Mi Buenos Aires querido

Over the course of my study abroad many friends and family members have asked if I am homesick. It was difficult for me to come up with an answer to this question initially and now I think I’ve finally figured it out. As with many things in life there is no simple black and white answer. Have I been homesick? Well, what is a home anyway? Webster defines it as the place where one lives permanently. What if you’re like me? You consider yourself a nomad, or someone who is constantly moving from place to place. Well, Webster offers another option: a place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates. Except I run into yet another dilemma: all three of those places are different. I originate from Birmingham, Alabama, for the past two years in the States the place I could most typically be found was Atlanta, Georgia, but that place is now Buenos Aires, Argentina, and the place where I flourish? I believe that I flourish in many places, if not everywhere I am. Of course I miss my family and my friends, certain routines or habits, and favorite restaurants, but do I miss the United States?

Over the many long bus rides or trips to cross borders people inevitably have their passports in hand at some time or another and it seems to be the norm that everyone wants to trade passports to see what other countries’ passports look like. After receiving mine back I spent a few moments in quiet reflection flipping through the pages and the answer finally occurred to me: I believe that I miss a United States of America that no longer exists. Or if it does exist, it exists for few and is no longer true of the entire country. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of seeing a U.S. passport, know that of all the passports I’ve flipped through, ours is the most elaborate, the most artistic, and the most inspiring. Within the pages there are background photos of the Liberty Bell, the Declaration of Independence, the Mayflower (or some other initial colonizing ship), a bald eagle, buffalo grazing on grass in front of snow-capped mountains, a steamboat cruising down a river, a farmer clad in blue jean overalls plowing the ground using a hand-held wooden plow pulled by oxen with wheat in the foreground and a homestead in the background, wild West cowboys herding cattle on horseback with mountains in the background, a coal-burning, black-iron train, a black bear with a fish dangling from its mouth, an Indian totem pole, among others.

Accompanying these various images are quotations across the top of the pages under which entry and exit visas are stamped. The quotations range from excerpts from the Declaration of Independence, to things said by various presidents like George Washington and Theodore Roosevelt and revolutionaries like Martin Luther King, Jr. My favorites are these:

“Whatever America hopes to bring to pass in the world must first come to pass in the heart of America.” — Dwight D. Eisenhower

“For this is what America is all about. It is the uncrossed desert and the unclimbed ridge. It is the star that is not reached and the harvest sleeping in the unplowed ground. Is our world gone? We say “Farewell.” Is a new world coming? We welcome it –and we will bend it to the hopes of man.” — Lyndon B. Johnson

“We send thanks to all the Animal life in the world. They have many things to teach us as people. We are glad they are still here and we hope it will always be so.” — Excerpt from the Thanksgiving Address, Mohawk version

Despite the election of Barack Obama in November and the renewing spirit of America, I still feel like America is missing her original spark, her original charm. The good old homestead is fading into the background and I feel that I have a nostalgia for a country and a time that I never knew. Perhaps I lived a little too vicariously through Laura Ingalls Wilder’s book series Little House on the Prairie growing up.

But now, as this incredibly exciting, life-changing chapter in my life comes to an end it is, as most endings are, bittersweet. I did not, as most people do, fall in love with this city at first glance or in a matter of a few days. I was enthralled with it for the first few weeks and then after that my feelings vacillated between love and dislike. This is unusual for me because usually I fall in love with cities immediately. New York City? Check. Washington D.C.? Check. Savannah? New Orleans? Atlanta? Check. Check. Check. But Buenos Aires and I? We had to grow into our relationship and as my time narrows down to a close I realize all the things I love about this city and that I will miss dearly when I’m gone.

Maté. Parques. People playing guitars in the parks while drinking mate. San Telmo. Submarinos. Children. The inability of anyone to drive in a traffic lane. Palermo. Cuisine. Architecture. Girls playing hopskotch. Little girl outside the fruteria. Cafe culture. Mis amigos. Being surrounded by Castellano (Spanish). My host family. One word: medialunas. The kindness of people here. Public transit. Subte línea A. Colectivos (I´m joking, sort of). …This list could go on forever.

Also, as I have travelled around the country on weekends and during the last few weeks I have been able to see the larger picture of Argentine culture and life. From the pampas, to the Andes, to Tierra del Fuego, I have to admit that the rest of the country won over my heart before the city did. For me the phrase cannot simply be, ‘Mi Buenos Aires querido,’ but rather, ‘Mi Argentina querida.’ This country and its people will forever hold a very dear place in my heart, having been my home for five months. I do not know when I will be back, but I do know that it will be hard to stay away for long.

As I write this I’m not quite ready for this to be over. It’s difficult knowing that the next time I’m here the experience will be something completely different. I will not be 20 years old, meeting Argentines on a college campus, and have the sole responsibility of passing my classes. Hopefully I will still live life with arms wide open and be able to make new friends as easily as I do now, but we all know that experiencing something when you’re 20 is very different from the same experience when you’re 25 or 30. And I guess, as is always the case, time moves too fast and endings never happen when you’re ready for them. But here’s to goodbyes and the next chapter of my life with the many more exciting adventures it is sure to hold!

On Culture Shock

One of the things I think every girl dreads about traveling, going abroad, or simply moving to a new area is having to find a new hairstylist. For the first year after I moved to Atlanta I insisted of waiting until I could make a trip back to Birmingham to let anyone touch my hair. There were occasional times when I’d let my mom trim my hair on the back porch because it seemed silly to pay someone to do that. When I knew I was coming to Buenos Aires–I won’t lie–I fretted about what I was going to do. Going almost 6 months without a haircut isn’t an option for me because I have curly hair that splits easily, whether I fry it by blowing it out and straightening it or not. My mom would love to know that majority of the time that I’ve been down here I have worn my hair curly and even started to like it, but even being extra nice to my hair and making an effort not to straighten it as much couldn’t save me from the fact that I was going to have to get a haircut down here and I could either buy a pair of scissors and trust a friend to do it, or I could brave going to a salon and letting them trim it. I even went so far as to schedule my last hair appointment in the States as close to my departure date as possible to prolong the amount of time I would have to find somewhere suitable here in Buenos Aires.

I’m trying to be less high-maintenance, and I don’t even think of myself as much maintenance in the first place. I mean, I can go camping for three nights and subsequently go without a shower for that entire duration and not be bothered in the least. Sure, when all is said and done I want a shower just as much as the next person when it’s over, but I’m not one to complain about something like that. I do, however, complain about the lack of toilet paper in almost all bathrooms in South America (there is intentionally no toilet paper. It is not a matter of running out or not being able to adequately stock a bathroom, it just, plain and simple isn’t there.). But then, there are people like my sister (hi, Nettie!) who need a shower after driving from Birmingham to Atlanta before she will consider going out to eat. In fact, I distinctly remember my other sister. Sage, balking at her and telling her to take a “bird bath” if need be, but to get real.

But here’s the thing: Argentines don’t have the most “normal” hairstyles one has ever seen. In fact, you might say their entire definition fashion and sense of style has gone the way of the 80’s in North America and Europe. Picture neon skinny jeans, cut up tee-shirts with neon screen printed images, piercings, multi-colored hair, and specifically, hair that has been razored and cut from so many angles you aren’t really sure if it was intentional or just a really bad botch job. And then there’s the guys’ hairstyles which can almost always be summed up in one phrase: business in the front–party in the back. Whoever coined that phrase deserves a high-five because it’s so much fun to say. But it’s true, guys here have mohawks, they have fauxhawks, they have dreads, they have shaven heads with a pony tail of dreads coming out of the back of their head, they have rattails, they have one single dreaded rattail, they have multiple rattails starting from several different places on their head–are you getting the picture? It’s quite unsettling when you first see it. You’ll be walking down the street with your girlfriends completely checking out this gorgeous guy in a business suit and after he has passed and you turn around for one more glance and there it is: three lone dreads gathered up in a pony tail in the back despite the rest of his head being shaven or of a “traditional” style.

So you’re starting to understand my apprehension about getting my hair cut here. It was all I could do to get over the fear that I could very well walk out with a shoulder-length bob and various different lengths of hair all over my head. In fact, I think the only reason I was able to muster up the nerve is because Liz and I had been on one of our all-day lunches in Palermo and were looking for somewhere to get a pedicure. We were told about this place and as we walk in to inquire only the most beautiful of boys is standing on the other side of the door to answer our questions. No, they don’t offer pedicures, so we turn away to continue our search, but not before Liz–who had just gotten her haircut several days before–remarked, “You know, I can get my hair cut again,” and we let out little laughs as we walked away.

A couple weeks later I was in the same area, having just eaten at one of our favorite little Indian restaurants, Krishna, and decided that it was now or never because my hair was starting to look pretty shaggy. I walked back to the salon and went inside to find out how much risking the worst hair cut of my life was going to cost me. I think it was something like a very reasonable $40 Argentine pesos which is less than $15 USD. But what really sold me was the fact that possibly the most gorgeous guy in the world was going to cut my hair (and he was straight!) and his name was Juan Pablo (only the most common name here in Argentina) nonetheless. We chatted in a mix of Spanish and English and I insisted more than once that I wanted just “un poquitito” cut off and nothing crazy. Just snip, snip, and I’d be happy. After he shampooed my hair I sat in the chair with my stomach in a knot. As I watched him cut my hair he did many things differently from my stylist in Atlanta. Besides cutting my hair parted down the middle after I mentioned several times that I always wear my hair parted down the side he swore he wouldn’t make any difference, “Yeah, not the way people here wear their hair it wouldn’t!” I kept thinking. And then, and then, he took a razer to the front pieces of my hair and tapered them. I have curly hair, and word to all stylists out there: you do not let a razor come near curly hair! Period! Especially not to taper the front pieces of it! Razor = frizz. However, I let it go. Hair grows back, I reminded myself. A few minutes later the torture was over. Nothing was done how I’m used to it: I wasn’t pampered, the cut took all of 8 minutes, and I was left to walk out with a wet hair. What more did I expect for AR$40?

But I walked out of the salon happy that afternoon. My hair dried a lot curlier than normal and I have yet to straighten it since I got it cut, partially out of fear for seeing what it looks like straight and mostly out of laziness and not having the energy to fight the humidity that is Buenos Aires in the spring and summer. And now, less than a week before I have to leave this part of my life behind me, I have grown accustomed to the hairstyles here–even fond of them. Since I’m not sure I’ll ever have the nerve to dread my whole head and then shave all my hair off when I’m done with the phase, I have been toying with the idea of creating my own lone dread lock in the back on the underside of my hair as a tribute to how much this experience has changed me and cutting it off when I’m ready for the next part of my life to begin.

¡Pura vida!

I apologize for the blurriness of the video, but it was taken on a friend’s Razr phone. I was having an incredibly good night and the weather was gorgeous. I was so in love with life at that moment (and still am!) and maybe had a glass or two of wine. But definitely only high on life though you may think otherwise. It was shot in the centro of Buenos Aires near Plaza de Mayo a few weeks ago.

(Apparently with the the free, hosted WordPress it strips my site of any embedded videos. Until I can set up a domain, here is the link the video.)

Mind Over Matter

A little over a year or so ago my best friend, Carleson, was in Atlanta for a few hours. He comes every now and then to visit me and hang out, but this particular time I think he had just returned on a flight from the U.K. and was waiting on someone to drive to Atlanta and take him back to Birmingham. We spent a few hours checking out downtown and as we were coming out of the subway and upon approaching the stairs and escalator there was a dilemma. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m lazy and I almost always take the escalator. Except this time Carleson looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, gave me a ‘What the fuck?’ look and remarked, “Hashem gave you legs, Emily–use them.” Every now and then that comment comes back to me so I don’t forget to be grateful every day for what I have, not the least of which is a functioning, healthy, able body.

A year ago if you had mentioned strapping a 20-pound backpack to your body and climbing up the side of a mountain I would’ve looked at you as if you were crazy. In fact, I still do. Who was the person who decided that would be fun? Or even remotely worthwhile? I’d like to give them a big smack upside the head. However, after having done a day hike in Córdoba with Charlotte and then spending two days hiking around Parque Nacional de los Glacieres in El Chaltén, Argentina, I finally decided to do the real thing and hike and spend a night camping in the mountains.

I mentioned that I was going alone, but the thing is, when I go things alone, I never end up that way. I mostly travel alone because it allows you to meet people and do things that you wouldn’t otherwise be able to do with a friend, and much less in a group. Upon getting off the bus at the entrance to the trail I met a group of Israelis (there’s so many of them in Patagonia!) and doing the hiking and camping with them. There were three guys and a girl and it worked out perfectly because we all hiked at pretty much the same pace. Particularly Maya and I who probably stopped every 10 minutes gasping for air and a scene kept popping into my head from Diary of a Mad Black Woman, where the grandmother sits down in the middle of the ransacked closet and heaves, “And while you’re down there… bring me some oxygen!” We were doing the first leg of what is called the “W” because of the rough shape it makes on the map. This particular leg towards Campamento Torres, which is supposed to be about 9 and a half kilometers and takes about 3 and a half hours, involved hiking straight up a mountain for the first hour and a half before it finally leveled out a bit and became more of rolling hills on the side of a mountain until you reach the first camp. I finally learned to break it up and set mini-goals for myself to keep from stopping so much and that made it a little bit more bearable.

From the first camp, Chileno, to Torres, the path was through woods and was more of the uphill battle. I have to admit, whoever said it was mind over matter clearly never stood at the base of a mountain and decided to hike up it with a very heavy backpack while also bearing in mind that the body you would be doing this trek in? It hasn’t done much more working out than running on a treadmill once in 5 months, walking short distances around a very flat, paved city, running to catch buses, swimming a few laps in a pool a few times a week, the occasional dancing, the day hike in Córdoba, the climb up the mountain in Bariloche, and the 2 days of hiking in El Chaltén. Also, that 20-pound  backpack I mentioned above? It actually weighed 32-pounds (or roughly 15 kilos) as I found out when I got back to the hostel and weighed it. Or maybe the person did know what they were talking about because I did it and I lived to tell the story.

Once we reached the campsite everything was pretty much hunky-dory. As hot as we were while hiking, the temperature plus the wind chill was very cold and as we were pitching our tents Rotem reported that it was raining. As I looked up and then looked at the top of my tent I exclaimed, “It’s not raining, it’s snowing!” I could’ve died with happiness right then and there. My first real experience backpacking and camping AND it’s snowing? What more could a girl ask for? We all quickly set up our tents and the guys got out the stove to head up some water for tea.

After setting up camp one of the guys decided, after having hiked for several hours, that it would be a good idea to go hiking some more! What better way to warm up than that! And so, having dropped everything off at camp and taking with us only what was needed, we set out for the mirador (look-out point) of the famous Torres del Paine. This is where the mind over matter thing really starts to come into play. Here is what the matterhalf of the equation looked like:

Almost to the top!



Do not underestimate the difficulty of climbing up something like this.

Now imagine having to climb up it for an hour. I think it took us a little longer than that because we all kept stopping and wondering if it was really worth it since we were basically inside of a cloud due to the snow and knew we wouldn’t be able to see much. Besides, we were going back up at sunrise in the morning because it had been highly recommended. Yaniv, Maya, and I made it to the top while Rotem and Ofer went up about three-fourths of the way before turning around to go back to the camp. The view at the top, even though obstructed by clouds, was still incredible. If not the least of just being able to say that I did it. So many times during that day I couldn’t believe how much my body was able to do! Pushing myself way beyond normal limits and things that I previously thought I would never do has pretty much been the theme of my stay here in Argentina. So many times I kept thinking, “Look what I just did!” and being so grateful for a body that is strong enough to allow me to see views that most only see in photographs.

Me at the top!

The way back down was just as difficult because after 10 years of gymnastics my knees have had their share of a beating and they still don’t appreciate walking down mountains, much less having to step down off of boulders. Thank G-d the guys were in the same way I was: after 3 years of being in the Israeli army and doing a lot of running they were willing to take it slow as well. Back at camp Rotem cooked rice and lentils for us while the others ate sandwiches. We went through my stash of dried fruits pretty quickly during the hike and the dried coconut and mangos were a crowd-pleaser.

It was freezing that night and I slept in increments due to some discomfort or another. I had layered up with a pair of waffled long johns, sweatpants, two pairs of socks, a tank top, a sweater, a fleece jacket, and a sweater wrapped around my head, bundled inside my sleeping bag and still froze. It’s a good thing I went up to the mirador the day before because we all overslept and missed witnessing the sunrise (shocker!) and when they decided to head up around 7:30 or so I was congested and my eyes had crusted over. Needless to say I passed on going back up to the mirador but I’m told the view, while better than the previous afternoon, was still clouded over. I went back to sleep for a few hours since the temperature had warmed up a bit and I wasn’t feeling well. After a quick breakfast of oatmeal made with dried milk and a dash of vanilla or chocolate milk flavoring (try it!), breaking down the tents, and packing up it was back to the sendero (trail).

When we reached Campamento Chileno I decided to let them go ahead of me since my bus wasn’t until later that afternoon and they had about 7 and a half hours of hiking to do that day. Let me tell you, hiking alone is a lot more challenging because there’s no one in front of you to motivate you to keep going up that mountain! The day before some day hikers had stopped on the side of the trail to let us go past since we were heading up a mountain with ridiculously heavy backpacks and they cheered us on. That was one of the highlights of the trip.

While I was hiking it didn’t seem to bother me, but upon getting to the base of the mountain and trying to find out when the next bus was coming to take me back to Puerto Natales my eyes were burning something fierce. After much frustration with trying to find out what time the next bus was coming (hello, South America–let’s get with it, eh? A little more organized and coordinated, please?) I ended up getting a ride with a lovely Swedish couple back to the entrance of the park and from there waited about 45 minutes for a bus. When the 4:00 bus finally came I was informed that the bus I had been told about before? It didn’t exist. The next bus would be there at 7:45 and I would have to wait there until then. Let me tell you, knowing Spanish has really come in handy with getting myself out of these situations. I explain what’s going on with eyes and at this point am barely able to keep them open and can’t see so well. The lady comes back over 5 minutes later to where I was sitting and tells me that the bus that she had just told me didn’t exist? There’s one seat left and I can’t take it back to Puerto Natales.

Getting back to civilization I drop everything off at the hostel and after wallowing in pain for a few minutes on the bed I finally get up the strength to go to the pharmacy. After explaining what is going on and how I stupidly changed my right contact lens out the day before after only rinsing my hand off in river water. No one had any soap or antibacterial gel so at the time it had to suffice because my contact had been bothering me all day and I knew it had to come out or I’d risk scratching my cornea. The pharmacist takes one look at my red, swollen eyes and gives me antibacterial drops with cortisone and sends me on my way. I walk two blocks with my hands holding my eyes open to a vegetarian (!) restaurant to eat some dinner so I can just go back to the hostel and sleep. At the restaurant I eat as quickly as possible because my vision was getting worse even though I had put the drops in. I kept thinking about how much I wish my mom or a friend was there to take care of me because I wanted nothing more than for someone to feed me the soup I was eating, take my hand and lead me back to the hostel, and then take care of me for the rest of the night. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case so I strained to keep my eyes opened as I walked one more block back to the hostel where I passed out at 8:30. I woke up periodically through the night with tears streaming down my face and my pillow soaked with them, but when I woke up this morning my eyes were feeling considerably better. My right eye was the one that had been the worst yesterday, but this morning it was my left one, so I put my right contact in (I left my glasses in Buenos Aires, which I now regret). I woke up at 8:45 so, having missed my 8:30 bus back to Argentina I laid in bed for another half an hour and then went down for breakfast.

Again after much frustration with bus companies, I ended up just paying for another ticket with a different company for a bus back to El Calafate since I have also missed a bus from El Calafate to Rio Gallegos on my way to Ushuaia and didn’t have time or money to wait around in Puerto Natales until  tomorrow morning. I just finished eating an apple that I “illegally smuggled”–according to Yaniv–from Argentina to Chile. I declared that I had fruit on my Customs form, but the guy read it, stuck his hand in my bag which, when asked, I told him was full of “ropas sucios.” Dirty clothes. And that’s the truth. A load of laundry that would cost no more than $6-9 pesos in Buenos Aires costs anywhere between $25 and #35 pesos here in Patagonia. I don’t know about you, but I refuse to pay around $10 American dollars for a load of laundry. Anyway, all that aside I have just been through Customs again and am officially back in Argentina. If everything goes well I’ll be in Tierra del Fuego by Wednesday night.

View entire set of pictures from this post here.

Patagonian Adventure, Part I

Since my words could never do justice I’ll just show you the beauty of Hashem’s creation.

Glacier Perito Moreno en El Calafate, Argentina

View entire set here.

Fitz Roy, El Chaltén, Argentina

View entire set here.

A detailed recount of my camping adventure in Torres del Paine, Chile, coming soon!