A Sunday along the Rio de la Plata: nature, chori, and bosta

Sunday has got to be the best day of the week in Buenos Aires.

The normally busy streets and avenues empty as a mass evacuation occurs. Hordes of Porteños flee the craziness of the city and search for refuge amidst the quiet of their weekend homes in the countryside. Those of us who don't have a "country" (a "weekend home" in Porteño) find peace and green (and maybe even Greenpeace — if their volunteers are out in full force informing us about the crimes of humanity against nature…) in the many parks scattered throughout the city.

One of my favorite parks is the Reserva Ecológica, or the Ecological Reserve (speaking of Greenpeace…), which lies beyond the upscale and modern Puerto Madero along the Río de la Plata, or River Plate (for which the greatest club in Argentine soccer is named…). It's one of the few areas of Buenos Aires which remain free from human construction and filled with trees, birds, and other creatures —beyond the normal wildlife one encounters on the city streets. You can even find your way down to a rocky beach, sitting down to enjoy watching and listening to the tiny waves of the river crash against the shore, almost completely forgetting about the metal and glass skyscrapers which monopolize the horizon behind you.

(Warning: Do not read the following paragraph on an empty stomach. Doing so may lead to uncontrolled drooling, hunger pangs, and trying to chew on your computer/smart phone/tablet/or whatever it is you're using to read this blog — which, as a consequence, might complicate your ability to read future posts…)

Once you get tired of the wilderness, or if hunger gets the best of you, you can step outside the reserve and find a boardwalk lined with food stands, which are more like permanent food trucks, tempting you with the aroma of meat cooking on the grill. After you buy your sandwich, either a choripan (a delicious chorizo sausage on french bread) or a bondiola completa (a succulent thin cut of pork topped with ham, cheese, and an egg over-easy all on a baguette —yes, eating it without staining your clothes is quite a challenge), you can grab a nice cold soda, get comfortable at a table in the shade, and look out over the reserve while observing the hybrid parade of locals and tourists pass by on foot, bicycle, or rollerblades. This boardwalk is known as the Costanera Sur (southern coastal/boardwalk, I'm not sure how it should be translated to English) and lies within a couple kilometers of River Plate's rival club, Boca Juniors.

La Boca, as the neighborhood is called, is now a major tourist destination, famous for El Caminito (the "little road") a street lined with houses built of bright, colorful tin sheets. Along El Caminito you can find "typical" Argentine restaurants (priced for tourists), "typical" Argentine souvenirs (also priced for tourists), and very few "typical" Argentines (except for the occasional con artist or pickpocket). But in all seriousness, El Caminito is a part of Buenos Aires certainly worth visiting at least once, as houses which were formally shanty homes have been converted basically into works of art appreciated by Porteños and foreigners alike.

Formerly a neighborhood of immigrants, La Boca was a melting pot of cultures unified by the common goal of establishing a better life than the one they had left behind in the war-torn, impoverished Europe of the end of the 19th century and the first half of the 20th century. Many came with next to nothing and were forced to build their homes out of whatever materials they could find. Essentially, La Boca was the shanty town of Buenos Aires a hundred years ago, not too different from the villas de miseria scattered throughout the city today.

Today, La Boca no longer merely consists of homes constructed from tin sheets. El Caminito is now surrounded by tall "mono block" apartment buildings, not too different from the low income housing found in the United States or in the outskirts of Western European cities. Although the neighborhood remains impoverished and somewhat dangerous, the city government has done well to improve security in the most touristy parts, along El Caminito and La Bombonera (the giant blue and yellow atrocity called home by Boca Juniors distinguished by its particular odor of bosta, manure).

Visiting La Boca is kind of an odd concept, actually. It would be the equivalent of tourists wandering through the Villa 31 taking photographs while oohing and ahhing at the precarious state of the towering exposed brick homes.  I can see it now…

A tour guide leads a pack of Yanquis along the half-dirt, half-paved winding streets of the villa, "…and here we have the home of Nene Feo (an imaginary precursor of the infamous Nene Malo — yes, his name literally means "Bad Boy"… You can read about my love for the oh-so-talented "artist" here), the man who became the most famous cumbia villera artist in history, known for his classy, romantic lyrics which masterfully utilized the slang of the day along with his creative rhythms… If you're interested in hearing a wonderfully remastered performance of Nene Feo's best works, a string quartet and an illustrious washboard player, considered among the creme of the creme in the world. The show only costs 100,000,000 pesos (the equivalent of 10 USD today) and dinner is included."

"Sounds great! What's on the menu?"

"A typical Argentine meal. Starting with an appetizer of crispy, sautéed soy beans, then followed by a main course of breaded, deep fried tofu topped with tomato sauce and melted cheese (imported from Brazil since Argentina is now purely a producer of soy and cows are a thing of its distant past), referred to by locals a  milanesa de soja a la napolitana, and completed by an Argentine soy flan topped with dulce de leche (also imported from Brazil).

"And to drink?"

"Oh, yes, the scrumptious meal is served with an elegant Malbec, Argentina's national red wine, imported from Chile."

Sorry, I got a little carried away there, and perhaps a bit to sarcastic… One can only hope that one day the villas will only be a place to visit and wonder how people once had to live in such terrible circumstances.

"A Portrait of a(n Argentine) Lady"

Today is a strong, independent, intelligent, loving, beautiful woman's birthday. Unfortunately, as I am a continent away, I am unable to spend it with her, but perhaps this blog post might make up for the distance a little bit.

Perhaps when I began this blog, I was unclear about my reasons for coming to Argentina. If it was merely for soccer, why would I choose a place where women's soccer is so underdeveloped? Why would I choose a country so close to Antarctica? Why would I choose a nation where many Americans don't even know what language is spoken there? (They speak Argentinian right? Or is it Portuguese…?) Well, my decision went way beyond the level of soccer, the proximity to the South Pole, and the lack of US interest in the official language of the country. Half of my family is from this South American country, which often feels more European than Latin American, and I saw soccer as a perfect opportunity to not only spend time with my family here in Argentina but also to experience the culture in which my mom grew up.

Granted, Argentina has changed immensely since the eighties when my mom moved to the US —the military regime was still in power when she left, and this year the country celebrated 30 years of democracy—, but even so, many traditions and values have remained constant. After living almost a year in Argentina, I've been able to pick up on a couple of the ways these aspects of Argentine culture have influenced and formed my mom.

Machismo: In the late 70s and early 80s, when my mom was in university, it was just becoming more acceptable for women to become professionals. The gender ratio of my mother's graduating class at the Facultad de Medicina of the Universidad de Buenos Aires (UBA) was highly skewed toward the male side, 80:20 or 70:30 male to female. She had to learn quickly to deal with stigmas associated with female doctors from her professors, classmates, and patients, stigmas which she managed to overcome in order to move to another country and begin to work in one of the world's most prestigious hospitals, the Mayo Clinic. Though Argentina has made great strides toward eliminating sexism and chauvinism, especially in the worlds of higher education (where in the last ten years the number of women studying in universities has surpassed the number of men), traces of machismo remain engrained in the culture, especially in attitudes toward women in sports. I'm not lying when I say that more than once people have told me I look too feminine to be playing soccer…

Interpersonal relationships: One of the easiest ways to pick out an American family in an Argentina restaurant —beyond hearing them speak English or seeing them arrive for dinner before 8 p.m.— is observing how long they take to eat their meal and leave. Spending time together around the table is something sacred for Argentines. Waiting for a table at a busy restaurant is always tricky business because even once the bill is paid, the table might remain occupied for another half hour or more as the family or friends continue socializing. (Oh, and I also understand my mom's frustration at American restaurants when the waiter brings you the bill while you're still eating… In Argentina, you can finish eating and wait as long as you want and they still won't bring you the bill until you ask for it, or at least until the restaurant is closing.)

I'm thankful that my mom kept the habit of spending time together at the table. Breakfast and dinner are sacred times for my family, and my parents always did everything possible to make sure we would be able to share those meals as a family, even if it meant waking up extra early before heading off for school and work or waiting to eat until late when we were all home together. Even if our table discussions were not particularly profound or captivating all the time, I look back gratefully at the time we were able to spend together during meals. It was an intentional time set apart for our family, a tradition I hope to continue when I begin my own family in the future.

Okay, so I could go on to talk about other aspects of Argentine culture and their influences on my mom and our family, but since I'm short on time and this post is starting to get longer and longer, I'm going to cut to the chase about what makes my mom so special.

At the beginning of this post, I described my mom in five fairly broad adjectives. These are qualities I've seen reflected in her throughout my life, at times some qualities shone brighter than others, but in other moments all those aspects shone through at once. One such moment was on a mother-daughter trip to Argentina in May of 2009.

Just a year before then, my mom had reconnected with one of her cousins, L, who, while they were growing up, had been like another sister or best friend to her. We went as a family to her cousin's house to eat dinner and to meet her beautiful, close-knit family. The evening went wonderfully and we left looking forward to maintaining a closer relationship with L, her husband, and her four kids (who were all around my age, two slightly older and two slightly younger).

Anyway, back to 2009… before the trip, my mother had received some unfortunate news. L had been diagnosed with lung cancer, a disease with which my mom was very familiar as a radiation oncologist. Obviously, while we were in Argentina, my mom wanted to take advantage of our time to see her cousin and make sure she was receiving the proper medical care. One afternoon, my mom and I went to the clinic to keep her company with her husband and oldest son as she received treatment. It was the first time we had seen L in a year.

As she walked in the clinic door, I couldn't believe how she had changed physically. The disease and the treatments had very clearly taken a toll. Her once beautiful, wavy, thick, blond locks had been lost and were now replaced by a wig, which could only hope to attain the former beauty of her natural hair. Gone was her full, athletic figure which had once played tennis regularly, and all that was left was a thin, bony figure leaning heavily on her husband's arm for support. What had remained unchanged was her beautiful smile and the loving look in her eyes which emerged when she saw my mom waiting for her. At that point, I just about lost it and almost began to cry uncontrollably, it was the first time I'd seen a loved one so weak and fragile, but then I turned to look at my mom. She was as strong and beautiful as ever, despite the pain she was experiencing below the surface, knowing she had to remain that way for her cousin's family. For the next few hours we spent in the clinic, she focused on loving her cousin with words and embraces, she spoke with the doctors and reviewed the studies they had performed, and she comforted and encouraged L's desperate husband and son, all the while restraining her urge to burst into tears.

Finally, when it was time to leave, after we said goodbye to L and her family, my mom broke down. She hugged me and began to weep, knowing she had just said goodbye to her cousin for the last time. It was a terrible yet beautiful moment, during which no words were necessary. I held on to her and joined her in her tears, sharing in her pain although I had only met L a year ago. It was a moment I'll never forget, and while it is difficult to recall, as some details have certainly faded away, when I remember, tears begin to well up in my eyes and a heavy feeling arises in my chest, a turbulent combination of pain and love. It is a picture of my mom painted permanently into my memory with every brushstroke displaying a beautiful part of her character.

I love you, mom. I'm blessed to have such a strong woman as my mother and role model. I'm thankful for the moments we've been able to share together both in the US and here in Argentina, for our relationship which continues to grow and strengthen even with thousands of miles of physical separation, and for the many memories which are still to be made. I hope you have a day which is as truly wonderful as you are. Happy birthday!

Momma and me (Summer 2012)

Beautiful Buenos Aires

I feel like so far in this blog I've been unfair to Buenos Aires. I've been unfair to its diverse and interesting residents; to its luscious, green, flowered parks; to its historic and modern architecture; to its wide yet shaded avenues; to its tiny, intimate side streets; to its affordable and accessible higher education; to its delicious food, offered in all kinds of restaurants, from gourmet to traditional, from formal to casual, from expensive to dirt cheap; to its love of theater, music, literature, art, sport; and to its innumerable hidden treasures still waiting to be discovered.

Despite its issues with transportation, rising prices, and crime, problems also faced by most cities around the world, Buenos Aires is actually a wonderful place to live. Thanks to its many different barrios, or neighborhoods, each with its own unique personality, Buenos Aires has an eclectic kind of beauty. In the heart of the city, Microcentro, a unique combination of old and new, antique and modern, elegant French-style buildings and glass-covered towers fill the area which serves as the financial and political center of the capital, and even of the country. Moving away from downtown, the older, residential neighborhoods of San Telmo in the south and Bajo Belgrano in the north, one finds houses lining the countless side streets, each façade showcasing the home's unique character and history. To break up the concrete expanse, dozens of parks provide green paradises available for the whole city's enjoyment, creating spaces where social, economic, and ethnic boundaries become nonexistent.

Instead of going on and on about the city's loveliness, I'll let you see for yourself with a small collection of photos I've taken since moving here in February.

Reserva Ecológica de Puerto Madero

Facultad de Derecho at Sunset 

A church in Belgrano

Teatro Colón 

Restaurant in Belgrano

Los Bosques de Palermo on a Saturday Afternoon

Springtime in El Rosedal (the Rose Gardens)

El Rosedal

El Jardín Japonés in the middle of the city (the Japanese Gardens)

Los lagos de Palermo

El Jardín Japonés

El Rosedal

El Puente de la Mujer en Puerto Madero

Looking out over the Río de la Plata from a skyscraper in Microcentro

A haunted house in San Telmo

The loveliest Starbucks I ever did see (Belgrano) 

Puerto Madero on a drizzly winter morning

A Yanqui's First Super Clásico

El Super Clásico, Boca Juniors versus River Plate, the blue and yellow versus the red and white, the horizontal band versus the diagonal band, the xeneixes versus the millonarios, the bosteros versus the gallinas, one of the most anticipated sporting events in the world, took place this past weekend at River Plate’s Monumental. The stadium was completely sold-out and tickets coveted by non-members of the club were only offered by scalpers for exorbitant prices. Despite the shortage of admissions, my teammates and I were somehow able to witness the spectacle in person.

Getting to the field was an adventure in itself, as we had neither tickets nor player IDs. Three hours before game time we stepped off the bus, joining the mass of red and white making its way to the ‘holy grail.’ Fans were only allowed to access the field by the main avenues which lead to the Monumental, no short-cuts allowed – trying to cut through actually cost us time since after being turned away by the police guarding the residential streets, we had to backtrack and start from where we had originally begun. Banner after banner decorated the fans’ path, stretching across the road between the trees lining the main boulevard and interrupting the crowd’s view of the otherwise  clear blue sky. The aroma of sausages, burgers, and steaks cooking on the grill wafted from the vendors’ stands set up along the side of the road, tempting fans to spend double what the same choripan would cost anywhere else in the city. 

As we approached the towering cylinder of red, black, and white, we tried to get past the first set of ticket checks by entering through the back gate where the guard recognized us as women’s soccer players and let us through. Unfortunately, every access to the stadium from that side of the club was cut off and we were forced to reassess our options. We exited through the same gate and joined the ‘river’ of fans again. Our luck changed, however, when we ran into two security guards in a row who recognized us and let us cut through the parking garage and into the club. All that stood between us and the field was stadium staff and turn-styles. Thankfully, we could count on my teammate’s friend, a club employee, who snuck us in the elevator up to one of the best sections in the Monumental, the Belgrano Baja. 

An hour and a half before kick-off, we find ourselves sitting in the lower section of the stands between the corner flag and half-field, across from the home team’s substitute bench. The peons of the barra brava are setting up their red and white ribbons which stream from just below the scoreboard at the top of the stands to the fence at the bottom of the section. Spontaneous bursts of song and chants break out around the stadium. Around the grand oval hang banners announcing the presence of fans from all around Buenos Aires and the rest of the country. Some political banners infiltrate the sporting atmosphere but are overwhelmed by the homemade flags of the banda’s faithful supporters. 

The empty white spaces of the stands continuously shrink as the hinchada makes its way into the stadium. An endless sea of red, white, and black spans across the stands, highlighting the obvious lack of the hideous blue and yellow of the opposing fans. Undoubtedly, some undercover ‘bosteros’ (depreciative term referring to Boca fans which literally refers to the smell of manure native to the riachuelos of the port next to the club) managed to sneak in, attempting to cover their unbearable stench with a thin layer of neutrally colored clothing. Some of the more infamous fanatics hide their faces and features with a hood, ducking their head to avoid being recognized and exposed, at risk of receiving a severe beating at any sign of their true loyalty. 

Cries of “Coca, Coca, Coca,” “café, café, café,” and “helado, helado, helado” from vendors offering refreshments interrupt the excited pre-game chatter among the crowd anxiously awaiting its beloved millonarios. Within minutes, almost 60,000 fans fill the country’s pride and joy, its cathedral of sport, El Monumental, where the likes of Messi and Maradona have delighted and thrilled hundreds of thousands of spectators from Argentina and the rest of the world. Only one small square remains empty in the middle of ‘la popular,’ the upper section directly below the scoreboard.

“Boom, boom, boom...” A steady beat of a bass drum echoes around the stadium as the big guns, the capos, of the barra brava take their “assigned” places (River’s barra is called Los Borrachos del Tablón which, more or less, means the “Drunks of the Stands”). Surrounded by the same faces as always, not daring to break tradition for fear of bad luck or of getting on a boss’s bad side. There is, however, except for a vertical line of police officers ensuring that no fans try to overtake the section, one other area which remains completely empty, representing the absence of los muertos (the dead), los pechos fríos (heartless), los amargos (the bitter), the visiting fans, who, after a deadly altercation outside a stadium before a pre-season exhibition, were banned from attending all away matches for the rest of the season, a punishment applied to the fans of the rest of the teams of AFA’s leagues (the Argentine Soccer Association). 

The grass is impeccable, recently trimmed, perfectly groomed, with alternating stripes of light and dark green across the width of the field, ready to host the long-awaited battle between the two giants of Argentine soccer. As the opening whistle approaches, the fans get more anxious, urging on their beloved River with all their spirit while whistling, jeering, and cursing the enemy goalkeeper as he warms up. The excitement is contagious, even to such a recent addition to the millionario fan-base as myself. The chanting and singing is almost continuous as only a few minutes remain before the teams are announced. 

My friend gives me a heads-up to take out my phone and prepare to record because the show is about to begin. The crowd starts to sing, “River, mi buen amigo...” As soon as the first River player emerges from the tunnel, the party truly gets going. Red sparklers are set off, red and white smoke rises from different points around the stadium, and all around the oval shredded paper rains down like snow. The fans, instead of getting distracted, draw inspiration from the display and the singing gets louder and louder with each verse. A helicopter hovers over midfield, probably filming the spectacle, until Boca is announced and the joyful singing turns into a combination of hateful whistles and vulgar anti-Boca songs, which reach their climax as Boca’s number 10, Juán Román Riquelme, ambles his way onto the grass. 

The singing and drumming continued throughout most of the match, except after Boca’s goal around the middle of the first half. It was quite an eerie moment, as 60,000 people went completely silent, and the only sound within the stadium was the celebration of Boca’s players and staff on the field. The undercover fans had to use extreme self-control to avoid exposing themselves through even a smile or a happy twitch of their body. The silence lasted only briefly as the crowd recovered from the shock and began to urge its team onward to try to tie up the game and possibly go on to win. 

Although River played well, moving the ball around with one and two touches, the team’s best three goal-scoring opportunities were unsuccessful, thwarted twice by the post and once by Boca’s ogre-like goalkeeper, Orión. Unfortunately, the party would not be completed by a River comeback victory, not even by a tie, instead fans had to watch desperately as the minutes ticked down to the final whistle then suffer through Boca’s celebration in the middle of the field, complete with hugging, jumping, and crying. Thankfully, the reaction from the River fans was not as violent as I had expected. While some idiots began throwing full plastic bottles on the field from the upper deck, making fans on the lower deck run for cover, the majority of the River faithful simply began to sing and applaud the team for its 90-minute effort.

As the fans started to stream out of the stands, action in one section drew the attention of the rest of the stadium. At one corner of la popular, there was a sudden rush of people toward the top of the section, toward the billboard, apparently escaping something. It seems as though a Boca fan had blown his cover and was paying the price for his audacity. A group of River fans, most likely of the barra brava, had surrounded him and were beating him mercilessly as he cowered against the fence. The attack lasted at least five minutes, which is how long we watched before heading toward the exit, and there was not a policeman in sight. It must have ended before the bostero was seriously injured as the scuffle did not make headlines the following day. 

Leaving the last bit of nastiness aside, as well as the unfortunate scoreline, witnessing the Super Clásico was an amazing experience. A game between two fierce rivals with histories of championships and glory. A game which divides an entire nation in two, uniting each side and disregarding any socioeconomic, racial, or gender boundaries. A game which twice a year captures the world’s attention and draws it toward Argentina for a reason other than its hellish inflation and scandalous debt default. A game which takes fans’ attention away from daily struggles and stresses, allowing them to immerse themselves in the unique emotional roller coaster known as the Super Clásico.

Weekend firefighting with Abuelo

Before Saturday night, I had never truly trembled with fear. It was only an expression I'd heard or read, never experienced. It's a sensation I could have gone without having and been just fine. Life had other plans, however, as I could barely stand in the driveway, legs shaking uncontrollably, unsure of what to do while the neighbor's house and trees went up in flames.

Perhaps I should back up a little.

This weekend I went to visit my abuelo and his wife, Elma, in the province of Cordoba, which lies about a 12-hour bus ride northwest of the capital. Cordoba, with its rolling hills, sprawling farms, lakes, rivers, and charming towns built in the German alpine style, is a favorite vacation spot for Argentines, especially for porteños. The province is also home to the second largest city in the country, Cordoba Capital, which holds claim to the nation's oldest and one of its most prestigious universities, the University of Cordoba, founded around four centuries ago. The university draws students from all over the interior of Argentina and from all over the world as many international students prefer the laid-back lifestyle of Cordoba to the hectic rat-race of Buenos Aires.

Despite its numerous lakes and rivers, Cordoba has a generally dry climate and currently finds itself in a severe drought. Just a few weeks ago, the province suffered various major wildfires which devoured acres of farmland, forests, and homes. (Some images of the fires - start at 0:55). Since then, Cordoba has not received any significant rainfall and its residents are still living under threat of more fires, bringing us to Saturday evening (around 8:30 p.m.).

My grandpa, Elma, and I were sitting in the living room watching a movie (one I highly recommend – Elefante Blanco, a story about priests and social workers volunteering in the villas of Buenos Aires) when we started to hear what sounded like explosions. At first we assumed the noises were coming from the movie, then we thought they were fireworks from the town center, but when Elma went to peek out the window, she gasped and began yelling that there was a huge fire next door. She ran to move the cars out of the driveway, and my grandpa and I followed.

When we opened the door, we were shocked to see flames reaching 15-20 feet just beyond the edge of the house. It was an impressive sight but definitely one you would prefer to watch on television. The neighbor's two giant pine trees were completely ablaze along with his entire yard and home. Sparks, smoke, and ash billowed in all directions, dangerously threatening the surrounding houses. The only thing separating us from the fire next door was a fence of bushes lining the property. With every passing minute the flames inched closer and closer to my grandparents' house. I'm not sure who had called the fire department or when they had called; all I know is that the firemen seemed to take forever to arrive. There's nothing quite like watching helplessly as a fire rages next door to your house.

To be honest, I wasn't really sure what I could do in the situation. Since I can't drive stick shift, I couldn't help with the cars nor could I help retrieve important documents from the house as I didn't know where they were hidden nor could I think of anything else which could help. So what did I do? After a few minutes of standing dumbfounded with my hands on top of my head, I ran back inside, grabbed my cell phone, a jacket with my wallet in it, and my backpack which contained my notes and books for my postgrad classes then rushed back outside.

Elma saw me and told me to grab a hose and start spraying down the parts of the house as well as the plants closest to the flames. Not exactly sure what I was doing, I grabbed the hose, only unwrapping it part way due to my aforementioned trembling limbs. As I was watering down the house, a young man, probably in his lower twenties, who had been among the neighbors lining the street watching the spectacle, walked up to me to ask if I knew what had happened (supposedly he mistook me for a German girl he knows in the town; Elma was pretty sure he made up the story for another reason). He began to give me instructions as to where to spray the water, in the meantime helping me unwind the hose in order to reach further towards the back of the property. The boy, Nico, called his friends who were with him to help when he saw another hose in the backyard. Despite not knowing my grandparents, they didn't even hesitate to begin to fight the fire from my abuelo's side of the fence. (Elma had a different hypothesis regarding their willingness to lend a helping hand). She figured their damsel-in-distress instinct kicked in when I asked for their assistance. I'm not sure whether it was my 10-year-old windbreaker or my messy pony tail which won them over, but either way it worked as their efforts along with the firemen's managed to contain and eventually extinguish the fire.

All joking aside, the look of terror on my grandparents' faces is one I will never forget. Their house represents a lifetime of work, their savings, their patronage, their memories with family and friends, their home. The thoughts which must have crossed their minds are things no one wants to have to consider. Where are we going to stay if the house burns down? Will our insurance give us enough for a new place? Do I grab anything more than just important documents? What about all the photos of our family? Praise God for protecting my grandparents as well as the rest of the neighborhood, including the dog, Yacobo; the poor thing had been tied up with a rope to the house which was on fire. Luckily someone cut the rope in time for him to escape. The pup was shaking and whimpering as he made his way out of the front gate. As soon as Elma called Yacobo over, he began to climb all over us, relieved to see (or smell) some familiar faces.

Thank God no one was hurt, no other homes were burnt, and nobody assaulted the man responsible (who more than likely deserved a good shaking up as this was the second time within 3 years he's caused a fire and put the whole street and even the whole town in danger). The man at fault, Bubi, is slightly off his rocker. He collects trash and hoards it in his backyard, scouring the town dump to bring home anything and everything he thinks might serve for his experiments. His backyard was literally a pile of trash, now a pile of ashes, and when he didn't make sure the coals were completely cool after his afternoon barbecue, it didn't take much more than a spark to set the whole property ablaze. Luckily, the fire didn't make it to the five gas tanks he had buried underground, otherwise this blogpost would have been completely different.

Some photos from when the fire was already under control thanks to the firefighters (I was too in shock to take pictures while the fire raged at full force):

Post-fire photos of the neighbor's property:

Writing: a truly masochistic endeavor

Please forgive the following literary rant:

Uruguayan author Horacio Quiroga, king of the depressing surreal short story

I think I have a theory as to why so many of the world's great authors died young (whether by choice –   Horacio Quiroga, Leopoldo Lugones – or by an untimely sickness – Franz Kafka, Edgar Allen Poe). In general, people hear about or live through sad moments, hours, months, or years and then move on to continue life as usual, or as much so as possible, with their jobs and families. On the other hand, many writers, as the word so blatantly implies, write about those experiences, experiences which often unearth deeply buried emotions and sympathies within the writer himself and, if the episode is well-expressed, within the reader as well. A pattern among the most poignant works of literature is their connection to reality, to real suffering, to real joy, to real pain, to real happiness, to real experiences lived by real people. One doesn't have to look much further than one's own family and friends to find literary inspiration.

She found her husband in bed with another man...

He left behind a young daughter and beautiful wife after a long, drawn out fight with multiple sclerosis...

A terrible cancer took him/her/them away from us way too soon...

Her father's gambling addiction kept them in financial ruin until he passed away...

Despite differences between approaches to the writing process (there are two main branches plus a wide spectrum in between), all authors spend a significant time reflecting upon the subject of their future literary creation. Some perform this stage in a purely mental fashion, brewing all of their ideas for the plot, characters, setting, and structure within their head before spilling them all onto paper (or onto a computer as seems to be the case nowadays) diving directly into a writing campaign, what genetic critics label as the first clear attempt to begin the story, novel, essay, poem, etc. Others, which tends to include a wider range of writers, brainstorm on paper, developing their ideas separately before then organizing them into their work of literature. During this first stage, which can last hours, days, or even years, writers are forced (somewhat masochistically at times) to dwell upon often painful experiences, analyzing the episode down to even the most minuscule of details such as the characters' clothing, facial, and body expressions; if they are eating, what they are eating; the weather; the color of the walls, the furniture, the floor...

Authors who draw upon personal experiences as inspiration must mentally and emotionally relive blissful, tepid, haunting moments in an effort to bring the reader into their world constructed upon ink-stained paper. Even if the difficult moment was not a personal experience, putting oneself in the place of the other person, trying to imagine their suffering and innermost thoughts, can throw an author into depression, which may or may not be conducive to his writing... Then, after the initial brainstorming and the start of the writing campaign, the author must go back through his writing to edit and re-edit and make changes and corrections, reliving the experience for a third, fourth, fifth, or as many times as it requires for him to be content with his work.

Now, I wouldn't necessarily call myself a writer, nor am I trying to compare myself to the excellent authors listed above, but, for us amateurs, blogging and journaling do require a similar process, perhaps on a smaller scale, but similar nonetheless. Also, I don't know about you, but when I dwell on something or imagine it, keeping it within my thoughts, my imagination tends to run wild, typically jumping to the worst of conclusions...

"Why hasn't my mom called yet is she okay I hope nothing happened did she bring her phone did she get robbed I hope they didn't take her phone with all her pictures and emails and personal info he better not have laid a hand on her that son of a gun how dare he try to assault my mother without me around why doesn't he get a job instead of preying on innocent people – Oh, hi mom! I was just wondering why you hadn't called yet..."

Granted, there are situations so horrid for which our imagination has no need to run wild, but, many times, our minds can corner us into desperate places if we have no one to help us out. Ironically, perhaps this excess of imagination is something for which readers can be thankful. We are able to enjoy the author's brilliant, beautiful creations born many times of his personal or familial hardships. We can grow to love, hate, and empathize with fictional characters. We can even weep after a character's death (ahem... the last battle in Harry Potter... ahem). Sometimes we just cry because we have grown so close to a character that finishing the story is almost like losing a loved one who we can no longer look forward to seeing after a long day of work (I may have fallen in love with Tolstoy's Levin in Anna Karenina...). Other times we mourn for society when an author paints such an accurate yet chilling picture of civilization, ancient, modern, or future (let's just say it took me a few days to recover after reading George Orwell's 1984...).

There's a saying which states, "He who lives doesn't write; he who writes doesn't live" (a saying I've experienced even as an amateur blogger). However, Spanish author Javier Marías makes some important adjustments to the phrase in his essay "Contagio"("Contagion"):

"Actually, I think he who writes continuously carries out a selection of life. He chooses to give life to what interests him, therefore choosing his own death. In other words, he dies numerous times, each time he breaks what can't be anything but a continuum for those who do not suffer from his anomaly.

The novelist will endure anything if he believes he can tell the story, or, in the words of Isak Dinesen, [the novelist] knows 'all suffering can be endured if it is put into a story or if a story is told about it.'"


(And if I told you this all stemmed from the sadness of saying goodbye to my mom as she returned to the US after a three week visit, you might believe me now...)

When bus drivers snap...

If I had to name three of the worst jobs in the world, I think being a bus driver, colectivero, in Buenos Aires would certainly make the list, if not top it. Not only does a colectivero have to maneuver the perilous and overcrowded streets of the capital and its surroundings, but he also must deal with the wild creatures who reside there. 

The bus, or bondi, is the transport of choice for a grand majority of porteños for a variety of reasons. There are over a hundred lines, oneof which will get you where you need to go, whether it's in the heart of the city or in a "suburb" 3 hours away. Traveling by bus is also extremely cheap, the average trip costs about 20 cents (in US dollars). The best part, for those who have a car, is not having to worry about finding parking or, worse, about not finding your vehicle where or how you left it. 

Taking the bus is not, however, all rainbows and unicorns. It can be a stressful experience filled with exasperating waits in never-ending lines; being squished between sweaty, obese, smelly men; and 20 minute trips converted into hour-long voyages by unannounced protests, strikes, and other unforeseen circumstances. In these less happy moments, often passengers will take out their wrath on unsuspecting colectiveros, who may or may not be innocent in the situation (there are some bus drivers who enjoy driving passengers crazy in different ways which include but are not limited to slamming the brakes at every opportunity, accelerating to the point of causing passengers to lose their balance and even fall, and not stopping completely to allow passengers on or off). For bus drivers, their line of work is a pretty thankless and, ironically, lonely job. The colectivero, even while driving a bus full of passengers, is basically alone. Very few times will passengers engage in conversation with the driver for more than a few seconds. Most passengers won't say more than the fare they need to be charged when they first get on the bus (even a greeting, please, and thank you is a rare event, usually received very gratefully by the driver). Honestly, I'm surprised I haven't seen more bus drivers react violently in response to the stresses of the job. Today, one bus driver, a fairly young fellow, my aunt estimated his age to be slightly over 30, reached his breaking point, and, thankfully for us, my aunt was able to witness it.

Waiting for the bus is fun! (from Clarin.com)

She boarded the bus as usual and found a seat near the front, close to a young woman with her baby who looked upset about something. About three or four stops later, while more passengers were boarding, the bus went silent as the driver began to argue with a young man, a pibe (pee-beh) as the Argentines would say. Apparently, his SUBE, similar to a metro/transport card which is used to pay bus fares electronically, was not functioning correctly. The bus driver told him to pay in coins, but the pibe didn't have any. When the driver told him to get off, the other passengers quickly jumped to the pibe's defense, offering him all the change he needed and more, so much that he couldn't hold it all in both hands. For one reason or another, this didn't fly with the driver. The pibe tried to pay, but the driver refused to accept the coins, "NO. I don't care that you have the money, now. Get off my bus."

"He has the coins now, just let him on!" argued the other passengers.

"No. No. No. He has to get off.."

"Just let him pay! Let him pay with the coins and let's go!"

After a few more rounds of arguing, the driver declared, “No. If he’s not getting off, then I’m getting off” and proceeded to open the front door, turn off the engine, and get off the bus, despite the protests of the passengers. While the passengers looked around at each other in disbelief, the driver sat down on the curb and began to fiddle with his cell phone. 

At this point, some passengers, most likely the ones who were in a rush, got off the bus and began to wait for another one to come. Others stuck around to watch the show while a few joined in the action. One passenger, an average sized woman of about forty years, made it her personal mission to make sure the driver would understand the error of his ways. "You can't just treat a young mother and her daughter like that, yell at a passenger for not paying with his own coins, and then tell the rest of us to get on another bus! I'm calling the police!"

Her threat didn't seem to bother the bus driver particularly as there wasn't much the police could do about the situation anyway. "Go right ahead," he responded coyly. 

"I'm going to call the bus company!"

"Already did. They're on their way," grumbled the driver through his teeth.

"I'm staying here until they get here, you ******, *******, ********!!!" And she went on to give him lesson in Argentine curse words and insults until my aunt got tired of waiting around and watching the debacle and got off the bus to take the next one. While the woman was haranguing the bus driver, the other passengers wondered out loud why no man had said anything. One male passenger quickly and wisely stifled this questioning of his manhood by explaining how if he or any other man had said anything to the driver, the confrontation would quickly have escalated to an all-out brawl. For the moment, the driver, who was possibly looking for a fight, was unable to take out his anger physically due to the female nature of his only adversary. Eventually, everybody, except for the "harangatang" lady, got off and tried to go about their business on another bus with a hopefully more emotionally stable driver. (I get the feeling that even if the driver had gotten back on the bus to drive, not many passengers would have been keen on riding with him for fear he might find his way off the bridge joining Avellaneda and City of Buenos Aires and into the Río de la Plata.) 

I'd be willing to gamble that tomorrow, the 100 bus line will be putting out a help wanted ad... 

URGENT: Bus Driver needed. 

Requirements: Drivers license, union membership, and sanity.

Preferably with experience.

(http://ar.fotolog.com/bondis_piolas/51645085/)

Living with 25% inflation...

Upon arriving to a new country, one of the first things one must do is change money to obtain the local currency. Normally, if one is visiting for a relatively short period of time, a month or less, one never stops thinking about the exchange rate when making purchases or spending money.* 

*Sidenote: This is a little more complicated in Argentina due to the parallel, "blue," market (which arose due to the government restriction on the purchase of US dollars ). "Hmm... 250 pesos... that would be about 50 US dollars at the official exchange and about 28 US dollars at the "blue" rate..." Also, while it is technically illegal to buy or sell dollars on the "blue" market (not really different from the black market, but it doesn't sound as sketchy), it is the most popular option for changing dollars, or any other foreign currency, to Argentine pesos. Another day I'll explain more about the "blue" dollar. 

Now, if one makes a longterm move abroad, one typically begins to think in terms of the local currency after a few months of living in his new country, especially if one receives his salary in the local currency. This is not the case in Argentina, however. After having barely survived several financial crises and bouts with hyperinflation, Argentines with means have learned to think (and save) in dollars. Honestly, there is no other way to understand the value of a product or service because the prices are constantly changing, and by changing I mean rising... To give a tangible example, when I first arrived in Buenos Aires, I could buy a 600 mL (about 20 ounces) Coke for seven pesos; now, at the same convenience store, a 600 mL Coke costs 9 pesos, a 28.5% increase in price over seven months. Many stores and restaurants don't even bother printing their prices, most are written by hand because businesses are forced to raise their prices so frequently. Obviously, rising prices are more noticeable for more expensive goods, but the percentage change is still about the same across the board. 

Instead of going into detail about the interesting dollar/peso mindset of the Argentine, I figured it would be more effective to translate a recent article from the August 18th Revista La Nación, a weekly magazine published by one of the major newspapers in Argentina.  The article was taken from a recently published book by Mariano Gorodisch, an Argentine finance journalist, called 60 Options to Invest in Pesos and Save in Dollars (60 opciones para invertir en pesos y ahorrar en dólares). While some suggestions are fairly universal and applicable in the US as well, others are, well, very unique to Argentina... 

"10 more or less known, but effective, tips to beat inflation"

1. Book an all-inclusive

Since it's required to request validation in order to acquire foreign currencies when traveling abroad, it is more convenient to book all-inclusive vacation packages, paid in full in Argentina in pesos at the official exchange rate plus a 20 percent tax. That way one knows how much one is paying without risking an increase in the official exchange rate, which is what happens when one "cards,"or pays with an Argentine credit or debit card abroad (money also changed at the official rate plus a 20 percent tax). And if AFIP, the Argentine tax agency, authorizes the purchase of 70 dollars per day, the traveller who stays at an all-inclusive can save those dollars.

2. Make "pre-purchases" by internet before traveling abroad

The prices in Miami are already more economical than those in Argentina. Recently, many travelers have begun to take advantage of this by buying clothing and technology online from our country before going abroad. This way, they can pay at the official dollar and then pick up their goods once they are in the United States

3. Shop around at different supermarkets

One good way to save money daily, if one has the time, is to go to the supermarket like one goes shopping for clothes, except with one's re-usable grocery bags. There is not any one supermarket which offers the cheapest prices in every product. Some are cheaper in some product families while the rest are cheaper in others. The savings of up to 30% is the difference in the price of soda between the most expensive supermarket chain and the cheapest, while in products such as whole milk and diapers one can save 20%, according to tu-alacena.com.

4. Anticipate your funeral

For those who bet long-term, planning their future even after their death might sound appealing. Cemeteries offer finance plans with monthly payments so that when the day comes, the survivors won't have to be paying upwards of 17,000 pesos for a memorial and burial service.

5. Save in safes

It has been predicted that by the end of 2013, both the official and the parallel dollar will likely increase by 30%. Thus, having bills well hidden and accessible when needed could render 30% more.

6. Buy land on the moon

A gift for the grandchild: one 4000 square meter property on the moon. It’s for sale for $19.99 US, plus $1.51 tax and an additional $2.50 to have your name printed on the satellite picture. Shipping anywhere in the world costs another $12.50. In total, $36.50 for the property title. 1741 Argentines have already done it. They are betting on a future revaluation.

7. Cooperatives which pay a 40% annual fixed rate

The investor earns monthly interest but should wait 12 months to recover his capital. The minimum investment is 20 thousand pesos or 5 thousand dollars, but the majority invests an average of 100 thousand pesos.

8. Buy an apartment with an old person inside

Rosa, an 80-year-old childless widow, receives a monthly retirement payment of 2500 pesos, which doesn't even cover her medications. She owns an apartment valued at 100,000 dollars; she wanted to sell it to buy a smaller one and keep the difference, but the real estate market is almost paralyzed. She made a full life-long usufruct agreement: the investor keeps the property title but gives her the right to use the apartment until her last day on earth. Rosa receives 800 dollars per month, plus what is spent on taxes and expenses, and the investor spends 1000 dollars (for the real estate agency costs).

9. The ol' black and yellow

With inflation, the taxi business puts investors in a win-win situation. The profitability is between 30 and 40% annually, without including the appreciation of the license (since there is a limited amount, their value increases with each tariff raise). 

10. Telephone, electricity, IVA (tax)

It seems obvious, but... it's better to go over it again. The most expensive time to talk is from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m., and the cheapest is from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. Constantly opening and closing the refrigerator leads to a higher consumption of electricity. Also, one can save 4% (IVA tax) daily on every purchase paying with a debit card.

Uruguayans in Argentina, Germans in the Villa, and Apples on the Street

As an American living in what Argentines consider a "third-world country," a term I'm not sure accurately represents Argentina's situation, but one which many porteños with iPhones insist on using, I've been able to have some pretty interesting conversations in Buenos Aires. Many of them follow a similar thread while others, well, let's just say they are difficult to categorize...

When I first meet somebody, after a little small talk, enough to where my unidentifiable foreign accent rears its ugly head, I am typically asked, "Where are you from?" Some offer possible countries of origin, normally with Nordic or Germanic roots, but hardly ever do people guess I'm from the US. My favorite guess so far came from a taxi driver while I was on my way to the bus station, "You have a weird accent... Are you from Uruguay?" Instead of giving away my yanqui roots, I played along and said I was from Montevideo but was in Buenos Aires visiting family and was on my way to visit family in Córdoba. "Ahhh... I thought so! Your accent is strange, but I knew it sounded familiar..." 

Side note: For those who are unfamiliar with the relationship between Uruguay and Argentina, Uruguay was formerly a province of Argentina, and there are many Argentines who remain uninformed in regards to Uruguay's status as an independent republic. Okay, so maybe Argentina's condescending attitude toward Uruguay is not quite so extreme, but in general, Argentina considers Uruguay as its little brother. He is a mildly annoying (especially during soccer tournaments when Uruguay's national team causes problems for Messi and his boys) copycat (Uruguayans have an accent almost indistinguishable from the porteño spoken on the Argentine side of the river) but is very useful for certain things which are prohibited by the big brother's government (such as opening bank accounts to save US dollars, obtaining and using marihuana, and vacationing for relatively low prices).  One thing Uruguayans certainly do more, and perhaps better, than Argentines is the ritual of drinking mate. While Argentines typically restrict their mate habits to indoor places and the occasional park, Uruguayans have no boundaries when it comes to their mate consumption.  They drink excessive amounts of it anywhere and everywhere, while driving their car with a manual transmission, while walking on the street, while hanging upside from a trapeze... We might have Messi, but they have the best "mateadors" on the planet.

Getting back to the conversation... After I've revealed my country of origin as the United States, the next question is: "So, are you here with some sort of exchange program?" To which I say, "Not exactly... I am studying, but it's not the main reason I'm living here. I'm actually playing soccer at River Plate." At which point the other person typically laughs then gives me a perplexed look as he or she realizes I am not joking. A series of questions usually ensues.

"River has women's soccer?"

"You came all the way here to play soccer?"

"How in the world did you choose to come to Argentina of all places to play?"

"Do you get paid?"

"What teams do you play against? Is there like a league or something?"

"How long are you planning on staying here?"

After the last question is asked, the conversation takes a different turn when I explain how I do not have a set time frame for my stay in Argentina. This is probably when the other person reaches the conclusion that I am, in fact, crazy. Leaving the United States (where people make Dollars not Pesos which lose value by the minute, where economic crises happen once a century instead of once a decade, where political corruption is the exception and not the rule, where public transport runs consistently and is not always interrupted by strikes and malfunctions...) to come to Argentina indefinitely. "Yes, she is crazy," concludes the other person silently, "This girl is going to be on Ripley's Believe It or Not; I just know it." Here, the conversation either ends abruptly, with the other person left speechless, or we continue on to a less awkward topic such as politics, inflation, or family issues.

 However strange my reasons for being in Buenos Aires, another girl makes my situation look almost normal. Last month, when I went to the Villa 31 to help with a girls' soccer clinic, I met a young woman who was clearly neither native to the Villa nor to Argentina, a suspicion immediately raised with a quick glance at her platinum blond hair and clear blue eyes and then subsequently confirmed after hearing her speak a few heavily-accented words in Spanish. At first, I assumed she was some sort of social worker or volunteer who was working with the girls of the Villa, an assumption which was only partly true. After a quick exchange, I learned she was from Germany, twenty-one, and a student of sociology at a university in Buenos Aires. We talked about the typical things which come up among foreigners, how we like the city, what we don't like, how long we've been here, but when we got to the part about where we live, things got interesting.

Me: So... Do you live nearby?
German girl: Oh yeah, really close. I'm just two blocks from here.
Me: Nice, that's not too far from me. What streets?
German girl (as she points to the middle of the Villa): No, I mean I live two blocks from this field with my boyfriend and his family.
(A short pause as her words sank in...)
Me: Really? Interesting... Have your parents visited you yet?
(I now realize this was probably not the right follow-up question, but I was trying to imagine how my parents would react if I told them I was going to moving to one of the most infamous villas in Buenos Aires to live with my boyfriend and his family...)
German girl: No, not yet. I went home after my volunteer-study exchange program ended last summer so they saw me then, but they'll be coming to see me for the holidays in December.
(At this point I was extremely tempted to ask if they would be staying with her, but I figured I might be crossing the line, so I settled for asking how she met her boyfriend and how she ended up playing soccer with the girls from the 31. I also refrained from asking whether she had been robbed or assaulted since she moved as she is quite possibly the only blond-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned German residing in the Villa...)

It turns out she had come to Buenos Aires with a program through her university in Germany to help with social programs in the Villa, while she was here, she fell in love with a boy and with the city. After going back to Germany for a short period, she decided she missed Buenos Aires (and her boy) too much and wanted to move back in a more permanent situation. After moving, she joined the soccer team in the Villa in order to stay active and learn to play the sport. Watching her interact with the other girls, I was impressed by how she seemed to have adapted to a very different way of life than the one she had been used to in Germany. (Don't worry Mom, I'm not moving to the Villa any time soon...) 

So far though, my most interesting "conversation" I've had in Buenos Aires took place while I was walking from class to take the bus to practice. Since I didn't have much time before training, I had brought an apple to eat on my way so I wouldn't have to train on an empty stomach. As I was crossing the street, minding my own business, and chowing down on my delicious green apple, a man headed the other direction started walking straight at me, staring me down the whole way. His clothes were pretty dirty and his eyes had a slightly vacant look about them, so his stare made me a bit nervous.

As he got closer, I felt my stomach start creeping up into my throat despite the fact that it was midday and we were surrounded by other people. When he was about a foot away he stopped and yelled, "Qué hacés comiendo una manzana, pelotuda!" (Rough translation: What are you doing eating an apple, you retard!"

My initial reaction was to defend myself and explain how I couldn't eat a real meal because I can't run when I'm full nor did I have time to sit down and eat, but after another look at the man, I realized he was not all there... Needless to say, when I got to River and told the story to my teammates, they couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of what had happened. Since then, I have not been able to eat an apple (especially not on the street) without remembering the man's outburst...