Sappy Blog Post...Very important though, do read.

This blog is officially dedicated to my home: my beloved friends (yes, that does mean YOU), my Babies who know everything important about me, my family, my amazing Mother and Father, my supportive and hilarious brother and sister, my beach, my California, my now deceased puppy dog, the list could go on.

Oh how profound cliché can be when cliché had no prior meaning in one’s life. I believe the sayings that are most popularly deemed cliché tend to relate to love, which I also believe makes the most sense. Love is the emotional state most sought after in this world, it doesn’t surprise me that the world in all its time and diversity is running short on ways in which to describe the profundity of love. The unfortunate thing is that these sayings/descriptions that are so cliché and dime-a-dozen represent something just the opposite of dime-a-dozen. They represent a fluidity in life, a harmony between people, a comfort that needs no words or fluffy pillows, the greatest source of joy and pain in this world, something that will take a human to the edge of his/her life to attain, an emotion that is desired sometimes with the same strength that it is feared, and yet we reduce such a multifaceted concept to feeble words and typical gestures (i.e. Valentine’s Day proceedings). These then become described as cliché and therefore deemed very unworthy of thought or pause in life. With phrases such as “love is everything” or “All you need is love” or “love is like a river, peaceful and deep” (first person to get that one elevates themselves 10 points on my scale of cool), the meaning of love in one’s subconscious begins to depreciate until it hits the low level of cliché.

I am guilty of the use of clichés, it’s true, because they are useful and efficient. They get the point across without having to give a speech about what you’re trying to communicate. The problem is that they cheapen the concept they describe. You start to define love through phrases like “love is everything” which would actually be quite daunting if you think about it, love is tree love is Jimmy Fallon love is my professor giving homework, therefore I tree you? Regardless, these sayings begin to roll off your tongue and down your back like water off a duck, and if you’re not careful, these generalizations will start to encompass your perspective of the thing itself. That is where I have sat for most of my life, in the seat of cliché definitions of life experiences, and that is the seat I very dearly wish to leave.

It’s not as if I have sat in this seat for all the moments in my life, there have been times where I knew the meaning of love and I knew the impossibility of trapping it into my cage of words, so I didn’t. But life is life, and we slip in and out of reality like Argentine taxi’s slip in and out of lanes. It’s easy to believe that love is what words define it to be and nothing more because it’s much more simple than grasping the reality of the entity your words try in vain to explain. The fact is, love can only be truly communicated through you and by you and a word is only the first step of expressing what love really is. A sentence is nice too, maybe even a song, a speech, a Bible verse, or a pathetic blog post; these are all very good and well intended but at the end of the day they are all just echoes down the corridors of your memory.

Love is more than this; love is more than an echo in a memory, more than a word or a letter dripping with sentiment. Love is a constant, an enigma that traverses this world heedless to roads, oceans, relationships, political correctness, guns or poverty. It is the most dangerous and reckless rebel yet the safest and most secure servant the world has ever known. It is beautiful because it cannot be trapped or tamed, it can only be held…

How ironic am I right now, trying to fit love into words when the whole point of this entry was to refute that process. No matter, it’s written and that’s that. I started writing this about a month ago with the original intent of explaining how much I miss my home and what new value I have placed on home. And just to be clear, this entry was not inspired by any boy nor is it designated for any boy, this is just one more attempt of mine to write out the movement of my heart.

Dear LA Drivers: You've got nothing on me.

I'm not scared of your horns, your death looks, your curses, your lack of blinkers, your ignorance of blinkers, your rapid lane changing, your sudden stops, your big shiny cars or your even bigger egos. I will no longer cry when I am forced to pass through your grossly overpopulated highways on my way to and from San Diego. I will still complain about your unfathomable amount of traffic, but I will revel in the organization of the traffic, the respect of lanes, the practical use of police officers, the fact that police officers actually mean something, and the fact that annoying as pedestrians are, they are still not a target nor a nuisance to be crushed under your wheel.

I write to you today because I faced a monster more terrifying and insane than you, I faced the streets of Buenos Aires. Compared with BA, you are suburban drivers cruising the residential streets of San Ramon (FYI it's a city in the north of CA, I know many of you would scoff at driving to that land) attentive to all the speed limits, signs and lights.

I drove in Buenos Aires, and I loved it. After driving a block or two I realized I didn't know what the speed limit was so I asked. My response was this: baahahahahahahahahaaaaa. I didn't encounter a street sign with the speed limit on it either, but that's probably because I was incredibly preoccupied with exactly where my car belonged and where the other cars were coming from/going to around me. Buses too, they're the worst actually. The added problem of figuring out how to navigate an infinite number of non-stop-signed intersections was quite the physics operation: if I'm approacing this intersection at 30kmph and I see a string of cars approaching the same intersection from the other direction at 40kmph and they appear about .7 km further from the intersection than I am, should I pass or let them pass? Plus, are there any suicidal pedestrians trying to step foot in the street as I pass through? And if so, how much time do I need to slam on the brakes and swirve out of the way to allow them continued life?

Let's not forget the 2 navigators screaming and pointing OPPOSITE directions to me in a mix of Spanish and attempted English corrections about 5 seconds too late. I very quickly learned the difference between 'derechO' and 'derechA' (straight, right). I also learned that you should probably listen to the much more sober owner of the HOUSE that we are trying to get to rather than the much more drunk owner of the CAR I was driving. Tough choices though. I always opt for the owner of the car, they tend to want the car in good shape the most, which means that you and the occupants of said car will end up in good shape as well.

It was an adventure to say the least, one of my favorite nights in BsAs by far. I miss driving, and it was fun driving without REAL rules for a little bit, but I'd never want it forever. Houdini, LA, SD and SR, I will be with you soon enough my loves.

Also, my spell check just highlighted EVERYTHING because it's set in spanish right now, I appologize for the abysmal spelling.

Oh The Places I've Been

It's funny the things you learn when you're abroad. Obviously I cannot speak for everyone, and I know that 'you' is far too broad, but language has it's limits so for the sake of ease and clarity 'you' will be used to replace 'me' or 'a handful/some/any quantity more than me' throughout this entry and much of my writing. As I was saying, when you're in another country you learn much more than a language, the geography of a new land, the people it holds, the customs, the streets or the classes (which by the way have been a bit of a joke), you learn you and you learn how much more there is to be learned and how much you will never know.

This is not to say you cannot learn you or the tremendous scope of lessons in this world without being abroad. I learned much of me the first year I went off to college. I learned that the people are more important than the place, I learned that over drafting really sucks, I learned how incredible coffee was and I began to learn how pointless yet valuable college is. As the years progressed and especially once I reached my upper division classes I was introduced to the indescribable frustration at the fact that one will never understand everything, that it is impossible to understand everything, that some things are so beyond reason that to understand them means insanity yet come next midterm or paper I will be held accountable for the everything I couldn't possibly understand. This is the futility and value of college in one: knowing you don't know but finding a way to prove you know. Chamuyar.

This is all very good and well, and if I hadn't gone abroad these lessons alone would be more than sufficient; but I did go abroad, I am abroad, and this world is now one country more real to me. This world is huge yet it is small; the people are different yet they are the same. That sentence is what some people call 'art' or 'poetry' but what I tend to call 'bullshit'. It is indirect nonsense that some hopelessly loony people write to come across as mysterious and deep when they're in fact lazy and inarticulate. They write nonsense like 'my heart is warm yet it is cold' and leave you with the chore of deciphering their depth and profundity when really all they meant was 'I'm very confused because sometimes I love, but sometimes it hurts, and sometimes they happen at the same time'. So allow me to save you the drudgery of unearthing the meaning behind my incredibly profound statement by explaining it myself. (If only Emerson or Steinbeck did me this courtesy 11th grade would have been so much more simple)

So, the sentence went: this world is huge yet it is small, the people are different yet they are the same. It's not that profound; so do not be offended by my unnecessary explanation. It's not that I don't think you (this you is referring to you personally, not those that haven learned lessons abroad) can't figure it out, I only wish to welcome you to my very own brain and what thoughts are passing through it. Ok, for real now, I'm getting to the topic, mil disculpes.

WHAT I MEANT: This world is literally huge, there are many miles, kilometers, seas, lands, however you choose to measure distance, there is a lot of it in this world. There's lot's of depth and height too, especially if you include those terrifying trenches near Japan, Earth is incomprehensively large. Good thing we don't live on Saturn or Jupiter, how much more distance we would have to cross!! Plus all those moons? oi. Also, with all this space, distance depth and height, and diversity in geography there is bound to be vast diversity in the people and culture of this world. This generally goes without saying, it's something we learn in books and it's something we hear the intellectual types tell us, so me saying it is just another drop in the bucket, but it's because I am seeing it that I say it. It's because I experience this difference everyday, and even stranger yet, the difference I once saw is becoming progressively normal; YOU are becoming the different ones now. They speak a different language that is also becoming progressively normal, they wear clothes that are different (and some clothing I prefer to remain different thank you very much US designers), they drive differently, they learn different things, the list of differences goes on, I don't have the patience to continue.

This world is small because the means of communication is flattening. I can communicate with YOU right now with no more than a second delay if there exists a delay at all. I can see pictures of YOU right now if I choose, and not just the ones I brought, but the ones someone took of YOU yesterday and posted today. I can find somebody here who knows YOU, or someone you knows someone who knows YOU, or someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows YOU. Ask me anyone and I will be able to connect myself to them through the people I know here. Promise. Also, I'm in Argentina, yet here I am at Starbucks sipping on an iced mocha snacking on a bagel while I blog on my Mac. Same world. The people are the same because they are people, they still breathe oxygen and drink water, and though they may have different ways of searching, what they search for is still the same: love and acceptance. They're a bit rougher around the edges with a more inward focus, but that very well may be the big city influence.

Anyhow, that's basically it for now. My computer is dying, I have no Internet at house, and I want to get on with my day right now. Hope you enjoyed! Sorry these have been so far between! I love you all and miss you all as well.

Thong Thieves

So it's been quite some time since my last blog. I can't quite think of what to blog about, or rather which to blog about. I suppose the easiest thing to do is to start with now and work my way backwards, it's a little mind blowing but I have faith you can keep up. Laundry. Yes, this one will be about laundry and it's going to start with a sentence that a the dream of every hard working mother:

I miss doing my own laundry. And just to be absolutely clear, I've been doing my own laundry since middle school so it hasn't really been too much of a burden on my mother anyhow (although, the folding of the laundry is a whole other story), but mother or no mother, I miss doing my own laundry. I have diagnosed this new atypical desire as a mid-grade to serious side-affect of the loss of independence I have experienced here. Desires for McDonald's and Starbucks, desires to drive, desires to scream English phrases at people whom you know won't understand it just to feel competent in one language; these are all fairly mild side-affects of loss of independence. Serious side-affects include the indifference felt at almost being mowed down by a motorcycle and the overwhelming desire to spontaneously explode whenever dealing with any type of institution or business here. But those are all different stories, all of which I don't care to divulge at this point, what I'm experiencing right now is the mid-grade side-affect of desiring my own washer dryer to do my own laundry. Allow me to explain.

Dryers have gone extinct here and can only be found in captivity. It's extremely tragic, I'm not sure when it happened or when it did, it may have even been a case of an introduced species gone extinct, but the fact remains that they are only seen and bred in captivity. The most heart breaking part of it all is that, not unlike other captivated objects and beings, these dryers have lost the ability to function in the wild and have become fully dependent on their care-takers and the environment of the habitation. As such, over time they have lost the incredible diversity that can be observed in wild dryers and have regressed to their basic, savage state. They have become far inferior to their Northern American relatives who have evolved and developed dials for tumble preferences, heat settings and timed drying. God bless the Lavanderias for taking care of these pitiable creatures for they would surely perish in the wild.

Now, though I may sometimes claim to be somewhat of a philanthropist or at least carry the signs of being one, my philanthropy has it's limits, and these poor dryers are outside it's limits. Whatever clothes I had that I thought were shrunk before I came here had no idea what it meant to be shrunk. I have a few articles of clothing that I may just gift to my cousin in the 6th grade, but even then they may be too small, maybe Hannah will want them! At least I hope it's the dryers, maybe I ate too many empanadas and they all went to my shoulders. 

The most vexing thing about not doing your own laundry besides the atomic dryers is the amount of trust you must put into these people handling your laundry. The first week I was here I realized I didn't bring enough underwear (don't ask how that happened, I don't know) so I went out and bought a few extra pairs that I was really excited about. Obviously they need to be washed first, so I took them to the closest lavanderia and anxiously waited to pick them up the next day. I couldn't wait, I took the bags up to my room and poured out all the contents and sifted through my shirts, pants and old boring underwear in search of the new ones, to no avail. The bastard robbed me of my underwear, fun and privacy. Since then, I swear my underwear count has been slowly diminishing. An inventory is in need right now. Not to mention, the last time I went they neglected to empty my underwear bag and just tossed the thing as is into the wash and returned the bag unopened, damp contents and all. At least I know none were thieved from there! 

All this is to say, I miss doing my own laundry with my own detergent and softener that smells like me with a dryer that can dry clothes without obliterating them back to the juniors section all topped with the confidence that if some article of clothing was not in it's proper place it could probably be discovered in a roommates closet or current outfit.

I Talk Good.

I cannot communicate with any ease whatsoever. My Spanish el suckos, and the harder I try to think/speak in Spanish, the more I seem to forget how to function properly in English. It's as if one is improving at the same rate in which the other is degenerating. Maybe the degeneration is happening slightly faster than the improvement. Maybe it's all in my head. But, for example, anytime I try to think of a word that is encompassed within the word 'thing' the only word that comes to mind is 'cosa' both of which are far to vague to describe the 'thing' I would like to describe. It is very frustrating. Very. Frustrating. I have deduced through a very complex set of calculations that, both languages combined, I have regressed a good 5 or 6 years in life with regard to language. Here's an excellent example that just came to mind:

I was studying with a local Argentine, he was helping me learn new words and such. As he was quizzing me on my notecards he comes to the word 'suceder' or, to succeed. He flips it over and on the back is written 'to suceed'. He turns to me, raises one eyebrow, points to the word and gives me a very doubtful look. I stare back, not quite seeing what the problem was. He asks me to say the word, so I do "to succeed!" "Falta un c?" "mmmm, no. I don't think so...wait..maybe" "Maybe I help you with your English too?"

Other words like 'make' and 'having' have started to replace the wrong words. por ejemplo: I'm having nervous right now, or, I make it now, that gives me scared, or something along those lines. I've never actually said those out loud, por suerte, but they've been on the tip of my tongue on occasions.

Tales From the End of the World

Boring Brief Recap:

After much tears and cursing of Argentina, I finally got a flight to El Calafate for Sunday morning. The reason for the tears and cursing were essentially out of extreme frustration after 3 days of hassling with travel companies and airlines. I arrived in this expansive rain shadow of the Andes and settled into my hostel, America Del Sur. I highly recommend this hostel to anyone visiting El Calafate. I met some fun Australians, ate lots of ice cream with them and was taught by on that the North Face zip up I was wearing was in fact derived from oil. One of my most mind-blowing lessons thus far in this far off land.  The next day Trisha, Marisa and I hiked a glacier (Elena did the more adventurous glacier) and drank scotch on the rocks on the glacier. Rocks compliments of Glacier Moreno himself.  The next day we all rode horses around Lago Argentina which was a hilarious adventure, but then Trisha  got mega bit by some Italian guy's horse.

And then there was Ushuaia.

Ushuaia is beyond words for me....and here I go trying to fit it into words:

As the plane descended amongst the Andes to land on a finger of land stretching into the Beagle Channel, I was filled with a calming euphoria. It was the same feeling I used to get during my freshman year of college when after 7 or more hours of driving 5 North, my car finally emerges through the hills and into Livermore area on 580West knowing home was within reach. The same feeling I would get after being in college for a year flying back into San Diego, seeing the San Diego Bay beneath me and the downtown houses rushing further and further upwards into the belly of my Southwest plane before landing in the comfort and security of loving friends in an incomparably wonderful city.  This was the feeling I experienced upon my arrival in Ushuaia and it persisted until it was replaced by regret and apprehension as I entered my taxi to take me back to the airport 3 days later.

I knew nobody, I could hardly communicate with anyone and the streets were unfamiliar, but that doesn't matter; you don't need a map to know you are home. I dropped my bags in my room and promptly walked three blocks south and four blocks east to the doormat of my home: the ocean. The fresh air with a hint of seaweed, the sun reflecting off the water, the distant and non intrusive sounds of water lapping on the rocks and boats clinking against the the subtle movement of the water, the people slowly walking past, some pausing to gaze over the ocean; these are all familiar enough to make my heart beat slower as it does at Sunset Cliffs, Santa Cruz, Half Moon Bay, San Francisco, Newport, Pismo, Montaña de Oro, La Jolla Shores, the list goes on. If I lifted my gaze at all and took a full look around, I would see nothing but Andes mountains and the quaint town of Ushuaia, far from the rush and clamour of city life. What I did there didn't matter. I could walk with penguins, sail to the lighthouse, listen to seals barking or just sit there on my bench before the ocean and be perfectly content with life.

In the end, I did all of the above mentioned and wandered around El Parque Nacional de Tierra del Fuego with Trisha until we reached the end of the highway that connects Ushuaia to Alaska. It rained a bit while we were there, I was able to watch the sun rise over the water and set behind the mountains, I laughed until I cried, I made myself an iced coffee and sipped on it while I journalled and I met fun new people that I will probably never see again. This was home.

Living Room lovers-this one's for you

Two blogs in one day?? What a loser! She must not have any friends....*sobs*

This is a rather brief story, I do believe my good friends Nsh, Sarah, Jaime, Stacey and Graden if he even knows I have a blog will appreciate this at the very least.

As I was walking out the front doors of good ol Universidad del Belgrano with my friend Kelly (who, if she's not sick of my obsession with my beautiful home, she will be soon) when my eyes spotted a fool-proof sign of home in the near distance: A LIVING ROOM SHIRT!!! I was filled with blind euphoria, didn't quite calculate my actions, and ended up pointing in his direction with a goofy/crazy smile pasted to my face as I approached him. The approach was a good 20 yards mind you. He didn't see me until I was basically on top of him and in my great excitement all I could utter was "You!" as I pointed to the shirt. I finally got out "are you from SD???" I was so excited, I couldn't wait to bond with someone over something so dear to me, just seeing the emblem got me all warm and fuzzy inside. To my dismay, he replies "no, I was just on vacation, I went to TJ and on my way up I stopped here." I should have known, below the familiar picture of a punk boy and a old grandma was written 'Old Town'. Clearly tourist. I tried to explain to him my relationship with the shop to try and cover for the crazy way I had acted. I don't think it worked, he thinks I'm insane. I'm pretty sure Kelly does too as she was witness to the whole thing.