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.

¿Qué?

When I was in my early years, my family would make many trips down to our local pool for swim lessons or swim team practice or for general summer fun. My sister and I used to play a game we named "Tea party" when we got bored. It went like this: one of us would think of a word or phrase, both of us would then submerge to sit on the bottom of the pool for the tea party. Then, the one who thought of the brilliant word or phrase would say it and the other would be faced with the challenge of deciphering the words between the mess of bubbles and muffled phonetics. We would resurface and submerge, one grinning in victory the other furrowed in determination until the word was either guessed or the opponent decided it was their turn to befuddle and consented to forfeit in order to welcome their turn. It was a brilliant and complex game only suited for the cunning minds that created such a novel game. At least it succeeded in entertaining us until it was our turn for our swim lesson.

I feel as though I am playing that game once more, thirteen years later as a big girl in Buenos Aires. This time, the game is much more clever and is played by everyone you meet anywhere. The most innovating improvement that has been made on this game is the replacement of an entire country for the pool. You and your schoolmates are the only contenders in this dry sea of opponents. It goes something like this:

Round 1: The Phone Store

It's day 2 and I'm phoneless in a foreign place; absolutely unacceptable.  I ask a guard at the local mall if there's a Claro store nearby. He replys "shshsshhhh rrrrshrrrr shsh." mmmhmmm, is that so? I manage to follow his hand signals and find the store. I approach the counter, "rrrrrshhhhh rrr rrrrrrshsh." " I'm sorry, ¿qué?" "You are Yankee?" "sí" "I speak some English" "Thank you, and I'm sorry." I succeed in getting the phone through broken language and much writing of names, numbers and directions. 

Me: 1/2 Argentina: 1/2

Round 2: The Café

It's been a week now and I have yet to try one of Buenos Aires' infamous cafés which is just blasphemy in anyway you can think of. I go with a group of friends after class one day to study and soak up some coffee culture while enjoying some fresh espresso. I approach the counter: fail 1. People don't order at the counter, you sit and wait to be served. I sit and wait. The waitress comes, "Hola, shhshshshshrr ¿r rrrrr?" I give her a blank and rather helpless look with slightly upturn eyebrows and big eyes, it's become quite the habit now I must admit, and simply point to what I want.

Me: 1/2 Argentina: 2 1/2

Round 3: The Home

No need to divulge too much on this round, I always win. Susana y Raul speak slow for me, therefore the sshhhh's and rrrr's begin to take form and turn into "¿Qué querés comer?" o "Ayer, yo comprí el pollo y cebollo y sshhhh sh shrrrrrrr" "Más despacio, por favor..." So I suppose it's not always a victory, but for my own self confidence, I'm counting it.

Me:1 1/2 Argentina: 2 1/2

Round 4: La Bruja

"PPHSSSHHHSHSHSHS RRRRRRAWWRRRRSHSHS" "¿Qué?" CRACK POOF CRASH

Me: -117 Argentina:Winning by a lot

Round 5: The Taxi

I will spare you reader from the details as I have already informed you of my difficulties with the taxis. The only redemption is actually talking to the driver. I have yet to fail to communicate my streets nor pay him the decided price. It helps that there are little blinking red lights that dictate my fare, but he still says it and whether it's the red numbers or my castellano, I always pay the right number. I count this as a win.

Round 6: Everywhere Else

Fail. Boys cat calling: emotionless gaze forward/up. Shopping: Sí, no, and pointing does just fine. People asking for directions: screw up your face, shrug your shoulders and add a little "lo siento" for good measure. 

I exaggerate a bit, my castellano is improving, and I can pretty successfully communicate basic needs and questions. At the very least I have hands, arms and eyes that fill in the gaps with gestures and expressions. But overall, the fails have been abundant and pretty embarrassing and continue to grow. Will keep you relatively posted on my future follies. 

Por la mañana hace sol y por la tarde llueve sapos y culebras

Buenos Aires when it rains reminds me a lot of San Diego when it rains. Neither city knows how to deal with the rain: the streets flood, cars turn into boats as they float down the messy streets, people grumble about it, and neither city gives it’s inhabitants more than a minute’s notice of when the downpour is going to start. Sometimes it will be cloudy all day and not rain a drop, whereas other days will start out beautiful, hot and sunny and end humid and flooded.

The only main difference I’ve been able to draw between the two cities in such circumstances is that San Diego has terrible drivers and when it rains, the highways and roads begin to resemble a line of ants that has just been interrupted by a twig or another such obstruction. Cars are driven up embankments, turned upside down and backwards and everyone stuffs themselves into the nearest coffee shop to take advantage of the gloomy day (whether they drink coffee or not). Buenos Aires, on the other hand, is full of drivers who are out of control insane and move between lanes like fish in the sea. Yet in all the chaos there seems to be a rhythm that beats in every car, bus and taxi that keeps everyone alive; for the most part. This rhythm of madness is uninterrupted by the rain and continues to dysfunctionally function in the rivers of the streets. It’s as if everyone has already capped out on madness that the rain couldn’t possibly make a difference.

On one of such days, I had the audacity to go outside in search of functioning internet. I was punished dearly for this folly, but not as dearly as my friend Trisha who was to meet me there. Luckily, I had the fortune of being at home before braving the storm and had full access to pants and snowboard jacket alike. I was able to protect my computer, hair and torso down to my butt from the unforgiving rain, but the rest of me got drowned. In two blocks my jeans were soaked through and I had lost my sandals twice in the rapids of the streets. I made it to the café only to discover that the storm had blown their wifi out. This was an unfortunate piece of news as the whole point of this rendezvous was to plan our spring break plans. I tried calling Trisha to tell her, but to no avail.

Just as I was explaining to the workers here that my friends weren’t coming because of the rain the door burst open and in slopped Trisha sin jacket ni umbrella. If she had told me that she had fallen into a pool on the way over, I would not have been surprised one bit. Everything on her was soaked through and the table that we were sitting at began accumulating a fairly substantial puddle underneath it. She had just come from school, and since the day awoke with beautiful weather, she was not prepared for a torrential downpour. To add to her misfortune, we had just received our orientation packets and our official police reports for our visas that day, and the rain did not fail to find those either. We began laying out all her important documents on the table to dry as I told her it was all in vain as the internet was not working. (As I type this right now on a word document at the same café, I am reminded again of the inconsistency of internet down here). Thank God Trisha was blessed with an easygoing and matter-of-fact personality and we were able to have a good laugh at the disaster of the situation.

We stayed in the café for a few hours until the rain subsided and then headed in our opposite direction. The internet still sucks and plans still have not been made.

Radio Taxis y Colectivos y Trens, oh my!

In the United States, especially in California, especially in the Bay, and especially in San Ramon it is necessary to own at least one car if you are not prepared to walk for at least an hour to any destination. It is a very vexing yet beautiful thing. It is vexing because one must spend the builk of one's earnings purchasing and paying off the car, routinely filling it's endless thirst for petroleum, and catering to its maintenance. Not to mention the constant guilt of perpetually clogging the ozone with your very own carbon emissions which is inevitably increased in oneself at the sight of one of those pretentious hybrids that do less than half the damage as your clunker/SUV does. This is all very vexing indeed but is comparable with that beautiful feeling of independence and control you get when you drive a car. Even the knowledge of possessing such a weapon of luxury can manifest within oneself this very same feeling. Your schedule is truly your own, as is your navigation of the streets, as are the passengers you carry. I have neither vexation nor independence; I have public transportation. (so vexation I do have I suppose)

I have crowded trains that are slave to the tracks they traverse on; I have colectivos (buses) that habitually travel their assigned streets and are haphazardly scheduled; I have Radio Taxis that provide endless frustration in verbal communication and I have walking; all of which I employed two nights ago to and from the Beyoncé concert in Buenos Aires.

We walked to the train station and took the train to the concert, which was all good and well, enjoyed the phenomenal show, and unbeknownst to us, began the most frustrating and helpless three hours in my short term memory. The train stops running at 1am, but with the unfounded assumption that we could find a bus or taxi should we miss the train, we stopped in at McD's for some fries and refreshment. Little did we know that Radio Taxis don't drive that far from the capital and that there was a limited supply of buses for an unending supply of people. This mixed with my incompetent Castellano was recipe for disaster.

First, we walked the wrong way in search of a bus due to my superb sense of direction. After ten to fifteen minutes of searching in vain for our bus or a taxi, we switched directions in search for said transportation. There was much crossing of streets, backtracking, tracking, and backtracking yet again until we braved calling a Radio Taxi. I say braved not because they are perilous but because of the bitter sinking feeling of being an insufferable failure at the language we study so arduously.

Not unlike our previous endeavors to return home, this was equally if not more disastrous. Marisa called one-- the lines were busy. Kelly called one-- she makes it through! I watch her walk to the corner to inform the operator of our current location and promptly return; he hung up on her. Finally I give it a go as if somehow I would communicate better or have better luck, but alas! Same end, different story. I succeeded in getting an operator, but it was all downhill from there. Apparently my 6's and 3's sound the same in Castellano, therefor a good five minutes were spent repeating my number over and over again until I discovered he spoke some English and had brief a success in my native tongue. Another five minutes were then spent repeating the cross street we were on, where we needed to go, and that we were in fact on a street corner and not in an apartment, business or whatever the hell else he was asking me. The call ended with the promise he would call back with a cab- la puta madre. Cabs don't come this far as we were informed of this by a few friends we ran into shortly after the incident.

We finally settle on a bus stop to wait for the 60 line. We see a 60 coming and there was much rejoicing. It approached at a constant speed and passed at a constant speed full to the brim with lucky patrons. Our friend informs us there's another bus stop just down the street so we begin walking in the opposite direction until we see another 60 and sprint back to the former stop only to be rejected once again by and overflowing bus. With an overwhelming feeling of defeat, we decide to take the next mystery bus; so long as it goes south it suits us fine. 203 it is.

We take the 203 to the end of its line and set out combing the streets for a taxi. Occupied taxi after occupied taxi pass us by. As I stand there, dejected and forlorn, a man behind us emits the loudest whistle I have ever heard. Having been accustomed to this savage catcall that is incredibly common on the streets of Bs As we all roll our eyes in unison. I turn in time to see him gesturing to the cab across the street going the opposite direction and then point to us.

Turns out this impertinent asshole was actually a beautiful blessing from God because two minutes later we were all packed in the said cab, listening to Tik Tok and on our way home. I entered my apartment and retired to my bed a little past 3am. The concert had ended at midnight.

Oh Houd how I miss you so!! Yes I name my cars and many other inanimate objects.

Hermione v Fleur

In California I had every comfort I could ever need, whether it be San Ramon or San Diego or anywhere in between, I had everything. I had a loving and supporting family (presumably, I still do), the best friends I could ever be blessed with, an insanely comfortable bed with all the trappings (pillow, blankets, teddy bears, etc), a car, heaps of clothes, towels, familiar shampoo and conditioner, beaches and a Target around the corner and a shopping mall just down the street if all else should fail. I have a bed and pillow (KB regrettably could not make the trip), I have clothes to get by well enough and there are plenty of shops around every corner that carry everything anyone could possibly need here in Buenos Aires. The familiar brands are gone but for a few exceptions (Suave, Billabong, BK, McD, Starbucks) but even the familiar brands carry the markings of Argentina: Spanish sans the English translation. This is all good and well because as my main goal here is to learn the language, the absence of English is very helpful indeed.

The main discomfort that this new place has provided that California never could is not the feeling of drowning in a foreign language nor is it being at the mercy of public transportation, it's the humidity. The minute I stepped out of the airport on that fateful day in January I had the immediate feeling of suffocation and promptly began sweating like an iced mocha in San Diego. Not more than a minute had passed that my bangs began to celebrate the airborn moisture, followed by my whole head of hair. I was without straightener or blow dryer for the first few days, and even after buying a straightener I believe the battle for sleek hair will never be won. I have what I like to call "adventure hair" best characterized by Ms. Hermione Granger herself. It is a bushy, poofy mess of irregular curls and waves that is tamable only by bobbi pins and headbands. The beautiful, sleek, flowing hair will only return when I return to a dryer, more bearable climate i.e. California.

Vivo Donde Vive La Bruja

This week has been fairly eventful. Allow me to begin with the story of Wednesday:

The story of Wednesday actually begins the first day I got here. After I had unpacked all 7 of my belongings, read all the sweet notes from my family (INCLUDING a packet of Holidays and fun stuff from Grandma and Grandpa which I forgot to mention, thank you very much I loved it) and got set up, Susana wanted to take me walking around the neighborhood. As we are exiting the building she pulls me close and tells me "You don talk with anyyyone here. Don say 'ello' or 'how are you', nothing because there are a some people here oo ayte people where you're from. If someone says 'buenos dia' say it back, but don answer any questions." In other words, "Welcome to your new home Kendra! People already hate you here, so lay low!"

So, with those warm fuzzies I started my life here in Buenos Aires. Wednesday comes and I go to clase, which has been really great by the way, I learn lots and come home. As I enter the building, el portero (front desk guy) alerts me that the elevators to my apartment are broken and I need to use the back elevator. He points me in the direction of the elevator with a few confusing waves and bending of fingers and I proceed onward. The back elevator is this jenky little elevator located in the back stairwell of the building and there's not much room to move or wait, and as it has to service the whole building and stop at every floor, the wait can be very long. Not 30 seconds had passed upon my arrival when an old lady with a tiny dog that looks like it had just peeled itself from the wall it ran into comes and waits for the elevator.

I try to look unapproachable so she doesn't try to talk to me, but this fails and so begins a very tense and awkward 10 minutes. She tries to talk to me and it's impossible to hide my nationality at this point: if I talk she will hear my accent and know I didn't understand a word she said (plus I would be disobeying Susana's only rule), and if I don't talk she will know I didn't understand a word she said. Silence. Another lady comes, "buenos dia!", I say it back and stare straight ahead. We all get in the elevator, they are talking about who knows what and finally I make it home.

Five minutes after I return home, Susana bursts through the door and makes a beeline for me and asks "Were you jus on the elevator with a wooman with a little dog?" "...sí" "Did you say anyyything to her?? Did you say 'qué'?" "...creo que no, I just said 'buenas dia' to the other lady and that's it" "Thas it? Are you sure?? She is a WITCH! a SNAKE!" "Sí!" Susana is clearly worried and I'm feeling rather disliked and unwelcome and reaalllyy wanting to know how she knew I went on the elevator with her, so I ask. She tells me that el portero warned her that he had seen me get on the elevator with "the witch". Apparently nobody likes this woman, and she is the worst person I could have ever ran into in the building. Sweet. Susana kept repeating that she was "a weeetch!!" and told me if I ever see her again to walk the other way... Welcome home Kendra! Buenos Aires is glad to have you!

And I think I might have said qué. I haven't run into her again so far as I know.

Good Air

First I would like to say thank you to Auntie Margaret, Uncle Manny, Mom, Dad and Hayley and Hannah for all those fun encouraging notes hidden in my luggage. It made unpacking feel like Easter. Hannah, that poster you made must have taken so long! It was beautiful. And Hayley, your heart note and the picture you made were adorable, I especially liked the list of birthdays I was going to miss :) And Mom, I put that pin on my purse so you will always be with me! I miss you all so much already!

After saying farewell to San Ramon, San Francisco and the like, I arrived in the JFK airport 5 hours later to board the mother of all flights: 12 hours to Buenos Aires. Twelve hours is far too long for a flight, especially when you have a middle seat, especially when the man to your left doesn't speak a word of English and the boy to your right won't stop talking. He is fairly noteworthy, so allow me to divulge:

Steve.

I was having a somewhat pleasant somewhat awkward conversation with the girl two seats over when Steve came a claimed his seat between us. He was a younger looking Korean boy with a bit of a fidget that he took out on the TV monitor on the seat in front of him compelling it to perpetually flick between screens trying to decipher his command. He turned to the girl I had been talking to and opened his mouth to talk and much to my surprise out came rapid, native Argentine Spanish. He later told us that he was born and raised in Argentina but wants to go to MIT and wants to be fluent in English, all with a Spanish accent. I'm not saying this to be racist, I understand ones nationality can have little to no influence over what language one speaks, but this was far from anything I had ever seen or heard. It serves as a perfect example of how diverse Buenos Aires is. Anyhow, he gave us a bunch of tips on where to go and more where not to go from a local perspective...but he also hates Argentina. He also talked a lot so I finally pretended to sleep, and finally did sleep. Moving right along to my host family:

Susana y Raul.

They do not speak much English. Raul speaks English as well as I speak Spanish, and Susana can speak enough for conversations between us to be understood, what with my embarrassing and incorrect Spanish and her broken English. They are both retired and they are both very sweet. Susana has a bit of spice to her and Raul has a good humor from what I can tell, so it's perfect. He has 3 sons, one of which is in Oakland I believe and I don't know about the others. Susana has 3 daughters, one of which is in DC and the others are somewhere around Argentina. She calls one of them a "crazy hippie teacher", sounds like she'd be perfect for Berekely. And finally....

Dumas.

Dumas is an older, skinny grey cat who is a bit of an attention whore, but he's very cute. He kept me company while I unpacked which turned into a bit of a chore when I went to fold any top with straps because, obviously, those are cat toys and needed to be dealt with as such. And he is named after the famous French author, so it's a good thing I picked up The Three Musketeers at the last minute.

The Apartment.

The apartment is on the 18th floor and overlooks the entire Buenos Aires area, which is huge. There's a train that runs right outside my window which, by the way, does not have a screen. The window, not the train. None of the windows do. I have my own room and I share a bathroom with Susana. It's very nice, but it has one of those little spray things which really weirded me out. The apartment is pretty spacious and is in a nice part of town. Susana walked me around the block and showed me all the tons of coffee shops and book stores right around the block, there's also an Irish Pub around the corner. It's very nice and well lit with a lot of people out walking their dogs or just out walking around.

Anyhow, that's all I can think of right now. It's about 1130 here and I need to get up for orientation tomorrow. I love you all!!

The Final Countdown

If you want to get the real info, skip to "Here's the meat", if not, I invite you to enjoy two paragraphs of nothing.

I'm currently sitting at Peet's on Bollinger Canyon Road trying to figure out this whole blog business and what exactly to write. It's pretty embarrassing actually since I'm sitting with my back to the entire coffee shop which allows everyone who has nothing better to do watch me type a sentence then delete, type then delete, pause, type and delete, and so on and so forth (Stacey, you know what I mean). You see, I am very indecisive when I write and tend to write things that don't make sense or connect so it takes a long time to formulate a fluid thought. Plus, I like to go back and enhance my diction to make me come across as being astute. Which definitely sounds better than: "Plus, I like to go back and improve my vocabulary to make me look smarter." Luckily, most of the patrons appear rather engrossed in their affairs so I can escape their judgement for now. Except for that man who just glanced my way...beat it baldy!

Originally this post was supposed to be about how I'm leaving for a semester abroad in two days, but somehow it turned into a rambling about something totally unrelated, not unlike most of the stories I tell. You see, when I tell stories I tend to...just kidding. I'm leaving for Buenos Aires, Argentina in less than 2 days and I can't wait. Obviously, I will miss a select few of you, but I'm ready to get away from the rest of you...;) Ok, so for those of you who made it through my blog so far, thank you. I realize this is a little spacey, they're all going to be like this, I preemptively apologize.

Here's the meat:

I leave my beautiful California this Friday at noon to embark on a semester of fun and studying (ahem, studying and fun) in Buenos Aires, Argentina. That's in South America. I will be living in Belgrano with a retired couple by the names of Susana and Raul Bajdacz and I can't wait to meet them and finally figure out how to pronounce their name. They also have a cat by the name of Dumas; ah yes, it all comes together now, Dumas o menos. Clever, no? I owe it to Sarah, Nshies, Graden and a little bit of me, but more them. Anyhow, I've only lived with a cat once and it was only for a few months, maybe less, I was 4ish so I don't remember much. It's name was Neptune, it was wild, and it scratched me in my backyard on the aggregate walkway underneath the poison cherry tree when I tried to pet it. This will be interesting.