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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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!)
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