Valparaiso, Chile is an incomprehensible labyrinth of criss-crossed byways, steep sidewalks, and multicolored graffiti. The streets themselves whisper secrets to you as you pass; the colorful fingers of spray paint characters reaching for your hands, revolutionary slogans reaching for your ears, the cataract shadowed eyes of street dogs reaching for your heart.
But, that is not what you see. Because from every viewpoint in the hillside town, you can see the ocean. The expanse of green/blue sea that inspired Pablo Neruda to pen "Ode to the sea". The sea that the fierce Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet scanned awaiting attacks, the sea that lines the great country of Chile from top to bottom, the sea that the three of us stare at, open mouthed, as we soak in the sun and our experience here.
Time is running out, and we know it. Tomorrow night we pack our bags and depart on our three day trip that will take us across the South American continent and back to our homes.
Have we learned anything? Are we different?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Levantarse
They marched, slowly. So slowly. White hair tied back by white scarves, bright eyes shining out from behind thick bifocals, 30 elderly women marched. Only the black and white photographs draped around their necks betraying a clue of the history I was witnessing.
I stood; overcome. One hand over my mouth, the other shielding my eyes from the glaring Argentine summer sun, hiding the tears that threatened to spill out.
In April 1977, the Argentine dirty war was still robbing the country of families and friends. Searching for their ¨disappeared¨children, a group of mothers bonded together and began marching in front of the presidential palace, every Thursday at 3pm, demanding information on their lost children.
Their defiance of the government and courage to make themselves heard gained them international attention and fame, and brought the bloody guerra sucia to the attention of the world. In a time where violence was the only option, these mothers peacefully demonstrated against a government that had murdered their children.
Thirty-two years later, Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo are still marching. Still searching.
Las Madres wear white handkerchiefs with their children´s name embroidered on them, to represent the blankets of their lost children. Standing and watching, tiny tears gliding down my face, I could only think that even though the dirty war is over, and Argentina is rising from the ashes, these women still don't have their children. Their babies are still gone. They´re all in their eighties or nineties now, and the march is painfully slow to match their aging steps. Many have photos of their lost children hung around their necks, with date of birth, date of disappearance, place of disappearance. The three of us slipped quietly into the march, and walked, in a tiny show of support for their life´s work.
You can read about the war, the destruction, the death as much as you want. Go to museums about the desaparecidos and stare in the face of thousands of photographs of those ripped from their homes never to be seen again. But nothing, nothing is the same as looking into the faces of their mothers. Their elderly, activist, mothers, who have spent their whole lives searching and fighting. Would their children even recognize them thirty years later?
Would you still be searching for someone you loved 30 years later?
Friday, December 4, 2009
La Frontera
Sometimes, (in a habit that undoubtedly annoys my travel partners) I tend to narrate an experience as it happens:
"The three beautiful, windswept adventurers stand in between two jutting points of the snow topped Andes Mountains, the border between two incredibly powerful Latin American countries, waiting for the opportune moment to seek refuge in the Chilean wilderness."
Usually Veronika will roll her eyes and Devin will pat me on the back in a sort of motherly, "i´m glad you got that out of your system" way. By now they know all too well my tendency to romanticize everything.
But hey, it sounds better than:
Three overtired, rumbled, slightly smelly American college students, stand in an endless immigration line at the Argentine and Chile border. They`ve been trapped on a bus for 20 hours already, and as they stand waiting to have their passports stamped, they half notice the mountains outside the windows.
"The three beautiful, windswept adventurers stand in between two jutting points of the snow topped Andes Mountains, the border between two incredibly powerful Latin American countries, waiting for the opportune moment to seek refuge in the Chilean wilderness."
Usually Veronika will roll her eyes and Devin will pat me on the back in a sort of motherly, "i´m glad you got that out of your system" way. By now they know all too well my tendency to romanticize everything.
But hey, it sounds better than:
Three overtired, rumbled, slightly smelly American college students, stand in an endless immigration line at the Argentine and Chile border. They`ve been trapped on a bus for 20 hours already, and as they stand waiting to have their passports stamped, they half notice the mountains outside the windows.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
el diablo en paraíso
Punta del Diablo was a 24 trip from our bustling, urban sprawl hometown of Rosario.
But for all I knew, it could have been the other side of the world.
This tiny, hippy beach town is a five hour bus ride from Montevideo, along bumpy dirt roads and picturesque ocean views. Reminisent of a crusty old Oregon sea town, the beach houses are all in various, somehow charming states of disrepair, their tourquoise or burnt red paint paint peeling
off the walls, beach buoys hanging from windows, scruffy mutts sleeping calmly by the doors. The roads are unpaved, and horse and carts bump down the central avenue. There is a little stand advertising pescado frito (fried fish) and the owner and his buddies sit outside sipping mate and greeting all who walk by.
Our hostel, El Diablo Tranquilo, is a five minute stroll from la playa grande (the big beach). Two stories high, I am sitting on the second floor typing on this computer and staring out at the beach through sky high windows. There are four puppies that live around the hostel, two of which look like they were left in the dryer a bit too long, and they are communal puppies. As in, this town is small enough for everyone to take care of these adorable balls of fluff.
The high season in Uruguay starts in two weeks, and Veronika, Devin and I have arrived at this little peace of heaven at the perfect time. The weather is spectacular: eighty degrees, endless light blue skies that merge with the deep blue Atlantic, a slight breeze to cool our severly sunburned skin (even my eyelids are burnt) but there are very few tourists. Yesterday, Devin and I splashed around the ocean like six year olds while Veronika read nearby (her new tattoo keeps her from swimming...for now). This morning, we did yoga on a wooden platform overlooking the ocean. Tomorrow, we´re getting up and going horseback riding through the forest and the beach.
We keep extending our stay. We were supposed to go to Punta del Este, the ¨Riviera of South America¨ but none of us can imagine leaving here just yet. Last night we ate dinner at the hostel restaurant, a place full of large, sturdy wooden tables, lit only by candels stuck in wine bottles, and our new friends convinced us that Punta del Diablo was a hell of a lot better than overpriced, casino crazed Punta del Este.
It´s an incredible contrast, the concrete beauty of Rosario against the rolling sand dunes and salty air magic of Punta del Diablo. Where before we were tired, sore, slightly sick, stressed and riddled with hundreds (literally) of mosquito bites; now we are rested, calm, full of yerba and red like ripe tomatoes.
So thank you, you little Uruguayan beach town, for making me feel two things I never thought I would feel together:
so incredibly lucky and so incredibly sunburnt.
But for all I knew, it could have been the other side of the world.
This tiny, hippy beach town is a five hour bus ride from Montevideo, along bumpy dirt roads and picturesque ocean views. Reminisent of a crusty old Oregon sea town, the beach houses are all in various, somehow charming states of disrepair, their tourquoise or burnt red paint paint peeling
off the walls, beach buoys hanging from windows, scruffy mutts sleeping calmly by the doors. The roads are unpaved, and horse and carts bump down the central avenue. There is a little stand advertising pescado frito (fried fish) and the owner and his buddies sit outside sipping mate and greeting all who walk by.
Our hostel, El Diablo Tranquilo, is a five minute stroll from la playa grande (the big beach). Two stories high, I am sitting on the second floor typing on this computer and staring out at the beach through sky high windows. There are four puppies that live around the hostel, two of which look like they were left in the dryer a bit too long, and they are communal puppies. As in, this town is small enough for everyone to take care of these adorable balls of fluff.
The high season in Uruguay starts in two weeks, and Veronika, Devin and I have arrived at this little peace of heaven at the perfect time. The weather is spectacular: eighty degrees, endless light blue skies that merge with the deep blue Atlantic, a slight breeze to cool our severly sunburned skin (even my eyelids are burnt) but there are very few tourists. Yesterday, Devin and I splashed around the ocean like six year olds while Veronika read nearby (her new tattoo keeps her from swimming...for now). This morning, we did yoga on a wooden platform overlooking the ocean. Tomorrow, we´re getting up and going horseback riding through the forest and the beach.
We keep extending our stay. We were supposed to go to Punta del Este, the ¨Riviera of South America¨ but none of us can imagine leaving here just yet. Last night we ate dinner at the hostel restaurant, a place full of large, sturdy wooden tables, lit only by candels stuck in wine bottles, and our new friends convinced us that Punta del Diablo was a hell of a lot better than overpriced, casino crazed Punta del Este.
It´s an incredible contrast, the concrete beauty of Rosario against the rolling sand dunes and salty air magic of Punta del Diablo. Where before we were tired, sore, slightly sick, stressed and riddled with hundreds (literally) of mosquito bites; now we are rested, calm, full of yerba and red like ripe tomatoes.
So thank you, you little Uruguayan beach town, for making me feel two things I never thought I would feel together:
so incredibly lucky and so incredibly sunburnt.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Aventuras...en Uruguay
The horn of the bus jolted me awake.
I blinked, and forced my contacts to focus. Where was I? The weight of nearly two days without sleep, too many goodbyes, and my overstuffed backpack sat heavily between my shoulder blades. The driver was still honking his horn, and I pushed myself up to see out the window.
Outside my the glass lay the capital of Uruguay: Montevideo. The city was dark at midnight, but the streets were alive with music and flags. People packed the streets, singing, dancing, and waving a blue, white, and a red striped flag. It was officially election day, actually the day of the election run off for presidency, and everyone was out showing their support for Jose Mujica, a former leftist rebel who spent 15 years in jail.
The driver pounded his horn and my fellow passangers stood up and pressed their faces against the glass, pumping their fists and yelling in support. Our bus stood at a dead stop as everyone celebrated, and as I watched, the supporters raised their hands in the universal sign for peace, and before I knew it, we were all raising our hands in the two fingered salute.
I blinked, and forced my contacts to focus. Where was I? The weight of nearly two days without sleep, too many goodbyes, and my overstuffed backpack sat heavily between my shoulder blades. The driver was still honking his horn, and I pushed myself up to see out the window.
Outside my the glass lay the capital of Uruguay: Montevideo. The city was dark at midnight, but the streets were alive with music and flags. People packed the streets, singing, dancing, and waving a blue, white, and a red striped flag. It was officially election day, actually the day of the election run off for presidency, and everyone was out showing their support for Jose Mujica, a former leftist rebel who spent 15 years in jail.
The driver pounded his horn and my fellow passangers stood up and pressed their faces against the glass, pumping their fists and yelling in support. Our bus stood at a dead stop as everyone celebrated, and as I watched, the supporters raised their hands in the universal sign for peace, and before I knew it, we were all raising our hands in the two fingered salute.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Ladrones
Standing : In the middle of some cheap ass, junk filled store. It´s off white walls tinted yellow with the humidity and the grime, mosquitoes clumped in every corner, fake holly and ribbons taped to the walls as if someone had once heard of Christmas, but never actually seen the decorations.
Sweating: 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity, everyone sweating and scratching their mosquito bites. Talking about the heat, talking about the mosquitoes. Thinking about the heat, thinking about the mosquitoes.
Staring: At my ripped open backpack, my journal spilling out one pocket, receipts and pens out another. Of course missing the one thing I´ve been able to hide from the thieves this long... my wallet.
They are just things Lizzie. Just things. Just things stashed in little wallet pockets. Just the gem you picked off the ground of the mine for Jamie, your credit cards, the ring for your mom, your Oregon Student ID and Jason Bernert´s business card. Just things. Just things.
Sweating: 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity, everyone sweating and scratching their mosquito bites. Talking about the heat, talking about the mosquitoes. Thinking about the heat, thinking about the mosquitoes.
Staring: At my ripped open backpack, my journal spilling out one pocket, receipts and pens out another. Of course missing the one thing I´ve been able to hide from the thieves this long... my wallet.
They are just things Lizzie. Just things. Just things stashed in little wallet pockets. Just the gem you picked off the ground of the mine for Jamie, your credit cards, the ring for your mom, your Oregon Student ID and Jason Bernert´s business card. Just things. Just things.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Conversations with Sole Part II
¨Porque has de saber que soy una mezcla de aventurero y burgués con una apetencia de hogar terrible pero con ansias de realizar lo soñado¨-Che Guevara to his wife Aleida March.
(Because you have to know that I am a mix of an adventurer and bourgeousis with a terrible need for home but with anxieties to realize the dream)
I was standing in the doorway of our kitchen, talking to Sole, as always.
¨Sole,¨ I was saying, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. ¨I only have a week left here in Rosario. I´m so sad to leave.¨
¨ Yes, I will miss you. We will miss you. But, even though you are tall like a woman, you´re still a girl. Only 20! You need to go back to the United States because that´s where your family is. You need to go be with them, they are your family.¨
(Because you have to know that I am a mix of an adventurer and bourgeousis with a terrible need for home but with anxieties to realize the dream)
I was standing in the doorway of our kitchen, talking to Sole, as always.
¨Sole,¨ I was saying, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. ¨I only have a week left here in Rosario. I´m so sad to leave.¨
¨ Yes, I will miss you. We will miss you. But, even though you are tall like a woman, you´re still a girl. Only 20! You need to go back to the United States because that´s where your family is. You need to go be with them, they are your family.¨
Monday, November 16, 2009
Moments in a weekend
It was like hell and heaven, all at once.
Standing on the edge of a 300 foot tall waterfall, surrounded by 10 other waterfalls. The roar is so loud and the spray is so strong that we all lift up our arms and scream into downpour. We are soaked-absolutely drenched- but deliriously happy.
The barefoot children in San Ignacio surround us, as we rub the sleep out of our eyes and complain about the air conditioning being too cold in our omnibus, they hold out their dirt covered hands and ask for a piece of candy or a glass of water.
As a little train pulls us through the Argentine rain forest, hundreds of brightly colored butterflies follow, perching on our hands, our shoulders, our noses. We lean down and stare at their eyes and their long curled tongues. As we watch, it unfurls and silently licks the salt of off our sunburned skin. You would swear you´ve never been a part of anything that beautiful.
¨One woman a year commits suicide en la garganta del diablo.¨ Our tour guide motions behind him, at a crater of a waterfall, that looks as if God himself reached down and tore a hole in the middle of the Paraná River. Lazily and unaware the water creeps down the river until suddenly the gravity of the 200 foot drop brings it crashing down. The force is so strong that you can´t see where the water hits the rocks, only the white spray. I lean over the railing and watch as the birds weave their way through the falls, effortless, and wonder if those women wished they had wings.
I am parallel to the jungle floor, my arms and legs outstretched like a ballerina on point, above 250 feet of open air. My harness is clipped to the zip line and as I fly through the tops of the trees, I realize there is no where else in the world I would rather be.
Veronika and I are walking through the rust colored dirt, staring at the rainclouds above us and talking of storms when we hear, ¨RUN! ¨and then CRACK, and I am sprinting, turning and screaming at Veronika, ¨COME NOW!¨ and when we look back, a huge tree is hanging precariously, sections of it´s trunk jutting at awkward angles like broken bones. We laugh nervously to ourselves and turn away.
You can easily imagine that this was what Adam and Eve would have seen, all those millenia ago. The trees are so green, and I can see a tucan perched on a branch over here, and a lizard on a tree trunk over there. The butterflies are still sitting on my backpack. Brazil is just across the river. ¨This is the same view that the Guaraní saw when they first discovered Iguazú Falls¨our tour guide says, and I believe him.
Standing on the edge of a 300 foot tall waterfall, surrounded by 10 other waterfalls. The roar is so loud and the spray is so strong that we all lift up our arms and scream into downpour. We are soaked-absolutely drenched- but deliriously happy.
The barefoot children in San Ignacio surround us, as we rub the sleep out of our eyes and complain about the air conditioning being too cold in our omnibus, they hold out their dirt covered hands and ask for a piece of candy or a glass of water.
As a little train pulls us through the Argentine rain forest, hundreds of brightly colored butterflies follow, perching on our hands, our shoulders, our noses. We lean down and stare at their eyes and their long curled tongues. As we watch, it unfurls and silently licks the salt of off our sunburned skin. You would swear you´ve never been a part of anything that beautiful.
¨One woman a year commits suicide en la garganta del diablo.¨ Our tour guide motions behind him, at a crater of a waterfall, that looks as if God himself reached down and tore a hole in the middle of the Paraná River. Lazily and unaware the water creeps down the river until suddenly the gravity of the 200 foot drop brings it crashing down. The force is so strong that you can´t see where the water hits the rocks, only the white spray. I lean over the railing and watch as the birds weave their way through the falls, effortless, and wonder if those women wished they had wings.
I am parallel to the jungle floor, my arms and legs outstretched like a ballerina on point, above 250 feet of open air. My harness is clipped to the zip line and as I fly through the tops of the trees, I realize there is no where else in the world I would rather be.
Veronika and I are walking through the rust colored dirt, staring at the rainclouds above us and talking of storms when we hear, ¨RUN! ¨and then CRACK, and I am sprinting, turning and screaming at Veronika, ¨COME NOW!¨ and when we look back, a huge tree is hanging precariously, sections of it´s trunk jutting at awkward angles like broken bones. We laugh nervously to ourselves and turn away.
You can easily imagine that this was what Adam and Eve would have seen, all those millenia ago. The trees are so green, and I can see a tucan perched on a branch over here, and a lizard on a tree trunk over there. The butterflies are still sitting on my backpack. Brazil is just across the river. ¨This is the same view that the Guaraní saw when they first discovered Iguazú Falls¨our tour guide says, and I believe him.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Gluttony and spice and everything nice
La monumental nacional de la bandera, the historic monument built to honor the designer of the Argentine flag, was shining down on us; the blue lights flanking each side and never letting us forget that we were in Rosario.
But I was not here to look at the flag monument. In fact, this nationally recognized piece of stone is five blocks from my apartment. I see it almost everyday. I was there for something much more elusive, something that Argentina has been hiding from me for months now.
Spice.
Yesterday began Colectividades, a week long culture festival in the heart of Rosario, that features food from the different ethnic groups in the city. Rosario has a huge immigrant population, and this one week of the year they meet on the waterfront in front of the monument and cook.
Most of you know that I love street food. Almost any time I am lucky enough to be in Portland, Oregon, I am yelling about how I want ¨food from a cart¨. My goodbye present from Daniel Madrid was to take me to a collection of delicious street vendors on Hawthorne and eat for two hours. I am, to say it politely, a fanatic.
And Argentina, I am sad to report, is probably not one of my favorite culinary destinations. They do asados (Argentine BBQ) well, and Churipan is one of my favorite foods, but in general, the people here detest any sort of spice. Pepperoni pizza is considered way to spicy for most Argentines.
So here I am, a fanatic of all things spicy and ethnic, in a country that considers mayonnaise a flavor. But, Colectividades was here, and I was going to make the best of it.
We descended upon the festival like Samoyeds that hadn´t eaten for weeks (Falconer family inside joke, don´t worry) searching for any South East Asian stand we could find. We ran past Peru, peeked into Palenstine, pit stopped at Lebanon. We had falafal, lamb, french fries thick with grease and salt, baclava, something beautiful and chocolate from Rusia, and still unable to find anything Thai or Vietnamese, settled for paella from Catalan.
Now, Paella is something of a religion for me. My dad has been making it since I was little, and whenever something really special was happening, if we were ever having guests over or generally trying to appear like respectable people, we hid the dogs and dad brought out the paella pan. We would talk about it for a week ahead of time, ¨Oh get ready!¨ Dad would say to Ian or I, ¨It´s going to be good!¨and we would oohhh and ahhh in delight and anticipation. When the huge pan of rice and saffron and seafood was finally placed in front of us, the table would go silent until it had been picked clean.
So it is with my family in mind that I attempt to describe the beautiful vision in front of me last night:
A huge pot so big that I could curl up and take a comfortable nap in it is boiling and frothing with rice and various spices. Two men are stirring it with gigantic metal spoons, and every few minutes one of them is throwing something else into the pot. Shrimp! Sausage! Garlic! Something I can´t recognize! Squid! Muscles! Chicken!
I got a plate. Obviously.
I got a plate. Obviously.
I shared it with two other girls, and we ate it so fast that today we woke up with blisters on our tongues and insides of our mouths.
But is that going to stop me from going to Colectividades tonight?
I think we all know the answer to that.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
gracias por escuchar
I was back in the Radio Star studio, for the fourth or fifth time.
But this time was different, I wasn´t here just for an interview. Cecilia, the woman who runs the radio show, had invited me to cohost her news program.
Before the show started, one of the other employees was passing around un mate. Hot and bitter, I let the caffeine hit my senses and focus on the show.
Cecilia handed me the news stories, and I scanned them quickly and I popped on my headphones and listened to the advertisements turn into music, turn into Cecilia´s voice and suddenly it was my turn.
When I first started the show, I wasn´t sure how many Rosarinos actually listened. But today, as we talked, Cecilia´s phone exploded with text messages asking this question and that, asking if I could speak in Spanish again, asking if I would sing black eyed peas like I had last time (fail). Halfway through the show, so many listeners had asked if I would speak Spanish that we conducted the rest of the show in two languages: her in English and me in Castellano.
I´m not really sure how to end this entry except to say that I´m really happy. Really happy with what I´m learning, really happy with what I´m seeing, really happy with the people I´m sharing my little mate gourd with.
And really happy that I´m cohosting the radio show again on Monday.
Chau america del norte, nos vemos demasiado pronto.
But this time was different, I wasn´t here just for an interview. Cecilia, the woman who runs the radio show, had invited me to cohost her news program.
Before the show started, one of the other employees was passing around un mate. Hot and bitter, I let the caffeine hit my senses and focus on the show.
Cecilia handed me the news stories, and I scanned them quickly and I popped on my headphones and listened to the advertisements turn into music, turn into Cecilia´s voice and suddenly it was my turn.
When I first started the show, I wasn´t sure how many Rosarinos actually listened. But today, as we talked, Cecilia´s phone exploded with text messages asking this question and that, asking if I could speak in Spanish again, asking if I would sing black eyed peas like I had last time (fail). Halfway through the show, so many listeners had asked if I would speak Spanish that we conducted the rest of the show in two languages: her in English and me in Castellano.
I´m not really sure how to end this entry except to say that I´m really happy. Really happy with what I´m learning, really happy with what I´m seeing, really happy with the people I´m sharing my little mate gourd with.
And really happy that I´m cohosting the radio show again on Monday.
Chau america del norte, nos vemos demasiado pronto.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Discursos in a time of Dengue
¨Dengue fever occurs in Argentina and includes severe pain that gives it the nick-name break-bone fever or bonecrusher disease. It is transmitted through mosquito bites from insects that feed during the day and night.¨-Wikipedia
I was sweating, profusely, and covered in quarter sized mosquito bites.
Not exactly the way you want to start out a nightmare, but there I was, in the center of a room full of Argentine law students and American students, and they were waiting for me to say something.
What was I supposed to be saying?
Oh, god, this wasn´t a nightmare. This was really happening. I had really signed up to give a human rights presentation and then participate in a debate in front of Argentines. Oh my god, Oh my god.
When I was in high school, my worst fear in the world was to speak Spanish in front of anyone. I would hum little songs to myself, practice phrases when no one was home, but to give a speech in Spanish in front of the class meant certain death. This may or may not have to do with the fact that I got sprayed by a skunk one year before a big speech, but you understand. What if I messed up? What if I said something really embarrassing because I really didn´t understand the difference between the preterite and the impersonal? I avoided speeches like the Swine Flu (too soon).
It doesn´t really make sense that someone with such an inherent fear to speak a language would major in it, but that´s what I did, and two years later I found myself standing in cramped, humid classroom and 40 faces were staring at me expectingly.
Oh right, it was something about Human trafficking.
¨Hola, me llamo Lissie Falconer. Primer, si ustedes no me entienden, por favor, decíme. Yo puedo hablar en inglés...obviomente.¨ (Hi, my name is Lizzie Falconer. To begin, if you guys can´t understand me, please tell me. I can speak in English...obviously¨.)
I breathed in deeply and scrolled through my power point, retelling the horrific story of girls murdered in human trafficking, relaying the statistics, explaining the governments ineffective plan to help the 27 million people involved in modern day slavery.
A few minutes later it was done and I smiled and slumped in my chair, years of worrying and stress lifted off of my freckled shoulders.
When the debates were over, people came up to me and hugged me. Told me they had loved it. My favorite teacher congratulated me, I made friends with the Argentines who I debated against and I thought...
maybe I can speak this language. Maybe I can do this.
We went to a bar and drank a few Quilmes (love you mom and dad) and I thought, maybe I could be here. Maybe I could stay here.
But then I got bit by the 30th mosquito today and I thought, nahh, there´s no Dengue in Oregon.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Argentine Folklore
Today in class, (too many of my entries start this way) in an attempt to get our grammar teacher off of the topic of "Las construciones impersonales" my friend Georgia asked the difference between Raton y Rata. Turns out, a raton is a mouse and a rata is a rat.
"Haven't you heard about Raton Perez?" Our teacher asked us. Well all shook our heads.
"Well, I think you have something similar in the United States, but when a child loses a tooth, Raton Perez sneaks under their pillow at night and leaves money."
Please, dear reader, just think about this concept. While in the States we tell children that a sweet, innocent fairy comes and benevolently drops money while you dream, Argentines tell their ninos that a mouse sneaks up into their bed, slithers under the covers, and then drops some money.
I can just picture my 8 year old self, wrapped up in my covers, only my eyes peeping out, unable to sleep because I'm horrified that a magic mouse is going to creep into my bed and touch me with it's tail or poop on my pillow.
God I love this country.
"Haven't you heard about Raton Perez?" Our teacher asked us. Well all shook our heads.
"Well, I think you have something similar in the United States, but when a child loses a tooth, Raton Perez sneaks under their pillow at night and leaves money."
Please, dear reader, just think about this concept. While in the States we tell children that a sweet, innocent fairy comes and benevolently drops money while you dream, Argentines tell their ninos that a mouse sneaks up into their bed, slithers under the covers, and then drops some money.
I can just picture my 8 year old self, wrapped up in my covers, only my eyes peeping out, unable to sleep because I'm horrified that a magic mouse is going to creep into my bed and touch me with it's tail or poop on my pillow.
God I love this country.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Mufa
In grammar 4 one day, we watched a movie called ¨La suerte esta echada¨ which translates too: The luck is pouring. It stars a big nosed Argentine man who is a mufa: a person so cursed with bad luck that where ever they go, whoever is around them, falls under a spell of mala suerte.
After we finished watching the movie, our teacher asked us, ¨Do you know anyone who is a mufa?¨ I looked down at my desk. I knew where this was going. Who was going to take the bait. Turned out, it was my friend Ed.
¨Lizzie´s a mufa.¨ He smiled and my teacher asked (not really knowing what she was getting herself into), ¨Oh Lizzie, what´s happened?¨
Oh well Sole, let me tell you. There was the three delayed flights, the disaster of a money situation, my cell phone that didn´t work for my first two weeks, my pink eye that lasted three weeks, hostel reservations that have magically disappeared, missed buses...
As I listed cosa after cosa after cosa other friends in the class started to join in.
¨Remember when every bus in Cordoba was sold out and we were stuck there for the night?¨ Veronika chimed in.
¨Oh and there was that time that the bus leaked and you and Devin were rained on for 18 hours?¨
¨...or that time you almost broke your back falling in the lobby of the school?¨
On and on and on. It´s embarrassing how often things go wrong, to the point where no one in the program actually expects anything to go right for me.
So it should have come to no surprise when this weekend 100 pesos ($25) was stolen from my wallet. Then the next night, my friend´s purse holding my camera and cellphone was cut by a thief and stolen. I stood in the center of the concert, getting shoved by people on all sides and tears running down my face, overwhelmed that something else could have gone wrong.
I went out after with some girls from my program, only to discover that my only pair of jeans had ripped almost in half in the back. Fail.
Fed up, tired, and knowing I had a phone call to make, I walked the farmiliar path to the internet cafe. I called home and wished my big brother a happy birthday and he gave me some much needed advice:
¨It sucks, and it´s awful that it happened, but you need to just take it as part of the experience. You only have a short time of your life to live in Argentina. Move forward.¨
I am a twenty year old, poor as trash college student trying to make sense of a brand new country where the language is still a struggle and sometimes I fall. Okay, a lot of times I fall.
But a lot of times life here is a dream. 80 degree days of tanning at the beach, mate with hombres lindos, Pablo Neruda in the Park, Che Guevara in the classroom, cafecitos and live music, museums and graffiti, Fernet and Coke, and castellano...always castellano.
So, maybe I am a Mufa. Maybe I am that rare breed of person where everthing falls apart wherever they go. But do you know what?
There´s no where else in the world I would rather be.
After we finished watching the movie, our teacher asked us, ¨Do you know anyone who is a mufa?¨ I looked down at my desk. I knew where this was going. Who was going to take the bait. Turned out, it was my friend Ed.
¨Lizzie´s a mufa.¨ He smiled and my teacher asked (not really knowing what she was getting herself into), ¨Oh Lizzie, what´s happened?¨
Oh well Sole, let me tell you. There was the three delayed flights, the disaster of a money situation, my cell phone that didn´t work for my first two weeks, my pink eye that lasted three weeks, hostel reservations that have magically disappeared, missed buses...
As I listed cosa after cosa after cosa other friends in the class started to join in.
¨Remember when every bus in Cordoba was sold out and we were stuck there for the night?¨ Veronika chimed in.
¨Oh and there was that time that the bus leaked and you and Devin were rained on for 18 hours?¨
¨...or that time you almost broke your back falling in the lobby of the school?¨
On and on and on. It´s embarrassing how often things go wrong, to the point where no one in the program actually expects anything to go right for me.
So it should have come to no surprise when this weekend 100 pesos ($25) was stolen from my wallet. Then the next night, my friend´s purse holding my camera and cellphone was cut by a thief and stolen. I stood in the center of the concert, getting shoved by people on all sides and tears running down my face, overwhelmed that something else could have gone wrong.
I went out after with some girls from my program, only to discover that my only pair of jeans had ripped almost in half in the back. Fail.
Fed up, tired, and knowing I had a phone call to make, I walked the farmiliar path to the internet cafe. I called home and wished my big brother a happy birthday and he gave me some much needed advice:
¨It sucks, and it´s awful that it happened, but you need to just take it as part of the experience. You only have a short time of your life to live in Argentina. Move forward.¨
I am a twenty year old, poor as trash college student trying to make sense of a brand new country where the language is still a struggle and sometimes I fall. Okay, a lot of times I fall.
But a lot of times life here is a dream. 80 degree days of tanning at the beach, mate with hombres lindos, Pablo Neruda in the Park, Che Guevara in the classroom, cafecitos and live music, museums and graffiti, Fernet and Coke, and castellano...always castellano.
So, maybe I am a Mufa. Maybe I am that rare breed of person where everthing falls apart wherever they go. But do you know what?
There´s no where else in the world I would rather be.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Dale, dale, dale Newells!
"Lissie, que vas a hacer esta noche?" Marcela strolled into the kitchen, where I was enjoying watery argentine coffee.
"Uhh, nada." It was a Sunday night. It was Mother's day. The only thing I'd done all day was walk around Rosario taking pictures, reading my book and thinking romantic thoughts.
"Vamos a el partido de Newell's ahora. Vas a cambiar tu ropa, hace frio." My jaw dropped. Newell's game? Tonight?! Me??
Newells Old Boys is one of Rosario's biggest soccer clubs. The other, Central, is the heated rival of Newell's. Why is Newell's Old Boys in English? I have no idea. The only thing I know is that my house is a Newell's house. I've been dropping hints that I wanted to go for a while, but I didn't actually think it was going to happen.
La cancha (the stadium) hold 42,000 screaming bocas sucias (dirty mouthed) Rosarinos. Marcela, her friend, Fermin, his friend and I walked into the stadium and I gasped in delight. The NOB players were decked in red and black and flying down the field, and as the ran the crowd chanted song, after song after song. Newell´s won on a penalty kick, and fireworks erupted from all corners of the stadium. As the game ended, Marcela grabbed my hand and dragged me out of la cancha and out towards the car.
We were stopped 100 feet out of the stadium by a huge row of cops. Cops with rottweilers, cops with guns, cops on horses, cops with plexi glass shields, all of them in bullet proof jackets. Marcela pulled out a cigarrette and started smoking, as if being stopped by the riot police was normal, which of course, it is. Fermin helped me out on the misunderstanding, explaining that if the police weren´t there, violent fights would break out between Newell´s fans and the other team.
Finally we were allowed to pass through. A muzzled german shephard lunged at me and I cursed so loudly in English that Fermin looked at me jokingly and said, ¨You scared?¨
After we passed through the line of police, we stopped at a cart and all ate my favorite argentine dish: churipan. Huge, salty pieces of choriza, drenched in chimichuri sauce and piled on a sweet roll.
When we finally got home that night, and I was tucked into my little bed I couldnt get the song out of my head:
Dale, dale, dale Newells.
"Uhh, nada." It was a Sunday night. It was Mother's day. The only thing I'd done all day was walk around Rosario taking pictures, reading my book and thinking romantic thoughts.
"Vamos a el partido de Newell's ahora. Vas a cambiar tu ropa, hace frio." My jaw dropped. Newell's game? Tonight?! Me??
Newells Old Boys is one of Rosario's biggest soccer clubs. The other, Central, is the heated rival of Newell's. Why is Newell's Old Boys in English? I have no idea. The only thing I know is that my house is a Newell's house. I've been dropping hints that I wanted to go for a while, but I didn't actually think it was going to happen.
La cancha (the stadium) hold 42,000 screaming bocas sucias (dirty mouthed) Rosarinos. Marcela, her friend, Fermin, his friend and I walked into the stadium and I gasped in delight. The NOB players were decked in red and black and flying down the field, and as the ran the crowd chanted song, after song after song. Newell´s won on a penalty kick, and fireworks erupted from all corners of the stadium. As the game ended, Marcela grabbed my hand and dragged me out of la cancha and out towards the car.
We were stopped 100 feet out of the stadium by a huge row of cops. Cops with rottweilers, cops with guns, cops on horses, cops with plexi glass shields, all of them in bullet proof jackets. Marcela pulled out a cigarrette and started smoking, as if being stopped by the riot police was normal, which of course, it is. Fermin helped me out on the misunderstanding, explaining that if the police weren´t there, violent fights would break out between Newell´s fans and the other team.
Finally we were allowed to pass through. A muzzled german shephard lunged at me and I cursed so loudly in English that Fermin looked at me jokingly and said, ¨You scared?¨
After we passed through the line of police, we stopped at a cart and all ate my favorite argentine dish: churipan. Huge, salty pieces of choriza, drenched in chimichuri sauce and piled on a sweet roll.
When we finally got home that night, and I was tucked into my little bed I couldnt get the song out of my head:
Dale, dale, dale Newells.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Conversations with Sole
Soledad, the small Peruvian woman who cleans our apartment two times a week, woke me up this morning.
¨Ohhhh soledad, te amo soledad, te amo soledad, te encanta soledad.¨ She cooed at our weiner dog.
Tomorrow is Mother´s day in Argentina, and I´ve been wondering all this week what to do for Norah and Marcela.
¨What are you going to do for mother´s day tomorrow Sole?¨She has three boys, but I forgot that all of them are still in Peru.
¨Well Lissie,¨She sighed heavily. ¨That´s the sadness and loneliness of living in another country when everyone you love is somewhere else. You can´t celebrate. I will just work, eat and sleep like all the other days.¨
¨Ohhhh soledad, te amo soledad, te amo soledad, te encanta soledad.¨ She cooed at our weiner dog.
Tomorrow is Mother´s day in Argentina, and I´ve been wondering all this week what to do for Norah and Marcela.
¨What are you going to do for mother´s day tomorrow Sole?¨She has three boys, but I forgot that all of them are still in Peru.
¨Well Lissie,¨She sighed heavily. ¨That´s the sadness and loneliness of living in another country when everyone you love is somewhere else. You can´t celebrate. I will just work, eat and sleep like all the other days.¨
Monday, October 12, 2009
Oktoberfest ´09
It started months ago, when I was still in Wilsonville. I got a text from Devin that said:
¨Oktoberfest in Cordoba. Second biggest in the world. We´re going.¨
Two and a half months later I found myself standing in Villa General Belgrano, a beer stein hooked to a lanyard around my neck, trying to figure out how we could dodge paying 30 pesos ($8) to get into the festival.
Why is there such a huge Oktoberfest in the mountains of Argentina? Well, right after World War II there was a large population of Nazi sympathizers who were attempting to avoid the Nuremberg Trials, and VGB is tucked into the mountains. In the 1940´s it was almost impossible to get too, let alone find on a map.
So now, 70 years later, the dirt roads of the pueblo fill up with thousands people who spend an entire week drinking until they pass out.
I spent the weekend in a cabana made for 8, but packed with 16 American students. We spent as little money as possible, cooking our own meals, buying beer from the store (sorry mom and dad), sharing everything. We spent all day in the sun. Hiking, running, laying outside and reading. And every night we would get ourselves together and wander into Oktoberfest.
It was probably one of the best weekends of my life.
Oh, and how do you get into Oktoberfest without paying? We just walked right in and no one said a word.
¨Oktoberfest in Cordoba. Second biggest in the world. We´re going.¨
Two and a half months later I found myself standing in Villa General Belgrano, a beer stein hooked to a lanyard around my neck, trying to figure out how we could dodge paying 30 pesos ($8) to get into the festival.
Why is there such a huge Oktoberfest in the mountains of Argentina? Well, right after World War II there was a large population of Nazi sympathizers who were attempting to avoid the Nuremberg Trials, and VGB is tucked into the mountains. In the 1940´s it was almost impossible to get too, let alone find on a map.
So now, 70 years later, the dirt roads of the pueblo fill up with thousands people who spend an entire week drinking until they pass out.
I spent the weekend in a cabana made for 8, but packed with 16 American students. We spent as little money as possible, cooking our own meals, buying beer from the store (sorry mom and dad), sharing everything. We spent all day in the sun. Hiking, running, laying outside and reading. And every night we would get ourselves together and wander into Oktoberfest.
It was probably one of the best weekends of my life.
Oh, and how do you get into Oktoberfest without paying? We just walked right in and no one said a word.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Despertarse
The smoke was thick and black, and I could smell it-acrid and burning- blocks before I could see it.
¨What was Rosario like during the dirty war?¨I had cautiously asked my host aunt the night before. Norah is petite, with long brown hair that sways like a curtain as she spins around our kitchen making dinner every night.
¨Oh,¨She had paused, midway through placing a milonesa in the oven. She looked up at me, closed the oven door, and came to sit down next to me at the table.
Norah and I carry on conversations every night before dinner about everything. Harrison Ford, tango, Mormons, Isabel Allende, Chile, NAFTA, Italian, Christina Kirschner. But this was the first time I had dared ask about the la guerra sucia: The six year period of torture, murder, and ¨disappearances¨sponsored by the military government where 30,000 Argentines vanished from the streets.
Rosario was struck hard by the dirty war, and within two blocks of my school are two buildings that murdered students, human rights workers, and intellectuals. Every thursday, a group of mothers who´s children ¨disappeared¨ during the war march down Calle Oroño and demand the government releases information regarding their lost family. Norah was in law school during the war, and I knew this. But, it was a hard time to be an Argentine, and I didn´t want to bring up something she didn´t want to remember.
¨It was dangerous, and unstable.¨She said, taking a deep drag on her camel lights. ¨Soldiers would walk into our classes and shut them down for months at a time. We had nothing to do, no work, no school, we would just wait.¨
The cloud of black was rising from piles of tires, blocking off the road in all directions. Police stood on either end, hands in their pockets, eyes to the sky, apathetically viewing the sharp contrast of the clear, bright South American sky against the caustic buring rubber.
The dirty war finished over 25 years ago, with the election of a peronista into office. But the country never quite recovered, and in 2001, due to all the mishandlings of money and economic policy by the government, there was a spectacular economic collapse that made thousands of Argentines homeless overnight. There were violent riots in the streets, Pocho Lepratti,a popular Rosario school teacher,was murdered by the police.
The streets still carry signs of the period. Buildings are pockmarked with machine gun fire, and graffiti screams injustice from every available surface.
¨Luchás o dormeís, vos escogís¨ (fight or sleep, you choose)
¨Los menores no son peligrosos, son en peligro¨ (Minorities are not dangerous, they are in danger)
¨Pocho vivo!¨ (Pocho lives)
There is deep political mistrust here, and as Norah proves, deep political apathy in the older generation.
The current Argentine government is not well liked. The president Christina Kirschner has passed many enormously unpopular land reform laws, and the younger generation is not taking it sitting down.
The burning tires,the police, the signs, the drums, the yells, are common here. As Ashton told me the other day, half of her time in class is spent listening to announcements from political groups on campus.
Why write a whole entry just about Argentine politics? Because it´s impossible to walk down the streets here and not see that something is happening. The ¨political past¨ (as we think of it in The States) is the political present here. Everything is still changing, still falling into place.
I kept my head down as I walked through the protest and continued with my day. But like the burned rubber still clings to the bottom of my shoes, so do the ideas and passion of this revolutionary country.
¨What was Rosario like during the dirty war?¨I had cautiously asked my host aunt the night before. Norah is petite, with long brown hair that sways like a curtain as she spins around our kitchen making dinner every night.
¨Oh,¨She had paused, midway through placing a milonesa in the oven. She looked up at me, closed the oven door, and came to sit down next to me at the table.
Norah and I carry on conversations every night before dinner about everything. Harrison Ford, tango, Mormons, Isabel Allende, Chile, NAFTA, Italian, Christina Kirschner. But this was the first time I had dared ask about the la guerra sucia: The six year period of torture, murder, and ¨disappearances¨sponsored by the military government where 30,000 Argentines vanished from the streets.
Rosario was struck hard by the dirty war, and within two blocks of my school are two buildings that murdered students, human rights workers, and intellectuals. Every thursday, a group of mothers who´s children ¨disappeared¨ during the war march down Calle Oroño and demand the government releases information regarding their lost family. Norah was in law school during the war, and I knew this. But, it was a hard time to be an Argentine, and I didn´t want to bring up something she didn´t want to remember.
¨It was dangerous, and unstable.¨She said, taking a deep drag on her camel lights. ¨Soldiers would walk into our classes and shut them down for months at a time. We had nothing to do, no work, no school, we would just wait.¨
The cloud of black was rising from piles of tires, blocking off the road in all directions. Police stood on either end, hands in their pockets, eyes to the sky, apathetically viewing the sharp contrast of the clear, bright South American sky against the caustic buring rubber.
The dirty war finished over 25 years ago, with the election of a peronista into office. But the country never quite recovered, and in 2001, due to all the mishandlings of money and economic policy by the government, there was a spectacular economic collapse that made thousands of Argentines homeless overnight. There were violent riots in the streets, Pocho Lepratti,a popular Rosario school teacher,was murdered by the police.
The streets still carry signs of the period. Buildings are pockmarked with machine gun fire, and graffiti screams injustice from every available surface.
¨Luchás o dormeís, vos escogís¨ (fight or sleep, you choose)
¨Los menores no son peligrosos, son en peligro¨ (Minorities are not dangerous, they are in danger)
¨Pocho vivo!¨ (Pocho lives)
There is deep political mistrust here, and as Norah proves, deep political apathy in the older generation.
The current Argentine government is not well liked. The president Christina Kirschner has passed many enormously unpopular land reform laws, and the younger generation is not taking it sitting down.
The burning tires,the police, the signs, the drums, the yells, are common here. As Ashton told me the other day, half of her time in class is spent listening to announcements from political groups on campus.
Why write a whole entry just about Argentine politics? Because it´s impossible to walk down the streets here and not see that something is happening. The ¨political past¨ (as we think of it in The States) is the political present here. Everything is still changing, still falling into place.
I kept my head down as I walked through the protest and continued with my day. But like the burned rubber still clings to the bottom of my shoes, so do the ideas and passion of this revolutionary country.
(Photo courtesy Brynden McNew. Here´s his blog so I feel less like a thief: bmcnew.wordpress.com. Gracias nuevo!)
Sunday, September 27, 2009
On the radio (uh oh!)
It was Wednesday, and I walked in a conversation already in progress at my school.
¨...and I met this journalist at orientation who really wants to interview international students.¨ Jen, a girl in my program was explaining.
¨Really!?¨ I cut in, excited at the prospect.
¨Yea, you can come if you want. Friday at noon, but you can´t miss it. If you say that you´re going to be there, you have to be there.¨
Veronika looked at my skeptically. She did not believe that I was going to be in any shape to be awake, let alone speak coherently, the morning after the tango party the school was throwing for us.
¨Count me in!¨ I smiled, having no real idea what I was getting myself into.
Friday came and my alarm went off at 11, but I had already woken up, ate tostada and had a few cups of Mate. When the time came, I left my house and walked to the radio station.
It´s probably important for you to know that everything we do here is an adventure or an opportunity to make a fool of yourself. As students, we really have no idea what´s normal, and sometimes, just going to grocery store turns out to be exciting. You have to buzz in the doors and they don´t take bills over $50 (13 dollars) and things have to be weighed, and you can´t understand the cashier´s accent and the man by the dulce de leche is really excited that you´re from the states and wants to invite you out to meet his friends who will show you around and you end up spending an hour on an errand that would take 10 minutes at home.
So. As I walked to the radio station, I had no idea how this interview would play out. I didn´t know what they were asking us. I didn´t know what language it would be in. But whatever happened, I figured it would probably be funny later.
The woman who greeted me was strikingly tall and beautiful. Her English was flawless, and as she welcomed me into the station, she asked where the other girls were.
¨Oh, um, they were supposed to meet me here.¨
Turns out, the other girls that had warned me not to miss the meeting, had slept through their alarms.
¨Well,¨the woman seemed perplexed. ¨I´ve already advertised, and we have to record now. So, would you mind if I just interviewed you?¨
Twenty minutes later I sat in the recording studio of the station, earphones on, leaning over the microphone, attempting to explain how FAFSA, scholarships, and loans work into the US college experience. University is free here, and the woman was really interested in finding out what a ¨1st world country like the United States makes recieving an education so difficult.¨
We talked for the whole hour, easily navigating through a whole range of topics. When we would break for a commercial, we talked about journalism and how she defiently saw a future for me as journalist because I ¨have the face for it¨. What does that mean? Hell if I know. But, at the end of the interview, she invited me back for a live show next week.
It was so much fun. I said a few comments that were probably not the most well thought out, but when I left the office with a smile on my face and a new assurance that maybe this journalism gig,this idea that I´ve been mulling over in my head for months, is actually something I could do. A reality. A real tangible job with a real future.
Well, we´ll see. But for now this is Elizabeth Falconer, radio station 107.1 signing off. Have a beautiful Sunday, America.
¨...and I met this journalist at orientation who really wants to interview international students.¨ Jen, a girl in my program was explaining.
¨Really!?¨ I cut in, excited at the prospect.
¨Yea, you can come if you want. Friday at noon, but you can´t miss it. If you say that you´re going to be there, you have to be there.¨
Veronika looked at my skeptically. She did not believe that I was going to be in any shape to be awake, let alone speak coherently, the morning after the tango party the school was throwing for us.
¨Count me in!¨ I smiled, having no real idea what I was getting myself into.
Friday came and my alarm went off at 11, but I had already woken up, ate tostada and had a few cups of Mate. When the time came, I left my house and walked to the radio station.
It´s probably important for you to know that everything we do here is an adventure or an opportunity to make a fool of yourself. As students, we really have no idea what´s normal, and sometimes, just going to grocery store turns out to be exciting. You have to buzz in the doors and they don´t take bills over $50 (13 dollars) and things have to be weighed, and you can´t understand the cashier´s accent and the man by the dulce de leche is really excited that you´re from the states and wants to invite you out to meet his friends who will show you around and you end up spending an hour on an errand that would take 10 minutes at home.
So. As I walked to the radio station, I had no idea how this interview would play out. I didn´t know what they were asking us. I didn´t know what language it would be in. But whatever happened, I figured it would probably be funny later.
The woman who greeted me was strikingly tall and beautiful. Her English was flawless, and as she welcomed me into the station, she asked where the other girls were.
¨Oh, um, they were supposed to meet me here.¨
Turns out, the other girls that had warned me not to miss the meeting, had slept through their alarms.
¨Well,¨the woman seemed perplexed. ¨I´ve already advertised, and we have to record now. So, would you mind if I just interviewed you?¨
Twenty minutes later I sat in the recording studio of the station, earphones on, leaning over the microphone, attempting to explain how FAFSA, scholarships, and loans work into the US college experience. University is free here, and the woman was really interested in finding out what a ¨1st world country like the United States makes recieving an education so difficult.¨
We talked for the whole hour, easily navigating through a whole range of topics. When we would break for a commercial, we talked about journalism and how she defiently saw a future for me as journalist because I ¨have the face for it¨. What does that mean? Hell if I know. But, at the end of the interview, she invited me back for a live show next week.
It was so much fun. I said a few comments that were probably not the most well thought out, but when I left the office with a smile on my face and a new assurance that maybe this journalism gig,this idea that I´ve been mulling over in my head for months, is actually something I could do. A reality. A real tangible job with a real future.
Well, we´ll see. But for now this is Elizabeth Falconer, radio station 107.1 signing off. Have a beautiful Sunday, America.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
An entry that I wrote not knowing how it would end.
Mendoza sits huddled beneath the protective gaze of the Andes; it´s concrete buildings contrasting sharply to the rugged mountain peaks. It´s smaller than Rosario, and less crowded. As Devin and I were surprised to find out, it´s possible to cross the street and not see your life flash before your eyes. We were there for the weekend, for an adventure, for something new and creative and beautiful.
The crown jewel of the city is the Plaza de Independencia. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, as Devin and I wiped the sleep out of our eyes and disembarked from our 13 hour bus ride. We found a hostel, stayed in a ¨Matrimony Suite¨(complete with bubble gum pink walls, curtains, and bed spread) and then decided to wander around and get our bearings. It wasn´t long before we stumbled into the plaza, and upon a dance concert where 50 Mendocino youths were showing off their rhythm. The dancers stood in front of a monumentous fountain that sprayed water 50 feet in the air and occasionally on us if we were standing too close. We stood and watched in awe, until our rumbling stomachs over took our desire to watch.
Two botellas de agua and two plates of gnochis later, we went back to the park with a bottle of wine (and no wine bottle opener...fail) and passed out for two hours on the smooth green grass.
¨Helado!!!¨A wrinkled, darker man, pedaled past our sleeping frames on the ground. Every 30 seconds letting out another yell. ¨Ice cream, here!¨I wondered how many years he had spent saying those words.
The next day we met up with some girls from our program and took a $1 bus to the hot springs. Nestled between two moutains, we spent the day soaking in the scenery and the sun.
Later that night Devin and I decided to nap before we went out on the town, but unfortunately slept a bit too long, and woke up at 9 am the next morning, just in time for our wine tour.
We biked around the bodegas of the Maipú region of Mendoza sans a guide, with only a rudimentary map and two irish girls who found themselves in the same predicament as us. We had paid for a tour, but only been given bikes and a time to return.
¨We close after six,¨The man had told us, ¨So get back before then.¨And with that, he had waved us on our way.
Now, I´m not sure about you, but I don´t really know my way around Maipú very well, or at all really. So we spent the next eight hours of our day searching the streets for these elusive wineries. We found some, and the wine was great. We stopped at a liquor and chocolate factory, and since there were no English speaking guides, I got to translate for our group and for a German couple.
Although it was tough not having a guide, we were able to go at our own pace and enjoy the scenery. It was like something out of a postcard, and if the computer was working I would be able to put up pictures, but imagine this:
Our bikes are in various stages of disrepair, but it seems to match the rundown buildings perfectly. Almost sarcastically, the government has painted¨Maipú, el mejor lugar para vivir¨(Maipú the best place to live) over half torn down buildings and sanitation vehicles. Bricks and pieces of rock lay abandoned, as if someday a work crew will come back and finish the job. On the other side of the road, The Andes rise like ancient watchment, snow still perched on rocky shoulders, and below it's impossible to see anything but the twisted hands of thousands of grape plants reaching for the sunlight. It´s an interesting contradiction, the poverty of the people with the glory of the scenery. The broken, dirty homes and the immaculate bodegas. All four of us pedal past it, listening to the songs of the birds and the roar of the trucks as they plow past us, spraying us with exhaust.
In one moment it´s beautiful, in the next, it´s incredibly sad. It´s a feeling I can´t shake, a gut instinct that all of it can´t exist together, but yet it does. The fountain in Mendoza sprays water and lights up, and in the hot springs people swirl down the water slides, and rich tourists bike around and taste ridiculously expensive wine, while la gente of this breathtaking region work the field, beg for money, living a day to day existence.
I´ve been craving an authentic experience here: something real, not fabricated by the tourists office. But the more time I spend, the more Spanish I speak, I´m coming to realize that my idea of what is an ¨authentic¨experience, may just be a figment of my imagination. Maybe the reality is in the contradictions, in the experiences that are difficult for me to understand, and hard for me to explain. Maybe in these moments of apprehension, of shock, of guilt, I will find whatever I'm looking for.
For now, all I can do is make sure my eyes are open as I pedal by.
The crown jewel of the city is the Plaza de Independencia. The sun was bright and the sky was blue, as Devin and I wiped the sleep out of our eyes and disembarked from our 13 hour bus ride. We found a hostel, stayed in a ¨Matrimony Suite¨(complete with bubble gum pink walls, curtains, and bed spread) and then decided to wander around and get our bearings. It wasn´t long before we stumbled into the plaza, and upon a dance concert where 50 Mendocino youths were showing off their rhythm. The dancers stood in front of a monumentous fountain that sprayed water 50 feet in the air and occasionally on us if we were standing too close. We stood and watched in awe, until our rumbling stomachs over took our desire to watch.
Two botellas de agua and two plates of gnochis later, we went back to the park with a bottle of wine (and no wine bottle opener...fail) and passed out for two hours on the smooth green grass.
¨Helado!!!¨A wrinkled, darker man, pedaled past our sleeping frames on the ground. Every 30 seconds letting out another yell. ¨Ice cream, here!¨I wondered how many years he had spent saying those words.
The next day we met up with some girls from our program and took a $1 bus to the hot springs. Nestled between two moutains, we spent the day soaking in the scenery and the sun.
Later that night Devin and I decided to nap before we went out on the town, but unfortunately slept a bit too long, and woke up at 9 am the next morning, just in time for our wine tour.
We biked around the bodegas of the Maipú region of Mendoza sans a guide, with only a rudimentary map and two irish girls who found themselves in the same predicament as us. We had paid for a tour, but only been given bikes and a time to return.
¨We close after six,¨The man had told us, ¨So get back before then.¨And with that, he had waved us on our way.
Now, I´m not sure about you, but I don´t really know my way around Maipú very well, or at all really. So we spent the next eight hours of our day searching the streets for these elusive wineries. We found some, and the wine was great. We stopped at a liquor and chocolate factory, and since there were no English speaking guides, I got to translate for our group and for a German couple.
Although it was tough not having a guide, we were able to go at our own pace and enjoy the scenery. It was like something out of a postcard, and if the computer was working I would be able to put up pictures, but imagine this:
Our bikes are in various stages of disrepair, but it seems to match the rundown buildings perfectly. Almost sarcastically, the government has painted¨Maipú, el mejor lugar para vivir¨(Maipú the best place to live) over half torn down buildings and sanitation vehicles. Bricks and pieces of rock lay abandoned, as if someday a work crew will come back and finish the job. On the other side of the road, The Andes rise like ancient watchment, snow still perched on rocky shoulders, and below it's impossible to see anything but the twisted hands of thousands of grape plants reaching for the sunlight. It´s an interesting contradiction, the poverty of the people with the glory of the scenery. The broken, dirty homes and the immaculate bodegas. All four of us pedal past it, listening to the songs of the birds and the roar of the trucks as they plow past us, spraying us with exhaust.
In one moment it´s beautiful, in the next, it´s incredibly sad. It´s a feeling I can´t shake, a gut instinct that all of it can´t exist together, but yet it does. The fountain in Mendoza sprays water and lights up, and in the hot springs people swirl down the water slides, and rich tourists bike around and taste ridiculously expensive wine, while la gente of this breathtaking region work the field, beg for money, living a day to day existence.
I´ve been craving an authentic experience here: something real, not fabricated by the tourists office. But the more time I spend, the more Spanish I speak, I´m coming to realize that my idea of what is an ¨authentic¨experience, may just be a figment of my imagination. Maybe the reality is in the contradictions, in the experiences that are difficult for me to understand, and hard for me to explain. Maybe in these moments of apprehension, of shock, of guilt, I will find whatever I'm looking for.
For now, all I can do is make sure my eyes are open as I pedal by.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Patos Ahogados
¨Rosario, Argentina is one of the most underrated cities in Argentina...Seated on a flood plain, when it rains heavily the streets and sidewalks flood and the people will take of their shoes and roll up their pants to get around.¨-Lonely Planet Guide to Argentina (gracias Melissa Berg!)
The skies cracked and sparked as we sat in Grammer Nivel Cuatro yesterday morning.
¨Trueno!¨our teacher shivered as she pointed out the word for thunder.
By the time we were done with school it had been pouring rain for hours. We looked like ballerinas along the sidewalks, spinning and hopping to avoid the 6 inch deep water.
I live 12 blocks from la facultad, and there were no cabs available, so I turned up my ipod, tightened my rain jacket, and danced my way home.
Rain is still expected this weekend in Rosario, so Devin and I are packing up, kissing our host families goodbye, and heading for higher ground.
Mendoza here we come.
The skies cracked and sparked as we sat in Grammer Nivel Cuatro yesterday morning.
¨Trueno!¨our teacher shivered as she pointed out the word for thunder.
By the time we were done with school it had been pouring rain for hours. We looked like ballerinas along the sidewalks, spinning and hopping to avoid the 6 inch deep water.
I live 12 blocks from la facultad, and there were no cabs available, so I turned up my ipod, tightened my rain jacket, and danced my way home.
Rain is still expected this weekend in Rosario, so Devin and I are packing up, kissing our host families goodbye, and heading for higher ground.
Mendoza here we come.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
¨Lizzie Falconer is listed as in a complicated relationship with Ernesto Guevara¨
¨...mi boca narra lo que mis ojos le contaron¨
-Ernesto Guevara, Notas de Viaje
(My mouth narrates what my eyes tell it to)
-Ernesto Guevara, Notas de Viaje
(My mouth narrates what my eyes tell it to)
Monday, September 14, 2009
Ojo Lissie!
Marcela was standing in front of me, making sure I was listening properly.
¨Ojo, Lissie.¨She said, using her pointer finger to pull down lightly on the skin beneath her left eye. ¨Cuidadate niña¨, Buenos Aires is very dangerous. Hold your purse, make sure you have a porteño with you at all times.¨
The ¨ojo¨sign is probably my favorite of the argentine hand gestures. It is done almost universally in South America, and has one meaning: watch out. Men do it, women do it, people on the streets who are worried about your safety do it, and now, I do it. I think it´s hilarious, a physical reminder to keep my eyes open and aware that as a peliroja, I am not always attracting positive attention.
We spent three days and three nights in the city. We stayed with Veronika´s friend Abel, who has an apartment in the Palermo barrio of the city. I got to spend all three nights with Ashton and she took us all around to different bars and places. Her Spanish is incredible (although she will absolutely deny this) and it was incredible to merge our two trips together, if only for a few days.
On Saturday Ashton took us to the Ricolletta Cemetary, a grave site of sorts, except instead of tombstones, it holds hundreds of grave houses, almost monuments. I´ll put up pictures to help my ailing description. We stood saw Evita´s gravesite, which is still adorned with fresh flowers and people of all nationalities posing to have their picture taken in front of her eternal smile.
Outside of the cemetary is a huge Fería, or fair (thanks castellaño) and there we ran into Devin´s friend from 6th grade who is studying in Chile but just happened to be in Buenos Aires in the fería at the same time as we were.
We spent most of the rest of the day with them. They were even there when I had pizza and beer with the beautiful Noell twins. We all laughed and exchanged stories of misunderstandings, amusing cultural differences, and the eternal ¨ojo!¨from our host mothers.
¨Ojo!¨ We would yell, pointing our fingers and extending the skin beneath our eyes.
¨Ojo Deveeen!¨ I would shout as Devin almost was hit by a rogue Taxista.
In the apartment, in the open air bar, in the birthday party we stayed at until 5 am:
¨Ojo! Ojo! Ojo!¨
I laughed so much and ojo-ed so much that it should have been no surprise that when I woke up yesterday, my last day in Buenos Aires....
with a bad case of Conjuctivitis in my left eye.
Conjuctivitis for all of my none premed friends, is pink eye.
So now I´m donning my glasses, sans mascara and eyeliner, until the over the counter remedy Norah gave me works its magic.
But, don´t go thinking I didn´t have a good time. I had an amazing time, full of friends and music and dancing, and great food and beautiful scenery. This little infection will clear itself up soon, but the memory of dancing in a room with thousands of other people, hearing only Castellaño is something that will never leave me.
And who else can say they went to Buenos Aires and came back with a case of pink eye?
¨Ojo, Lissie.¨She said, using her pointer finger to pull down lightly on the skin beneath her left eye. ¨Cuidadate niña¨, Buenos Aires is very dangerous. Hold your purse, make sure you have a porteño with you at all times.¨
The ¨ojo¨sign is probably my favorite of the argentine hand gestures. It is done almost universally in South America, and has one meaning: watch out. Men do it, women do it, people on the streets who are worried about your safety do it, and now, I do it. I think it´s hilarious, a physical reminder to keep my eyes open and aware that as a peliroja, I am not always attracting positive attention.
We spent three days and three nights in the city. We stayed with Veronika´s friend Abel, who has an apartment in the Palermo barrio of the city. I got to spend all three nights with Ashton and she took us all around to different bars and places. Her Spanish is incredible (although she will absolutely deny this) and it was incredible to merge our two trips together, if only for a few days.
On Saturday Ashton took us to the Ricolletta Cemetary, a grave site of sorts, except instead of tombstones, it holds hundreds of grave houses, almost monuments. I´ll put up pictures to help my ailing description. We stood saw Evita´s gravesite, which is still adorned with fresh flowers and people of all nationalities posing to have their picture taken in front of her eternal smile.
Outside of the cemetary is a huge Fería, or fair (thanks castellaño) and there we ran into Devin´s friend from 6th grade who is studying in Chile but just happened to be in Buenos Aires in the fería at the same time as we were.
We spent most of the rest of the day with them. They were even there when I had pizza and beer with the beautiful Noell twins. We all laughed and exchanged stories of misunderstandings, amusing cultural differences, and the eternal ¨ojo!¨from our host mothers.
¨Ojo!¨ We would yell, pointing our fingers and extending the skin beneath our eyes.
¨Ojo Deveeen!¨ I would shout as Devin almost was hit by a rogue Taxista.
In the apartment, in the open air bar, in the birthday party we stayed at until 5 am:
¨Ojo! Ojo! Ojo!¨
I laughed so much and ojo-ed so much that it should have been no surprise that when I woke up yesterday, my last day in Buenos Aires....
with a bad case of Conjuctivitis in my left eye.
Conjuctivitis for all of my none premed friends, is pink eye.
So now I´m donning my glasses, sans mascara and eyeliner, until the over the counter remedy Norah gave me works its magic.
But, don´t go thinking I didn´t have a good time. I had an amazing time, full of friends and music and dancing, and great food and beautiful scenery. This little infection will clear itself up soon, but the memory of dancing in a room with thousands of other people, hearing only Castellaño is something that will never leave me.
And who else can say they went to Buenos Aires and came back with a case of pink eye?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Good Airs
The largest city in Argentina sits on the shore of the Rio de la Plata. Spanning over 78 sqaure miles and holding 16 million people, Buenos Aires rises out of the pampa and explodes into your conciousness at a speed that leaves you breathless and exhilarated.
We arrived last night at 11 pm. The ten lane highways were quiet as our double decker bus-El Rosarino- cruised through the streets. Flanked on both sides by bright green soccer fields, we could see the soccer players from the freeway; field after field after field. Giant billboards loomed over us, scantily clad models striking seductive poses; over and over and over.
The boliche Ashton took us too was huge. 2,000 Porteños dancing together to Shania Twain and drinking Cuba Libres. We danced until night blurred into morning, until the bright Argentine sun peaked over the horizon.
Buen dia, extranjeras.
We arrived last night at 11 pm. The ten lane highways were quiet as our double decker bus-El Rosarino- cruised through the streets. Flanked on both sides by bright green soccer fields, we could see the soccer players from the freeway; field after field after field. Giant billboards loomed over us, scantily clad models striking seductive poses; over and over and over.
The boliche Ashton took us too was huge. 2,000 Porteños dancing together to Shania Twain and drinking Cuba Libres. We danced until night blurred into morning, until the bright Argentine sun peaked over the horizon.
Buen dia, extranjeras.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Zero Centigrade
So, it´s winter in Argentina.
This was a fact I knew before I left. But I also knew that we were in the Southern Hemisphere, and how cold can it get? I survived (mostly) a winter in Tacoma, I figured I could handle whatever this tropical paradise could throw at me.
Well, it turns out that it does get quite cold here. It was in the seventies in Rosario the week before we arrived, but this past week the country has been hit with a cold streak that has nearly every person greeting eachother with, ¨Hace mucho frio!¨
I didn´t pack for this weather, and neither did anyone else from the program. Yesterday, it was 35 degrees, and my host mom Marcela absolutely freaked when she saw that I was planning on wearing a dress, leggings, boots and a sweater.
¨Aren´t you cold Lisssieee?¨She said, staring at me with wide eyes. ¨You need to wear more clothes! It´s cold, darling.¨ She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway between her room and my aunt´s room.
¨Norah! Look at Lizzie. What a crazy girl to go out like this!¨ Marcela yelled. Norah came scurrying out, gave me the same horrified expression and said:
¨Haces frio lissie!!¨
The next ten minutes consisted of them clucking about, grabbing coats, cardigans, gloves, hats, scarves, and dressing me up until they were satisfied that I would not get sick and die on the streets of Rosario.
¨Oh Lisssie! Look at you! The boys will see you in this coat and say OH! Look at her! Yes, very chic.¨ (Or something like that).
The coat they had chosen for me was a peacoat on steroids: wide enough for a line backer, my frame appeared tiny between the shoulder pads and the bottom lapped at my ankles. I looked like a little girl who had raided her mother´s closet.
But, I guess I am.
This was a fact I knew before I left. But I also knew that we were in the Southern Hemisphere, and how cold can it get? I survived (mostly) a winter in Tacoma, I figured I could handle whatever this tropical paradise could throw at me.
Well, it turns out that it does get quite cold here. It was in the seventies in Rosario the week before we arrived, but this past week the country has been hit with a cold streak that has nearly every person greeting eachother with, ¨Hace mucho frio!¨
I didn´t pack for this weather, and neither did anyone else from the program. Yesterday, it was 35 degrees, and my host mom Marcela absolutely freaked when she saw that I was planning on wearing a dress, leggings, boots and a sweater.
¨Aren´t you cold Lisssieee?¨She said, staring at me with wide eyes. ¨You need to wear more clothes! It´s cold, darling.¨ She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway between her room and my aunt´s room.
¨Norah! Look at Lizzie. What a crazy girl to go out like this!¨ Marcela yelled. Norah came scurrying out, gave me the same horrified expression and said:
¨Haces frio lissie!!¨
The next ten minutes consisted of them clucking about, grabbing coats, cardigans, gloves, hats, scarves, and dressing me up until they were satisfied that I would not get sick and die on the streets of Rosario.
¨Oh Lisssie! Look at you! The boys will see you in this coat and say OH! Look at her! Yes, very chic.¨ (Or something like that).
The coat they had chosen for me was a peacoat on steroids: wide enough for a line backer, my frame appeared tiny between the shoulder pads and the bottom lapped at my ankles. I looked like a little girl who had raided her mother´s closet.
But, I guess I am.
Monday, September 7, 2009
3.8 pesos to the dollar
I thought today was going to be a good day.
I hadn´t slept all that well; a huge storm hit Rosario last night and woke everyone up with hours of lightnight, thunder, and pounding rain. But I had woken up when I was supposed to, drank my cup of Mate, and left early enough to get to Western Union and still make it to class on time.
To say that I´ve had a few technical difficulties would be like saying Allie (the dog, not you Ally Stevenson) has only a few behavior problems. It´s a straight out lie. Ever since that flight was cancelled, very little has gone my way. Someone got all of my bank information and tried to pass a fake check through my account mere days before I left. Key bank closed the account and overnighted me a new card, so I thought I would be set for the trip. But, when I tried to use the new card, it didn´t work. And I found out they had accidently closed that account too. So, a half hour before I left for the airport my family and I dashed to key bank to get a temporary ATM cardd until they were able to ship me a new one.
¨Don´t worry!¨They promised, white teeth gleaming, button down shirts pressed and spotless. ¨Key bank does it´s best to serve our customers and we guarentee this card will work wherever they take mastercard or cirrus!¨
Liars.
In fact, as I was doomed to find out, no where in South America takes temporary ATM cards. Not even at the airport. Not at the currency exchange. Not at the HSBC or Citi Bank.
¨Well Lizzie, you have that credit card you always charge impulse buys at Urban Outfitters too! Use that!¨you exclaim to your computer screen.
Sorry, apparently South America doesn´t take those either. En serio, in the week that I´ve been here, I´ve only been able to use my credit card in two places: the cell phone store and a school supplies outlet store. No restaurants take them. No supermarkets. No stores of any kind take credit cards. Everyone takes pesos, and the money I had exchanged in Dallas was gone after I bought my bus ticket to Rosario.
So I´ve been penniless. Totally. Which is partly why I´ve been able to write in this blog so much. Every day I have to come and call my parents via Skype to try to brainstorm what to do. Finally we decided on wiring money, which is one of those things you´ve always heard of , but have no idea how to do.
Friday they sent it, and Friday I went to the Western Unions. Only to find out, they´re closed. All of them. For the weekend.
Meanwhile, I´ve bought a cell phone. But it doesn´t work. I´m the only person in my program who has had any sort of problem with my phone. I cant get ahold of anyone I know, and even if I could, I can´t even afford a Taxi to get to them.
Luckily, luckily, luckily, I´ve had Veronika and Devin. They´ve been lending me money and walking me to Phone kiosks and Western Unions and ATMs and helping me when the Argentine salespeople won´t. They´ve been incredible, absolutely lifesaving. And, my parents have been more than willing to spend hours on the phone with the imbeciles at Key and Western Union. I would be a homeless weirdo with black street dog as a pet without them.
So, back to today. I thought it would be great. It´s Monday! The banks are open! I can finally get money and pay Vero y Devi the huge stack of bills I owe them. My phone was finally working, and I was going to end my 5 day spell of poverty.
Angel met me at the corner of Sarmiento and Cordoba, and we walked the six blocks to the Western Bank.
Attempt 1: 800 AM
Bank has not recieved it´s money yet. It cannot cover $300 that I need. I go to class.
Attempt 2: 1030 AM with Vero
I need a password, a money transaction number that I was not told I needed. They CANNOT do the transaction without the number. I call my dad. Find the number
Attemt 3: 1130 AM with Vero
The Bank has run out of all the money. Try later.
Attemt 4: 200PM with Spanish speaking teacher from school
I figure out now they just aren´t helping me because I´m American. We go. The man won´t help me because the order says its for ¨Elizabeth JD Falconer¨ and my 3 seperate pieces of ID say Elizabeth J Falconer. Please tell me how you explain, in Spanish, that in the US sometimes they only have one box for your middle name and your parents decided to give you two?
Attempt 5: 330 PM
I walk the 15 blocks back to my house trying to wipe the tears of frusteration from my eyes. My host mom sees me and hugs me and then insists that I wear more clothes because it´s 55 degrees outside and one coat and a scarf can not be enough. I grab my passport, now wearing one jacket of mine and one of Marcela´s, hail a cab, and finally am helped at another Western Union.
As some people in the program like to joke, I have the worst luck in the world. It´s been tough. Besides the money and phone problems, I´ve had two seperate restaurants forget my order and have left me sitting for hours, waiting. I´ve had problems with classes and transfer credit. Hell, it´s an ordeal opening a door here because the keys are so different.
But the more I talk to people the more I´m understanding that this is all part of the experience. At one point or another (and sometimes more intense for some people) everything falls apart when you study abroad. It´s about learning how to communicate even when you´re not comfortable, in a language that doesn´t really make sense to your ears. It´s about making friends that can say, ¨It´s only a temporary problem¨when you´ve just cried for 15 blocks in a foreign city and the people were looking at you like you´re the weirdest thing they´ve ever seen (which you are). And what I´m focusing on is that I´m here, in this ridiculously beautiful city, speaking Spanish and having a really great time. Because I am.
Rosario -minus the bank tellers- is a dream come true.
I hadn´t slept all that well; a huge storm hit Rosario last night and woke everyone up with hours of lightnight, thunder, and pounding rain. But I had woken up when I was supposed to, drank my cup of Mate, and left early enough to get to Western Union and still make it to class on time.
To say that I´ve had a few technical difficulties would be like saying Allie (the dog, not you Ally Stevenson) has only a few behavior problems. It´s a straight out lie. Ever since that flight was cancelled, very little has gone my way. Someone got all of my bank information and tried to pass a fake check through my account mere days before I left. Key bank closed the account and overnighted me a new card, so I thought I would be set for the trip. But, when I tried to use the new card, it didn´t work. And I found out they had accidently closed that account too. So, a half hour before I left for the airport my family and I dashed to key bank to get a temporary ATM cardd until they were able to ship me a new one.
¨Don´t worry!¨They promised, white teeth gleaming, button down shirts pressed and spotless. ¨Key bank does it´s best to serve our customers and we guarentee this card will work wherever they take mastercard or cirrus!¨
Liars.
In fact, as I was doomed to find out, no where in South America takes temporary ATM cards. Not even at the airport. Not at the currency exchange. Not at the HSBC or Citi Bank.
¨Well Lizzie, you have that credit card you always charge impulse buys at Urban Outfitters too! Use that!¨you exclaim to your computer screen.
Sorry, apparently South America doesn´t take those either. En serio, in the week that I´ve been here, I´ve only been able to use my credit card in two places: the cell phone store and a school supplies outlet store. No restaurants take them. No supermarkets. No stores of any kind take credit cards. Everyone takes pesos, and the money I had exchanged in Dallas was gone after I bought my bus ticket to Rosario.
So I´ve been penniless. Totally. Which is partly why I´ve been able to write in this blog so much. Every day I have to come and call my parents via Skype to try to brainstorm what to do. Finally we decided on wiring money, which is one of those things you´ve always heard of , but have no idea how to do.
Friday they sent it, and Friday I went to the Western Unions. Only to find out, they´re closed. All of them. For the weekend.
Meanwhile, I´ve bought a cell phone. But it doesn´t work. I´m the only person in my program who has had any sort of problem with my phone. I cant get ahold of anyone I know, and even if I could, I can´t even afford a Taxi to get to them.
Luckily, luckily, luckily, I´ve had Veronika and Devin. They´ve been lending me money and walking me to Phone kiosks and Western Unions and ATMs and helping me when the Argentine salespeople won´t. They´ve been incredible, absolutely lifesaving. And, my parents have been more than willing to spend hours on the phone with the imbeciles at Key and Western Union. I would be a homeless weirdo with black street dog as a pet without them.
So, back to today. I thought it would be great. It´s Monday! The banks are open! I can finally get money and pay Vero y Devi the huge stack of bills I owe them. My phone was finally working, and I was going to end my 5 day spell of poverty.
Angel met me at the corner of Sarmiento and Cordoba, and we walked the six blocks to the Western Bank.
Attempt 1: 800 AM
Bank has not recieved it´s money yet. It cannot cover $300 that I need. I go to class.
Attempt 2: 1030 AM with Vero
I need a password, a money transaction number that I was not told I needed. They CANNOT do the transaction without the number. I call my dad. Find the number
Attemt 3: 1130 AM with Vero
The Bank has run out of all the money. Try later.
Attemt 4: 200PM with Spanish speaking teacher from school
I figure out now they just aren´t helping me because I´m American. We go. The man won´t help me because the order says its for ¨Elizabeth JD Falconer¨ and my 3 seperate pieces of ID say Elizabeth J Falconer. Please tell me how you explain, in Spanish, that in the US sometimes they only have one box for your middle name and your parents decided to give you two?
Attempt 5: 330 PM
I walk the 15 blocks back to my house trying to wipe the tears of frusteration from my eyes. My host mom sees me and hugs me and then insists that I wear more clothes because it´s 55 degrees outside and one coat and a scarf can not be enough. I grab my passport, now wearing one jacket of mine and one of Marcela´s, hail a cab, and finally am helped at another Western Union.
As some people in the program like to joke, I have the worst luck in the world. It´s been tough. Besides the money and phone problems, I´ve had two seperate restaurants forget my order and have left me sitting for hours, waiting. I´ve had problems with classes and transfer credit. Hell, it´s an ordeal opening a door here because the keys are so different.
But the more I talk to people the more I´m understanding that this is all part of the experience. At one point or another (and sometimes more intense for some people) everything falls apart when you study abroad. It´s about learning how to communicate even when you´re not comfortable, in a language that doesn´t really make sense to your ears. It´s about making friends that can say, ¨It´s only a temporary problem¨when you´ve just cried for 15 blocks in a foreign city and the people were looking at you like you´re the weirdest thing they´ve ever seen (which you are). And what I´m focusing on is that I´m here, in this ridiculously beautiful city, speaking Spanish and having a really great time. Because I am.
Rosario -minus the bank tellers- is a dream come true.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
All Dogs Go to Heaven
The Argentines love animals.
Most of my friends host parents have dogs and a cat or two in the tiny apartments and houses that the families occupy. As mentioned before, my family has Aldo and two cats. Aldo runs the house; he keeps busy barking at the broom and hasseling the cat.
Cordoba is the main street in Rosario. On the weekends it´s full of people busy running errands they can´t during the week and street performers line up and sing, dance and sell awesome candied nuts. For those who´ve been to Barcelona, it´s little a mini Las Ramblas. If you walk all the way down Cordoba, you get to El Rio Panara, the 9th largest river in the world. El Monumento Nacional de la Bandera is there too, a huge statue dedicated to the designer of the Argentine Flag and a graveyard for some of Argentina´s fallen soldiers. Or at least I think so, I wasn´t quite paying as much attention as I should have during the tour.
I walk down Cordoba every day to go to school. My first day I walked down and was alarmed when every ten feet there were dogs laying flat and immobile in the middle of the road. No cars can drive on Cordoba, and people were just walking around and stepping over these dogs as if nothing was wrong.
¨Oh my god, are these dogs dead?¨I worried in my jet legged induced delirium. ¨Why isn´t anyone taking care of them? Shouldn´t someone move their bodies or something?¨There are all raizes (breeds) of them too, poodles and labs and german shepherds and mutts all laying (lying? I don´t know I can´t speak any language anymore) as if some doggie atomic bomb had went off and there were no survivors.
I soon figured out that obviously there were not hundreds of dead dogs in the streets of Rosario. They are street dogs, sleeping. They are incredibly common in Rosario, but unlike any other place I´ve ever been, the people treat them with respect. Most don´t have homes, but some street dogs have collars which means that someone somewhere in the city feeds them. If a street dog follows you for a few blocks the Rosarenos (Rosario peeps) call them your Guardian Angel.
Which is how we met Angel. Our first night out on the town in Rosario, a group of 8 of us from the program were hopelessly lost. We were attempting to find a Boliche (Dance club. My blog is like a mini lesson in Castellano!Whoooo!) This mangy little black lab with one white foot followed us for about twenty blocks. ¨How sweet!¨ You think. ¨Lizzie is protected by her own little angel!¨ Well, our Angel apparently had a death wish. Every 5 seconds when a car would zoom by, Angel would jump out in front of the car and bark at the tires and every time I would scream bloody murder because I thought he was going to get run over. It happened over and over until Devin placed herself between Angel and I and tried to get me to shut up. We were trying to make friends and I was scaring them off.
The next day on our tour of Rosario we met up with Angel again. He walked with our group of 50 students and every moment or so would challenge death and the Argentine taxi drivers.
I see him everyday. And everyday is the same. He jumps and barks, and I scream so loud that my face turns crimson and the Argentines look at me like I´ve just held up a Brazilian flag
He´s the best crazed, suicidal, four legged angel a girl could ask for.
Most of my friends host parents have dogs and a cat or two in the tiny apartments and houses that the families occupy. As mentioned before, my family has Aldo and two cats. Aldo runs the house; he keeps busy barking at the broom and hasseling the cat.
Cordoba is the main street in Rosario. On the weekends it´s full of people busy running errands they can´t during the week and street performers line up and sing, dance and sell awesome candied nuts. For those who´ve been to Barcelona, it´s little a mini Las Ramblas. If you walk all the way down Cordoba, you get to El Rio Panara, the 9th largest river in the world. El Monumento Nacional de la Bandera is there too, a huge statue dedicated to the designer of the Argentine Flag and a graveyard for some of Argentina´s fallen soldiers. Or at least I think so, I wasn´t quite paying as much attention as I should have during the tour.
I walk down Cordoba every day to go to school. My first day I walked down and was alarmed when every ten feet there were dogs laying flat and immobile in the middle of the road. No cars can drive on Cordoba, and people were just walking around and stepping over these dogs as if nothing was wrong.
¨Oh my god, are these dogs dead?¨I worried in my jet legged induced delirium. ¨Why isn´t anyone taking care of them? Shouldn´t someone move their bodies or something?¨There are all raizes (breeds) of them too, poodles and labs and german shepherds and mutts all laying (lying? I don´t know I can´t speak any language anymore) as if some doggie atomic bomb had went off and there were no survivors.
I soon figured out that obviously there were not hundreds of dead dogs in the streets of Rosario. They are street dogs, sleeping. They are incredibly common in Rosario, but unlike any other place I´ve ever been, the people treat them with respect. Most don´t have homes, but some street dogs have collars which means that someone somewhere in the city feeds them. If a street dog follows you for a few blocks the Rosarenos (Rosario peeps) call them your Guardian Angel.
Which is how we met Angel. Our first night out on the town in Rosario, a group of 8 of us from the program were hopelessly lost. We were attempting to find a Boliche (Dance club. My blog is like a mini lesson in Castellano!Whoooo!) This mangy little black lab with one white foot followed us for about twenty blocks. ¨How sweet!¨ You think. ¨Lizzie is protected by her own little angel!¨ Well, our Angel apparently had a death wish. Every 5 seconds when a car would zoom by, Angel would jump out in front of the car and bark at the tires and every time I would scream bloody murder because I thought he was going to get run over. It happened over and over until Devin placed herself between Angel and I and tried to get me to shut up. We were trying to make friends and I was scaring them off.
The next day on our tour of Rosario we met up with Angel again. He walked with our group of 50 students and every moment or so would challenge death and the Argentine taxi drivers.
I see him everyday. And everyday is the same. He jumps and barks, and I scream so loud that my face turns crimson and the Argentines look at me like I´ve just held up a Brazilian flag
He´s the best crazed, suicidal, four legged angel a girl could ask for.
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Red Lion
Where was I?
Oh yes, the flight was cancelled.
Long story short, we spent a night in Portland, caught a 6 am flight to Dallas. Killed about 6 hours in the Dallas airport. Boarded our flight to BA, then sat on the runway for three hours because there was a water leak in one of the bathrooms and it was flooding the plane.
When we finally arrived in Buenos Aires, we had missed our second reservations (that we had frantically made from the Dallas) for the bus to Rosario, so we killed three hours in the airport and caught the next bus.
The bus took 5 hours and finally, at 7pm on September 2nd, dropped me off in front of 425 Sarmiento ave.
Now, it´s almost dark. I am carrying 60 lbs of luggage and I am tired. I buzz up to my apartment, and a teenage boy comes down to get me.
What? I thought I had just a host mom. No, turns out I have a host brother, Famir, who is 16. Also, a host aunt (Norah) who immediately made me drop my stuff and follow her to a bar that a family friend owns. I also have Marcela, my host mom; Aldo, my host weiner dog, and two cats whose names I cannot pronounce. They are amazing. There accents are really thick, but I can understand most of what they´re saying.
More soon! Devin, Alexis (OSU-er), Veronika and I have a date with a bottle of Argentine wine (sorry mom and dad) and an electro pop music concert at the National Monument for the Flag.ç
Chiao!
Un beso para todos
Oh yes, the flight was cancelled.
Long story short, we spent a night in Portland, caught a 6 am flight to Dallas. Killed about 6 hours in the Dallas airport. Boarded our flight to BA, then sat on the runway for three hours because there was a water leak in one of the bathrooms and it was flooding the plane.
When we finally arrived in Buenos Aires, we had missed our second reservations (that we had frantically made from the Dallas) for the bus to Rosario, so we killed three hours in the airport and caught the next bus.
The bus took 5 hours and finally, at 7pm on September 2nd, dropped me off in front of 425 Sarmiento ave.
Now, it´s almost dark. I am carrying 60 lbs of luggage and I am tired. I buzz up to my apartment, and a teenage boy comes down to get me.
What? I thought I had just a host mom. No, turns out I have a host brother, Famir, who is 16. Also, a host aunt (Norah) who immediately made me drop my stuff and follow her to a bar that a family friend owns. I also have Marcela, my host mom; Aldo, my host weiner dog, and two cats whose names I cannot pronounce. They are amazing. There accents are really thick, but I can understand most of what they´re saying.
More soon! Devin, Alexis (OSU-er), Veronika and I have a date with a bottle of Argentine wine (sorry mom and dad) and an electro pop music concert at the National Monument for the Flag.ç
Chiao!
Un beso para todos
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Three days, three flights, one five hour bus ride later
So, imagine this:
I am standing in front of a door. It´s marked 425, and as the traffic wizzes by me on Sarmiento street, I can suddenly feel the 8,000 miles I´ve traveled weighing down on my shoulders.
We were supposed to leave Monday morning. It was a beautiful goodbye: friends and family had come to wave Devin and I off, and there were tears as turned as waved goodbye as we passed through security. We met up with Veronika -a fellow U of Oer- and we took our places in the awkward leather chairs and awaited our plane.
But-not for the first time on the trip- something went wrong. The flight attendent made an announcement that a light on the pilot´s dashboard was out. They would have to fix it. 45 minute delay. Minutes later, we were told the part would have to be flown in from Dallas. 4 hour delay. We were going to miss our connecting flight.
They rescheduled us. We would fly to Dallas when the plane was ready, and then we would have to spend the night because there is one Argentina flight out of DFW everyday, and we would catch the next one. On September 1st. We were missing a whole day of our trip, missing Orientation, our first night together... everything.
To say we were disappointed would be an understatement. But we were still flying out of Portland, and we figured we could stir up some trouble in Dallas. We killed 5 hours in the Portland airport, than walked back to our gate.
Flight cancelled.
...I have class now. I´ll write more when I can. But I am here, I am safe, and I want to give American Airlines too large middle fingers for the 72 hours of traveling it took me to get here.
I am standing in front of a door. It´s marked 425, and as the traffic wizzes by me on Sarmiento street, I can suddenly feel the 8,000 miles I´ve traveled weighing down on my shoulders.
We were supposed to leave Monday morning. It was a beautiful goodbye: friends and family had come to wave Devin and I off, and there were tears as turned as waved goodbye as we passed through security. We met up with Veronika -a fellow U of Oer- and we took our places in the awkward leather chairs and awaited our plane.
But-not for the first time on the trip- something went wrong. The flight attendent made an announcement that a light on the pilot´s dashboard was out. They would have to fix it. 45 minute delay. Minutes later, we were told the part would have to be flown in from Dallas. 4 hour delay. We were going to miss our connecting flight.
They rescheduled us. We would fly to Dallas when the plane was ready, and then we would have to spend the night because there is one Argentina flight out of DFW everyday, and we would catch the next one. On September 1st. We were missing a whole day of our trip, missing Orientation, our first night together... everything.
To say we were disappointed would be an understatement. But we were still flying out of Portland, and we figured we could stir up some trouble in Dallas. We killed 5 hours in the Portland airport, than walked back to our gate.
Flight cancelled.
...I have class now. I´ll write more when I can. But I am here, I am safe, and I want to give American Airlines too large middle fingers for the 72 hours of traveling it took me to get here.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wilsonville, OR, USA
I haven't told anyone my web address for this blog yet...but I can't wait.
I've been tweaking it for a few weeks now, and with fourteen days until I embark on this epic adventure, I thought it might be time to jot a few thoughts down.
I have been dreaming of South America for years. I've been taking Spanish classes since 6th grade, but it wasn't until college, and especially my Latino/Chicano studies class, that I realized how much I didn't know about the continent. I knew there were Aztecs and Mayans and Incas, but I probably couldn't tell you where. I knew that there was some political upheaval, but wouldn't have been able to name any dates or important political figures.
Since then, I've taken more classes, read more books, and finally have a better understanding of our neighbors to the south.
But it is still a two dimensional understanding. I have read about Las Madres de la plaza de Mayo, I have underlined phrases in Pablo Neruda's poetry, I have watched the Motorcycle Diaries, I have given 10 minute speeches in Spanish. But I have never watched the mothers march in protest of their still missing children, never smelled the salt air in Valparasio in La Sebastiana, never ridden down a road uncertain of my destination. My Spanish is stilted, and often times get stuck and snarled in my American tongue. Living in the middle of metropolitan Argentina will mold my understanding and give it a living, breathing, heavily accented, voice.
I will write. And hopefully often. Writing has always helped me make sense in uncertain circumstances. I hope this blog will be entertaining and a way to keep in touch with all of you that I love so much, when I am so far away.If you send me your address, I will write to you. And if you want to write to me, here is my address:
Lizzie Falconer
Sarmiento 425 1 piso Dto 1
Rosario 2000
Argentina
I will write again soon, but I have no idea where I'll be or when.
(How exciting!)
I've been tweaking it for a few weeks now, and with fourteen days until I embark on this epic adventure, I thought it might be time to jot a few thoughts down.
I have been dreaming of South America for years. I've been taking Spanish classes since 6th grade, but it wasn't until college, and especially my Latino/Chicano studies class, that I realized how much I didn't know about the continent. I knew there were Aztecs and Mayans and Incas, but I probably couldn't tell you where. I knew that there was some political upheaval, but wouldn't have been able to name any dates or important political figures.
Since then, I've taken more classes, read more books, and finally have a better understanding of our neighbors to the south.
But it is still a two dimensional understanding. I have read about Las Madres de la plaza de Mayo, I have underlined phrases in Pablo Neruda's poetry, I have watched the Motorcycle Diaries, I have given 10 minute speeches in Spanish. But I have never watched the mothers march in protest of their still missing children, never smelled the salt air in Valparasio in La Sebastiana, never ridden down a road uncertain of my destination. My Spanish is stilted, and often times get stuck and snarled in my American tongue. Living in the middle of metropolitan Argentina will mold my understanding and give it a living, breathing, heavily accented, voice.
I will write. And hopefully often. Writing has always helped me make sense in uncertain circumstances. I hope this blog will be entertaining and a way to keep in touch with all of you that I love so much, when I am so far away.If you send me your address, I will write to you. And if you want to write to me, here is my address:
Lizzie Falconer
Sarmiento 425 1 piso Dto 1
Rosario 2000
Argentina
I will write again soon, but I have no idea where I'll be or when.
(How exciting!)
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