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.