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.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
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