of the bleachers and onto the girls section below.  Now if that isn’t bad enough, soon it became more of a show/game where they would “show off” to the girls below before trying to pee on them.  In the men’s section, things were better since I was not being peed on, but still not good.  Things were busy in the men’s section, so many guys started to just use the back fence to pee on instead of waiting for a port-a-potty to open up, just because as males, we can.  Well soon enough, the entire area had turned into a giant swamp of urine, even though there was no need for it.  Since people had started to use the back wall, others assumed that there were no port-a-potties open without checking, which lead to everyone peeing on the back wall while most of the port-a-potties were actually open...in fact, the first one I came across was free!  It was just a really ridiculous and disgusting situation.

Overall however, the festival was a success and I had an incredible time “rocking out” to folklore.  By the time we finished dinner, it was already midnight and things still had not started up; the festival area wasn’t even filled yet. Soon enough though, the crowd packed in and the music started.  I must say, it was quite the experience.  Especially since we were with our program director, who is a folklore NUT, we had a great time jumping around and pretending we knew the words to all of the songs.  It was interesting how similar to a rock concert this festival was.  The stage, the lights, the crowd, and everything else was so reminiscent of Sasquatch Music Festival (albeit on a smaller scale with only one stage) or something like Warped Tour, where bands just tour around and play all summer long.  Some of my favorite parts of the night were when the band would play what seemed to be their “biggest hit” and the entire crowd would go wild.  Let me tell you, teenage girls are the same all over the world - you get their favorite band to play their favorite song and suddenly ear-piercing screams fill the air.  Many times, this choir of screams even included our program director because her favorite folklore band, Las Huayra (The Wind, in Quechua) was there as well as a band that she has been trying to see for almost year and a half!  Also, the folklore dancing that happened between sets was perfect - we would go from crazily belting out words to our favorite songs to peacefully being entranced by an adorable couple in traditional outfits dancing the classic boy-gets-girl story.  It was all just too fun.

Once we couldn’t handle the bathroom situation anymore and we were not particularly enjoying the last act of the night, we decided to call it quits early and head home.  Keep in mind, calling it quits “early” still means a solid night that lasted until almost 5:00 AM...plus the bus ride back to Salta.  I honestly love the conception of a night out here: if you’re going to have a night out, you should stay out until 5, 6, 7:00 in the morning...not like the U.S. where places close at 2:00. Lame. However, whether or not you stay out until 2:00 or 7:00, there is the cross-cultural similarity in one’s desire for street-meat after a long night of dancing.  Before heading to the bus, we all got our fix of shwarma and choripan to hold us over on the swerve-y bus ride home (where we decided it was a good idea to sit on the bus floor, by the way).

[lasbuenasondas33]

Culture Shock. What gets me through

Well I think I’ve officially been through my own bout of culture shock.  Once I started working, things quickly went down hill because I felt as though I never knew what was going on, regardless of the situation.  The situation could have been taking place completely in English and I was probably lost.  All I wanted to do was sit around and read...and I did a lot of that.  To cope, I definitely had to start living in the moment.  I learned to appreciate the small things that made my me happy, made me feel like myself, and made me feel so much less lost.  I stole this list idea from one of the other intern’s blogs.  It was nice to put down, in writing, some of the things that have been swirling around in my head.

Things I Miss About the US

Veggies

The first day we had a real salad here, I never thought I would be happier to see a bunch of lettuce.  Veggies are just not a part of the diet here.  There is usually about one night per week when veggies are served and many times that veggie has just been a bowl of tomatoes or potatoes.  Sometimes we have salads, but salads here are more like whatever vegetable-ish things we have, mixed together.  For example the first salad we had was grated carrots and corn in a bowl. Hmmmm. You never know a good thing until it's gone.

Fabric Softener

The water here is hard.  And it is really hard.  Every single time I wash my clothes, they come off the line stiff as a board. Okay, maybe stiff as a board is an exaggeration, but they are still fairly stiff and uncomfortable for about an hour.

Coffee Choices

Sometimes I don’t want a cafe con leche.  Sometimes I don’t want a straight espresso shot.  Sometimes I don’t want a hot drink.  But those are pretty much the only choices.  It’s so hot here and all I want is an iced coffee.  Enough said.

Internet TV

Instant watch television doesn’t work in most other countries besides the US.  Not that it matters a whole lot because I don’t have internet at my house, but still, it would be nice to watch it in a cafe when I’m so tired of Spanish that I think my head might explode.  But no.  And to make matters worse, I bought Season 3 of The West Wing on Amazon Instant Watch to watch while I was here. Guess what doesn’t work? Amazon Instant Watch.

Things I Don’t Miss About the US

Winter

It’s summer here.  It’s (fairly) dry. It’s sunny. It’s hot. It’s not Seattle winter. Enough said.

Finals

My calculations tell me that it is time for finals (or approaching the end at least) back at good ol’ SU.  I don’t miss this time of the year at all.  I’m sipping tea and writing a blog post.  Not downing coffee and writing a 15-page paper.

Things I would happily do without while in Argentina

Dog Poop

Given that Argentines consider it lucky for someone to step in dog poop, no one ever picks up the poop.  Now, as strange as this superstition may seem to us, when you consider how infrequently you step in poo, it is kind of understandable.  However, this logic doesn’t hold well when there is an excess of stray dogs everywhere...this just leads to a lot of dogs that roam around, which in turn leads to a lot of poop, which finally leads to a lot of people stepping in poop.  Does this mean everyone in Argentina is lucky? I’m not sure.

Sweat

It is so hot here.  Although it is much less humid than it was in Buenos Aires, it’s still fairly humid on most days because it is rainy season.  This just leads to an uncomfortable Chris who always feels like he has a back sweat stain because he always has to carry a backpack.  Just once, I would like to be able to walk down the street, enjoy the sun, but not drip sweat.

Mosquitos

My only haven from these little buggers is in my room and that is only if I manage to always keep my door shut and keep my windows locked.  However, sometimes it’s just too hot to do these things.  I’m then forced to either sweat to death (see above) or itch to death.  Usually I choose sweating, but the mosquitos always manage to find me somewhere else during the day.  Let’s just keep hoping I don’t get dengue.

Busses that drive crazy

I ride the bus into the center everyday.  Everyday I am scared for my life.  Yes, I knew that driving here was pretty scary even before I got to the country.  However, I never knew quite how scary until I rode the busses, which are some of the most aggressive drivers there are.  There have been several times when I have jumped on/off a moving, albeit slowed-down, bus.  Also, I’ve never gotten car sickness before, but there are some instances when I do get the slightest feeling on these busses.

Excess Sugar/Salt in everything

Argentines love their sweet and salty foods.  If it isn’t sweet, then it’s salty.  If it isn’t salty, it’s sweet.  And when I salty or sweet, I MEAN SALTY OR SWEET.  Every single savory dish that we eat here has mounds of salt added to it as it is prepared.  Then, when it is served, more salt is added to it!  The same is true for sweet things.  There are pastries galore, and when there are not pastries, bread is served with jams/jellies and the sweetest of all sweetness, Dulce de Leche.  I never let Andrea make my tea anymore because when she does, she literally puts 4 heaping tablespoons of sugar in it. NO MORE SALT/SUGAR!

Things I Love About Argentina/Want to Bring Back to the US

Mate

Mate will have a more detailed blog entry sometime soon.  But let’s just say, I love mate and it will be a common everyday occurrence in my residence for the rest of my life.

Weather

It is summer here.  It is hot here.  It is sunny here.  When it isn’t sunny, there are massive thunder storms here.  The weather great here.  If I could bring it back to Seattle, I would be the happiest person alive.

Kisses

I love the way that Argentines great each other.  Although it takes some time, it really makes you feel welcomed and included.  Each time you meet someone new or just enter a room, you exchange a quick kiss on the right cheek with everyone in the room.  The same is true for when you leave.  Even if there are 50 people in the room, you better be kissing every single person goodbye or else you are a rude rude person.

Food/Wine

Despite the excess of sugar or salt in a lot of food, for the most part, everything tastes really great here.  Obviously I am talking mostly about the meat, considering the lack of veggies.  I can and will happily attest to the exquisiteness of the beef in Argentina.  Also, the wines are spectacular.  Considering we are just a couple hours from one of the two main wine-making regions (Cafayate), we are spoiled with wines.  Two of my favorites are almost exclusively made here and not exported...talk about fostering a wine snob.  Basically, the two things that Argentina is most famous for (Beef and Wine) are treating me so well while I am here.

[lasbuenasondas33]

Breaking News! "I Latina" = I and "I Griega" = Y

I just literally had my mind blown the other day.  When I learned the Spanish alphabet, I have always assumed that “Y” is pronounced as one word, “igriega.”  Well I was slightly mistaken.

Yesterday, I was working with my partner dictating the addresses of microfinance beneficiaries to her and I said “I.”  She asked “which one,” and in my head I could only think “what do you mean ‘which one?’ There is only one letter ‘I.’”  She glanced over at the paper and said “oh it’s an ‘I Latina’ and the other is an ‘I Griega’”  So curious, I of course asked why.

The answer is that “I” is the form of the letter that the Romans used while “Y” is the letter that Greeks used.”  Hence, in the formulation of the Spanish alphabet, there needed to be a distinction between the two “I’s,” if you will.  This is how she drew it out to me:

i/I is the “I Latina” or “Latin I” = I (*Notice that a capital “I” is the Roman numeral 1…hence the Latin)

y/Y is the “I Griega” or “Greek I” = Y

Encyclopedia.com explains it this way: Many European languages indicate the Greek origin in their name for y:French i-grec, Spanish i-griega (Greek i). The French and Spanish names imply that the letter is an alternative for i.

I’m not sure if this shocks anyone else as much as it shocked me (or if any of this makes sense in writing), but I just had to report about it. WOAH.