sticking it to the man

This past Saturday, I proved to a skeptic that I DO have the appetite similar to that of a small orca whale.

I proudly ingested this in approximately twelve minutes. All by myself, thank you very much.

Let the Sabor Cinco montage begin:

Note: more meaningful photos from Iguazu getaway to follow, when I feel like it.

I love bus

Yes, hard to believe that my favorite parts of the entire weekend getaway to Iguazu Falls were the 18-hour bus rides to and from said location. As breath-taking as were the Cataratas, (Argentine name for one of the world's natural wonders), for the sedentary folk such as myself, nothing can beat sitting on your bum for an extended period of time in overstuffed, fully-reclining arm chairs, watching classic American movies like "The Switch" and the ever-cheesy but extraordinarily entertaining, "Time Machine," gabbing loudly (and no doubt, obnoxiously) with your other American friends, drinking little bottles of Malbec, and being served steak and medialunas (croissants) by the prissy, but doting, bus attendants. The stretches of falls with billions of tons of water rushing down, the rainbows from the sun's reflection of the mist that soaks into your pores, the thick jungle greenery surrounding you, the toucans in the trees-- yeah, yeah, yeah that was all pretty great. But I still loved the bus.

To tell you the truth, this was not the ideal weekend to visit Iguazu Falls. The excessive rainfall over the past few weeks raised the water level to unusually high levels, ultimately preventing us from stepping up close to see the Big Kahuna of Iguazu-- the Devil's Throat. To add to that, it was pretty cold so the water that splashed onto you tended to feel more bone-chilling than refreshing. But none of this dampened the overall mood.

When I came home to Buenos Aires, I enthusiastically shared the weekend's events with my host-mom, but her reaction was more one of lament over the fact that I'd trekked all the way to Iguazu when it wasn't the best it could have been. I guess knowing that could taint any tourist's perspective on the whole thing, but it didn't really put a damper on my experience.

The hostel was also a highlight. It was so fun getting to know some of the other foreigners staying there, too. People were literally from all over. Plus the asado (BBQ) and the cheeseburgers served at the hostel were delicious-- and cheap-- and the live music and entertainment provided by feathered (fe)male dancers on Saturday night made for quite a pleasant evening. Driving through the rainforest on ATVs was a particularly fun experience (of course I crashed into someone within the first 5 minutes, but no matter!). And of course...there were the bus rides, which I've already extolled.

So all-in-all, my long weekend up north was pretty damn great.

re: blood vessels of argentina

These cookies will be the death of me...and to all who tries them. 

Grasiento, as my host mother likes to tell me...meaning greasy, although I would prefer to think of Don Satur's bizcocho dulces as little bites of buttery, sugary heaven. 

Looks like I'm going to have some clogged up arteries by the time it gets to December. 

Did I mention that each bag costs about two pesos? andd another point to Team Satur. That means they cost about 50 US cents.

I am cheap, as I've said before. But recently I was informed that "chica barata" means not what I inferred it to mean. For the record, I'm not what the phrase translates to in castellano, i.e. a prostitute. But how fitting, given my last name, that the term I should be using to describe my frugal habits is "rato," like rat? (not exactly like Rat Fink, I hope, but unfortunately close enough)

an uncomfortable situation.

Imagine that THIS (yes, click here) is what has been reverberating through your apartment walls for the past two days-- day in and day out.

Imagine that I am not lying when I say that THIS (yes, click again if you dare) is what has been keeping me up for the past two days-- day in and day out.

And then imagine finding out that the owner of this very lonely, and annoying dog, is actually extraordinarily old. And extremely deaf.

The only bad part about this entire situation is that there is literally nothing that can be done about it.

to think or not to think?

Lately my friends and I-- both here in Argentina and at home in New Jersey-- have been asking ourselves the question we've been asked since we learned to read: what are we going to be when we grow up? Now it seems that the question has turned not only into a query of a future career, but has also been spun into the daunting: what are you going to DO when you grow up in a world that the news predicts to implode at any moment? There are many layers to the new question, and it scares us to know that one day soon we will have to peel these layers ourselves. Living in a new country that has problems all of its own only seems to amplify the issues facing the United States right now. The fantasy-study abroad life I'm leading shields me, protects me, from tackling the terrible economic-political-social reality that is. At the same time though, I find myself growing more and more terrified about returning home, where I must finish school and soon become adult in a world no one wants to take responsibility for. This article I read this morning in bed, in addition to this one, written by oracle, Thomas Friedman, both made me want to crawl further and further under my covers. Obviously, this is the wrong response. In addition, given that Gabler's whole point is that my generation only passes on, rather than thinks about information, it feels wrong to post, and share, these articles. But for now I'm doing it anyway.

For the most part, I think he, Gabler, is right. There are so many problems to process all at once that it is easier to just know what's going on, rather than think about what's going on. The worst part about the extraordinarily complicated mess in the United States right now, one, I admit, I've only scratched the surface in understanding, is that it is one predicted to affect me and my generation for a long, long time. But then I think about the most recent conversations I've had with my friends, and I begin to relax a little bit. I think-- yes, I think-- Gabler, that we have the capability to stop the impending doom; it just calls for my generation and those that follow to restructure our priorities and adjust the expectations for living that have been passed onto us. That's not an easy thing to do, but I think it's do-able.

open wounds of Argentina

Something happened to me today; something I will probably never forget. During my long subway ride back home from Plaza de Mayo, I pulled out the book I'd started reading before leaving for Argentina, and one I'd just picked up today after finally finishing the Baldwin novel I'd been working on. Open Veins of Latin America has a distinct yellow cover; but even more eye-catching is the work's author, Eduardo Galeano, a famous Latin American journalist dedicated to excavating the "truth" to his continent's tumultuous past.

At the next stop, a woman sat down next to me and glanced over at the pages I was reading. I looked up, feeling her stare, and then saw a sneer crawl over her lips. She rolled her eyes, adjusted herself, and refocused her attention straight ahead to the passenger on the opposite side of the car. Her behavior most definitely seemed to be directed towards me, but I didn't know why. Under the impression that Galeano was revered by all Latin Americans, including Isabel Allende, a favorite author who happened to write the foreword to the edition I was reading, I began to wonder what about Open Veins of Latin America could possibly bother her. The point of the book is to make the unheard voices of this continent heard, the ones who'd been smothered by the world's most brutal imperialistic nations, including my own home country. Believing all this, I couldn't figure out what might have made this woman to react in such a way.

A few stops before I got off, a person two seats away from me left and the disgruntled woman next to me also abandoned her seat. But rather than getting off the subway altogether, she merely moved to the empty seat at the end of the bench, separating herself from me so that there was another woman between us now. The whole situation was only made a bit worse when suddenly another student on my program, whom I hadn't initially seen, recognized and called out to me, exposing my gringa-ness to the entire train. Ignorantly, we babbled to each other in English, she telling me she didn't even notice me at first, thinking I was Argentinean, and then asking me what I was reading. I didn't really tell her, just kind of showed that my book was clearly written in English, then letting it fall casually back into my hands. A minute later, I got off at my stop, the subway's events still swirling in my head. Perhaps Open Veins of Latin America is the equivalent of reading Mein Kampf in Katz's Deli? (Note: that's not intended as a joke, but just to make a point).

Turns out that it kind of is. Galeano's book was censured in the 70s by the military governments of Uruguay, Chile and...Argentina. Using the little that I know regarding the Argentine political scene (trying to pick it up in Spanish is pretty difficult) got me thinking that any kirchneristas, i.e. anti-peronistas (presumably this woman) would reject Galeano's socialistic writing, regardless of the fact that Argentina's government at the time Galeano wrote was responsible for the disappearances, and deaths, of thousands of its citizens.

But reflecting on the day's event makes me realize how much of this city, this people I will never come close to understanding. I thought that reading Galeano would open my eyes to some of what the Argentines had gone through in their history; I thought that a knowledge of what the past had been like would help me to better appreciate the city I am to live in for five months. Apparently Argentina is still a bit sensitive in some sore spots. The only thing I opened today were wounds that never fully healed. Wow, do I have a lot to learn.

but in real life...

I spent some quality time with some gauchos. Actual Argentine cowboys. Four things I love most in the world: Argentina, cows, boys and cowboys. (Mostly cowboys). Gauchos really are a winning combination in my book.

Here is some cold hard evidence of the weekend's rendezvous in San Antonio de Areco, the land of the Gauchos in the Eastern Pampas (Argentina countryside-- flat grassy plains, some horses, puppies, mouthwatering empanadas (I had five), and tantalizing asado (stacks of bbq meat served to you by equally delicious gauchos...just kidding, Dad)).

a circular tree with people hanging out of it

Note cute puppy. Ignore me.

swingin' on the fence

the Argentine I fell in love with on that blissful day.
(this was the closest I could zoom in)

go Argentina

Pay attention to these next few. This is a real horse whisperer.

And she's down.

Closer...closer...

just inches (centimeters) away...

GOAL!! SWAK*!! smack.

paw

And later, at the feria de San Telmo (street market in the historic barrio famous for tango and Ani)**:

an homage to my favorite alpha-female. (my dog, not my friend). 

* For those of you who might not have known, SWAK, or "sealed with a kiss," is an acronym seen most often on the backs of envelopes that 10-year old girls at sleep-away camp send...to their parents.
** Ani is my friend and is pictured above, but she's not the one with Jaspe(r). That is Sallie, my other friend and fellow Essex-Countyan. Ani also has a new blog! anichampionoftheworld.blogspot.com  !!

just me and my homeboys

over the weekend I spent some quality time with these fine gentlemen.

and fine they are! oh hey twillz