The Real Homecoming
I’ve been in the States for two weeks now, and I’ve adjusted faster than I thought I would upon leaving Buenos Aires. As the airplane took off and out the window the Buenos Aires cityscape pierced through the evening darkness, I felt I was leaving a home. After 10 months, my life was thriving there and I was not ready to leave.
The final night I was there was really sad. I went out with friends to a birthday party excited about the opportunity to end my visit with a bang. Memories flashed through my eyes throughout the night though. I talked to my friends about how great they have been and thanked them for welcoming this total stranger into their lives. I learned more about Argentine life through them than anywhere else. It’s safe to say that without them, my stay wouldn’t have been half as enjoyable.
We all danced that night. Afterward, when it was time to head back home, one of my friends and me strolled along the nighttime streets. We walked through shady areas, empty roadways and in front of stoops full of nighttime ghouls. In my peripheral was a stream of broad boulevards, French inspired architecture and open parks slowly becoming battered buildings, graffiti-ridden walls, potholes and old parked cars. Everyone we walk by seems either drunk or creepy; all the normal people are in bed while the freaks come out at night to play. But I wasn’t scared (at last not that much). That was my city. I used feel like a stranger, like I didn’t know what I was getting into every time I turned an unknown corner. Now I could handle my own. I know my way around.
I took the bus for the last time. I got off the right stop and walked down the dark but familiar streets. I went up to my 10th floor apartment and could barely sleep. I tossed and turned. I knew I was going to miss Buenos Aires, yet anticipation for my return to New York City also started to make my blood rush. As great as Buenos Aires has been, there’s no place like my real home.
When I arrived in LaGuardia Airport, everything felt like a dream. My mother and godfather went to pick me up. From there I went back to Brooklyn and started to see members of my family again. I live in a four-apartment Brooklyn townhouse that is owned by my godfather and where family members rent out every apartment, so I had a lot of people to see and chat with. Later on, I went to see more family that live in Queens. Everything was surreal. The neighborhoods, the streets, the houses all came back to me in a flash. Even though I haven’t been around, it was as if I knew everything that was going on. I couldn’t believe I was here.
After two days, the dreamlike feeling faded away. I’m home, and I now see it feels much more authentic to me than Buenos Aires. I don’t have to learn to fit in. There is no more adaptation. This is me at my realest.
Even still, though, things aren’t the same. The neighborhood seems almost as it did when I left it, but I feel different in it. I have changed. I can appreciate my hometown more than ever. Having forced myself to get to know Buenos Aires in such a short amount of time, I realized that I never pushed myself to get to know New York City. Because I was born and raised here, I always took it for granted. I wasted many years sitting back watching T.V. and hanging out on my stoop, when I could’ve gotten to know parts of the city I’m unfamiliar with. There are even a lot of traditional tourist stuff that I’ve never done, like going to the top of the Empire State Building or visiting the inside of the Statue of Liberty. I always thought of them as activities for tourists that do not represent the lifestyle of real New Yorkers, but I now realize they’re an important part of my hometown’s history.
For the past couple of days I’ve gone out with my cousins and local friends, just like I’ve always done. When you’re from “the hood” in Brooklyn, it’s more typical to chill on the block, go to local house parties, and really just hangout with the people you grew up with. But more like I did in Buenos Aires, I pushed myself to meet new people and visit new places. I walked 5th Avenue with my sister, went to Midtown bars with a cousin and an old high school friend, hung out in East New York with other cousins, and even went a new church in Sunset Park instead of just attending mass at my local church, two blocks from where I live, as usual. For me it’s a little bit of the old mixed with the new.
Hopefully one day I’ll go back to Buenos Aires and relive some of my good memories there. My friends said they’ll be more than happy to receive me and I already know my way around. For now though I’m happy in to be in New York City. I’ll walk my own streets late at night, hangout with my local buddies, and ready myself for another semester at Cornell, my actual university. Life in Buenos Aires was good, but nothing can compare to home.
Feeling the Pain
I guess I have a knack for getting sick right before departing. Just like in February, when I discovered I had an eye infection three days before leaving New York to Buenos Aires, I contracted mono a month before heading back. Although unlike in February I’ll be healthy by the time I need to travel, my latest sickness has caused a ripple effect that may be much more disastrous.
I’m recovering very well. I’ve had the virus for about two weeks now and I’ll be perfectly healthy by the end of the upcoming week. The true damage is on my academics though. I got sick on the second to last week of classes, the time of the semester where I had to do presentations and finals.
I was able to workout things with all my professors. My two Universidad del Salvador classes ended the week before I got sick. I did my presentation for my Universidad Catolica Argentina class while unknowingly sick, and an IFSA-Butler representative handed in my final essay for me. The real problem is with my Universidad de Buenos Aires class (UBA), which finished with a crash.
I discovered I was sick with mono the day before my final presentation UBA class, Taller de Comunicación Publicitaria (Advertising Communications Workshop). The weekend before, I had a big pain in my throat that would not let me eat, speak or even relax. I went to the clinic in the local private hospital where the doctor diagnosed me with a throat infection. She prescribed antibiotics and painkillers, which I took as told. As the days went by though, the pain kept getting worse. My painkillers finished within four days, and I spent the next two nights tossing and turning in bed, trying to handle my throbbing throat. I didn’t have enough time to go to the doctor again because of the finals I was working on, so I let it get worse.
The day before my UBA presentation, I couldn’t take it anymore and IFSA-Butler got me a special doctor. I spent the evening at the hospital getting checked. A blood test revealed I was positive for mononucleosis.
An IFSA-Butler representative went to speak to the professor of my UBA class. The doctor prescribed that I stay in bed and keep out of close contact with people until my body recuperates from the virus, which includes not going to class for the rest of the semester. So the IFSA-Butler representative and my professor then established that I can hand in my final work and take my oral exam during finals week.
That’s where the trouble starts. The day that my class is scheduled for finals is December 9. Because I was not scheduled to appear for finals week, I had already purchased my flight to return to the U.S. on December 8. Changing nonrefundable flights is expensive and I don’t have the funds to cover it. So, instead, I proposed to submit my final work and take the oral exam on the last day of class, November 20, even though I’m sick.
My professor said, since I’m sick, she’ll exempt me from the oral exam and will only require that I hand in my final work. I was scheduled to submit the final work and take the oral exam after class, so even though she exempted me from the exam, I thought we were still on for after class. As it turns out, she finished class and handed in the final grades really early that day.
By the time I arrived, literally seconds after she handed in the grades but almost two hours before the class is scheduled to finish, she wouldn’t accept my final work. She said once the grades are in, she can’t change it. The guy at the other side of the counter was still holding the gradebook in his hand! She still refused to accept my final work. I explained that I would’ve came earlier, but no one had notified me that class would end so early that day. I was planning on meeting with her after class, just like we initially planned. She still refused to accept my work.
It didn’t make any sense to me. She seemed very nice all semester long, so why was she being so stubborn all of a sudden? When I arrived in my apartment, I called the representatives at IFSA-Butler. Having spoken to her the week before, they too were shocked at what had just gone down.
I emailed the professor asking whether I passed the class, and she said no, but that I might be able to make it up at the finals week. I emailed her back saying that an IFSA-Butler representative can hand in my final work after I’m gone, but if absolutely necessary, I can change my flight and be there myself. She then responded back saying to forget about it, the failing grade she gave me is final and I can’t make it up during finals week!
I’m totally confused. I know that technically I can hand in my final work during finals week because that’s what she and the IFSA-Butler representative initially established. But now suddenly she doesn’t want to do it anymore, even though we clearly had a misunderstanding of what time to meet the last time I tried handing it in.
In the end, she has the final say on whether I pass or not, but I can’t really fault her for failing me. It’s the result of a speed-bump in life: an ill-timed sickness and a misunderstanding. This is my biggest setback in my road to graduation, but what it means is that I’ll pickup an extra class next semester and work harder. As the first to go to college in my family, and the first to go to an ivy-league caliber university in my high school’s history, making it to the end of my college journey is my biggest priority in life and I’m willing to take on any challenge that comes my way!!
A Treat for Story Lovers
My favorite class this semester abroad is Cuento Latinoamericano Contemporáneo (although Communicación Publicitaria is a close second). In the class, we study short stories written by some of the greatest Latin American writers of the 20th century. The list includes internationally known writers such as Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel García Márquez and Juan Rulfo.
One of my class’s recent assignments was to write a short story in the model of one of the major authors. I chose to write it in the style of Juan Rulfo, which my professor labels as mystic realism. His exploration of determinism vs. freedom really inspired me and easily gave me an idea for a story.
Yesterday my class discussed my story and everyone really loved it. In fact, my professor gave me a grade of 10, the equivalent of an A! It’s my first A since studying in Argentina! So, without further ado, for anyone looking to practice his or her Spanish in a pleasant way, I present to you the final version of my story, set in Buenos Aires:
Como su padre
Siempre se argumenta si la alma se desarrolla por innato o adquirido. Mi único esperanza en la vida era que lo innato no triunfara.
Lo primero en que me fijé cuando nació mi hijo fue en sus ojos grandes, negros y penetrantes. Sin duda era el niño más lindo del mundo, pero los ojos me hizo estremecer un poco. Fue casi siete meses que estaba mirando otros ojos muy parecidos, ojos que esperaba olvidar para siempre.
Esos mismos ojos me enamoró el año pasado. Me creí en Adrogué, un pueblo a pocos kilómetros fuera de la ciudad capital. De niña siempre miraba esos ojos de lejos porque nunca me atrevía a acercarme. Eran de Esteban, el chico más guapo del pueblo, lo que cualquier otra compañera de escuela podría atestiguar. Sin embargo, en secreto, cuando me vestía por la mañana para ponerme linda, siempre pensaba en él. En secreto, y sólo en secreto, siempre esperaba que se daba cuenta.
Digo que era en secreto porque para los padres de Adrogué, Esteban era muy agitador. Siempre se metía en problemas; peleaba después de escuela, andaba por las calles con amigos en horas de dormir, les robaba a sus propios vecinos. Y a sus padres nunca les importaba. Sólo se preocupaban por ellos mismos y ni siquiera por su hijo. Sin embargo, para mí era mejor. Cuando era niña siempre pensaba en lo molestos que eran mis padres protectores. Es verdad que Esteban era muy lindo, pero nunca quise admitir que era su independencia la que más me atraía.
Nunca le dejé de vigilar a lo lejos hasta que empezamos a charlar mucho en la escuela secundaria. Yo había cumplido 16 años y él 18. – Vení conmigo a la ciudad -, me decía, y yo tímidamente le respondía que no podía. Mis padres se hubieran enojado por sólo mencionar la idea. Sin embargo, cuanto más Esteban y yo charlábamos, más me atraía.
Una noche escuché a alguien tocando la ventana de mi habitación. Era Esteban.
- Hola Miranda. Me metí en problemas y me voy a la ciudad. Pienso que nunca voy a regresar. Por favor, vení conmigo. No sé que hacer si no nos volvemos a ver.
Yo siempre he sido una persona muy cauteloso que pensaba las decisiones serias. Pero él me miró con esos ojos. La brusquedad y emoción del momento me cegó. Esa noche me fui con él.
Un año después, cuando estaba en el hospital con 17 años y mi hijo Luis en mis brazos, decidí no dejarle crecer para ser como su padre. Esteban se fue, sin regresar, a algún lugar, para hacer algún trabajo. Él no tenía corazón, así que esperaba que su falta le hiciera más bueno que daño a Luis.
Cada año que crecía, se parecía más y más a su padre. Sus ojos grandes, negros y penetrantes cada vez eran más lindos. Cuando llegó a la todavía dulce edad de 12, me fijé que las chicas de su edad le miraban igualmente como yo le miraba a Esteban. Pero esas chicas no eran igual que yo, igual que las calles de esta ciudad no son iguales a las de mi pueblo. Todas las influencias aquí son magnificadas y más fuerte que cualquier persona. Me di cuenta de que para evitarle de las tentaciones de la vida, tenía que dedicarme a protegerle.
Yo trabajaba en una fábrica. Pagaba poco, pero bastaba para las necesidades. Vivíamos en Villa Lugano, uno de los barrios más pobres y peligrosos. Sin embargo, lo prefería más que regresar a mi pueblo, donde nunca quise enseñar mi cara de vergüenza otra vez.
Cada año la vida se ponía más difícil. Los horarios de la fábrica eran más largos. Luis era un adolescente, tomaba decisiones por él mismo. No sé cuándo empecé a fallar, pero me di cuenta una noche que llegué a casa de la fábrica a las 20 hs. Fui a saludar a Luis en su habitación, donde le encontré mirándose en el espejo con una pistola en su mano.
-¿Qué diablos pensás que estás haciendo muchacho? – El no se estremeció ni una vez.
-Nada mamá. Solo estoy jugando.
-¿Quién te dio eso?
-Es de un amigo. Me lo prestó para poder verlo.
-¡Dámelo! ¡Dámelo ahora! – pero no me lo quiso dar. No era fuera de lo ordinario ver armas de fuego en esta parte de la ciudad, y él lo sabía. Me miró con esos ojos lindos, y me hizo la promesa de que se la iba a devolver a su amigo. No le podía decir nada más.
Después de eso, él tenía peleas después de escuela, andaba por las calles con sus amigos durante las horas de dormir y les robaba a sus propios vecinos. Pedí menos horas en la fábrica para estar más en casa, aunque ahora casi no me alcanzaba el dinero para las necesidades. Mi hijo era mi prioridad.
Traté de hablarle. Le contaba sobre su padre, y la vida difícil que iba a tener que vivir si seguía por ese camino. Cuando Luis tenía 16, aprendí que su padre Esteban estaba encarcelado. Le conté, pero no le importaba. Él odiaba a Esteban más que yo, aunque nunca le conoció. Y él se estaba volviendo más y más igual a su padre, aunque le odiaba.
Cuando tenía 18 años, él empezó a trabajar para alguien, en algún lado. Me preocupaba mucho, pero al mismo tiempo, él pagaba las cuentas y ponía comida en la mesa, así que no sabía qué hacer. No hice nada, sólo lloraba cada noche en mi habitación tratando de entender donde fallé. A los 19 años, Luis fue encarcelado. A los 27 se murió. Está enterrado al lado de su padre.
Getting Around
As I wrote last semester, one of my main modes of transportation in Buenos Aires is their hectic, but extensive bus system. Since then, though, I’ve become more and more dependent on a more unique aspect of porteño life, their underground metro system, the Subte. Buenos Aires is the only city in Argentina with a metro system and it has a lot of cultural importance. It was the first metro system in Latin America and the Southern Hemisphere, and riding it is a highlight for many visitors from other parts of Argentina and around the world.
Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I use the Subte to get around in the city for my classes. And every one of those mornings, I have to brace myself for the chaotic rush hour. The system only has five complete lines (a sixth one is now under construction) and each one of them is at capacity at the times people travel to and from work. In order to get further downtown, I have to push and squeeze myself into the tightly packed B line. My breathing shortens as all the passenger bodies are pressed up against each other and I’m forced to get to know them in ways total strangers shouldn’t. Once the train gets downtown, everyone scatters out and races to be the first through the crowded station exits.
As tightly bound as us passengers have to be, I still think it’s a great system for a Latin American country. The trains have been very reliable and pass by about every five minutes during peak hours. It really helps me out since I’m always rushing to make it to class on time.
What gets problematic about it is that all five lines go to and from the downtown central business district in the east of the city. That limits options for people who need to travel north and south. I live in barrio Almagro, which is in the center-east of the city, somewhat close to downtown. When I want to go to other parts other than downtown, especially the northern barrios that contain the more trendy and culturally important neighborhoods, I’m limited to buses and taxis. I would have to take the Subte all the way downtown then switch to the other lines were I to use it to go north or south.
Nonetheless, despite the limiting setup, I’ve had the opportunity to ride all five lines, most of them pretty frequently. They are lettered from A to E, with A being the first line built, then B, then C, etc. All of them are very unique from each other and offer a varied experience when riding them.
Like I mentioned before, the A line, aka the Light Blue line, was the first one built and is therefore the first metro line in Latin America and the Southern Hemisphere. Its age is very evident when you use it. It is the only Subte line where the doors don’t open automatically when the train stops; you have to pull it open with its handles. Its trains are also the only ones made out of wood. Despite their old age, they are very beautifully designed and well kept. This line cuts through the very middle of the city, running under the historic Avenida Rivadavia, which splits the city into its northern and southern halves.
The B line, aka the Red line, is the one I depend on the most as it goes through where I live. I like to think of this line as the most “porteño” out of all them. It cuts through mostly residential neighborhoods. These places don’t attract many tourists, but it is where you’ll find the mix of working and middle classes that are the foundation of the city. The line runs under Avenida Corrientes, which is very historic for the development of the Tango. One of the Subte stations is even named after Carlos Gardel, the father of Tango. The thoroughfare in general is looked at as the identity of Buenos Aires, and more so than any other line the B is representative of the porteño way of life.
The C line, aka the Blue line, is the most fundamentally different line. It runs north and south, unlike the other four lines that run east and west. Located at the eastern end of the city, it runs through the entire downtown area and connects with every other Subte line. This line doesn’t go through many residential areas. Most people, me included, use it to get around to the different ends of downtown and to transfer to other modes of transportation. The two ends of the line stop at Retiro and Constitución, two of the most important transportation hubs in the city.
The D line, aka the Green line, is the best line in the system. Coincidently, it runs through the wealthiest, trendiest, most tourist heavy neighborhoods of the city. It has the most modern trains, by far the most beautifully designed stations, stops at the most well-known places, and connects with every other Subte line. From my experience though, it’s the most crowded. During rush hour, the trains get full at the first stop at La Catedral, which is located next national public buildings. The line then runs through the northern neighborhoods, mostly first under Avenida Córdoba, then Avenida Santa Fe, then Avenida Cabildo, three very important thoroughfares. It may be difficult for other passengers to fit in after the first stop, but since this is Buenos Aires, the porteños find some way to do it.
The last line, the E line, aka the Purple line, is the complete opposite of the D line. The E line runs through the southern barrios, which contains working class and poor neighborhoods that are slowly emerging. The line reflects this. It has that broken down, hard-knocked-life look. The trains are very dingy and are of low quality. The stations are plainly designed and look as aged as the A line stations despite a 21 year age difference. It definitely has the most soul and charm. Just like the neighborhoods in which it runs through that are trying to emerge, this line is a young fighter that grinds day in and day out to keep up with its counterparts.
I’ve always been a big fan of metro systems having grown up using the New York City Subway. Many people view public transportation as a pain, but I wouldn’t ever trade it for a car as my main mode of transportation. The Subte has been a big treat here in Buenos Aires and it’s always a pleasure to ride it, no matter what line I’m on. For anyone who visits this city, the Subte lines are a must see. They are the veins that keep the city pulsating with life.
The Typical Rupture at UBA
The University of Buenos Aires (UBA), the top university in Argentina, is notorious for its strikes. Porteños always joke about how the prestigious institution is constantly shutdown because of student, teacher or administrative conflicts, resulting in street blocking, class canceling, megaphone shouting protests. I was always told to stay clear of these conflicts, but now that I’m so integrated into the society, when a friend invited me to participate with him, I couldn’t resist.
The protest occurred a few blocks from my apartment, which is conveniently walking distance from the UBA Ciencias Sociales building I take class in. A crowd of roughly two hundred students was already sitting in the important intersection of Avenida Corrientes and Angel Gallardo. Traffic guards were diverting traffic from hitting anyone while a man with a megaphone shouted protests to the amped-up crowd. I had no clue what the strike was about, and I’m not a registered student in the university as a study abroad student, but to continue integrating and to learn more about the culture, I was willing to protest for the sake of protesting.
I found my friend sitting on the road and joined him. He was wearing a yellow construction hat, like several others around him, which he took off and placed on my head. He explained to me that the state once again is cutting the budget dedicated to the public university. To lower costs, the state is planning to shutdown our building and relocate us into their two other buildings, which are already near capacity. The helmets evoke all the debris that falls on our heads from the crumbling infrastructure and resources we’re forced to put up with.
As the long list of fellow UBA students vented their frustrations, the crowd kept getting more and more anxious. With a show of hands, the crowd unanimously decided to take over the school. Everyone got up from the intersection and marched toward the building singing Argentine protest songs. Along with my friend, I helped carry the big banner whose message I didn’t get the chance to read. When we got to the building, the students burst in and started partying. The plan was to occupy the school, canceling all classes, until the state decides to put the necessary use of the building back into its budget.
UBA students are really bold in taking action to shape the state’s education policies. Protests and takeovers such as this one occur whenever necessary, which is often. The students put up with the worst conditions I’ve ever seen in a university, let alone a prestigious one. The buildings for UBA Ciencias Sociales and Filosofia y Letras would look completely abandoned were it not for the influx of students. Every square foot is covered in graffiti. The desks, doors, heaters, etc. are almost all broken or deteriorating. I couldn’t believe it when I first saw it.
My class was cancelled two weeks in a row because of the strike (I finally went back yesterday). I’m going to follow up to see if the building is there to stay or if we’re going to have to relocate. Either way, in my point-of-view, the students are going to continue to get shortchanged. Coming from the U.S., my idea of prestigious universities consists of world-class resources and amenities, beautiful buildings, top-notch highly-paid professors, etc. Here though, much depends on the drive of the students and professors, who have to put up with a lot of distractions and red tape. Many of the professors are unpaid, teaching for the sake of teaching (or for the prestigious title of “UBA Professor” on their resumes). The students get the bare necessities, comprised of a deteriorating building, quality professor, photocopies of texts and free tuition. They make the most of it.
I’m glad I’m just studying abroad and don’t have to put up with the frustrations that Argentines need to in order to receive a world-class education. After going to under-resourced inner-city public schools most of my life, I’m tired of it and am glad to now be at a place like Cornell. UBA reminds me of that. As for the time I’m abroad though, I’m enjoying this experience and will continue to take classes there until the end of the semester, or the next strike!
Two-Faced
On Thursday I had to do a presentation for my advertising class in the Universidad de Buenos Aires (UBA). It wasn’t supposed to be too serious, the assignment was to present myself to my classmates in a creative way, but I used it to portray rough anti-American sentiments that exist in Argentina.
First I was stumped on what I should do though. Not only was it nerve-racking enough for me to present myself creatively to a large class, I had to do it in a language and culture I’m still integrating into. With the high standards I always set for myself, it was hard coming up with something I could wow the class with.
I brainstormed and came up with some pretty kooky ideas. The ones I considered were telling a story, doing a Spanish rap song, or sock puppets. In the end I went with the sock puppet. My COPA tutor thought it was a great idea and that I shouldn’t worry about it too much; putting too much pressure on myself would kill the fun of it. That wasn’t helping me come up with dialogue witty enough to engage the class though, so the pressure came.
Whenever I’m stumped I turn to those around me for ideas. After asking around, no one had anything specific to offer. With other reading and homework to do, I placed the assignment in the back of my mind and went on with my other business. But Thursday came and I still had no dialogue.
My advertisement class starts at 4 p.m. At around 1 I meet with an Argentine friend (and ardent reader of this blog) for lunch. He’s a really bright guy and I explained that I had to write some dialogue for this assignment. My thinking was to present myself to an Argentine sock puppet and display some of the common interactions I have in this exotic land. I’m the only foreigner in my class, so it would offer a unique perspective.
“Why don’t you show the American stereotypes,” my friend suggested in his shockingly perfect English.
That was it! My friend is knowledgeable of Argentina’s American stereotypes and his wisdom had greatly influenced my earlier blog on the topic. There are clear anti-American sentiments here, so why not make fun of it?
I wasn’t sure how my classmates would react though. My friend and I came up with a list of American stereotypes and conspiracy theories for the puppet to say when it meets me. Would it offend my classmates, portraying them as ignorant? Would it undermine my own country since on the surface the jokes bash it? Or would it fail and not cause any reaction at all? I didn’t care. I was already late for class.
That Thursday I didn’t volunteer to present (too nervous I’ll admit), so I held on to the script until following week, this past Thursday. I had practiced it once several minutes before class with another friend of mine, and it was a disaster. But I convinced myself it was now or never when I raised my hand after the professor asked if anyone wanted to go next.
I slowly walked to the front of the class and explained that my Spanish isn’t perfect, but I’ll do my best. I had been here since February and had heard a lot of crazy things from their fellow Argentines, so I wanted to do a play on stereotypes. They laughed instantly when I put the sock on my hand. They laughed even harder when I said it’s an Argentine.
When I get around to telling the puppet that I from the United States, it responds “Ustedes son el país que ignora a las naciones unidas.” The crowd cracked up. I knew then I had them hooked. I look at the puppet shocked at what it said. I tried to defend my country, but to little avail. The puppet responds by saying that the U.S. is the most abusive country on the planet!
I continued to read and respond to absurd stereotypes and conspiracy theories. They include the U.S. government planning the 9/11 attacks, all Americans being overweight, Dick Cheney controlling the public opinion, even faking the landing on the moon in 1969, etc. The audience reacted to each with big laughs!
It’s no secret that U.S. bashing makes for great comedy in this country. To them, that evil Bush-led tyrant nation deserves what it gets. But, by hearing these jokes while in the actual presence of an American, they got to see a different side of it. When I comically but seriously defended myself against the sock, they sympathized with me. I weaved my immigrant family background as well as my passion for peace, hard work and upward mobility into my defense. It gave the U.S. a face other than the anti-Bush posters that clutter UBA’s hallways.
After I was done, I got a huge round of applause, the most enthusiastic one of the day. Afterward people approached me to tell me how good it was. One of the presenters that went after me said that my act was too hard to follow. I’m glad my presence in this country is having an impact, even when it’s as little as a conversation with an Argentine speaking to an American for his or her first time. So just imagine if every young American got to study abroad.
A Little Older, A Little Wiser
Today I finished my second week of classes but I still don’t know what my final schedule will be. Like I said in an earlier post, when studying abroad in Buenos Aires through COPA, students get to choose classes in four universities with four different schedules and a seemingly innumerable amount of locations scattered around the city. When trying to formulate a sensible schedule for myself, it gets crazy.
I handled it much better this time around than I did the first semester I was here. As of now, I know what 3 out of 4 of my classes will be, and I’m waiting on the results of a raffle to determine the last one. If I don’t win the raffle, I have a back up class that I can easily slip into. Wisely I attended a variety of classes, even though I wouldn’t end up taking all of them, and created a cushion incase I either ended up not liking the class or if I got capped out.
Last year, on the other hand, I had no idea what I was doing. I was in a state of high for being in a new country all on my own with money to spend. My focus, unfortunately, wasn’t toward organizing my life. I ended up starting 3 out of my 4 classes late and barely made registration deadlines, which I had no idea when they were. At one point I was capped out of a class and, because of my lack of organizing any plan let alone a plan B, I was then short of the 15 credits mandated by COPA. That led me to shuffle my schedule around with an administrator from la Universidad del Salvador, ending up to surprisingly create a dream schedule of just two back-to-back classes on Tuesday and two on Wednesday, an undeserving reward for my carelessness.
I later realized it wasn’t so lucky after all as a five-day weekend led me to leave everything for the last minute and created an enormous amount of pressure in my very dense Tuesday and Wednesday schedule. I prefer the spread out schedule I set up for this semester: Tuesday through Friday morning classes that’ll give me a reason to wake up early and work throughout the week.
And I love my selection of classes this time. Last semester I homogeneously took three literature courses, including one (Spanish literature) that I ended up hating (it had a terrible professor). This time, I’m taking subjects I didn’t even consider before. The three that I’m sure of are European Art, Advertising, and Argentine History. The class I’m waiting on because of the raffle is Latin American Short Stories. If I don’t get into that one, I’ll take Art of the Americas. Although having a variety of subjects to study this time is great, the best part is that I know I’m going to have good professors. I did a thorough screening my first two weeks and the instructors of my classes seem like really great people (I didn’t get a good first impression for my Spanish Literature instructor last time and it haunted me bad).
I have no idea why I let myself behave so sloppy at the start of last semester. I’m glad I learned my lesson though for this time around. I had a lot of fun meeting new people and constantly going to new places. It was my first time out of the country (other than visits to my family in the Dominican Republic) and I took advantage of it while the opportunities were there.
But now, I guess I got all of that out of my system. It is going to feel good to just settle down and be a little more routine. Right now my biggest concern isn’t the next trip I’m going to going, but I a concern I share with my Argentine classmates: What am I going to do for my advertising assignment, where I have to sell myself to my classmates in a creative way!
I know the people and I know the system, so I can finally relax and live an Argentine life. It’s why a came here for, but honestly last semester didn’t provide that. My true integration to this complex culture is yet to come.
Colectivo Man
One of my favorite parts of Buenos Aires is its buses, known here as colectivos. They are a microcosm of this chaotic, yet fun city. There are so many things inherently deficient with the way the system functions, yet at the end it accomplishes its job of getting people from A to B.
I’ve gotten used to the way things roll around here, but I can still remember when I was a wide-eyed newcomer enduring trial and error to figure out how to get around. The first morning I was here I had to attend an introductory COPA meeting. My host mother had suggested which colectivos I can take, but when I got to the bus stop, I spoke to a nearby police officer that told me I needed monedas (coins) to take it. I had none, so I went around to the surrounding stores to see if someone would break on of my bills. I was surprised after a couple of cashiers denied me. I went to the bank across the street, and after standing in line for several minutes, a banker shouted out that there isn’t any monedas for anyone, so don’t ask. It sent a chunk of people there to frustratingly scatter out.
I was running so late that I decided that walking might get me there faster. After walking over 30 blocks, I made it to the meeting in time to see all the attendees leaving it. Talking to my host mother that afternoon, I learned that monedas in Argentina are in such high demand and low supply, that there are almost impossible to get without purchasing something. People here have to hustle to maintain enough spare change to make regular commutes.
After my host mother, who luckily works at a bank, hooked me up with enough monedas to last me weeks, I was ready to give the colectivos another go. As I waited on the bus stop, the person in front of the line signaled for an oncoming loud mechanical beast to pull up in front of us. As it arrived with a tail of black smog, everyone rushed to get in. With an unexpected jerk, the colectivo pulled back on to the road as the last boarding passenger was still lifting his last foot off the sidewalk.
I paid the fare and got my first sight of what would regularly prove to be a topsy-turvy system. In the upcoming week, the hard knocks trained me into a competent rider. Twice in a row, as I patiently waited for those in front of me to get comfortably inside, the colectivo pulled away while I was still standing on the sidewalk, causing me to chase it, grab onto the side handle bar, and dive in through the closing doors, Tom Cruz style. The bus driver didn’t even so much as flinch at that. Trying to read the street signs as they whiz by, some would be missing, causing me to lose my sense of direction and completely miss my stop. I now use a combination of street signs, address numbers, my Guia T (a local transit guide) and the memorization of surrounding streets to know when to stop. As I was obliviously holding on to a handrail once, someone stealthily opened my backpack. Luckily nothing was stolen (all I had in there were my COPA student manuals; seems nobody wanted those). I now always carry my backpack in front of me.
Whenever you see me take the colectivo now, you’d see I act more like a typical porteño. I start stepping into the collectivo, even if the person in front of me isn’t all the way in yet. I shove if it’s crowded. Whenever a packed colectivo skips my stop but gets caught at the red light, I bang on the entrance door in protest, usually convincing the driver to open it. When a nearby stop is coming, the back doors open, even if the colectivo is still going full speed. I time it perfectly to hop off at the exact time the collectivo haults (I’ve seen an impatient guy jump of while the collectivo was still at full speed; I’m not ready for that yet though). I guess this is one way I’m becoming more porteño!
BA’s Foil
During the break I had between semesters, I was fortunate enough to visit the city of Mendoza. I first heard of Mendoza when looking into studying abroad in Argentina. It was an alternate option to Buenos Aires. I had never heard of Mendoza before and I ultimately chose the better-known Buenos Aires.
Mendoza is a very different experience from Buenos Aires. BA is the big, grand business, cultural, media and political capital of Argentina. It has over 3 million residents in the city, and over 13 million in the broader metropolitan area. It was the area first “civilized” by the Europeans and has since been the most developed part of the country. BA is a wonderful, rich, 24/7 city because of it, and its image as one of Latin America’s main centers reflects that.
Mendoza, though, quietly sits across the country in the west. It lies just east of the Andes splitting Argentina from Chile, and has a population of little over 110,000. When talking to my COPA tutor and with one of the COPA secretaries, both life-long porteños said they had never been to the small city.
Despite the lack of tourism (when compared to Buenos Aires), Mendoza is well known throughout Argentina and the world (even though I had never heard of it before) because of its wine production. Almost every bottle of wine I’ve had the pleasure of popping open while here has been from Mendoza.
Upon arriving to Mendoza, a soothing vibe was quickly apparent. Unlike in Buenos Aires, the roads weren’t congested, pedestrians lightly strolled along the sidewalks, and streets overall were much cleaner. I didn’t learn about the true benefits of the area until I got to the youth hostel though. Once there, I learned about all the various outdoor excursions possible because of the city’s location near a variety of landscapes.
Being close the Andes, one of the excursions I took advantage of was mountain hiking. And what better mountain to trek along than Cerro Aconcagua, the tallest mountain of the Americas, as well as the tallest outside of Asia. There are weeklong expeditions that take people all the way to the top, but considering my lack of mountain climbing experience, as well as my planned short stay in Mendoza, I happily accepted just hiking along one side of the mountain. When the guide took me and the other trekkers high up the side of the mountain by bus, the beauty of the snow-capped terrain took me back. Hiking around the snow, I was surrounding by the panorama of the white Andes Mountains out in the distance. The highlight of the day though was when me and the other trekkers used a sled to go the sides of the mountain.
Having been a regular Argentine wine consumer since arriving in Buenos Aires, the most anticipated part of the trip though was visiting the bodegas (the wine factories). I took a tour of some of Argentina’s most famous and exclusive bodegas and got a free taste of their products, which included exotic liquors as well. The oddest one had to be a tobacco liquor that was a family recipe of one of the owners. It burned more than tequila, but it was something I could’ve gotten used to eventually.
Having lived in Brooklyn all my life, and now Buenos Aires, I’m not very accustomed to this laid back way of life. Mendoza, much like Ithaca, is a beautiful place to explore and get away from the fast pace of big cities. As of now, Buenos Aires is a better fit for me considering my background, but I do hope to go back to Mendoza again one day. The weekend I spent there was a very pleasant experience. Mendoza is perfect place for someone looking for a soothing, more nature-rich experience for studying abroad or visit, the complete opposite of what you’ll get in Buenos Aires!
Part II
Today marked the start of my second semester in Argentina. I’m very excited about it, even though doing another semester is outside of the norm. For the last couple of weeks I’ve seen all my American friends that I made through the COPA program leave to the States. I only know of one other COPA student, who’s a distant acquaintance rather than a close friend, who’s staying for Semester 2. Unfortunately, we might be the only ones in store for full integration into this distinct society.
Thinking about it the other day, I realized this is the start of a totally new learning experience. When I left Brooklyn for Buenos Aires in February, I left expecting to spend the rest of the year disconnected from anything American. Adapting to a whole new culture that I was originally ignorant of proved hard though. I wasn’t accustomed to Argentine Spanish and culture enough to mix in well right away. So, at first the only people I could count on were my American companions taking the same journey as me.
My American friends were my comfort zone. We shared common backgrounds as well as aspirations that brought us together. Whenever it was time to tour a new part of the city or go out at night, my American friends would always be down. Whenever I’d get tripped up because of a quirky aspect of the language or culture, my American friends would understand. We were always in it together was we wondered through the unknown.
It wasn’t until a month and a half into the semester that I made my first real Argentine friends. They have been a gift ever since. They’ve taught me aspects of Argentine life I could never have possibly figured out for myself had I continued watching from the sidelines. Common phrases, jokes, stereotypes, where to go and where to avoid, how to read an Argentine before even talking to them, what’s popular and what isn’t; the plethora of guidance and assistance they’ve offered has provided the change from American life I’ve been looking for.
But even still, as close as I’ve gotten the natives from other side of the globe, I kept a connection with my fellow Americans. It was NOT why I came here for, but I couldn’t help it. They were some of the greatest people I’ve met and I wasn’t ready to lose touch.
Now, fate has taken over. They have left, and I am still here. I have no intentions of trying to get to know the new COPA students. I’m completely skipping orientation, which is when they’ll actually meet each other. That leaves me in this new country without the support group that had made life more comfortable. I will have the only American voice that I’ll regularly hear.
Because of that, this second coming semester is going to be just as trying as the first. At the same though, this second semester will be what studying abroad should be.
My story of banding together with my American companions, although sweet, seems to have been the norm among us COPA students. To be honest, porteños haven’t made it easy for us foreigners to integrate. With a combination of luck and determination, I was able to establish a little network of Argentines that I can rely on through the ups and downs. From what I’ve seen, this has not been the case for most COPA students. They’ve had the company of one another to get through this new world, leaving less need for native companions.
It’s hard to adapt right away; it has been evident. 100% of all other COPA students I’ve spoken to the last several weeks couldn’t wait to finally leave. Understandably, they want the comforts of home. To be honest though, I’ve noticed that they’ve all changed since we first got here. After completing a full semester in this country, they now finally seem ready to integrate with the locals.
If you want to fully integrate into a new culture during your studying abroad experience, one semester isn’t enough. It takes a full semester cycle to learn how the wheels turn and it takes a second to put what you’ve learned into action. Studying abroad is becoming more widespread and common every year. As its popularity grows, I hope more consider the two-semester option. From my experience so far, integrating into a new society is exciting and rewarding. I hope others will be willing to take on the challenge and reap the benefits.
keep looking »