Here's to here!

Bon Bon,

Last Sunday in Cordoba. Kelsey, Josepha, Anna, and I took a bus to a little town called Jesus Maria, an hour outside the capital. When we got off the bus, it was kind of cold, and we walked around in the rain looking for the Jesuit estancia, Estancia X_____ (this is me forgetting the name of the estancia, not me nodding to gothic and old Russian literature). On the “outskirts” of town (“outskirts” because how big, I wonder, does a town have to be to have outskirts?), there was a (very small) river with farmish animals grazing along its banks, which were inclined and green. Across a rickety bridge, rising from the hill, was a giant crucifix the size of a really big crucifix. And mounted on this giant crucifix was… Can you guess it? It was Jesus. A giant Jesus. Rain streamed down Giant Jesus’s face like tears. There was no one else around, and it was a little eerie, like the beginning of a movie about exorcisms or the stigmata. Upon glimpsing the Jesus, we called upon our knowledge of The Official Rules of Wandering Around in a South American Country for guidance. Rule #219 states: “When wandering around in a South American country, you glimpse a ungodly-sized Jesus, go to it.” We go-ed. And as we trudged across the bridge—in the rain—toward Jesus, Estancia X_____ came into view, as did the gate in front of it, which was shut and locked. We immediately realized we’d been in violation of Rule #10: “Don’t forget siesta time.” Wiping rainwater off the wet sign, we read that Estancia X_____ would reopen at 15:00. It was 13:00.

Did I mention it was raining? As we swam back across the bridge toward town in search of somewhere sheltered to bide the time, Jo complained (justly) about the wetness of her flip-flopped feet. Anna coughed like a dying emphysema patient but didn’t complain (possibly because she’d lost her voice—she’d had a cold all weekend). Kelsey and I sang a Spanish version of Old McDonald Had A Farm. It started like this…

Senor Sanchez tenia un estancia
Ay ay ay ay ay
Y en esta estancia habia una vaca
Ay ay ay ay ay

… And stopped when cow was the only animal we could think of in Spanish.

Across the bridge, we came across a “bar” on a corner, which was a room barely big enough for a smattering of lawn furniture, a pool table, a TV with music videos playing, and a handful of old local men sitting around watching said music videos. We pulled two plastic tables together and ordered some pizza, milanesa, and beer (Rule #1: Drink the cerveza). Then, some children transpired and they and the old men went over to a table in the back to join the owners (a husband and wife) for a family-style asado. To numb the guilt we suddenly felt for intruding on this Sunday family time, we played a drinking game, which consisted of us taking turns around the table proposing toasts to our various traveling experiences and everyone drinking. For example:
“Here’s to Oktoberfest!” (the inspiration for our weekend trip to Cordoba, it’s the third largest Oktoberfest in the world, located in a town called Villa General Belgrano, which is about two hours outside the capital and home to a large German community because a lot of… Germans settled there after World War II).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to liter-sized beer steins!” (which we had to purchase prior to purchasing the beer at Oktoberfest in order to have something to put the beer in—BYO Beer Stein).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Hugh!” (as in Hefner, the name we gave to the proprietor of our favorite beer booth. Not only did he facially resemble his namesake, but he was also smooth and charming with the ladies, providing us with discounted and, later, free beer. I imagine it was funny watching us explain “playboy” to him in Spanish. We knew he grasped the concept when he promptly tipped his muffin-shaped chef’s hat and refilled our steins with a wink).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to mani!” (pronounced mah-NEE, it’s peanuts, which we’ve found you can pretty much get anywhere for free if you ask—and we do).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the Russian dancers!” (who performed on the Oktoberfest stage, inspiring a drinking game of their own—whenever one of them kicks, everybody drinks).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the Swing Kids!” (the Swiss jazz band that played the Glenn Miller song from the old Chips Ahoy! commercials twice).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to La Cumbrecita!” (which is the name of the “fairy tale” walking town that one of my students suggested we go see due to its fairytaleness and proximity to VGB, and not, as it turns out, a cutesy nickname for La Cumbre, which is the extreme sports town nowhere near VGB where we reserved a hostel—by the time we realized our mistake, everything in La Cumbrecita was booked—que lastima!).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to canceling three out of the four hostel reservations we made this weekend!” (in addition to the one in La Cumbre, our constantly changing plans made us cancel one in Cordoba when we thought we were going to be in a different town overnight, only to then decide we were going to stay in Cordoba after all and book a different hostel, which we all but stormed out of shortly after checking in when we realized that, rather than being in a bedroom, we were actually on the other side of, not a wall, but a screen, from the common room, where there was apparently a dance party happening when we were trying to sleep at 2am. It was so loud that when we called Nacho, a friend of a friend who lives in Cordoba, para pedir to sleep on his floor, we had to shout into the phone while plugging our non-phone-side ear with our finger).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to arguing with the guy at the fourth hostel!” (who tried to charge us 35 pesos per person though the rate we’d booked online was 25 pesos—we won).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to being those Americans!”
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Nacho!” (for going to sleep at a friend’s house to make room for us to sleep in his apartment).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Nacho Dos!” (Nacho’s friend named Nacho).
Everybody drinks. At this point, we ran out of beer. One of the owners (wife) noticed and said, “Las Chicas necesitan mas cerveza.” When she brought it to us, we asked her for some mani, which she also brought to us.
“Here’s to this place!” (come in, she said, I’ll give you, shelter from the storm…)
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to this weekend and changing every single plan we made!”
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to Uruguay!” (where we went for two days in September to renew our visas, which must be done every 90 days by leaving the country—a trip that was also poorly planned, as in, our plan was “let’s go get a boat to Colonia del Sacramento and when we get there find a place to stay and something to do,” which worked fine in Colonia, where there are exactly four things to do—and we successfully did them all, which in retrospect perhaps gave us a cocky, blasé attitude toward the necessity of actually planning future trips).
Everybody drinks.
“While we’re on the topic of Uruguay, here’s to the bikes!” (which were lent to us by our hostel free of charge, except for a deposit, which was worth more than the bikes, which didn’t have brakes but did have broken seats and flat tires).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the bullfighting stadium!” (where we rode our bikes 5km along the Rio de la Plata, the widest river in the world and the 1-hour-Buquebus-boatride barrier between Uruguay and Buenos Aires. When we got to the stadium, which was of an estimated similar age and condition to our bikes, there was a barbed wire fence blocking us from the crumbling edifice. Not far from a gate, which we presumed locked, we spied a large hole in the fence, which we climbed through WITH our bikes so as to prevent them from being stolen. Some passersby saw us and warned us to be careful. “Why? Are we going to get arrested?” we asked. “No,” they said, “but the building might fall on your head.” What silly Americans we are for fearing breaking the rules—this is South America, after all, there are no rules—when there are large chunks of breaking concrete to fear. Well, the stadium didn’t collapse and bury us alive, and as we were heading back to the hole in the fence, a tour bus was stopped and unloading and someone came over and opened the gate).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the horses!” (which we rode on the beach next to the river).
Everybody drinks.
“Here’s to the lighthouse!” (built inside the ruins of a 17th century convent in the historic quarter of the city).
Everybody drinks.

Those are just a few examples. You get the point.

Well, after lunch, the rain let up and we made it to the estancia, which had some Jesusy things and a room with a spoon collection. Before heading back to the capital, we picked up some local wine and alfajores (which Cordoba is famous for) as a thank you for Nacho, who we met up with briefly to bid farewell before heading to the omnibus terminal. Then we were just one overnight bus ride with a very loudly snoring man away from home.

I got dumped and robbed on Saturday. Then I went to see La Chihuahua de Beverly Hills, which was dubbed in Spanish and really, quite terribly, very awful.

I drew a picture:



Here’s to here!

Saaaaaaaaandy

P.S. Everybody drinks.

tengo pocos ganas de hacer cosas

Dear Candy,

I’m sorry to keep you waiting (with breath abated, no?), but I was off helping Sarah Palin defend Alaska from Russian invaders. Thankfully, the situation now seems to be under control.

Back in Buenos Aires, I've been thinking a good deal about these deliverymen who deliver bread, who balance giant baskets of bread on their head. They’re beauty and they’re grace. I think that deep down, what they really care about is world peace, but they’re ill about this situation they’ve been put in, this situation that involves them having to balance genuinely enormous baskets of bread on their head and sometimes ride a bicycle at the same time. I think perhaps some of them don’t have any bread to eat themselves.

If elected, I will feed all the starving children without maps. I never meant to become one of these women who only ever picked up a book to balance it on her head, but. Well.

I’ve got this story I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s a mystery about the only living descendant of Jesus. She’s a monkey. The question of her existence is causing problems for some people.

You know, I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I’ve decided the root of our problems lies in opposable thumbs. I am opposed to opposable thumbs. Life would be a whole lot funnier if we all went around trying to pick things up with our paws. And less violent—imagine trying to hold a gun with your paw. Or a machete. Yes, if you want to know where I stand, I am for world peace and opposed to opposable thumbs. Let’s party.

(I’m afraid I’m showing early symptoms of turning into a Deep Thought by Jack Handy.)

A while back, I hosted a TEFL happy hour in my new apartment, which is very much big enough to host a happy hour and has parquet and wainscoting and a balcony off my bedroom. We made a little cow and fetched as many empty beer bottles as we could carry from under the sink in the kitchen and took them downstairs to the Chinese grocer, where we exchanged them for full beer bottles, and for less than 100 pesos we were able to get more than ten people quite happy. Once we were good and happy, we went to hear a funk band play at a bar in Palermo, where Juantastic and I danced all night. No one else wanted to dance, except for Shakira, who kept trying to cut in. Maybe I should have been embarrassed to be the only ones dancing, but that’s the good thing about being in a foreign country where no one will recognize you as that girl who was dancing with the old guy and his dog.

I brought this pair of black flats down here with me and was wearing them everywhere until there was a hole in the sole of the right one. My first reaction was to wonder if I walk lopsidedly, or if my right leg is longer than my left leg. My second reaction was to buy a new pair of black flats. Up until this point, I had been walking nearly everywhere, fearful of the labyrinthine collectivo (bus) system and indignant towards the less-than-convenient Subte (though a fan of the light blue A line, with its old cars and doors that must be opened manually; it’s fun to watch an over-eager businessman type passenger—preferably in a suit or a V-neck sweater over an oxford shirt because to me it is preferable that all men wear those—open the door before the train has come to a complete stop and fall on his face. It is even more fun to step over him).

Well, I got these new shoes that caused these truly titanic blisters to form on the back of my heels, and I was forced to either spend all my money buying all of the bandaids in South America or learn how to take the bus (90 centavos per ride). I bought a “Guia T.”



First, you look up your departure address in the index in the front. This will direct you to a map and coordinates. The coordinates on the map correspond with bus lines that stop at those coordinates. These are listed on the page opposite the map. Note the bus numbers for your departure coordinates. Next, look up your arrival address in the index in the front and find the coordinates and corresponding bus lines for your arrival address. If any of the bus lines are the same, you can take them from your departure address to your arrival address (if not, then you become frustrated). Next, turn to the back of the Guia T, where you will find a list of bus lines with the streets that they stop on. Find the appropriate street within your coordinates and go there. Walk up and down it until you find the bus stop. I know it sounds complicated, and it is. But often you will find lines that pick you up within five blocks of your departure address and drop you off within five blocks of your arrival address. Lots of page turning and very little walking.

I suppose now would be an appropriate time to mention that the food here comes in three varieties: dulce de leche (which I won’t deny sometimes eating straight from the tub with a big spoon), fried meat, and ham and cheese croissant. Now, while this diet may have been the direct cause of the heart attack I had yesterday, its visible* (*important) effects had been kept to a minimum with all the walking, which, in case you forgot, had been vastly reduced due to titanic blisters, which I got because I did too much walking in the old shoes and had to buy new shoes. In other words, if I hadn’t been doing so much goddamn walking, I would still be able to be doing a lot of walking. But, well. The logical solution: eat better. My solution: ignore the nagging, self-diagnosed stress fracture in my left foot (which is somehow more tolerable than the blisters and perhaps also related to the same lopsided walking that caused a hole to form in my right shoe? The interconnectedness of things astounds me)—I took up running laps around the Plaza del Congreso, which is a block from my apartment.

Now, it’s not unfair to say that the Plaza del Congreso is not the nicest plaza in BA. Nearly all the buses pass through it, billowing plumes of black smoke in their wake. It is also heavily trafficked by what Anna calls the Buenos Aires “crotch rockets,” which are definitively NOT motorcycles, but rather screeching-demon-from-Hell excuses for vehicles. They are completely tiny and absolutely deafening. They are the Napoleon Complex of the transportation psyche.

But it’s a block from my apartment and people go there with their dogs, which I like, so I go. I am especially fond of one woman who walks her large husky while carrying her small husky puppy. One day as I ran past, the large husky tried to jump on me, which I thought was cute and made me smile. But this woman, who was yanked off balance and almost dropped her small husky puppy, did not seem to find it as adorable. I’m pretty sure she snarled at me.

Like any rightful plaza, my plaza is filled with pigeons (palomas). These porteno pigeons are entirely unafraid of people, who tend to let them swarm all over them like zombies while their children feed them the corn that they get from the vendors with signs that say "maiz para las palomas." Now, if people want to be covered in flying rats, that’s their prerogative, right? Well, it gets personal when these groups of pigeons refuse to scatter and fly out of the way as I approach them. Instead, they attempt to outrun me. This is not only annoying, but also just doesn’t work. Though I hate them, I can’t bring myself to step on them or kick them. So I’ve developed this wild arm-flailing “shoo!” motion that seems to do the trick, mas o menos. Anyway, I really hate these pigeons and I blame inflation for people resorting to this relatively inexpensive pastime. Bueno. To recap: pigeons are gross. They’re like rats with wings. Truly terrifying.

I have a new guitar teacher. His name is Juan. I met him through couchsurfing.com, and one night I dragged Anna out to meet him and his friends Bruno and Emilio. We sat around until 4 a.m. drinking Fernet and Coke and playing guitars (I can still only play “Me and Bobby McGee” and the lead-in to “Redemption Song”). When Juan asked us what we’d done in BA so far, we told him about some of the bars we’d gone to (Teatro, La Cigale—where on a Tuesday night you can go and be sure to get groped by up to several French men).
“I don’t remember the names of most of the places,” I said. “For example, the other night we went to hear this cool funk band play somewhere in Palermo.”
“Where in Palermo?” he said.
“I’m not sure… close to Teatro?”
“Was there a tuba player?”
“Hmm… I think so.”
“Did he have kind of big hair?”
“Yes, yes, I think that’s him. Do you know the band?”
“You were dancing with a sort of old man with a dog, no?”
“Oh my god.”
“I remember you. You were famous that night.”
And that’s the story of how I learned it’s never safe to be the only ones dancing.

Juan’s middle name is Ignacio. Juani’s middle name is Ignacio. One of my students showed me pictures of her two sons: “This one is Juan Martin,” she said. “And this one is Juan Ignacio.” She has two sons named Juan. “I have two sons named Juan,” she said. I’m beginning to feel like whatsherface in Goodfellas, when she notes that all the men are named Paul or Pauly. If only Ray Liotta were here...

Un beso,
Sandy

9/2 Skype call notes

1. Airplanes

• ~18 hours each way. budget 1 day for travel in each direction
• fly airmexicana; look on travelocity or orbitz for tickets

2. Sandy will need to make a shopping list for Candy, to include sexy grandma shoes, unless the return policy is less than duration of trip.

3. Next steps Argentina

1. Set a date for Candy to get plane tickets: October 21st.
2. Candy talks to her boss about taking off February 16th-27th, (traveling February 14th-29th), sometime this week but not tomorrow.
3. By September 19th, we each have an annotated list of 3 places we want to go. Guidelines:

- Length: between .5-1 pages.
- Activities should take place between the 15th and the 28th.
- A rainforest must be included. Rafting is preferable.
- Tentative itinerary: 1-2 days in Buenes Aires, a few days each going to a different place in Argentina/Chile/Peru, and almost a whole week in Brazil at the beach, in Rio, at Carnival, and 1-2 days in Buenes Aires at the end.
- There will be NO collaboration with each other on this project and all research must be kept confidential until the 19th.

4. Candy should not watch City of God.

5. Juantastic is Sandy's real friend, Juanathon is Sandy's imaginary friend.

6. Juan Ignacio is a popular name for people Sandy knows.

7. Candy should not blog when drunk and should think about editing her posts after writing them.

8. Sandy can sing like Tom Waits.

9. Weekly skype calls are encouraged. (Candy is home by 10 EST/11 Argentina time on Wednesdays, 9 EST/10 Argentina time on Tuesdays, a miserable wench on Mondays, and sometimes allowed to have fun on Thursdays. Wednesday and Tuesday are the best nights for me).

10. Candy loves Sandy!

Damelo! (Give it to me!)

Dear Candy,

It’s been a while since I wrote. Disculpame. All these things keep happening and I keep thinking, “I need to tell Candy about this!” and then I keep not telling you about them and now they’ve piled up into this huge pile and I don’t know where to begin. So, themes:

{Theme: The name Juan.}

I haven’t seen much of Juan or Juani lately, but I have been spending quite a bit of time with my new dear friend Juantastic. One of the volunteer students from the TEFL course (a component of the class was practice teaching sessions), Juantastic (referred to as such because when I saved his phone number in my phone, I had too many Juans—other people liked it, and it’s stuck) is a 58-year-old filmmaker of sorts (for unknown reasons he sometimes introduces himself as Tati, after the French comedic filmmaker Jacques Tati, which contributed to the formation of “Juantastic”), has lived all over the world (but currently with his mother in BA), and speaks bits and pieces of many languages, all at the same time. This makes him almost as hard to understand in English as in Spanish. Presumably, he is Argentine, though vaguely black and, depending on the day, he will tell you he is “from” Zaire, Brazil, Paraguay, France, or Switzerland. His stories include, but are certainly not limited to: the time he proposed marriage to Princess Diana at a nightclub in Italy, his close friendship with Charlie Chaplin or one of his wives, and where he got his black-and-white-checkered flannel shirt (“chemise,” he says) that is identical to my black-and-white-checkered flannel shirt and why he failed to wear it on the day we designated as our twin day. When questioned on the trueness of Juantastic’s tales, K assured us that bits and pieces of all of them (but all of none of them) are true.

Juantastic has a car, which he refers to interchangeably as “The Porsche” or “The Ferrari.” The rear passenger side door doesn’t open, and the front passenger side door must be opened from the inside because the outside has no handle. The backseat slides around, and there is a constant and overwhelming reek of fume. I didn’t check, but I believe there is also a hole in the floor in front of the driver’s seat through which Juan sticks his feet and runs to make the car move. One evening after class, a few of us TEFLers decided to journey to K’s house in the “suburbs” (think the Bronx, not Westchester) for some wine, Tango, and pizza. “It is good thing I bring the Ferrari today,” Juantastic said, as K, Raymi, and Anna positioned themselves on the oscillating backseat and I climbed into the front with Juantastic’s Bernese Mountain Dog, Shakira. Riding in a car with Juantastic is never not an adventure. As a general rule, he doesn’t recognize red lights or one-way signs, and on the return trip from K’s, he all but came to a complete stop in the middle of a busy street, so that we could observe the policemen beating some (apparent) drug dealers on the sidewalk.


{Theme: Places that used to be theaters and are now other things.}

A while back, Juan (the younger) took me to the bookstore El Ateneo, which used to be the theater The Grand Splendid. It is grand and splendid and everything that literature and theater ought to be (Juan used the word “classic”). It has billowing crimson curtains and a soaring ceiling painted with angels and things that fly, and you can curl up with a potential purchase in a box seat. Juan and I sipped espressos while a tuxedoed man played the piano in the café that was once the stage where such Tango legends as Carlos Gardel performed. Reciting Spanish sentences amidst all this splendor and grandness, I felt a bit like I was acting a part myself.

There is a club/bar here on the outskirts of Palermo that also used to be a theater, aptly named Teatro, where I attended an “underground,” or “indie” (read: hipster) fiesta called Bubumara, at which I was introduced to a local band that made me think of both the Moldy Peaches and Gwar, though less for their sound than for their use of costumes: a keyboard-playing marionette (he wore a giant hand hat with strings that connected to his wrists), a guitar-or-bass-playing piece of popcorn, a flute and horn section (as I recall, they were shiny and striped and possibly resembled bumblebees), a man-sized iron (as in, with which to de-wrinkle clothes), and a singing/electric-banjo-playing pirate. I think there was also an accordion (if not, I wanted there to have been one—Boobie Circus, too, needs an accordion, in my opinion). I turned to Nacho, the cute history and economics student from La Plata (a city about an hour away from BA), who was standing next to me and whose name makes me think of chips and who taught me that popcorn is “pochoclo,” and with whom I later discussed French New Wave in Spanish (barely, but how proud are you of me!).

“Uh, disculpame… Conoces… Como se llama esta banda?” I said. “La Manzana Cromatica Protoplasmatica,” he said, and I said “Queeeee?” and he laughed and wrote it down for me on the back of an old Subte card. Supposedly, their lyrics are funny. Due to my current knowledge of the Spanish language (or lack thereof), I am unable to confirm or deny this claim at this time. I can, however, verify the existence of a song called “El Payaso Existencial” (“The Existential Clown”). Likewise, I can safely say that I am a fanatico of the song “Elastico.” En mi opinion, es fantastico. La Manzana Cromatica Protoplasmatica can and should be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qGNXk9FiN_E&feature=related.

Next up: the grocery store that used to be a theater. I bought some frozen broccoli.

{Theme: Bands that wear funny costumes.}

My new fashion designer friend, Raffaello, took me to see his friends’ band play the other night. The band is called Anetol Delmonte, and the show was “arbol aqui arbol alla” (tree here tree there). The band members had large tree hats, which are exactly what they sound like. They also had a dancing tree, which was really a dancing person dressed like a tree. What was stranger was the somewhat formal setting of this “recital,” which was café-esque, with tables spaced evenly apart in rows facing a stage. We sat, sharing a nice bottle of red wine (I would expect this type of music to be enjoyed while standing and drinking cheap beer, possibly out of a Styrofoam or red Solo cup). What I believe is Anetol Delmonte’s cover of a Sumo song can be viewed here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTRS0w_Vq9E&feature=related.

{Theme: Nachos (short for Ignacios and unrelated to ground beef, guacamole, or sour cream).}

An accidental peep show the other night turned into my befriending my across-the-street vecino (neighbor), Nacho the kinesiologist. It went like this: Anna and me settling down to watch Lara Croft, Tomb Raider (I’d like to say it was dubbed in Spanish, but that would be a lie). Me saying, “Che, that guy across the street is taking off his shirt.” Us watching. Him noticing. Him waving. Us waving. Later, Anna going home and him writing his gmail on a piece of paper and holding it up in the window and me not being able to read it due to lighting. Me going out on my balcony to tell him I couldn’t read it due to lighting and him opening his window to tell me to meet him downstairs. Me meeting him downstairs. Him handing me the piece of paper with his gmail written on it. Us returning to our respective apartments and gchatting. He doesn’t speak any English, which makes him, conveniently, my target audience for Spanish practice. With his kinesiological expertise and assistance, I’ve increased my Spanish body part vocabulary: espalda (back—also, his professional specialty), piernas (legs), cuello (neck), hombros (shoulders), tobillos (ankles), rodillas (knees), caderas (hips), pantorillas (calfs), rostro (face), pechos (breasts), pezon (nipple), cola (butt), cuerpo (body), exhibicionista (exhibitionist).

{Theme: I miss you!}

Lots and lots and lots of love,
Sandy

How funny that I was coming home to write about languages and saw that you beat me to it!

I had a very humorous exchange this evening at dinner with my dad, my stepmom, and her mother in SoHo. We're eating a variety of fish and discussing Solzhenitsyn when the women at the table next to us interrupt me:

"Excuse me, would you like a martini? [flattery followed. I can't repeat it here without embarrassing myself] You look like you drink martinis."

"Hi, ok, thanks!"

"Can we take a picture with you and your family?"

"...OK."

"Wow, you're American?"

"Yes, I live in New York."

"That's so great that your dad and your mother are here to visit you!" [note: they were referring to my stepmom's mother, and couldn't quite figure out where my stepmom came into this picture]

"They live in Brooklyn, too."

I took a photo with them, they took a photo of me and my family, and they continued to flatter me while I wanted to continue discussing Solzhenitsyn's critique of Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev, but such is life. It shocked me that they were so surprised to hear that I spoke fluent English. I suppose it makes sense since to that point, they had heard me speak another language (and therefore assumed I only spoke that one?), which was quite shocking to me as I usually speak 2-6 languages a week (last week involved English, Russian with the family, Spanish in the blog, Sanskrit at yoga, Japanese at Kaoru's taiko class, and I usually toss around some French even when not in the midst of a full-fledged French film series).

Having spoken 2 languages since I was 5, I find the idea of speaking only one language so foreign that I had to think for a minute about why they thought I wasn't American (Is it my wrap dress? My sexy grandma shoes? My bangs? My wine? Oh, wait, maybe it's because I'm speaking another language).

Interestingly enough, they started talking about family values and about how "dads rock" and I didn't have the heart to tell them that I come from a "broken home," and that the woman they referred to as my mother was my step-grandmother.

*****

Well, that was all I was going to write, but I also read what you wrote and feel compelled to add my thoughts on this chicken coming before the egg. Most people find it quite amusing that I have a band before I can play an instrument, but I need to be able to see the big picture before I can focus on the smaller details (in this case, learning to play an instrument). So it's pretty safe to say that I would not be learning to play an instrument if it were not for Boobie Circus. By the by, I've drafted someone to play ukelele for our cover of "Judy is a Punk." Soon enough I can start scoping out a place for us to have our first rehearsal.

*****

What did I tell you about Flight of the Conchords and beer????

*****

Hey, about our meeting in February: let's plan it! Dates and airports should come first, followed by Carnival plans. Si?

P.S.

I love the lyrics! Especially, "Brunch, you're my favorite, you kick dinner's ass!" I miss brunch. They do not believe in brunch in Argentina.

The blue and red footed boobies are pretty perfect. Somehow we should incorporate the phrase "Boobies on Parade" into an album or song title, I think. "Boobies on Parade" could be a good follow-up album to our debut self-titled album.

the rest of the backward blog

I'm in the process of translating my first Your Mama joke, but all I have so far is "Tu mama..."

Bang on, Candy, bang on.

Dear Candy

THIS IS NOT A TEST

We interrupt this program to inform you that the (Inter)National Weather Service Doppler Radar has indicated a line of severe people-renting-their-babies-to-sketchy-people-on-the-street-so-that-you-will-be-more-likely-to-pity-them-and-give-them-money-and-less-likely-to-suspect-them-of-mugging-you-and-walk-with-purpose-in-the-opposite-direction. The National Weather Service in Buenos Aires, Argentina, has issued a severe Not Their Babies Watch for the following Capital Federal barrios: La Boca, Constitucion, San Telmo, Monserrat, San Cristobal, Balvanera, San Nicolas, Retiro, Recoleta, Palermo, and Almagro. This watch will remain in effect until further notice, Eastern Standard Time plus and hour.

This throws a wrench in the Baby-Safety Ratio, to say the least. I am afraid to leave the house.

for example, come again.

Sandy, Sincerely

It struck me (like lightning, twice) that, to a traditionalist, it may seem unconventional, if not backward, to form a band before knowing how to play any instruments. But then I started thinking about what “band” really means, the word itself (band of merry men, rubber band), which, in turn, started me thinking about HOMONYMS, and then words in general. Then I started thinking about languages, specifically English because it’s the one I speak in, let alone think in—and then I got on a tangent thinking, in English, about how it’s said (passive voice) that you know you’re becoming fluent in a second language when you start thinking or dreaming in it, which has not happened to me with Spanish, unless you count the one where I was being chased by a giant ham and cheese croissant, which I was referring to, in the dream, as la medialuna con jamon y queso muy peligrosa. But I don’t think you should count that one.

Then I went back to thinking about English, which segued nicely into thinking about teaching English, which is what I’ve been spending (present perfect progressive) the last month learning how to do. By this time I had forgotten (past perfect) how I came to be thinking about teaching English and had to read the first sentence again:

“It struck me (like lightning, twice) that, to a traditionalist, it may seem unconventional, if not backward, to form a band before knowing how to play any instruments.” It’s kind of like moving to a foreign country before learning how to speak the language. Also, a little bit like walking around places backward. Both of which I have been known, on occasion, to do.

Bands and languages have quite a few things in common. For example, they both have quite a bit to do with making sounds and hearing. The less you know about them while trying to [do] them, the more likely you are to sound like an idiot. People will often tell you how great you’re doing because they feel awkward telling you you suck (of note: the difference between the pronunciation of “sucks,” “six,” and “sex” is difficult for the non-native speaker to hear, so BE CAREFUL!).

Last night, I was lucky enough (que suerte!) to get into a cab of which the conductor did not feel awkward about telling me I suck. In fact, he shamed me the entire ride for my terrible Spanish (I doubt he would have appreciated my guitar skills, either). The worst part was that my Spanish is now good enough to understand people when they’re making fun of me (also when they’re catcalling at me), but not yet good enough to talk back. No, actually, the worst part was that the whole reason I had gotten into the cab in the first place was to escape the man who had been following me home and insisting on taking me out for a cup of coffee despite the fact that I told him I didn’t speak Spanish or English. (It started with him chasing me down in the crosswalk as I crossed the street to avoid him and went like this: “Oy, que hermosa—” “No.” “Queres un café—?” “No.” “Hablas espanol?” “No.” “Ingles?” “No.” “But how beautiful—” “No.” “But—” “No.” “But—” “No.” But—” “Taxi!”)

Juani (with whom, I’m sort of sorry to report, formal guitar lessons have been for the time being replaced by activities like watching Flight of the Conchords clips on YouTube and consuming large bottles of beer—btw, you can return the empty bottles to the little stores here and then the next beer costs less because they refund you the price of the bottles. It’s great!) tried to convince me that, unlike in America, here, women enjoy receiving catcalls (piropos). I refused to be convinced, but it made me wonder if the men in the States are under the same misconception. If so, someone should tell them we do not.

Some notes on vocabulary: In Spain, a pija is a high-class woman. Here, it’s a cock. Related is the fact that, while in America a fanny is what your grandmother threatened to whop your mother on if she misbehaved, in other English speaking countries (I learned from my Australian roommate, Andrew), it's a vagina. Thus, Andrew thinks fanny packs are pretty funny (but not for the same reason that we think they're funny). Likewise, what we call a flip flop, Andrew calls a thong. And when his thong is very old and the piece between the toes pops out of the bottom, he might say, "There's been a blowout in my thong." But back to Spanish. I should probably point out that “embarazada” means pregnant, not embarrassed. This is called a false cognate, which is the pitfall of the adding-things-like-ada-or-o-to-the-end-of-an-English-word-to-make-it-a-Spanish-word technique, which often (usually usually) works, but in some cases can lead to confusion and embarrassment or, in the worst-case scenario, embarazo.

Abortion is illegal here, but cosmetic surgery is free.

I had my first drum class today, at which I shared my reason for taking the class: "I'm staring a band, so I have to learn to play an instrument. This is the one I want to learn." It was physically strenuous, and taxing on my abilities to relax and, at times, distinguish left from right, but on the whole thoroughly enjoyable and enlightening.

First we said some things in Japanese. Then we followed Kaoru around a circle for a while, doing various things with our arms and legs. We brought our arms up and down, and then had them hand heavy and swing from left to right in timing with our steps. When we joined this with a third step for which we had to bend backward and touch a hand to the opposite foot -- well, this will take practice. We kicked our knees up and our feet back and jogged and took a water break. I was really glad I didn't go to yoga that morning and chose to sleep in instead.

After our water break, we partnered up and had to test the extent to which the other person relaxed their arms. This is accomplished by moving the arm around, back and forth, and dropping it. The people being tested are supposed to relax their arms, though they will often help or resist their tester. My arms did both. At one point, the tester dropped my arm and it stayed in place, and Kaoru came over to try to show me how a relaxed arm is supposed to move/make fun of me.

Then we learned how to bring our arms up and bring the sticks down. The idea is that your torso does the moving and your arms follow the inertia of the rest of your body, conveying more force to the swings down (rather than using your arm to hit the drum). When this idea was applied to actually hitting the drum with the sticks (bachi), my arms became very involved and are now very sore.

*****

I asked a friend who played taiko if he thought that they could be incorporated into an indie rock band. He thinks so. He also won an award for singing karaoke in Japan (in Japanese) and I recruited him to sing some vocals in Japanese. I think Boobie Circus will be big in Japan.

*****

It has been brought to my attention that there are also blue-footed boobies. Having a circus of red and blue-footed boobies (the bird itself is white) conjures patriotic images. Something to think about.

*****

How are your guitar lessons going? I hope you have been practicing!

My Jivamukti yoga class yesterday involved chanting in Sanskrit about Krishna. I think we should have a song about Krishna, and find someone who can sing in Sanskrit for the chorus. I don't know what the song should be about because I don't actually know what I was chanting.

I listened to Sumo and I like "Mejor No Hablas de Ciertas." "Heroina" and Wolf Parade's "Modern World" serve as a good Point/Counterpoint: "I'm in love with this modern world" and "I'm not in love with the modern world," respectively.

My grandma has Worishofer sandals. She is officially a sexy grandma.

Como se dice "band progress notes?"

Dearest Gorda,

In addition to having to hold try-outs for lead singer (though so far, there is only one interested party), we have a potential song-writer (and stage performer). A sample of lyrics will follow after a brief description of the song.

The first is a song about the long arduous path my insurance claim took to getting to the post office, and how it was eventually mailed in Oneonta, NY. Celia sang it and I transcribed it in Nick's Diner of the same town. I think a tape recorder/learning to write music would be useful in getting the melody down, though I have neither of those at the moment.

The second is a song about having Eggs Benedict for lunch.

*****

Trying to go to the post office

(Chorus)
Trying to go to the post office
but I haven't made it yet
Trying to go to the post office
to mail my insurance check

(bridge)
Gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta go
never never never never never gonna go

Trying to go to the post office
but I haven't made it yet

Started in the city but I couldn't get it done,
Didn't have a stamp and the money wouldn't run

*****

Benny Benny Benny

Benny, Benny, Benny

You might be a traitor but you taste so good
I wish I could find somewhere to eat you in my hood
Brunch, you're my favorite, you kick dinner's ass

...

*****

Follow up:
The claim was mailed, and the Eggs Benedict were delicious. What do you think of the lyrics?

My first taiko drum class is this Sunday.

Idea for the cover art for our demo: red-footed boobies in a circus: one with face paint (and perhaps a few getting out of a small car), a few on trapeze, one with a beard (can we include a side show in this circus?), and of course one on stilts. As no actual boobies should be harmed in the making of this band, we will need to find a graphic designer who understands the complexity of boobie circus.

*****

I miss you! Your depiction of phonetic dialect reminiscent of Tom Wolfe, and I recommend you follow the goings on of the playa privados a la I am Charlotte Simmons. I've made peace with alternate side parking by going to Sunac to get groceries on the day I move my car (once, now, and usually a trip over the weekend). I've been meaning to ask, have you seen the walls painted by Blu?

Your amiga,
Candy

hablamanos sobre sexo, baby (por supuesto)

Hey Fatso,

Here, “Gorda/o” is a term of endearment, like “Hon" or “Sugar” or “Booger Breath,” and does not reflect the Fatso's size in any way, shape, or form. What do you think? Let's keep it. At least ironically?

* * * * *

On Friday, I met an Argentine model named Juan whose English is (dare I say it?) worse than my Spanish. We decided to exchange language lessons. I’m afraid I may be forming somewhat of a habit of arranging "lessons" with tall, dark, and alarmingly good-looking Spanish-speaking men named John. It's likely to become addictive.

* * * * *

I’ve had two ten-American-dollar-an-hour guitar lessons with Juani now at his apartment. During our first lesson, we (he) restrung my guitar and went over the names of the strings and chords, which he refers to by their Sound of Music names (do a deer a female deer re a drop of golden sun mi a name I call myself fah a long long way to run so a needle pulling thread la a note to follow so ti a drink with jam and bread and that will bring us back to do…). I also learned the Spanish words for case (estuche – mine, Juani marvelled, is “Que duro!” “How hard!”), string (cuerda), pick (pua), tight (tenso), out of tune (desafinada), to tune (afinar), fret (traste), chord (acorde), and to have a hangover (tener resaca).

Juani showed me the chords for “Creep,” by Radiohead. We sat in his living room, which was small and had brightly-colored landscapes on canvases leaning up against walls.

“Who’s the painter?” I asked.
“My father.”
“Does he live in Interiors (the provinces, where Juani is from, which makes him, he explained, not porteno)?”
“No, he lives here.”
“You live with your father?”
“Yes. And my older sister and my brother.”

It’s quite normal here, I’ve learned, to live with one’s family into one’s thirties.

As if on cue, his brother came home. He has 21 years and speaks English very good from working at a GM call center (where he assists many American callers with their car problems). He kissed me on the cheek, took a seat across the table from us, and sat there throughout the rest of the lesson, commenting on Juani’s English and eating cheese.

Before the lesson ended, Juani’s father also came home. He, too, kissed me on the cheek and told me I had a pretty name and pretty eyes.

As I was leaving, Juani’s sister emerged from another part of the apartment (apparently, she’d been there the whole time) and kissed me on the cheek.

Juani walked me out, kissed me (alas) on the cheek, and told me to sing the song while I’m practicing.

* * * * *

My TEFL teacher (I’ll call her “K”) is thirty-something with two kids and a “worthless” ex-husband. K returned from a weekend trip to Spain to inform us that her crippling fear of flying had been temporarily assuaged by her makeout session with the man sitting next to her on the plane. K also told us how, to the Argentine, there is no such thing as an inappropriate question. One might say to a friend, for example, “You’re looking a little fatter. Have you gained weight?” Over a lunch of pizza and beer with her the other day, I tried on some Argentine bluntness for size. “If it’s normal for people to live with their families until their thirty-five,” I asked, sipping my Quilmes, “then where do they go to… do things?”

And this is how I learned about something called a “playa privado,” or a private parking lot, which one rents by the hour or bi-hourly and which, K assured us, has nothing to do with the beach (playa). Informally, it’s referred to as “telo” (derived from “hotel”), and is frequented by normal, everyday, boyfriend-girlfriend type monogamous people.

* * * * *

I don’t know why it came up, but my host mother Elsa (who is pushing seventy and has lists of rules posted on her students’ bedroom doors which mandate bed-making and strictly prohibit “relaciones sexuales”) told me about something called an “amigovio/a.” This is a person who is mas que un amigo/a, pero menos que un/a novio/a. I wanted to ask her if one would accompany such a relation to a telo, but I refrained. She asked me if we had a term for this in English and to keep myself from blurting out “fuck buddy” at the dinner table, I took a deep breath and said, “friend with benefits.” Luckily, she didn’t ask me what kind of benefits.

* * * * *

Last night, I met Juan on a street corner in the rain. I was five minutes late (which in Argentine time is twenty-five minutes early). He was toting an English textbook and dictionary and teased me about getting lost. Then I followed him in a big circle to find some bar that was supposedly “just around the corner,” which we never found. I teased him about getting lost.

We went to a Mexican restaurant, where Juan practically passed out from what I considered to be some very mild salsa. I teased him some more and taught him the various meanings of the English word “pussy.” He had never heard of Negra Modelo and made me order two in Spanish. “Nos traes dos cervezas por favor” (“Bring us two beers please”).

* * * * *

Juani scheduled our second guitar lesson for a time when the apartment would be empty, so that “I can give all my attention to you and you can give all your attention to me.” When I came over, he tested me on “Creep,” scolding me for not being able to sing and strum at the same time. “You didn’t practice,” he said (I swear, Candy, I did! It’s like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time!). He took the guitar to show me what I was doing wrong. While he played, I kept looking at his face. “Look at my hands,” he said. “Sorry,” I said, but kept looking at his face. “Look at my hands,” he said. “Sorry,” I said, and looked at his hands, but not at the chords. I became fixated on the way he held the pua. Can a person have sexy thumbs? If so, Juani does.

“You’re not paying attention,” he said.
“What?” I said.

After the lesson was over, we sat drinking mate (pronounced mah-tay, it tastes sort of like green tea, but is made with loose leaves and sipped out of a straw. You’ll share one cup among friends, passing it around a circle like a joint) and talking about tango (which he hopes to play professionally once he finishes violin school). I told him how my pure roommate was aghast (I believe her words were, “Well, I never…”) at the prostitution theme of the tango show we saw at Café Tortoni (totally expensive, but I love the cavernous, stained glass ceilings, art nouveau- or deco?- mirrors, tuxedoed waiters, and chocolate espeso—dense hot chocolate, churros optional for dipping). “This place is for tourists,” he said and promised to take me to hear some “real” tango. “As for prostitutes…”

I asked him about telos, explaining that in the U.S., the only people who rent hotel rooms by the hour are with a prostitute or cheating on a spouse.
“Yes, those people go there, too,” he said.
“But also people like you... and/or me?”
“I’ll show you why,” he said, putting the mate on the table and leading me across the room through a door to the back of the apartment: a little hallway with three other doors.
“The bathroom is there,” he said, pointing to the to door on our left. He opened the door directly in front of us. Inside was a room the size of a cupboard with a twin-sized bed. “This is where my sister sleeps,” he said. “Sometimes his boyfriend sleeps here.”
“Her boyfriend,” I said.
“Her boyfriend,” he said, and opened the third door, to our right. This room was the size of two cupboards. Against one wall was another twin-sized bed. “This is where my father sleeps.” And against the opposite wall were bunk beds. “My brother and myself.”

At this point, his mother and younger sister came home. They still live in Interiors (when I asked Juani if his parents were married, he explained, “Yes, but when my father lost the pizza shop, some of us had to come to Buenos Aires”) but were in town for the older sister’s boyfriend’s completion of his biochemistry degree. They each kissed me on the cheek, then grabbed the champagne they stopped by to pick up before heading over to the school to throw raw huevos (eggs), aceite (oil), and cabbage at him as he came out of his final exam. It’s a tradition.
“Doesn’t that get smelly?” I asked Juani.
“Yes,” he said.

* * * * *

“Thank you,” I said.
“Fank you,” Juan said.
“Thank,” I said.
“Fank,” Juan said.
“Th-,” I said, pointing to my tongue.
“Th-,” Juan said.
“Good!” I said. Then he kissed me.

Then we left the Mexican restaurant and were kissing (past continuous) in the street in the rain, and by the time we stopped, his “th-“ was quite good. He started talking about where else we could go, but I got cold feet (literally—Juan scolded me for not wearing “sockets”) and went home.

* * * * *

My fake friend Juanathon told me I talk about sex too much.

I told him to go fuck himself.

* * * * *

In other news, a pigeon may or may not have peed on my face today. But I guess that can happen in any city.

Happy Trails,
Sandy

P.S. Sumo is the name of Juani’s favorite Argentine rock band, and he gave me their CD “Corpinos En La Madrugada” to listen to. Some of their songs are in English (including one called “Telefonos – White Trash”) because the singer, who was Italian, lived for a time in the U.S., where he developed a heroin habit. He moved to Argentina to stop using heroin, but started drinking and then died. Check them out. “Banderitas Y Globos” has a circusy flair to it. Me gusta "Quiero Quiero" tambien.

Moon your friends.

Dear Candy,

Feliz Dia del Amigo! In Argentina, Friend’s Day is a day for hanging out with friends one sees on a regular basis (in America, we call this “Saturday”), but also for contacting seldom-met friends, from whom one may be separated by time or space. Basically, it’s my new favorite holiday, and I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before Enrique Febbraro, the Argentine teacher, musician, and dentist (como se dice “Renaissance Man?”) who lobbied to turn the anniversary of the first lunar landing (20 July, 1969) into an international celebration of friendship. His argument: Because on this day, the whole world had been friends with Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong, and Michael Collins.

So, just as the Apollo 11 astronauts traveled through space, tonight I travel through cyberspace. In the name of friendship. And humanity. And space.

Your friend,
Sandy

To say that pedestrians aren´t granted the right of way would be an understatement...

Dear Candy,

I find walking to be a good way to orient oneself in a new city. I´ve been doing a lot of it here. Here´s what I think about it: In general, I´ve found the sidewalks, while lining lovely, sometimes cobblestoned streets of often handsomely-architectured buildings, to be quite narrow and littered with dog shit. This alone poses some challenges to the Fast-Walking New Yorker (a sub-sect of the Impatient American), as she tries to navigate around locals, who she begins to suspect are conspiring against her to be crippled, hand-holding, shoe-tying, watch-checking, cell-phone-answering, small-child-leading, long-lost-lover-greeting, or otherwise slow-moving, directly in front of her, at all times (This year, I will try to learn to take my time. ASAP). Let us add to this the fact that many intersections here don´t have traffic lights or stop signs. You can imagine what this does to one's nerves while riding in a cab, careening toward -- and just barely missing -- another (I haven´t learned the Spanish word for "yield," and I´m not sure it exists). But when you consider the unbelievable width of roads (I´ve counted up to 18 lanes of traffic!), the fact that pedestrians seem to be viewed more as targets than obstacles (especially by bus drivers), and, in instances of traffic lights, that they change not only from green to yellow to red, but also from red to yellow to green in a way that can surely only be interpreted as, "on your mark, get set, go!", you have what I´ve discovered as a pedestrian to be a truly terrifying experience. I call it "crossing the street."

Sorry about the Yoga dilemma. It was not my intention to sell you something useless and then flee the country with your money (¿Or was it? Maybe if teaching doesn´t work out, I´ll have a promising future as a con artist... or you will, as an identity thief). As for keeping a car in the Burg, I found alternate side parking took some getting used to at first (it sort of requires the same attentiveness as having a pet... not a dog, maybe, but a goldfish absolutely). After a while, though, I developed a rhythm that worked for me. And the benefits of having it to travel to such far and exotic Brooklyn locations as Spuyten Duyvil or Greenpoint, in my opinion, outweighed the inconveniences of the Monday/Thursday-Tuesday/Friday-Tuesday-Wednesday re-parking dance. I regret not leaving you my police parking pass (speaking of impersonating other people). TEFL classes started this week, and I´m excited about them. More on that later.

Today´s language lesson: Here it rains frogs instead of cats and dogs. In France, it rains ropes (there is a French chico, Didier, staying at Elsa's now, as well as the new American girl, Anna).

Salud,
Sandy

ningunas grietas del asno?

I think a graph of babies to safety is worth exploring, and applicable, with modification, to such Brooklyn spots as Park Slope (speak loudly in English and ask a lot of people where the closest free trade coffee can be found) and Williamsburg (hold tight to your iPod and walk with abstract purpose). After the correlation between babies and safety has been mapped, I think a survey of how many times "Manco" comes up in conversation is due. I'll start counting tomorrow.

I greatly enjoy updates on your Spanish lessons, as my co-workers will sometimes speak to me in Spanish because they assume that I am Hispanic and all I have is "Hola, yo no comprendo espanol. Donde estan los senors guapos?"

I pulled a really smooth move today - I had your yoga pass transferred to my name :-) I kept saying that you were in Argentina until they made an exception to the fact that the pass wasn't mine and expired in June. The class was really great, and I'll keep going on Wednesdays save for a potential trivia reunion.

I caught a glimpse of the New York City cataratas that Olafur Eliasson constructed, though I most certainly did not ride the most comfortable bus to get there. My car is proving to be more of a hassle than I'd anticipated, though it did enable me to go to Mac's show at Goodbye Blue Monday tonight with quite a bit of ease. I had to leave early because it was close to bedtime so I only caught a couple of songs. I had to refrain from texting you all day to tell you about how great it would have been for you to come to the show!


I'm so glad to hear that all is well! Simone inquired as to your well-being last night and I told her that last I had heard, you were in Argentina, alive, and that you had joined a boobie circus. The latter is a bit alarming but very understandable.

Oy carumba, I need to learn to play the drums!

P.S.

I read the itching in JFK and yes, it made me itch, too! The stuff about mirrors and phantom limbs was interesting. Here, we learned that they have a word for a person missing a hand. "Manco." I asked our friends last night how often that word comes up in conversation. So far for me, it's come up in every conversation I've had.

Como se dice "assless chaps"?

Dear Candy,

Sorry for not writing sooner. It’s been a hell of a week and a half. The flights more or less went off without a hitch. They were just very long and during my layover in B. Juarez International airport in Mexico City, I slept on the floor, which made me feel pretty homeless. I was stumped a little by the immigration card, which asked me my “purpose of entry” into Argentina. There were all these little boxes with words next to them. Was I coming for “trabajo?” Technically, I suppose that’s the end goal, but something tells me that Mr. Argentina, who won’t let foreigners have a bank account or a monthly phone plan (at some point I’ll have to get a burner and pay as I go), would be displeased with my simply informing him I am going to work in his country. I suspect he might respond with a snarky comment about my needing something called a visa, at which point I could offer him my Bank of America credito/debito (no effectivo). At this point he will either mistake me for the silly, stupid (pero linda!) American girl who just doesn’t translate and let it slide, wink and take the bribe, or, more likely, he will introduce me to his good friend, Mr. Argentine Prison. I’ve just realized that I’m still referring to an entire country as Mr. Argentina, that it makes little sense (my Spanish sucks and instead of that getting better, my English is just getting worse), and that there are future, actual run-ins with policia to my tale, so I’ll abandon this hypothetical and say, without segway (human transporter)—I did not check the “trabajo” box on the immigration card. Another box I did not check was “educacion.” I considered “salud” – indeed, one beneficiary of this trip is my mental health. But flagging myself as “crazy American” would be perhaps an unflattering introduction. “Convenciones” struck me as an intriguing option. “Otros?” I wondered if I’d have to provide a follow up, in which case, would “I hear porteno men are hot” be acceptable? Before settling on “vaccaciones,” I heeded the warning below: NOTICE – Travelers entering as “transitory” residents are not allowed to work in the country. Infringers may be declared “illegal residents” and forced to leave the national territory by a certain date. I hope I don’t get deported.

Once through customs, I followed the super-specific pick-up directions provided by my school: “We have arranged an airport pick-up for you based on the information that follows below. As you exit the baggage claim area at the International Terminal you will see the VIP Car booth on the left side, next to the “Meeting Point.” Look for the logo, which is a crown with five stars above it. The booth area is before you exit the “Arrivals Hall.” Your name should be on a sign posted in this booth. You will be asked to sign a pink voucher, which is proof that you were taken to your destination. This message will self-destruct in ten seconds.” I sat in the front seat of the cab (the porter laid my guitar across the back, leaving me little choice). The driver, Ariel kept telling me how pretty my ojos were, and I wanted to tell him to keep his ojos on the road, but I played the silly, stupid American girl who just doesn’t translate, shrugging and laughing uncomfortably when he reached over and squeezed my knee. I thought back to a guidebook that had mentioned the Argentine version of personal space (men, for example, greet each other with one kiss on the cheek). According to the guidebook, the physical-contact-wary foreigner may be made uncomfortable by the close-talking porteno. Back in the cab, I wondered where one draws the line between cultural difference and sexual predator. Suddenly we were stopped in a dark street, and I realized I had no way of knowing whether this was my host mother’s home or where cab drivers take unsuspecting American girls to do bad things to them. The suspense built. Ariel said some more Spanish things. I said “no comprendo.” He gave me his card, which had his cell phone number handwritten on it and asked if I would call him. I shrugged and laughed uncomfortably. Then my host mother, Elsa, answered the door. The next day at Spanish school orientation, they had us sign a list of safety precautions, which included bullet-point “Do not sit in the front seat of cabs” and bullet-point “Women should avoid smiling at or making eye-contact with men because they may think you are interested in forming a deeper relationship.”

There was this other girl, Kyle, staying at Elsa’s, who left this morning for Ecuador. She lived in Costa Rica for a year when she was younger and thus speaks well. We spent the entire semana y media together, and she did a lot of translating for me. This was good and bad for obvious reasons. We did a lot of fun things together, like eat pollo suprema suiza (“Chicken to the Swiss” – we also encountered delicacies like pasta a la mantequilla, translated on menus as “pasta to the butter”). Chicken to the Swiss is fried chicken under melted cheese, served with fries. One day, we took the subte the wrong way and were confused when we reached the end of the line but hadn’t passed our stop. When everyone got off, we deduced that we should, as well. Another train pulled in across the platform, and then there were two sitting there. We must have been looking quite befuddled because a man pointed and laughed at us, before explaining that both were going the same way. I decided this was subway karma for all the times I rolled my eyes at people at 8th Ave who didn’t understand that both trains go to Brooklyn.

Another thing that happens a lot is people warning us of places we shouldn’t go and then us going there. As is the norm in Argentina, there’s currently a lot going on politically and economically. Much of it has to do with inflation and taxes on soy. Workers are unhappy. The subte employees went on strike the other day, and there are a lot of protests and demonstrations in the streets, especially near Congresso. We are told these are “peligrosos” and that we should stay away. Yesterday, we stumbled across one such protest and promptly found a window seat in a nearby café and had some chicken to the Swiss.

Kyle wandered into a non-touristy neighborhood by herself one day, and someone came up behind her and told her she shouldn’t be there. If we take a picture of a funny storefront (like the one near our apartment called New York that has lots of shiny dresses in it), people will stop in the street to tell us to be careful with our camera. Bruno (the director of Linguatec, where I’m taking my Spanish classes – he’s tiny and painfully shy and I want to put him in my pocket) told us to carry a dummy wallet with only a little bit of money in it in case someone mugs us. And never, ever, have your real passport on you, everyone says, though it’s illegal here to go anywhere without documentation (identification). We carry copies, instead.

It’s been hard for us to tell whether people are being overly cautious or if it actually is worse here than in some other big city, like New York (I survived Baltimore, for crying out loud! Don’t they have El Wire here?). We’ve devised a system by which to gauge our safety in a given neighborhood. It goes like this: It stands to reason that people with babies probably won’t get mugged (yes, it does). Therefore, one’s safety is directly proportional to the number of babies in one’s vicinity. So, if we ever suspect that we should maybe fear for our lives, we stop and count babies. The more babies, the better. There is one exception to this rule: If there is only one baby, someone could have stolen it and taken it to a place where there weren’t any other babies, and we wouldn’t want to be in a place with the kind of people who steal babies. Thus, the scale: 0 babies = hold tight to your wallet and walk with purpose. 1 baby = get the hell away. 2 babies = stroll or walk slowly while humming to yourself. 3 babies = speak loudly in English and ask a lot of people in broken Spanish which way to the McCafe (a South American phenomenon! It’s like Starbucks, but even fancier and cleaner if you can believe it, but with the McDonald’s brand and you don’t need t-Mobile to use the free wi-fi). 4 or more babies = lie down and take a nap on the sidewalk with a sign strung around your neck which reads “There are many American dollars in my pockets.”

There is a stray cat that lives in our building. We call her Gatita (translation: "teeny tiny little cat"), and when she hears us coming, she runs to greet us like a dog, meowing at the top of her lungs. We think the neighbors feed her, but she seems pretty starved for attention because she will just rub and rub and rub up against your leg, and if you pick her up, she will purr maniacally, crawl up on your shoulder, and nuzzle your face with hers. I want to put her in my other pocket.

The other day at lunch, I ordered a salad (como vos, Candy!), and when I didn’t understand the dressing options, the waiter brought me all of them. Another waiter had to bring over another table because all the dressings wouldn’t fit on ours.

We met a muy guapo porteno boy named Juani on the street the other night. He was carrying a violin, and we were drinking vino tinto (rojo) out of a plastic bag. He drank some of our wine and told us where to find a “Bohemian” bar nearby, where we met up with him after an unusually drunk dinner at our host mother’s. There were some people singing and playing guitar and a guy tap dancing whose name was Tomas. He gave us his card. I’m doing pretty well with networking here, don’t you think? So far, I’ve gotten cards from a cab driver and a tap dancer. It was a muy divertido night. Did I mention that Juani is muy guapo? I smiled at and made eye-contact with him. He’s going to give me guitar lessons for ten American dollars an hour, which is quite a bargain, compared to the $50 that Mr. Caine charges me in Williamsburg (I will have to have a discussion with Mr. Caine when I get back). Anyway, I thought you’d be happy to know that Operation Boobie Circus is continuing on the international front.

Some important words/phrases I learned: Coger, which in other countries is used like tomar, for “to take” or “to have,” here means “to fuck.” In Spain, for example, one could tell someone, “Cogi el autobus.” If you said that here, however, someone might respond, “Como cogiste un autobus? Ja-ja-ja!” I also learned how to say “Go take a big shit” in Spanish, but I forgot, so I just keep saying it in English.

This weekend, I traveled north with Kyle and another girl from Spanish school named Jessica to Iguazu, which borders Brazil and Paraguay and is home to the cataratas (waterfalls). They were magnificent and I took an entire roll of film, but I’m not confident in my ability to do them justice, so I suggest you see what Wikipedia has to say about them. It is, however, probably worth mentioning the 17-hour bus ride (EACH WAY) we endured to reach them. “Endured” is probably a poor word choice because the bus we took was maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I foresee a wedding day in my future, when I will tell my husband-to-be, “You are the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He will say, “Second, sweetie? What’s first?” My response: “Super Cama” (I recommend the Via Bariloche line). Imagine the most comfortable Lay-Z-Boy you’ve ever been in, but it reclines to 180-degrees! Then, mientras you’re lying there, someone keeps coming by and putting food and coffee and champagne in front of you. I want to live in this bus.

On the return trip, we were stopped four times by police, who came on board with drug dogs and checked documentation. The severity of the situation didn’t translate for me, but afterwards Kyle explained that we were almost detained because we only had copies of our passports with us.

Today is Flag Day, a national holiday. No school today, so there is plenty of time to bask in this hangover (Kyle and I were out late -- a custom to which we are yet unaccostumed -- with some very sharply-dressed portenos last night) and write to you. I’m having a great time, but I miss everyone back home very much. I can’t wait to hear all about what’s going on there! Write soon!

Besos,
Sandy

Oh, Mandy

Dear Sandy,

"Oh, Mandy" is a Spinto Band song that rhymes with our names and is on one of the mixes I will mail you (a benefit of my slacking with mix making: I pretty much have to mail you a care package).

I hope your move went as well as mine did: I managed to unpack everything and put it away on Sunday - in the rain, no less, which in Russian lore is a lucky time to move - in no small part due to the efficient use of space you set up :-)

I hope all is well and to hear of your travels soon!

Best,
Candy

Boobie Circus, no explanation necessary

Dear Sandy,

One of my last rides on the Q train incorporated 2 women yelling at each other for about half an hour as well in addition to the usual bumps and turns. I tuned out and listened to a pretty solid mix, "Knife..Live @ Home." - it's from fullyfitted.blogspot.com, so probably one of Devlin & Darko's jams from months ago that I finally got around to listening to. We should link to their blog - for the tickler (have you heard that phrase before? It's a good one). Also good: Atul Gawande's article on itching in this week's New Yorker. The one with the cover of subway lines like blood vessels. Read it and tell me if you start itching all over as I did - this gives a lot of credence to the article.

Back to the women yelling: as I'd started texting, "There are two women yelling at each other on the q train. I believe each wants the other to stop whylin" .. (yes, I occasionally quote myself, as well as check your facebook profile).. I believe there was a stolen purse involved, which may or may not have been valued at $20, as well as a baby (and a 2 months-along pregnancy, whose result was not resolved during my listening of the ensuing discourse. As other passengers indicated, it was completely appropriate to stare and think.. what the fuck?!

My text message inbox is telling me that I should go to bed since I have work tomorrow, and also make a drink called "the blog" to drink tomorrow. I think it should comprise Jack Daniels, ginger ale, ginger, and absinthe.

Have a safe trip tomorrow and please do write!

Best,
Candy