This week, the Argentinian Supreme Court voted to decriminalize the possession of small amounts of marijuana for personal use by adults in private. According to Cabinet Chief Aníbal Fernández, the move will allow the government to focus its anti-drug efforts on traffickers instead of users, and allow users "to be treated as addicts instead of criminals." (http://www.buenosairesherald.com/BreakingNews/View/10082)
Despite my D.A.R.E. and Cartoon All-Stars education, I´m not particularly concerned that this new law will effect a Reefer Madness wave of pot-induced incidents of manslaughter, suicide, and rape in Buenos Aires. Rather, I doubt it will have much of an effect on anyone who hasn´t already been fined or forced to complete some sort of anti-drug program because a police officer caught them with a joint (as for those who have, I imagine it might make them a little less paranoid while smoking up... or, maybe not).
Nonetheless, I thought this was a good occasion to compile and share some vocabulary related to this now-slightly-less-illegal pastime. I consulted some local "addicts" and came up with the following list:
porro, faso- pot/weed
una vela, un cohete (literally, "missile"), un canuto, un churro (after the oblong tubular shaped pastry by the same name), un porro, porrito ("little cute porro"), un faso, un fasito ("little cute faso"), un paraguayo/paragua (from paraguay, conotation of being not strong; not to be confused with "paraguas," meaning umbrella), un pinito (one that smells like a little cute pine tree)- a joint
estar loco/reloco ("crazy/very crazy"), estar de la cabeza, estar del tomate (roughly, "out-of-your-mind high"; literally, "of the tomato"), estar fumado ("smoked"), estar de la nuca (nuca is the part of your head that meets the top back of your neck, this term comes from the idea of being punched in this location and subsequently knocked out), estar del orto (orto is a euphemism for anus meaning sunset), me pegó ("it hit me")- to be high
una tuca- roach (end of the joint)
tuquera- roach clip
un finito- really skinny joint
un troncho- very thick joint
la punta- the dealer
las sedas- the rolling papers
picar- to separate pot with one´s fingers in preparation for making a joint (there is probably a term for this in English, but I´m no expert, and "to separate pot with one´s fingers in preparation for making a joint" yielded nothing on urban dictionary)
armar un porro, etc.- to roll a joint
una seca- a drag/hit/toke
bajon- munchies
Now that you know the imporant vocabulary, you´re ready for some sentences. Let´s try speaking like a porteño!
"¿Me das una seca?"- "Can I have a hit?"
"Uh, ¡como tira!"- "Oh my, how it pulls!"
"Como pega este fasito!"- "How it does make me high, this little cute joint!"
"Estoy con bajon/ Estoy de bajon/ Tengo bajon/ Vamos a bajonear algo/ Estoy bajoneando pizza."- "I am with munchies/ I am of munchies/ I have munchies/ Let´s go munchies(verb) something/ I have the munchies for pizza."
Take that, Canada.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Of Meat and Meeting
Sometimes I wonder why I don´t have more friends. Then I interact with people.
Sunday night, Manu and I go out to dinner with one of my few sub-equatorial friends Meghan, her mother, who´s in town for the week, Meghan´s friend Danny, and Danny´s recently expatriated friend Felix. We all meet at a popular parilla in San Telmo that boasts meat so tender you can cut it with a spoon-- where, of course, I order fish. So when Felix at the other end of the table starts making the kind of sounds I´ve only ever heard through a wall when someone in another room was watching an adult film, I ask for a bite.
Sure, he says, let me get you a slice-- er, scoop. I return to my own plate and am squeezing lemon on my fish, when I overhear him whisper to Danny, "What´s her name again?" and I, instead of quietly continuing what I´m doing in politely feigned obvliousness, say, pretty loudly, "Jeanette."
Felix turns the same color as the inside of his steak, and I begin apologizing profusely, explaining that the only reason I remember his name is that when I met him yesterday he was talking about how he´d just come from a store named Felix, where he´d bought a t-shirt that said Felix, which he showed me. And then I start talking about the intro psych class I took in college and am rambling on about pneumonic devices and how repetition, like rhymes and acronyms, helps commit things to memory, when I stop myself.
"I´m awkward," I say.
An awkward moment of silence follows.
"Really awkward," I say, realizing that that´s not the best way to break an awkward moment of silence, as another awkward moment of silence follows that is about as unending (and certainly as awkward) as what happens when you divide one by three on a calculator. An era of silence, more like.
Eventually, Meghan´s mom starts talking about the colored antique soda bottles she bought at the fería to accent her newly redocorated bar room back in New Jersey, and how she got the idea from Better Homes and Gardens, or was it House Beautiful? Felix passes me the promised bite of his meat, the consumption of which, indeed, is not unlike an orgasm-- though, in this case, kind of like an orgasm interrupted by your mom walking in. I eat some of Manu´s fries, but don´t finish my fish.
In the taxi home, I´m still thinking about that intro psych class. Maybe I should buy Felix a bottle of fernet, and he can remember me with a limerick:
I once met a girl named Jeanette,
Whose name I did soon forget,
But with this here fernet,
I´ll remember her yet,
Jeanette, Jeanette, Jeanette
Then again, "I once met a girl named Jeanette, who was awkward," has a certain ring to it.
Sunday night, Manu and I go out to dinner with one of my few sub-equatorial friends Meghan, her mother, who´s in town for the week, Meghan´s friend Danny, and Danny´s recently expatriated friend Felix. We all meet at a popular parilla in San Telmo that boasts meat so tender you can cut it with a spoon-- where, of course, I order fish. So when Felix at the other end of the table starts making the kind of sounds I´ve only ever heard through a wall when someone in another room was watching an adult film, I ask for a bite.
Sure, he says, let me get you a slice-- er, scoop. I return to my own plate and am squeezing lemon on my fish, when I overhear him whisper to Danny, "What´s her name again?" and I, instead of quietly continuing what I´m doing in politely feigned obvliousness, say, pretty loudly, "Jeanette."
Felix turns the same color as the inside of his steak, and I begin apologizing profusely, explaining that the only reason I remember his name is that when I met him yesterday he was talking about how he´d just come from a store named Felix, where he´d bought a t-shirt that said Felix, which he showed me. And then I start talking about the intro psych class I took in college and am rambling on about pneumonic devices and how repetition, like rhymes and acronyms, helps commit things to memory, when I stop myself.
"I´m awkward," I say.
An awkward moment of silence follows.
"Really awkward," I say, realizing that that´s not the best way to break an awkward moment of silence, as another awkward moment of silence follows that is about as unending (and certainly as awkward) as what happens when you divide one by three on a calculator. An era of silence, more like.
Eventually, Meghan´s mom starts talking about the colored antique soda bottles she bought at the fería to accent her newly redocorated bar room back in New Jersey, and how she got the idea from Better Homes and Gardens, or was it House Beautiful? Felix passes me the promised bite of his meat, the consumption of which, indeed, is not unlike an orgasm-- though, in this case, kind of like an orgasm interrupted by your mom walking in. I eat some of Manu´s fries, but don´t finish my fish.
In the taxi home, I´m still thinking about that intro psych class. Maybe I should buy Felix a bottle of fernet, and he can remember me with a limerick:
I once met a girl named Jeanette,
Whose name I did soon forget,
But with this here fernet,
I´ll remember her yet,
Jeanette, Jeanette, Jeanette
Then again, "I once met a girl named Jeanette, who was awkward," has a certain ring to it.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Que los cumplas feliz!
Yesterday was Manu's mom's birthday (and today's my mom's birthday -- hi, mom!). Just as I stereotypically imagine any Latin American, Italian, Greek, or Jewish family function should be, a birthday in Manu's family means a gaggle of family members sitting, standing, and stumbling around a giant table drinking wine and eating meat. Just as the family members are many, so are these birthdays frequent.
Manu dislikes these gatherings. He moped when his Tio Carlos called us lovebirds and seemed not thrilled about the fact that everyone was comparing him to Freud because of his beard and round glasses, and the fact that he studies psychology. "I'm not even studying psychoanalysis! Besides, Freud didn't have long hair," he said, and then frowned at me when I patted him sympathetically on the head and called him my poor Freudito. Then he skulked off to pet the dog. I asked him if it wasn't a bit rude to hide like that, and he responded that, well, not really. His family is used to him disappearing-- indeed, I've heard many times how, growing up, he was always the child who got lost. "Mariana and Martin would follow Cristina like little ducklings," I'm told by various relatives, while Manu wandered off to inspect a dead bird or stick his finger in a crack on the sidewalk. Mom and ducklings would turn a corner, and, oops.
Likewise, he's always been protective of his personal space. Before he could speak in words, he had a vocabulary that consisted of the sounds "la-la" and "ka-ka." "La-la" conveyed favorableness, while "ka-ka" was distaste. He would carry around a big stick, and if someone came too close to him, he would whack them with it and shout, "ka-ka!"
When it comes to extended family, I grew up with plenty of personal space. My cousins, etc. are spread thin (there really aren't very many of them to be spread) from sea to shining sea, and just about the only time we were all ever in the same place was when someone died.
Perhaps that's why I, unlike my better half, actually enjoy these My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding-type get-togethers that revolve around something other than a funeral (though, I'll admit, the seventeen of us huddled in the state park to illegally scatter Grandma's ashes by the Elfin Forest after telling the park ranger that we'd been singing glory, glory, hallelujah just for the hell of it, was actually kind of fun). My favorite part of the birthday party was when Cristina opened her present from the kids and us novios: a pair of tall brown leather boots, with a bit of a heel. She liked them a lot, and they promptly got passed around the giant table, so that all the uncles could take their turn smelling them and pulling on them to demonstrate what a very nice gift they were indeed-- the real thing, made of strong, fragrant leather. They're Argentines, after all. They should know.
Manu dislikes these gatherings. He moped when his Tio Carlos called us lovebirds and seemed not thrilled about the fact that everyone was comparing him to Freud because of his beard and round glasses, and the fact that he studies psychology. "I'm not even studying psychoanalysis! Besides, Freud didn't have long hair," he said, and then frowned at me when I patted him sympathetically on the head and called him my poor Freudito. Then he skulked off to pet the dog. I asked him if it wasn't a bit rude to hide like that, and he responded that, well, not really. His family is used to him disappearing-- indeed, I've heard many times how, growing up, he was always the child who got lost. "Mariana and Martin would follow Cristina like little ducklings," I'm told by various relatives, while Manu wandered off to inspect a dead bird or stick his finger in a crack on the sidewalk. Mom and ducklings would turn a corner, and, oops.
Likewise, he's always been protective of his personal space. Before he could speak in words, he had a vocabulary that consisted of the sounds "la-la" and "ka-ka." "La-la" conveyed favorableness, while "ka-ka" was distaste. He would carry around a big stick, and if someone came too close to him, he would whack them with it and shout, "ka-ka!"
When it comes to extended family, I grew up with plenty of personal space. My cousins, etc. are spread thin (there really aren't very many of them to be spread) from sea to shining sea, and just about the only time we were all ever in the same place was when someone died.
Perhaps that's why I, unlike my better half, actually enjoy these My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding-type get-togethers that revolve around something other than a funeral (though, I'll admit, the seventeen of us huddled in the state park to illegally scatter Grandma's ashes by the Elfin Forest after telling the park ranger that we'd been singing glory, glory, hallelujah just for the hell of it, was actually kind of fun). My favorite part of the birthday party was when Cristina opened her present from the kids and us novios: a pair of tall brown leather boots, with a bit of a heel. She liked them a lot, and they promptly got passed around the giant table, so that all the uncles could take their turn smelling them and pulling on them to demonstrate what a very nice gift they were indeed-- the real thing, made of strong, fragrant leather. They're Argentines, after all. They should know.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Little boobie
Mi amore, flor de primavera, Sandy,
I realize this post will be so heavily laden with inside jokes that it may make no sense to anyone but you, and it may questionably make sense to you since I woke up on an airplane at 6 this morning and haven't slept since.
I decided to go to the gym and a Gotham Magazine party for Mary Lousie Parker's new play and magazine cover today rather than unpacking and putting photos up. I then realized that you have all of the best photos from the trip and will have to look through mine for some gems to barter a trade with.
It is weird to be back in New York and having every moment of my life planned through Saturday evening (I refuse to even speak of a time past then at this point). It is also weird to not be able to say random words in Spanish, though I've kind of still been doing that today.
For the record, my dad does not think you broke the internet in Valparaiso.
More later, and photos later, not sure of when since I need to pack and sleep and oyyyy no me quiero trabajar manana!!
Besos y besotos y muchas gracias para los dos semanos
Ciao,
Candy
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
9/2 Skype call notes
1. Airplanes
3. Next steps Argentina
- 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!
- ~18 hours each way. budget 1 day for travel in each direction
- fly airmexicana; look on travelocity or orbitz for tickets
3. Next steps Argentina
- Set a date for Candy to get plane tickets: October 21st.
- Candy talks to her boss about taking off February 16th-27th, (traveling February 14th-29th), sometime this week but not tomorrow.
- By September 19th, we each have an annotated list of 3 places we want to go. Guidelines:
- 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!
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