Visuals of Buenos Aires

Since I just journaled for too many hours, my mind wants less reflection and more visuals. (As do you, I'm sure, after reading my wordy posts.)

Sorry about my lack of photography/video skills, they don't do justice for lovely Buenos Aires. They will, however, give you a slight view of the rich culture of art, music, and expression here in the city of Tango and empanadas.

I'll post some substance tonight.

Love and xoxo from Argentina.

B

<3 to all of you!

But I don't wanna shower!

I have not showered in three days. 

It has nothing to do with the fact that every time I shower I spend approximately 5 stressful, naked minutes using all my might violently squee-gee-ing the water into the drain in the middle of the floor, in the meantime trying to avoid chipping the rusty paint from the door, only to return to the bathroom for a quick teeth brushing session, and soak my socks twenty minutes later. (See picture to the right; not to scale)


It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm super busy-- sleeping through my 4 oclock class (yes, PM) or having a copious amount of time to facebook, write, sit in a cafe for hours on end, play my guitar, go on walks, meet some sexy South American men and speak bad Spanish in an attempt to flirt over some fernet, or sit in an ice cream shop with girlfriends for hours discussing pointless, but nonetheless, necessary and philosophical topics. 


It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm super clean. In fact, there are too many reasons (mostly being that I walk everywhere, and am so out of shape that I'm a little misty after walking up a small gradient...) that I should probably shower daily. 


Nor am I in a non-showering competition of any sort....


Nope.
None of these reasons suffice. 
It is simply because...
Ready?


Buenos 
Aires
makes 
people
lazy. 


It's not just me, I promise you. 


Do you know any other city where you're allowed to order a cafe doble solo for 16 pesos (4$US) and sit for 3 hours, just talking about nothing?


I don't.


Do you know any other city that waits until 3 am to go out on the weekends? In the meantime, spends 5 hours beforehand eating, drinking wine, shmoozing. 


Nope. 


Do you know any other city that justifies, openly, not being productive? 


Nope again. 


I'm telling you, Portenos don't move like the rest of the world. 
They take their time. 
They don't live to work. 
Or hurry. 


They simply live. 
Love. 
Talk. 
Drink wine. 
Give enough besos to make me uncomfortable. 
Yell about politics. 
Yell about everything.
Skip class.
Move slowly. 
Breeeeeathe. 


Living. 


What a concept, eh? 


I think I'll wait until tomorrow to shower. 


In the meantime, I'll be living. 
B 
(xoxo)

Dear Mountain air, I've missed you. 

A seriously heartbreaking moment when the man who weaved a beaded hemp string chopped a chunk of my hair out. I wonder if the people in Mendoza thought it was weird when I walked around talking to it?

Umm hello  I'm in love with all of you.

Beauty in the Chaos

Travelling isn’t supposed to be easy.

Or comfortable.

Or simple.

It’s filled with passion, with vicious discomfort, too many awkward moments to count, gut-wrenching culture shock, painful goodbyes, occasional loneliness, short-lived relationships, chaos, language barriers, messes.

Life is messy.

Travelling is messier.

~                           ~                          ~

This past Friday marked one month for me here in beautiful Buenos Aires, Argentina . It feels like just yesterday that I was stepping off the airplane, shaking anxious, hazy blue eyes staring into the city that I thought I’d never know. Now I’m here, still trying to find the heart of the city, spiraling each day a little more each day into the culture, the people, the language. Losing myself.

Nobody ever told me; travelling isn’t about finding yourself.

It’s about losing yourself.  

What a concept—losing yourself. What, really, does it mean?

 I suppose it means the time that I sat with my host sister in the kitchen talking about Argentina’s history for three hours instead of going out that night. Her brown eyes shined in the dim kitchen light as she imagined the pain of the 1970’s when her fellow Argentines endured the brutal dictatorship. Her English isn’t perfect and as she stared at the table with sad eyes, her voice cracked. I’ll never forget that night, when she conveyed so much passion about her country that it gave me a funny feeling in my stomach.

Or I suppose it means meeting a stranger on the collectivo (bus), and the next night meeting him and his friends, without reservation, for an apartment party full of wine, intelligent conversation and Argentine culture.

Maybe losing yourself is simply getting wild at a gay club, hands in the air to terrible poppy music that we don’t play on loud speakers nearly enough—and all your fabulous gay friends dancing ‘round you.

Maybe it’s staring, freezing and shivering, at the Andes Mountains. Or at the tallest mountain in the Americas: Aconcagua—breathtaking and massive.

Maybe it’s walking through a park on a sunny day for hours. Watching the couples kiss. The children play. The people laugh.

Maybe it’s the twinge of homesickness I feel when I hear my Mom’s voice.

Or the comfort I take in seeing my friends here. And meeting new ones every day.

Maybe it's getting a beaded yarn into your hair. In the meantime, a chunk of your hair gets cut out.

Or getting a sunburn in the moutains.

Perhaps losing yourself is standing in line with friends—freezing and eating mobile medialunas—waiting for tickets to the final “world cup” of tango.

Or giving 10 pesos to an artist who has no hands, so he uses his toes.

Or 5 pesos to a cold homeless man.

Visiting a winery in Mendoza, and understanding the tour in Spanish.            

Or getting miserably lost and loving it.               

Meeting people with endless stories, accents, skin colors, travel tips, backgrounds, reasons for wanting to lose themselves in this crazy, crazy world.

Watching the street musicians enter their own world--eyes hazy with creativity and fervor. Or wondering what it would be like to wake up every day, knowing that was your job. Truly, the life.

Or buying handmade jewelry for way-too-cheap.

Seeing the artists in action at the markets.

Seeing the poverty and yearning to do something about it. Wishing with everything that I am that the cycle would end somewhere. (Please, if anyone knows any volunteer programs in BA, send me a message)

Watching the children, no matter their skin color, demographic, class, or situation. Watching them laugh, play, be curious, learn.

                                  ~                                     ~                                    ~

Or maybe, it’s simply having the opportunity to touch, first hand, a completely different culture.

Perhaps it’s realizing that all of this is actually real.

Or maybe it’s not? I'm not sure I'll ever be certain it is.

Either way,

We close our eyes, take each day one at a time, spiral into self oblivion,

admit we know nothing,

And lose ourselves.

The Boy

The Boy

From the corner of my eye, I watched the boy move.

He was lengthy—long, with bony arms and legs. Breakable. He was, at most, ten years old. Nonetheless he was the leader of the other two (a boy and girl) who shared both his complexion and his crooked yellow teeth. All three had tattered clothes, dirty faces, and knotted hair. Their dark brown eyes blended in with their chocolate milk skin and razor sharp cheekbones. The oldest had a rubber smile, stretchy and strong.

I wondered what their parents looked like. Where were they?

Each of them held a pile of wrapped straws in their hands. As we waited for the Subte (Subway), I watched as they began ripping the paper, chewing the small pieces in their mouths, stuffing the wet paper into the straws, spitting.

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. I glanced at my friend Alexis who seemed just as irritated as I was. We both held bottled soft drinks in our hands and avoided eye contact as they began to speak to us.

They were speaking quickly in Castellano and my mind was racing. Don’t fall for this, I thought again. We’d been told over and over to keep our mouths shut in the subway—in order to avoid people knowing we were foreigners. “Foreigners have money, and therefore are better targets to rob.” And so it was; we shut up and ignored the kids.

“Coca?” The oldest boy asked. He was pointing to our drinks. I didn’t even look his direction. Alexis looked at me. We scoffed. “Coca, por favor?” He said again.

He wasn’t thirsty, he just wanted our money. That’s what they told us.

The subway arrived and Alexis and I quickly scooted our way through the heaps of people.  “Hold your bags,” I told her. We clutched our things and shoved our way into the middle.

 “Don’t stand by the doors,” they told us. “People are more likely to rob you if you’re by the doors.”

We stood in the middle. Our feet hurt. We wanted off the subway. We’d had a long day at the market, where we had shopped for hours and spoke bad Spanish to the friendly locals. The kids with the spitballs were shooting them in our direction.

 “They will do whatever they can to distract you,” they told us, “they just want your money.”

The kids kicked their legs against the underbellies of their plastic subway seats. They laughed, laughed, spit spitwads, laughed some more. I gripped my things harder as I remembered all the the things they told me.

Two stops before ours, the three kids hopped from their seats and exited the subway, without bothering anyone.


                                     ~          ~          ~

The truth? I am embarrassed to post this. I am embarrassed to publicize my lack of compassion and my general inhumanity that is glaringly obvious and present in this story. I am embarrassed that my selfishness and fear of losing my stuff took over my sense of love and helpfulness. He was just a kid. Just a kid. I could easily make excuses and blame it on the city, the dangers, the theft rates, but no matter: they were still just kids.

Gandhi once said, “Whatever you do in life will be insignificant. But it is very important that you do it.”

This has never been truer for me since I have been in a city as big and intimidating as Buenos Aires.  How insignificant I feel in a panderia (bakery) where I don’t understand the ordering system and can’t understand the directions in Spanish, so I leave. How insignificant I feel in an elevator when I am wishing with all of my might that I could muster up the strength to start a conversation with a local, but fear gets the best of me. How insignificant I feel when a little boy comes up to me, asking for my soda, and I ignore him out of selfishness.

My most recent goal in Buenos Aires? Start working on the second part of Gahndi’s phrase: “it is very important that you do it.”

Even if it means something as simple as giving the thirsty kids your $2 soda.

Because it is.

And I didn’t.

And, most importantly, to you—little, beautiful, thirsty boy: I am sorry.

B

On Time, Life, and Love in Buenos Aires.

Time doesn’t exist in Buenos Aires.

Let me elaborate: It’s officially my second week in Buenos Aires, and I feel like I’ve been here for one really, really, really long day.

The days blend together simply because Argentines aren’t in a hurry. They are some of the most laid back people I have ever met—also some of the hardest to understand and the most good looking. They are easy going, unstressed, and carelessly free in their daily doings. This makes the city much slower paced than, say, New York or London, and you literally feel like the days run together. My daily schedule for this week has been something like this:

            Wake up around 11

            Eat “breakfast” around 2

            Hang out in the city, sit in a cafe for hours, get laughed at because of my terrible Spanish, drink Mate.

            Siesta (nap) from 6-9

            Dinner at 9:30

            Siesta till 11pm

            Catch a cab to a bar at 12

            Go to a boliche at 3, dance dance dance

            Catch a cab around 7 am.

            Sleep all day.

See what I mean? This city does sleep—just in three hour siesta increments. This makes for a happy, lazy Bryanna, but all the walking from point A to B (10 blocks here, 15 blocks there) makes me feel good about myself.

Plus I start school tomorrow!

Speaking of which, I’ll be at the University of Belgrano, a uni about 10 blocks from my apartment. The entire university is on building and I couldn’t be more excited about the location: surrounded by lots of little cafes and trees—really a lovely and lucky spot to be at University.  More updates on classes, etc. to come.

Speaking of Spanish, my fluency is just a frustrating subject at this point. My brain is telling me I’m too nervous to try and my mouth feels dysfunctional… all the while I feel like I can’t even speak adequately in English. I am beginning to think in both Spanish and English and have been journaling in Spanish. I’m beginning to understand more each day, but I feel like a two year old who cannot communicate and doesn’t have a finger to point with. I’m reaching for the cookie on the counter but no one understands what I want. If there is one thing I have learned here, it’s that language is a slow, painful process.

Some new facts about Buenos Aires that I am able to share, from personal experience (lucky me!):

           

            Tango classes are so fun.

            Salsa classes are better.

            Locals in Buenos Aires, I’m convinced, are the most beautiful people I’ve seen.

         <----   El Tigre (city outside Buenos Aires) is a breath of fresh air and w, as a lovely little place to shop, drink submarine, eat choripan, and see the Buenos Aires skyline—where "breathtaking" is an understatement.

            Locals in Buenos Aires know how to party.

            No one is scared to dance.

            The food is good.

            The wine is better.

            The accent is sexy.

            So are the men.

            Gas stoves are terrible, tengo mucho fear.

            The clubs play oldschool English hip-hop and the Portenos love it.

            FERNET and coke is my new thang.

            I’ve eaten too much pizza.

            And not enough steak.

            It’s freezing somedays.

            And sweat worthy the next.

            My host family is lovely.

            So are my new friends.

            I have yet to find better flan and coffee—I could live here just for the espresso.

            Things are cheaper than the US.

           

Now in a different, more sappy direction:

This blog entry has taken me longer than most, and I think it’s because Buenos Aires is making me accept the fact that travelling is something that is really difficult for me to put into writing—even in my journal. After finally realizing this (hair fallen out, nails to the nubs), I’ve come to the conclusion that it is because of the people. I thought it was writer’s block. It wasn’t.

How do you describe someone adequately in writing? It’s almost impossible. Words on a blog could never tell you how I feel about some of the people who I’ve met, been inspired by, want to help, learned something from, found out a secret about, laughed with. This journey has only been a week long so far and I couldn’t possibly list all of the people who have given me goosebumps with just a single fact about themselves or an outlook on life that I hadn’t considered before. I couldn’t explain how good it makes me feel when locals tell me that my Spanish is improving or that they are happy to have me in their country. The taxi drivers with more interesting lives than anyone gives them credit for makes me wonder how many people I will truly have the pleasure of knowing. My doorman? He’s a badass. And I don’t understand a word he says.

One thing about a language barrier: it doesn’t stop you from loving someone.

Or from trusting someone.

Daniel Booker, A good friend of mine with a really terrible British accent (shoutout to you Dan---can't wait to backpack with you in January!), told me earlier today:

“You fall in love too easy and too much.”

It’s true, but is it a problem? Perhaps. The US Embassy, my program, statistics, my mother… all want me to be scared of the people here—the dangers of the city. But somewhere inside me trusts these big arms of Buenos Aires, Argentina. Somewhere inside me trusts that sexy castellano accent that’s so difficult for me to understand. Every single bone in my body trusts that I could have an inspiring conversation with the most dangerous person in Buenos Aires, and walk away a changed person. That’s the beautiful thing about humanity—there is always hope.

So in a sense, Dan is right. Because every bit of me is in love with this place. And truthfully, no matter how many scary stories I hear, or how many people “warn” me of the dangers of Buenos Aires,  nothing will stop me from catching a cab in the middle of the night to see some really beautiful Portenos that I have recently fallen in love with.

Call it what you want, but I’ll call it love.

Besos to Buenos Aires,

And to you!  

XOXO,

B