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