Argentine Soccer, a tragic paradox. Part 2: Drugs, guns, thugs and how I got to see it all in one night.

As I briefly elaborated upon in my last blog post (which is much more uplifting than the one you are about to read), Argentine soccer is a paradox, a home to two parallel worlds which coexist not-so-peacefully, where joy, passion, and unity are often overshadowed by violence, aggression, and even murder. A night which had been so special and one I will remember and cherish forever, hopefully one day sharing the experience with my future children, was forever marred by a couple of ugly episodes.

Looking back on the incident, I'm not sure "marred" is the correct term to describe how my memory will have been affected. More than having "marred"the beautiful memory of walking out onto the center circle of River Plate's Stadium (El Monumental), I should say, rather, that it brought me back down to earth, or jerked me back to reality. This post is especially relevant now, as the violent underside of Argentine soccer reared its head in a ferocious manner once again this past Monday in a massive fight between two gangs within the same Barra Brava*, leading to the hospitalization of at least seven men and leaving even more injured. You wouldn't have known it though, if you had only been watching the game on TV, as the public television station (which has exclusive video rights to all Argentine games) conveniently hid any footage of the fight, focusing the cameras on the field and perpetuating the hollow narrative that "soccer's a beautiful game to be enjoyed with your friends, fellow fans, and even your wife and kids, and everything's just fine and dandy."

*(my brief definition of a Barra Brava: the US equivalent of a gang or mob with an alliance to a particular club which funds itself through drug dealing, black market trade, and any other sort of illegal, lucrative "business." They are the loudest "fans" at the soccer matches and have influence among the upper brass of the clubs, with the national soccer federation leadership, and even with local and national politicians—a small, or large, bribe goes a long way... Also, the term "barra" can be used to refer to a member of a "Barra Brava", slightly confusing but more concise than saying "member of a 'Barra Brava'")

If everything's so "fine and dandy," why on game days are their hundreds and even thousands of federal police patrolling River's stadium and the surrounding neighborhood within at least a 10 block radius with SWAT teams ready and armed for any sign of trouble? If everything's so "fine and dandy," why don't I, as a young woman, feel safe going to and from the stadium alone? If everything's so "fine and dandy," why are visiting crowds banned from stadiums?

It would be extremely difficult to sum up the role of soccer in Argentine politics in just one blog post, but I'll try to do it with one phrase which comes from the time of the Roman Caesars: "pan y circo" (or literally "Bread and Circus"). It's a political theory which sustains that if a government can keep its citizens fed and entertained, it can maintain power essentially through distraction and appeasement. In Argentina, football, or soccer, is the circus (the bread can be left for a potential future post...).

During the time of the military dictatorship of the late 1970s and early 1980s, it was the Argentine national team winning the 1978 World Cup which helped the government gain popularity by covering up any sort of political or economic issues plaguing the country. The same strategy continues to be used by modern Argentine governments: "We may be heading toward an economic crisis with inflation approaching (or maybe even passing) 30%, but who cares? Everybody has access to watch Argentine games, thanks to public television funded by yours truly!"

When you read the sports' section in the Argentine newspapers, it's always the same old story but with different characters. The pages are filled with scores, game analysis, criticism, huge transfer fees, rumors of unrest among teammates and coaches, players demanding wage increases to their already exorbitant salaries, but there's always an awkward silence, one could even say an elephant in the room, which only manifests itself in the most extreme of circumstances, usually involving at least one death. Rarely do you hear about what you see every time you go to a soccer match, what I saw on my way to and from the River Plate-Gimnasia de La Plata game about a month ago. Luckily, I wasn't traveling alone.

I took the bus with two teammates, K and L, and my boyfriend (aka our bodyguard), C. The bus was initially relatively empty, but unfortunately not empty enough as to where there were seats available. The crowd was fairly normal, and the lighthearted, laid-back atmosphere of a sunny Sunday afternoon permeated the atmosphere. Everybody was laughing or talking with their family and/or friends until, at one stop, the whole bus went silent.

During the trip, more and more people had boarded so we were now traveling almost like sardines, or like one travels by bus any day of the week in Buenos Aires during rush hour. My two teammates had made their way to the back where they had a better chance at finding a seat. My boyfriend and I had found a spot in the middle of the bus to lean against comfortably so we stayed where we were. Alright, back to the silence. Two members of River's "Barra Brava" had gotten on, both recognizable by the smell of body odor, alcohol, and "illicit substances" which preceded them, as well as by their tattoo-covered exposed arms and calves. They were decked out in unofficial River Plate gear (I say "unofficial" because the production and sale of "unofficial" team merchandise is a major part of the Barras' income along with charging for public parking around the stadium on game days). I can't remember if they were wearing hats or not, but I do remember my boyfriend and I were lucky enough to have them stand right in front of us. C reacted instinctively and put himself between the two thugs and me.

The silence was broken by the two "barras" who began to sing River chants, barely enunciating the words as their tongues were severely inhibited by the level of alcohol and who knows what else in their blood. No one else dared to speak, the only communication was through knowing glances and body language. Everyone hid their cell phones and the only passenger who didn't do so initially, did quickly after when he saw the nearest "barra" eyeing his new Samsung Galaxy. When the two thugs stopped "singing," they began to entertain themselves by making fun of the different passengers. I didn't manage to hear, or to understand for that matter, exactly what they said, which was probably for the better, as my boyfriend later informed me that they were not saying anything nice. For as long as the "barras" were on the bus, the tension didn't release, it was almost as though people were holding their breath out of fear of breathing too loud. Finally, when the two thugs got off, the whole bus, including the driver, let out a collective sigh of relief, and the passengers resumed their conversations where they had left off.

At this point, I'm going to skip to after the first half of the game (you can read about what happened in between here, which is a much lovelier story) since luckily that part of the evening was basically "barra"-free.

K and I decided to leave at halftime (at 10:30 pm...) to avoid the end of the game mass exodus and in order to get home at a reasonable hour (also, my boyfriend/bodyguard was waiting for me in a café around the stadium, so I didn't want to make him wait too much longer...). We walked the 5 blocks from the stadium to the bus stop where we were to meet my boyfriend alone, but we never felt unsafe as there were police on every corner. When we got to the avenue, C pointed out a man about 50 meters away who had been brutally beaten. His face was completely covered in blood and he couldn't stand up (whether it was from drunkenness or injury, we couldn't tell), but the SWAT van next to where we were standing, full of federal police, remained parked there; not even one cop went over to check on the wounded man. (Now, looking back, we probably should have checked on him, though I'm not sure what we would have been able to do to help...)

We waited for the bus for a little over fifteen minutes, and when one finally came, we gladly hopped on and sat down together in the last row of 5 seats. My friend and I sat closest to the window while my boyfriend sat in the middle, almost as our shield. Everything was fine, the bus was fairly quiet due to the late hour, but the atmosphere was calm. We talked amongst ourselves about the game and the experience until a group of three "barras" got on. These men were even more intoxicated than the ones we had seen on the way to the game. They tried to start conversations with the different passengers, including us, pointing to our River apparel, offering to "trade shirts," and even asking at which stop we would be getting off—to which C lied and told them we were going to Retiro, a major train/bus station. The "barra" responded and said they were going there too. One of the three sat down next to C, one remained standing, and the third plopped himself down, blocking the stairwell of the rear exit to the bus, removed his shirt, and leaned against the barrier separating my seat from him, barely able to hold his head up. Almost immediately, I felt my boyfriend clench my hand tightly and grow serious. I tried to ignore the thugs and talk with my teammate in a low voice while still remaining aware of the situation.

At one point I thought they were going to get into a fight with one passenger who was wearing a sweatshirt over a soccer jersey with the same blue and yellow of Boca Juniors. Luckily, I think he told them it was a Colombian jersey, and they left him alone. They began to talk amongst themselves, and the one who was seated in the stairwell took something out of his shorts and put it in his backpack. At this point, my boyfriend's stare was completely fixated on them, and as I followed his gaze to the backpack on the floor, I, too, became tense when I saw what looked like a switchblade inside.

As we approached our stop, I suggested we move toward the front of the bus, but my boyfriend said to wait until we were closer. I obliged, and when we were a block away, we made our move for the middle exit, rang for the stop, and got off as quickly as possible. Before I could even say anything to C about what had just happened, he was already on his phone dialing 911 (yes it's the same number in Buenos Aires...).

"Hi, I just got off a 130 bus going south, and there are 3 men dressed in River Plate gear, one has a hat, another is wearing..."(he continued to describe the men, gave our location, and passed along the exact number of the bus we had been on)"...and one is carrying a 9 mm handgun. I am unsure if the others are also armed. They are going to Retiro and it is unclear whether they are planning to assault someone." He hung up, and K and I looked at each other somewhat in shock. Within minutes a police cruiser went flying by us headed towards Retiro. Needless to say, we were relatively shaken up, and I finally understood why my boyfriend has been so nervous during the ride. A bus full of unarmed passengers makes for an easy target for thugs with a 9 mm.

I'm extremely thankful my boyfriend was there, and even more grateful that nothing more happened, but the events of that night were certainly a reality check and an ugly way end to the evening. In the next day's paper, the only reference to the River game was the final scoreline, an analysis of each team's performance, a summary of the homage to the firefighters, and only silence about the thugs who turned a dream walkout onto the field into a frightening nightmare.

POST SCRIPT: About two weeks after that night, my boyfriend and I went to grab lunch at a food stand in the Bosques de Palermo (one of the nicest parks in the city). It was our lucky day as we were to be reunited with one of our "barra" buddies from the ride to the stadium. He was with one other thug and a chubby, pouty boy of about 12 years old, who we supposed was his son. They bought a soda to share between them, came to sit at the table right next to ours, and began to smoke something which was certainly not tobacco. We didn't hang around for long, but we were there long enough to hear our "barra" friend call his son every curse word in the book for wanting to buy a sandwich, "Oh, that's sweet, you think we came to the park to play a little soccer, eat a sandwich, and have an ice-cream... But we're not, you idiot! (he used a different word, but I won't include it here) We're here on business, so get it together." Later on, we would find out that there had been a concert at a nearby stadium, so more than likely the "barras" had arrived early in order to collect parking "fees" and make sure nobody left their car without paying their "dues."

Argentine Soccer, a tragic paradox. Part 1: A Monumental Tribute.

I'd like to begin by apologizing for the long silence. While I doubt many of you were anxiously awaiting my next post as those of us who read the Harry Potter series before all the books were published awaited each new installment, I hope this post manages to satisfy and perhaps surpass any expectations you did have for my blog.

Argentine soccer is a two-sided sport, one could even say it is a two-faced beast in which two opposite realities coexist, the one side is light and filled with joy, passion, and unity while the other is a pitch black pit where drugs, drunkenness, and violence reign. Sunday night I was able to see both like never before.

We'll start with the good side, but first I must provide some background info.

Last week, there was a fire in a warehouse in Buenos Aires which caused the deaths of 9 firefighters. This tragedy led to demonstrations of solidarity and support for the firefighting community mainly in Buenos Aires but also throughout the rest of the country. River Plate decided to do something along those lines to honor the fallen as well as their colleagues who survived. Unbelievably, the director of River's charity department decided to invite Fútbol Femenino to be part of the ceremony.

On Friday, our coach mentioned this plan to us but included very few details. All we knew was we would be walking a lap around the field before Sunday night's game while holding signs in support of the firefighters and encouraging the crowd to applaud the fallen heroes. That was enough to get the team excited. Imagine walking around the field at the Monumental, the largest stadium in Argentina, in front of 60,000 fans, and being announced as a team on the loudspeaker while honoring the victims of a recent tragedy. It all seemed surreal.

The one downside, however, was the time of the game. Kickoff was at 9:30 p.m., which meant that the game wouldn't end until at least 11:30, and managing to find a bus after games is always complicated, something I will elaborate upon later in this blog. I was undecided about going until my 6 foot 5 boyfriend (yes this is a fairly new development and I will discuss it further but in another post) told me he would accompany me and a couple of teammates to the stadium and back home. I'm so thankful he did.

After arriving early to the stadium, we received instructions about our role in the homage to the firefighters. About a half-hour before kick-off, we lined up under the stands by one of the gates to enter the field of play behind River's goal and with fifteen minutes to go before kick-off, we started out onto the track. Each of us was given a small sign with a phrase in support of the firefighters ("Hugs for the firefighters," "Firefighters are heroes," "River solidarity," etc) which we were to hold high above our heads as we walked around the track. Due to the tragic nature of the event, we were instructed to avoid smiling and to remain serious, a task which became more and more difficult as we progressed around the track, urged on by the crowd's applause and cheers. Each section cheered even louder as we passed by, shouting encouragement not only to the firefighters but also to our team. It is extremely difficult to put into words the emotions and adrenaline which pulsed through my veins in that moment. Joy, awe, and excitement mixed with feelings of nervousness and sadness for the lives lost in the fire. 

Finally, we made it to the midfield line in between the home and away team benches where a group of firefighters were waiting and where photographers took pictures of us from every angle. Sunday night, the River Plate women's soccer team received more media attention than it had in the entire last year. We reorganized into two equal lines and began to walk onto the field. Oddly enough, instead of looking up and around at the vast sea of fans, I was captivated by the grass. It was impeccable. Perfectly green, slightly damp, and just long enough to make sure the ball could move around at the right pace. I thought of the legends of international soccer who had played on that very surface. Messi. Kun Agüero. Trezeguet. Higuaín. Falcao. Shivers went up my spine and goosebumps covered my skin. 

We split along both sides of the center circle, spread out evenly with our signs held as high as possible over our heads, soaking in the atmosphere. It seemed as though time stood still as we waited, unsure of what would happen next. The crowd began to sing and cheer even louder as the Barra Brava made its way into the stadium with drums beating steadily and voices raised in song. Unbelievably, the cheering seems even more intense and louder on the field than in the stands. It's like you are in the center of a massive choir, slightly less holy than your typical church choir, however, and perhaps less musically gifted. A group of firefighters was announced and made an emotional entrance onto the field, filling in the gaps between myself and my teammates. Suddenly, the crowd began to roar as the home team's starting line-up was announced, then boos and hisses began to rain down as the announcer listed the opposing team. At this point, due mostly to tired shoulders, we lowered our signs to waist-height and awaited more instructions.

All of a sudden, players from both teams began to make their way onto the field, my teammates and I exchanged confused glances, unsure of what would happen next. After the teams lined up to shake hands and take the pre-game team pictures, the players from both teams lined up alongside us in the center circle. I was on the away team side and was sandwiched between two players from Gimnasia La Plata while my teammates on the other side were flanked by River Plate's starting 11. Everything seemed unreal. There we were, standing in the middle of the Monumental, the same stadium which hosted Argentina's first World Cup victory in 1978, standing next to some of the best players in the Argentine first division, and listening to the cheers and songs of over 60,000 people dressed in the red and white of River Plate. I tried to imagine what it would be like to play in front of such a crowd every week. Do the players get used to this?

It was truly a beautiful moment, one I'm not sure I'll ever experience again. Tears began to cloud the eyes of few of the firefighters as the crowd began to applaud in honor of those who had lost their lives in the fire. A moment of silence followed then more applause before the teams left the center circle and made their way to their respective sides. Still in shock, we lined up once again and began to walk off the field, looking back toward where the teams were preparing for kick-off to make sure we hadn't been dreaming. (Here's a video of the tribute )

This is what soccer is about, I remember thinking. Coming together and sharing in joys and sorrows, from the celebration of a game-winning goal or a championship to the mourning of a Súper Clásico lost to a bitter rival to the honoring of fallen heroes after a national tragedy, this is fútbol. Soccer is being able to marvel at your team's beautiful passing sequences leading to goals (or great saves by the goalkeeper) or being able to grudgingly admit that the opponent's goal was a stroke of pure genius. Soccer is jumping up and down and hugging a nearby stranger just because he's wearing the same color jersey as you after the final whistle blows to indicate the end of a thrilling match with your team up a goal. Soccer is taking your children to the stadium, teaching them when to cheer and when to jeer, holding them in your arms, pointing out the different players and their positions, and jumping up and down with them while singing your team's songs. Soccer is the breaking down of social barriers and the unification of 60,000 people through a shared passion for the same club. Soccer is "the beautiful game," and I love it.

I wish I could say that Argentine soccer ends here, that going to watch a game is only a positive experience, but unfortunately it's not. Remember that dark side I mentioned earlier? Well, it definitely exists and sometimes even overtakes the good. For now, however, I'll leave you with this bright and happy image of soccer here in Argentina, but this story will be continued as I share about my trip back home from the game in my next post...

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: