class

Classes.

In picking my classes, I generally stuck to topics of interest and things related to my area of study, namely development studies. I'm taking a Spanish class that meets twice a week, and a tango class that includes both a two-hour dance class and two hours of history, theory and cultural study. Then I'm taking a Latin American history class and an economic history of Argentina, and finally, International Relations of Latin America. 

Despite the fact that all the classes are in Spanish (my first time taking classes in Spanish), it struck me early on how easy all the classes were. I'm taking 22 equivalent units, and all together they give me less homework than any one class at Berkeley. Piece of cake. However, I truly enjoy the range of teaching styles of my different classes. Several classes stick to traditional lecture-style pedagogy, and my tango class is obviously in a category of its own--two hours of dancing with the good-lookin' international crowd (props, people)--but the class that thus far has stood out is my international relations class.

First of all, the Argentine students in my international relations class constantly surprise me with how much they know about the history and politics of their continent; when I'm struggling with the questions they're already doling out accurate analyses of the motives and realities of (South) American politics. Today truly highlighted this fact when, in a break from the norm, our class was divided into groups to represent different countries of UNASUR (Union of Nations of South America) in a roleplay. Different groups were supposed to draft statements from their respective countries to a hypothetical fly-over of a US plane under Colombian control over Ecuadoran airspace, and I was astounded by the eloquency and familiarity with the international politics that the students of the class had in their understanding and speeches.

Furthermore, it inspired me to learn as much as possible about all the topics involved.

more later.

Adventures in La Cumbre, Part II

The next day, we decided to take a bike ride through the countryside. We rented bikes in town, and following the recommendation of the lady in the bike rental shop and some bikers in the hostel that morning, we set out on the over-the-hills adventure to el Rio Pinto. The path, rather than being a regular gravel road, was gravel over massive bumpy rocks, so avoiding skidding out was a constant battle and a very literal pain in my ass, confounded by the fact that my bike was too small for me and thus hard to sit down on. we stopped after a few kilometers at a restaurant where we met a rather massive Spaniard who lived nearby and worked as a hanggliding instructor, then continued on our trek.

After several more kilometers, we came to a fork in the road. to the right was a path up the mountain to a lookout/hanggliding ramp. Which ended up being about the most breathtaking view I've ever seen. 

There was a hanggliding launch ramp called "the ramp of despair", which launched off the side of the hill at about 45 degrees into about a 1000-foot drop onto rocks and trees. The wind was atrocious, so after about 20 minutes of pictures and awestruckness, we descended.

Then began the trouble. after a few kilometers of switchbacks down the mountain, cruising at top speed, Darios front wheel suddenly shot off from his bike and he went careening over his handlebars. After he recovered from the inital shock, we determined that the safety lock for the tire was completely gone and nowhere around. That meant that we couldn't repair his bike, which, in conjunction with his gravel-filled hand, meant that he couldn't continue the journey even if he wanted. Luckily, some nice French expats coming the other way offered him a lift to the clinic in a nearby town to ensure that Dario hadn't suffered any head trauma. Defeated, the rest of us began our 3-hour trek pushing our bikes back uphill towards La Cumbre.

When we returned to La Cumbre, Dario told us that he was fine--though a little shaken--and that we had nothing to worry about. All of us glad that things had not been worse (and they could have been much, much worse), it was, in reality, an unfortunate end to a marvelous adventure. 

Adventures in La Cumbre, part I

much has passed.

This past weekend, I went to Córdoba. its about a 9-12 hour busride (depending on traffic), which we rode in a cama bus overnight (which basically means that the seats recline almost the whole way, and they give you pillows and blankets. totally first-class) to a pueblito outside of Cordoba called "la cumbre" for a two-day escape from the city. We arrived at about 9am, found the hostel--which in reality was a massive hacienda-lookalike close to downtown, where we were about the only people staying there. We decided to go on a hike while we waited for the others to arrive, and the lady in the tourism office recommended a 7-km hike around the outside of town over some hills to a dam. all we had to do was follow the creek, which sounded easy enough, so we took off. 

After a while, once we had left the borders of the city,  the path began to wander a bit, with some places being fairly clear, and in other parts, absolutely nothing. we stumbled our way through a beautiful forest, occasionally retracing our steps when we ended up on a dead-end. fording the river was a constant trek, and our only guide in many parts was seeing if the piles of donkey shit were still evident. 

the trail began to get steeper as we entered the hilly areas, and the path became less clear. there were fields of wheat with no path through them and we had to turn back more and more often. finally, we reached a point where the only possible way to continue appeared to be to scale up the side of a giant cliff. At the top there appeared to be a path sticking out of the mountain, but there was no guarantee that it actually led anywhere. Eric scaled up the side to see if the path actually went anywhere, while Sonia and I waited at the bottom to see if we could see another way around. Then, upon stepping back to take a picture of eric on top of the cliff, I noticed another man chilling on the side of the path. between a combination of my arm-waving and eric's shouting, we established that the path, was in fact, the only way to the dam. 

once we reached the top, another man came along, and offered to guide us to the top. he was a lawyer from buenos aires on a catholic men's retreat nearby, and said he knew the area well since he had gone there since he was a kid. we set off towards the top, feeling victorious.

A few minutes later, further along the path, we encountered a man scaling the cliff in a shorter place with his dog. how odd.

once we reached the dam, we thanked our guide, and began on the next treacherous part of our journey. we were somehow about 7km out of the city, and there weren't any buses or taxis anywhere near (as the lady in the tourist office had said there would be). we asked the only other people at the dam, but they said they were going the opposite way. fucked as we were, we started hiking back. then, suddenly, the others from the dam came barreling down the road in our direction, and motioned for us to jump in the back!

adventure satisfied, we returned back to the hostel, weary and aching. our other friends had arrived, and all of us went out to an asian fusion place. it was the first restaurant we'd found in Argentina with spicy food, and all of us went bonanza for it, followed up with a smorgasbord of custard, flan, chocolate volcano and other ridiculous desserts.

and thus concluded the first day of our  Córdoba adventure.

fun out of the sun

Sure, Buenos Aires is in a different time zone; but really, it's in a different time. Everything is later here. Lunch is at 2pm, afternoon tea at like 5pm, and dinner around 9 or so. On schoolnights, bedtime is early, but when partying happens, the night doesn't begin until after midnight (so technically, morning). 

It's traditional, when going out on Saturday night for instance, to take a cat nap ("disco nap") before or after dinner, then watch a movie and get ready. One usually departs around 12-1am for an early arrival (happy hour is usually 10-12am), then party until the sun comes up. The more lame dive bars close around 4am, while the better ones (and clubs, of course) don't close until at the earliest 6am. And I know that there are afterparty locations for sunday morning boozefests after the sun come up, but I haven't had the opportunity as of yet to visit one.

Since basically all drinks (except Quilmes) are imports, they cost about the same as in the US (maybe a little cheaper, since value added and wages are lower on average): AR$10 for a shot or a beer, AR$20 for a mixed drink, cocktails for any variety of steep prices. 

Buenos Aires' bar scene is crawling with Americans and Europeans, in front of and behind the bar. One of the first nights we went to a place called El Alamo where the main bartender was from Boston, all the music was American or British, and basically the entire patronage were either American expats or from a variety of Latin American countries (also some Irish and Germans). This past Saturday we went to a place in Palermo called Sugar that was owned by a Brit. Paula, from Texas A&M, new one of the bartenders from home, and the DJs were French (if I recall). Most of the clientele were Argentine but I met several Brits and some Americans, plus of course the 20+ of us in our group alone.

The one hangout thus far we've discovered that's minority foreigners is around Chenaut, an area with some nice bars that unfortunately all close at 4am. However, I do intend to make some friends with locals, so I can cease being a stupid American who comes with only Americans in tow, and to better accommodate myself to their país.

On another note, I found a man who custom-hand-makes leather shoes, and I'm getting a pair of black leather high-tops, hecho a mano, for the same price as your run-of-the-mill Converse Chucks. Argentina rules.

toothless smiles

So a funny thing happened last week. On wednesday night or so, my roommate Eric and I went out to a bar in Palermo called El Alamo. It was a smoky bar with a Bostonian bartender and nothing but American hits playing over the speakers, full of Americans and other tourists: I met tons of Americans, some Mexicans, Irish, a Spaniard and some Peruvians. I left a little early (around 330) before realizing that I'd spent all my small bills on the cover, and managed to scrounge together enough coins to take the bus.

The next day, however, I didn't see Eric all day. Around 5pm, I asked Adriana if she'd seen him, and she worriedly informed me that he was at the dentist. "What happened?", I asked. In a flurry of Spanish she told me that something had happened last night and he'd broken a tooth, that he'd gotten in a barfight and/or gotten beaten in the face with a pistol by a mugger, and/or gotten robbed. In my head, his toothless smile would be the result of my stupidly, selfishly leaving his drunk ass at a bar in a strange city. She told me that when he'd come to her early that morning with his tooth/teeth in hand, she'd wanted to die of fright.

There was no response to my calls or text messages, and so I began to worry. Adriana, upset that we stupid Americans weren't taking the appropriate precautions and were getting in fights and/or getting mugged, told me that maybe Eric wouldn't be coming back and that she was going to speak to the program director. Worried for his future, I timidly wolfed down my dinner and halfheartedly listened to her ranting.

Then, about 9:30 in the evening, Eric returned, with a fully restored smile and yesterday's clothes. I asked him what happened and he told me that no, he hadn't gotten in a fight and no, he hadn't gotten mugged, but rather had slipped while trying to grab a stone ledge for balance on the way home and knocked his face on it. 

Adriana nearly died from relief, and so we all laughed it out over tea and alfajores. But next time Eric loses a tooth, we'll make sure he at least gets to kick the other guy's ass first.

postdeluvian revelations

On some days, Buenos Aires is the Atlantis of Latin America. Most of it was built in the ages before storm drains were popular; as a result, when it rains, the streets become moats that surround the blocks and guard them from my approaching steps. Tuesday was one of those days, and I spent it leaping over these moats, trying (unsuccessfully) to avoid water in my boots at the same time as I avoided the deluge pouring forth from the sky. It has thus become clear that I need not only bigger boots, but also a gondola for traversing the canals.

In other news, internet access in Buenos Aires is slow, unreliable and sporadic at best. Yesterday I went to an e-cafe in the evening in an attempt to upload some pictures, and halfway through the power went out. I sat in the dark for about 15 minutes speaking in broken spanish to a middle-aged woman who was there with her 13-year old daughter. The daughter, after learning that me and Eric were americans, tried practicing her English with Eric, and I tried to talk politics with her mom. The political experience of most of the people from her generation is striking: having watched their economy be plundered by international bankers and executives, she saw the government as little more than a hood robin state stealing from the public. I asked her if she thought there were other counter-forces in Argentina and she professed her faith in the intellectuals of this fair city, hopefully either a force of change in some form or another. 

But then again, my Spanish still sucks so I probably missed a lot that she said....

¡Ya estoy aquí!

Before I left Newark, I was thinking that a 3.5-hour layover in Miami was more than overkill.My flight was to board at 4:45 and arrive at 8 in Miami, then depart again at 1130 for a 9am arrival. However, instead of boarding at 445, the flight was delayed till 7. and then again. and again. finally, at 7:30, the flight arrived, debarked and we began to board. Then we had to wait 45 minutes for other travelers to sort their tickets out. THEN we were 17th in line for takeoff.

Long story short, we didn't leave Newark until 8:15.

I sat it out between two other girls who were sweating missing their flights; a Rachael who was headed for Rio de Janeiro, and another girl headed for New Orleans. By the time our plane touched down at 11:20, I was the only one whose flight had not left... and mine had minutes to spare.

So after climbing over half the seats between me and the front and "por favor"-ing my way past Cuban mothers and daughters, I sprinted to the adjacent gate where my flight was (thank god) waiting... with its own delay. The fates smiled upon me--here I was cursing our 17th-in-line takeoff for costing me the crucial minutes that would have cost me my flight, and here was my plane, waiting an extra hour, not for me, but for a busted toilet.

But I digress.

After a near-sleepless flight to Ezeiza International Airport in Buenos Aires, Kirsten (a fellow ISA student on my flight) and I arrived exhausted but excited. There was no airport tax, no customs duty, just a funny health form asking about my flu symptoms in the last week and a mask-wearing health worker observing our temperatures for signs of that good ol' H1N1 swine flu virus. We met with about thirty other ISA estudiantes in the airport, where we were then herded onto what was probably the comfiest, most luxurious bus I've ever seen. 

Muy lejos, our bus arrived at Universidad de Belgrano, where I met with my host mother Adriana, and my American housemate, Eric. The apartment is tiny; it has three bedrooms and two pint-size bathrooms; but it has a sick view facing south towards downtown from the tenth floor that continues to stoke my appetite for adventure. Adriana's cooking, although quite simple and what one might consider traditional Argentine cuisine, has continued to sate both my and Eric's appetite without fail. 

Mas aventuras después.