So this may be four months late, but better late than never, right? I wrote 99% of this on my flight back to the states and procrastinated hitting the upload button until right... now. Enjoy!
Hello old friends. I would like everyone to sit back, grab a coffee (AKA alcoholic beverage), and get comfortable because we have a lot to catch up on. Truthfully, I may break this post into two parts, simply because there is so much to tell and I may be too antsy to do it all in one sitting. But then again, I did just sit through a 12 hour flight and I’ve got 6 more to go on the next one, so my stamina may be better than I’m giving it credit for.
So I’m officially back in the states. And while I'm well-aware that I never gave my Tel Aviv experience the attention it deserved, I just have to tell you all about my trip to the land of the Irish. Disclaimer: If we’ve discussed any part of that journey, I can promise you it will be repeated in this account because each and every moment was too precious not to mention again in this version, Bridget can attest. And just in case anyone was wondering, I did, in fact, plan this little excursion two days in advance, so that may help explain the haste, and the plethora of struggles that follows.
So I’m going to describe this in excruciating detail because that’s how I like to do it, starting from the airport. This description is actually going to be combined with my experience from earlier today (last night? yesterday? whatever...) in the Ben Gurion airport, Tel Aviv. I flew out of that airport twice in one week which I, under no circumstances, would recommend to anyone in their right mind. It is a beyond painful experience and doubled it was almost too much to handle. So my trip out to Dublin began with hours of waiting in line, getting the third degree from young, attractive airport attendants surrounding my Jewish identity, observance level, and my Hebrew school education that took place approx. 10 years ago (wtf). Heading to Dublin was, however, the easier of the two exchanges because once I was on my way back to the states, I stupidly packed electronics such as my laptop, and my lethal cuticle clippers. Silly me. The questioning was repeated, verbatim, followed by a complete baggage check of both of my pristinely-packed and over-stuffed pieces of luggage, all in all totaling to 9 check points. Can you just think about that for a minute? My passport and ticket (and patience) were checked 9 times. Like... what on earth could be the point of that? Who’s idea was it to suggest after being tested 8 times that OH maybe we should check a 9th time JUST IN CASE this reasonably intelligent (or in my case, slightly-functioning) traveler slipped through the cracks. OK sorry I just had to vent. All my fellow New Jerseyite flight passengers were sure to do so--loudly, repeatedly, annoyingly (yaay USA), so I wanted to take my moment in the spotlight too.
Alright moving on, really to Ireland now.
I would love to tell you that after my months abroad, and international travel experiences, my intelligence in those departments would have improved in any way. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who has pretty good street smarts, you know, good instincts, that kind of thing. Well as it turns out, all along I was just telling myself that to make me feel better about being so weirdly bad at science. In reality, I actually suck at everything (at least this has been a journey of self discovery!). That became plainly apparent in my little excursion over to the green isles. Before the trip began, I was stoked to be traveling to a country that speaks English. I thought I’d at least have that on my side. But I was wrong again--I would honestly say it’s easier to understand Spanish than English spoken with an Irish accent. So that relief went out the window pretty quickly. But I’ll get back to that. So the first thing I saw when I exited the Dublin airport (aside from a wide array of freckled-faced red heads, cursing Guiness drinkers, and jolly old people) was a bunny rabbit, snacking ever so Irishly on some very green grass (see facebook image). I seriously thought it was a joke. I literally looked around to see if other people were stopping to take pictures too, thinking we must be crossing through some sort of tourist-welcoming show, but shockingly, that was only me. I then found that that special image was really a foreshadow of the week to come.
Update: I’m currently in the Newark airport, minutes from boarding my second plane to Portland, drinking a latte the size of my head and sitting with Israelis. I just want to point out that the latter two list items are severely lightening the blow of being back in my home country and the depression is sure to set in any time now, just a heads up.
Anywho, Basically, Ireland is like Disney World. It’s like this campy, animated version of a country; except it’s actually the real thing. It seems like the entire population is just putting on a play for their tourists, and hitting their performances out of the park. Star of the show: Limerick, Ireland. My home for one week and quite possibly the most ridiculous place on the planet. Back to day one: my incompetence had a real opportunity to present itself all over this day. So after arriving to the picturesque airport, I hop on what I thought was a direct bus from Dublin to Limerick, but instead it went to a train station where I was suppose to wait, switch buses, and then continue my journey. Well, with about 9 hours of traveling already under my belt, and being thoroughly entertained (and entirely distracted) by the hilarity that is Ireland, I missed the memo on that whole bus-switching thing and instead just hopped off at the train station, in order to get further instructions from these insanely kind Irishmen I’d heard so much about. So I’d like to blame screw-up numero uno on one of those people, because that makes me feel better. So this goofy, Irish ticket seller told me directions on how to get to Limerick via a train to downtown Dublin and then via bus to Limerick. The only problem was, I couldn’t understand a damn word he said. And you know how that repeating thing goes--after you’ve misunderstood someone for the third time in a row it’s officially your fault and now you're the bitchy American who can’t understand simple English. So I just nodded, said thanks a mil, and bought the ticket. Fast forward ten minutes and I’m sitting next to a second Irishman who so kindly fit in directions to Limerick between his lectures on why Israel really shouldn’t be a country. Thanks for the lesson dude! Fast forward an hour and a half and cue me chasing a bus down the rainy streets of Dublin doting our good friend, the awkwardly over-sized backpack, waving a ticket in my hand and officially on the verge of tears (after 24 hours of sleep deprivation, 20 minutes of waiting in the wrong bus line, and already feeling Irished-out for the day, this was a reasonable reaction, believe me). So I return to the ticket office, realizing that if it wasn’t for my blunder at the train station I could already be in Limerick by this point, and desperately throw my ticket on the counter, telling the ticket seller my sob story of a day and proceed to beg for a refund and a ticket onto the next bus, whenever that will possibly be. She stared at me blankly, raised one eyebrow and responded with: “Listen lady, the ticket works for any bus today and the next one will be here in 10 minutes.” (subliminal message: you’re nutso. Chill out). If anyone was concerned that I was unaware of the following sad truth, worry not. I am in fact well aware that I contribute to the negative stereotypes of which foreigners believe to be true of North Americans. Not only do I help carry out the whole 'we’re not the smartest tools in the shed' thing, but also, over the course of this trip I helped to convince them that we may be slightly insane as well. You’re welcome. So, long story short, I arrive to Limerick 6 hours later than planned and reunite with my beloved Bridgy. We, in turn, meet up with her friend Jon, and the three of us pub crawl the night away because a) we were in Ireland so we had to do the pub crawl thing and b) we were in Ireland, so we literally had no choice but to do the pub crawl thing. There are only Irish pubs in Ireland. And P.S. by pub crawling the night away I really mean almost passing out on the table after three Guinesses from pure exhaustion and being in bed by 1am.
I told you we’d be in for the long hall here, and believe me, we will, but in the interest of time I’ll quickly summarize the early parts of day two. Bridget forces me out of bed at 8:30am for a trip to the Milk Market in her lovely little town. It was filled with great food, random nick-nacks and pointless souveneirs, and plenty of stereotype-satisfying depictions of Irish people. We then got in a car and drove along some of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. Lush, green, rolling hills, beaches of deep, blue water crashing into huge, moss covered cliffs, quaint homes nestled between farm lands filled with cartoon-like cows, all with the sun setting over these stunning scenes. We saw old men driving tractors among cars and waving to farmer friends, boarder collies trotting happily down streets as drivers patiently waited, waving them on, friends hanging out in a motorcycle and side car combo, thatched houses, newsboy caps, pastel-colored bakeries, people canoeing... I’m seriously not kidding. We actually saw all of this. I’ve never been more confused in my life and it was at that point I came to the description I’m now sticking by and ruling as a fair assertion (warning-graphic depiction to follow): you can’t just dip into Ireland. You don’t get a taste, or a preview or hint of Ireland. Go to Ireland, and Ireland will throw up all over you.
Moving on... So in the midst of our ludicrous car ride, we made a pit stop to do a fun little hike. Fast forward 2 hours and I’m kicking and screaming my way straight up the side of a mountain. Cue the second time that day that my dear Bridgy is forcing me to do something against my will. She essentially dragged me up this hour-long stair stepper of a hike until I got to the top and eventually stopped wining. The view was of course, breathtaking, it was all worth it in the end, thank you Bridget, blah blah blah. We then worked our way down the mountain, through the forbidden forest, across middle earth, said what’s up to some leprechauns, and after a sprinkle of fairy dust, were on our way.
Now I previously misstated that Limerick was the most ridiculous town on the planet. But after arriving to our destination, I soon learned that our home base was really just a close second to the glimmering coast town of Dingle, Ireland.
Update: (Remeber, I told you I’d break this into pieces) I’m now sitting in my mother’s house all the way back in good ol’ Eugene. My trip to Ireland seems like it happened a decade ago, but I love all you valued readers too much to leave ya hangin’. So here goes... the remaining pieces, in the abridged version:
So on to Dingle. The three of us were blessed to get introduced to this gem of a town. This place was actually designed for tourists (right?), and in keeping with the rest of Ireland, right out of a fairy tale. I don’t know how else to describe it because I can’t think of any more synonyms for quaint. It was also mini and filled with more ridiculous people that looked like movie characters straight out of a movie all about Ireland. So anyways, after successfully sneaking me into the hotel room, we headed to Murphy’s Pub where we drank Murphy’s beer, then ate a meal of wonderful sea food, followed by dessert at Murphy’s Ice Cream Shop. Shout out to the Murphy clan. But after dessert was when the real fun began. We had plans of seeing a few talked-about pubs in this glorious little town but upon arriving at our first stop, we knew we would not be leaving any time soon. I realize that I’m repeating words like crazy, but I really don’t know how else to describe this pub besides entirely ridiculous and confusing. Random, bizarre, strangely unique--they just don’t do it justice. It was weirder than weird, OK? So first we walk into what we thought was the only room, the main bar. This alone would have been stand-out enough, as it was already a converted hardware store with beyond confusing paintings (I swear to God there was a picture of a nun drinking beer... like, why?), but alas, our bewilderment continued as we moved on. We quickly learned that what we thought was a one-room little bar was actually an entirely converted ground floor of a house, with each area offering a whole new level of confusion. The very next room had not one, but two ancient looking pianos, a prehistoric miniature oven, a well-used fireplace, more eccentric paintings, and, naturally, 3 buckets of coal. Over the course of the evening, this room saw a table of 75 year old men who had to be planning some sort of secret event or crime, two separate groups of bachelorette parties (apparently we had discovered the hotspot in Dingle, score!), and a plethora of other question-raising Irish pub attendees. The next stop was an outdoor area, complete with large picnic tables overlooking the cobblestone building filled with all the normal clientele. This area was stationed in the perfect spot, just close enough so no one could hear a word over the blaring music from inside, and just far enough away so their cigarette smoke could still billow through the doors of the building, defeating the entire purpose of having a space outside. The grand finale was the disco themed mini dance club room. There were probably eleven people standing in the room, none of whom were dancing, but instead trying to talk over the strange assortment of music choices, between the flashing multi-colored lights (is this sounding reminiscent of middle school dances to anyone else?). All in all, it was (say it with me folks) confusing.
I could, obviously, go on for days here. Every moment in Ireland could be transformed into one of my overly-detailed stories, but I feel like this was a sufficient preview. Just know that my remaining days were a blast filled with oh so many cow-filled rolling green hills, ridiculous and impossible accents, and enough overall hilarity to last me a lifetime. And as for my never-ending struggle-fest, rest assured my trip back to Israel was just as embarrassing as always. Let’s just put it this way. The next time you’ve sat on a bus for 4 hours straight after drinking a large coffee and bottle of water, and have reached your absolute wits end, and bladder capacity, nothing will stand in your way of finding the necessary... er... relief. (We’re talking verge of tears here people, for a second time in five days, yes). At that point, not even a bitchy Irish woman with adult braces will be able to stand in your way of using a bathroom, even if it is for “employees only”. Just take my advice, get those tears to well up in your eyes, pull out your best pleading voice, and graphically, threateningly, let her know you have a serious urinary infection that needs immediate attention or, to put it plainly, you will simply pop a squat on her precious office building floor.
Hope all is well kids! Next time I go international, you all will be the first to hear about it!
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Day 119: Switching it up
Hello kiddies,
I’m back! I guess the delay was to be expected. The whole switching from one country/continent/culture to another- thing was somewhat distracting. It took me a while to actually sit down to write this, but you can rest easy knowing you were all on my mind and in my heart the whole time, so no worries. On the bright side, I do have some interesting news for you, which I guess is a plus. I say interesting because I don’t know how I feel about actually making this statement. But here goes: I’ve been cheating on Rosario. Seriously running around her back, sneakily falling for another city--Tel Aviv (betcha didn’t see that one coming! I’m telling you my cleverness is staying put at an all time high). Anyways, I’m feeling pretty awful about it because of all the amazing things she did for me during our three-month relationship, but I just can’t help it. I truly understand how Emily feels now that she’s down to the final two. She loves both Jef and Ari and I have no idea how she’s going to make the final decision because she’s just so torn. I get it. (OK I’ll be done with the Bachelorette reference but the finale’s on Sunday so I’m having trouble focusing on other things.) Anyways, my heart now belongs to both cities and I feel a little guilty. But really, who could blame me? Let me just lay it out for you. In the simplest, most surface-level of terms, it’s really not surprising that I fell for Tel Aviv in the first 10 minutes of being here. First of all, I came directly from winter in Argentina. It was getting colder and more dreary by the minute and then all of a sudden, after a quick and painless (you’d believe me if I stuck with that lie, right? Riight.) 36 hours of traveling, I arrived to a blazing sun right in the middle of summer. I traded Rosario’s brown river for Tel Aviv’s crystal clear Mediterranean; I swapped final exams for a laid back, 4-day-week internship; fried, meat-only, repetitive food options for some of the best dishes in the world, all complete with Kalamata olives, if I so please (which of course I do); and decked out, heel-wearing, designer-clothes repping Argentine models, for normal people wearing flip flops and t-shirts to bars and being welcomed in with open arms. If you know me but at all, you’ll know I really am in my homeland. Oh and not to mention, instead of the plethora of homeless dogs wandering the streets of Rosario there are stray cats everywhere here which I find slightly less sad for some reason. (And by slightly I mean entirely). So I guess what I’m saying is that while Tel Aviv may be pulling ahead in the smallest of ways in the race for my all-time favorite city, it’s really not a fair competition because the odds are so stacked against my beautiful Rosario. And don’t worry Rosarinos, I still talk about you all, and my time in Argentina, an annoying amount and describe the city as if it’s my hometown.
Alright, enough comparing. I know what you all want to hear... Am I still struggling as much in Israel as I was in Argentina? The answer is, of course, yes. I’ve been here about two weeks and already I fell in public, ran directly (head-first, obvi) into a street sign while a herd of attractive young men openly laughed at my stupidity, mistook an Israeli for an American and complimented him on his great Hebrew, misread common English as a transliterated Hebrew word and pronounced it out loud like a total douche bag, bought yogurt, thinking it was milk, and proceeded to pour it over my cereal, trying momentarily, and out of pure laziness, to suffer through it, and as we can all assume--much, much more. (That, by the way, is not including all the times I’ve used Spanish in an attempt to say one of the six Hebrew words I know and instead, as per usual, failed miserably). If the other question on your mind is if this glorious city has managed to cure me of my pessimistic ways, the answer to that is, of course, no. I love everything, but the heat is killing me slowly. I’m an Oregonian--this all day, every day, 90-something degree temperature coupled with the humidity does not fly. I’m melting and complaining about it the whole way through. So no fear, these enriching international experiences have not changed me in the slightest! You’re welcome, world! OK that’s all for now. I’m 10 hours ahead of you West Coasters, so while you’re walking around in your normally warm sunshine, enjoying the day, I’m going to sleep.
Missing you all!
Oh and P.S. While you may all remember my beloved Sylvia and her beloved Spanish-speaking boyfriend, we are herein all blessed with yet another trade-off. Even the giggle-worthy, name translation has been replaced for me here in Israel. I swapped out our well-known Bubie (heehee) for the tech guy at my internship office. Everyone, meet Dudu (pronounced: Doodoo). Hope you all enjoy that as much as I do!
Love,
Henya
I’m back! I guess the delay was to be expected. The whole switching from one country/continent/culture to another- thing was somewhat distracting. It took me a while to actually sit down to write this, but you can rest easy knowing you were all on my mind and in my heart the whole time, so no worries. On the bright side, I do have some interesting news for you, which I guess is a plus. I say interesting because I don’t know how I feel about actually making this statement. But here goes: I’ve been cheating on Rosario. Seriously running around her back, sneakily falling for another city--Tel Aviv (betcha didn’t see that one coming! I’m telling you my cleverness is staying put at an all time high). Anyways, I’m feeling pretty awful about it because of all the amazing things she did for me during our three-month relationship, but I just can’t help it. I truly understand how Emily feels now that she’s down to the final two. She loves both Jef and Ari and I have no idea how she’s going to make the final decision because she’s just so torn. I get it. (OK I’ll be done with the Bachelorette reference but the finale’s on Sunday so I’m having trouble focusing on other things.) Anyways, my heart now belongs to both cities and I feel a little guilty. But really, who could blame me? Let me just lay it out for you. In the simplest, most surface-level of terms, it’s really not surprising that I fell for Tel Aviv in the first 10 minutes of being here. First of all, I came directly from winter in Argentina. It was getting colder and more dreary by the minute and then all of a sudden, after a quick and painless (you’d believe me if I stuck with that lie, right? Riight.) 36 hours of traveling, I arrived to a blazing sun right in the middle of summer. I traded Rosario’s brown river for Tel Aviv’s crystal clear Mediterranean; I swapped final exams for a laid back, 4-day-week internship; fried, meat-only, repetitive food options for some of the best dishes in the world, all complete with Kalamata olives, if I so please (which of course I do); and decked out, heel-wearing, designer-clothes repping Argentine models, for normal people wearing flip flops and t-shirts to bars and being welcomed in with open arms. If you know me but at all, you’ll know I really am in my homeland. Oh and not to mention, instead of the plethora of homeless dogs wandering the streets of Rosario there are stray cats everywhere here which I find slightly less sad for some reason. (And by slightly I mean entirely). So I guess what I’m saying is that while Tel Aviv may be pulling ahead in the smallest of ways in the race for my all-time favorite city, it’s really not a fair competition because the odds are so stacked against my beautiful Rosario. And don’t worry Rosarinos, I still talk about you all, and my time in Argentina, an annoying amount and describe the city as if it’s my hometown.
Alright, enough comparing. I know what you all want to hear... Am I still struggling as much in Israel as I was in Argentina? The answer is, of course, yes. I’ve been here about two weeks and already I fell in public, ran directly (head-first, obvi) into a street sign while a herd of attractive young men openly laughed at my stupidity, mistook an Israeli for an American and complimented him on his great Hebrew, misread common English as a transliterated Hebrew word and pronounced it out loud like a total douche bag, bought yogurt, thinking it was milk, and proceeded to pour it over my cereal, trying momentarily, and out of pure laziness, to suffer through it, and as we can all assume--much, much more. (That, by the way, is not including all the times I’ve used Spanish in an attempt to say one of the six Hebrew words I know and instead, as per usual, failed miserably). If the other question on your mind is if this glorious city has managed to cure me of my pessimistic ways, the answer to that is, of course, no. I love everything, but the heat is killing me slowly. I’m an Oregonian--this all day, every day, 90-something degree temperature coupled with the humidity does not fly. I’m melting and complaining about it the whole way through. So no fear, these enriching international experiences have not changed me in the slightest! You’re welcome, world! OK that’s all for now. I’m 10 hours ahead of you West Coasters, so while you’re walking around in your normally warm sunshine, enjoying the day, I’m going to sleep.
Missing you all!
Oh and P.S. While you may all remember my beloved Sylvia and her beloved Spanish-speaking boyfriend, we are herein all blessed with yet another trade-off. Even the giggle-worthy, name translation has been replaced for me here in Israel. I swapped out our well-known Bubie (heehee) for the tech guy at my internship office. Everyone, meet Dudu (pronounced: Doodoo). Hope you all enjoy that as much as I do!
Love,
Henya
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Day 83: the grand (argentine) finale.
Hello my faithful blog readers!
Long time no talk, I know. I hope all is well back in the Northern parts of America. I’m sorry it’s been so long but sometimes life just has the tendency of getting in the way. For example, on my end of things, I’ve had a trip to Buenos Aires, midterms, a visit from my beloved Chels, a week-long flu epidemic plaguing our entire group, my completion of 8 books in the time that I’ve been here (who knew how much reading you could get done with the absence of wifi), visiting Iguazu falls, a short stint with food poisoning, finals, preparations for my next program (hope you didn’t forget, Israel is up next!) and much, much more. So anyways, it’s been tough to find time to write.
But here I sit, pondering the difficulties of providing a true summary and reflection. How the time has flown so fast, I will never understand. I still think back to my first night here, writing in a pure state of exhaustion as I detailed my Hellish journey en route to this glorious country. That was quickly followed by my explanation of my first few weeks of struggle, confusion and embarrassment. Then, all of a sudden the whole middle portion of my Argentine-adventure passed in the blink of an eye. Blurred by the influx of information, new friends, endless tours and sight-seeing, cross-cultural mishaps, ridiculous encounters, drunken nights, fits of laughter, and learning probably more about this country’s historically rich background than I know about my own. I think at this point I should probably mention to you that I just so happen to be half-way through the classic novel On the Road (book number 9). So if my reflections are seeming a bit on the cliche side, my apologies. But let’s be real, who better contrasts the celebration of freedom with the hardships and instability that come along with our fleeting youth than Mr. Kerouac, himself? I think no one. Anyways, I feel that as I count down my last days of my study abroad experience, there’s no better time than the present to kick up the over-indulged analyzation a few notches and really cheese it up for you all. So I will continue, in my first real attempt to be deep.
I don’t quite know how it happened, but somewhere between the impatient restaurant staff, impossible Argentine accent, consistently-enraged drivers, ancient elevator and water-heating systems, stray dog-littered streets, incessant cat calls, over-priced clothing, crazed soccer fans, painfully beautiful women, irresistible ice cream, and never-ending bus rides, I somehow managed to fall in love with this country. I know it’s been just shy of 3 months, but after my time here, I can’t help feeling like I’ll forever be, just slightly, part Argentine. I’m trying to put my finger on exactly when it happened, but if I’m being honest with myself, I think I knew it all along. Of course, I’ve missed all of you, and Starbucks, but something about being here felt right pretty much immediately. I could probably attribute it to Sylvia--to her amazing cooking and nurturing ways, or perhaps our professors who quickly facebook friended us, took us on field trips to the grocery store, and shared with us their most embarrassing moments, all along teaching us more than I’ve ever learned from any PhD-licensed instructor. It also could have been the random relationships I’ve built with the various employees of all my most frequented spots here in Rosario: the well dressed laundromat worker who always refers to me as her amor; the owner of the one vegetarian restaurant who relentlessly tries to teach me spanish words for utensils and napkins; the entirely male staff of the convenience store next to my apartment where we begin every evening by drinking a few of the cheapest beers Rosario has to offer. They use their collective 4 known English words to greet us, and then switch to Spanish in order to converse with us about music, school, politics, soccer and of course, beer. It could have been viewing one of the seven wonders of the world, zip-lining through the jungle, attending a genuine South American soccer game, horse back riding in Argentina’s country side, touring the Andes, seeing a tango show in its world capital, or simply wandering around the streets of a million-person, beautiful city that really won me over. Who knows, really? All I do know is that I’m officially convinced that Argentina is all it’s cracked up to be, and definitely one of the most amazing places on the planet. It’s given me three months of pure joy and leaving here may very well feel like the worst break up of all time. So on that happy note, I thank you all for being a part of this portion of my journey with me. I don't know if I succeeded in being deep, but it has been real, and a pleasure writing for you all. Until next time folks, and more specifically, until Tel Aviv!
Love,
Henya
Long time no talk, I know. I hope all is well back in the Northern parts of America. I’m sorry it’s been so long but sometimes life just has the tendency of getting in the way. For example, on my end of things, I’ve had a trip to Buenos Aires, midterms, a visit from my beloved Chels, a week-long flu epidemic plaguing our entire group, my completion of 8 books in the time that I’ve been here (who knew how much reading you could get done with the absence of wifi), visiting Iguazu falls, a short stint with food poisoning, finals, preparations for my next program (hope you didn’t forget, Israel is up next!) and much, much more. So anyways, it’s been tough to find time to write.
But here I sit, pondering the difficulties of providing a true summary and reflection. How the time has flown so fast, I will never understand. I still think back to my first night here, writing in a pure state of exhaustion as I detailed my Hellish journey en route to this glorious country. That was quickly followed by my explanation of my first few weeks of struggle, confusion and embarrassment. Then, all of a sudden the whole middle portion of my Argentine-adventure passed in the blink of an eye. Blurred by the influx of information, new friends, endless tours and sight-seeing, cross-cultural mishaps, ridiculous encounters, drunken nights, fits of laughter, and learning probably more about this country’s historically rich background than I know about my own. I think at this point I should probably mention to you that I just so happen to be half-way through the classic novel On the Road (book number 9). So if my reflections are seeming a bit on the cliche side, my apologies. But let’s be real, who better contrasts the celebration of freedom with the hardships and instability that come along with our fleeting youth than Mr. Kerouac, himself? I think no one. Anyways, I feel that as I count down my last days of my study abroad experience, there’s no better time than the present to kick up the over-indulged analyzation a few notches and really cheese it up for you all. So I will continue, in my first real attempt to be deep.
I don’t quite know how it happened, but somewhere between the impatient restaurant staff, impossible Argentine accent, consistently-enraged drivers, ancient elevator and water-heating systems, stray dog-littered streets, incessant cat calls, over-priced clothing, crazed soccer fans, painfully beautiful women, irresistible ice cream, and never-ending bus rides, I somehow managed to fall in love with this country. I know it’s been just shy of 3 months, but after my time here, I can’t help feeling like I’ll forever be, just slightly, part Argentine. I’m trying to put my finger on exactly when it happened, but if I’m being honest with myself, I think I knew it all along. Of course, I’ve missed all of you, and Starbucks, but something about being here felt right pretty much immediately. I could probably attribute it to Sylvia--to her amazing cooking and nurturing ways, or perhaps our professors who quickly facebook friended us, took us on field trips to the grocery store, and shared with us their most embarrassing moments, all along teaching us more than I’ve ever learned from any PhD-licensed instructor. It also could have been the random relationships I’ve built with the various employees of all my most frequented spots here in Rosario: the well dressed laundromat worker who always refers to me as her amor; the owner of the one vegetarian restaurant who relentlessly tries to teach me spanish words for utensils and napkins; the entirely male staff of the convenience store next to my apartment where we begin every evening by drinking a few of the cheapest beers Rosario has to offer. They use their collective 4 known English words to greet us, and then switch to Spanish in order to converse with us about music, school, politics, soccer and of course, beer. It could have been viewing one of the seven wonders of the world, zip-lining through the jungle, attending a genuine South American soccer game, horse back riding in Argentina’s country side, touring the Andes, seeing a tango show in its world capital, or simply wandering around the streets of a million-person, beautiful city that really won me over. Who knows, really? All I do know is that I’m officially convinced that Argentina is all it’s cracked up to be, and definitely one of the most amazing places on the planet. It’s given me three months of pure joy and leaving here may very well feel like the worst break up of all time. So on that happy note, I thank you all for being a part of this portion of my journey with me. I don't know if I succeeded in being deep, but it has been real, and a pleasure writing for you all. Until next time folks, and more specifically, until Tel Aviv!
Love,
Henya
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Day 38: Leaving the nest
Hello all,
I sense that it is time for a new blog post. Luckily for you, and me, my life here is interesting enough for me to actually have something worthwhile to write about every time I feel like jotting down a new update. If there was any question as to whether I would be continuing this ever-entertaining blog once my travels cease, my answer is definitely no. My life at home is nowhere as exciting, or action-packed as it has been over the last month here in Argentina. Unfortunately, it tends to be almost as ridiculous and embarrassing, but that’s a whole other issue. Anywho, this past weekend, my friends and I decided that with our long break from school (we had a 5 day weekend because of labor day--like I’ve always said, this country is weird, but I’m actually not complaining this time. I’m all for the extra time off.) that we should do a little traveling. We decided on a neighboring province called Mendoza. This beautiful spot is known for it’s vineyards and quaint city, and because of the always popular attraction of wine, it gets tons of tourists year-round.
Once we made our decision, our first act was to pick out the perfect hostel. Luckily, we found a website that directly compares each one in every category, and provides commentary from previous travelers. Our criteria was simple: 1) it had to be cheap--this was for obvious reasons. See ‘broke college kids’ excerpt in previous post. And 2) it had to be fun--this was really our first priority but I thought it would be cliche to list it as number 1 seeing as my last blog was entirely about Rosario nightlife. I think we can all agree I’m not one to overdue it. So after crowding around my laptop at the nearest McDonald’s (free wi-fi) at 11:30pm 4 days before we wanted to leave (and 2 hours after purchasing our tickets at the bus station, which had been immediately followed by a ridiculously long, incredibly incorrect bus ride to the outskirts, and ghetto, of Rosario), we were finally able to make a decision. Our hostel of choice promised ping pong, a pool table and a swimming pool; excursion package deals; a great staff; and 30 minutes of free, all-you-can-drink-tequila on Saturday nights. (That offer quickly overruled our concerns surrounding the relatively low 85% rating on cleanliness. I mean, come on...)
So Thursday evening eventually rolled around and after a quick snack run, a crammed taxi ride, and a fair amount of our ever-present struggle sessions to locate the right bus, we managed to find the way to our seats by 10:30pm. Now my advice to you if you’re up against a 13 hour (yes, that’s for real, no typo) bus ride is to get your hands on the complete first season of Game of Thrones and watch as much as physically possible before that computer battery runs out. It’s amazing and addictive and I owe Tyler big time, that’s all I’m saying. Although, now that I think about it, probably only approximately 10-15% of my blog readers would actually appreciate the grotesque violence and pornographic sex scenes that only HBO can be responsible for, so scratch that. But either way, those first few episodes got us through a small portion of the trip, and before we knew it we were all peacefully snoozing our way to Mendoza. Fast forward 10 hours and there we were, rolling into the bus station of our highly anticipated destination.
It was 11:30am and we were already off to a rough start. I’m not entirely sure why, but I feel like every time I try to sleep on some form of transportation, I wake up with a worse hang over than any night of heavy drinking could deliver. And as soon as my eyes opened, I realized my three traveling companions were sharing in that same, unfortunate sentiment. We were all in horrible moods immediately because we were starving, and despite the lengthy rest we actually got, we felt like we had about 10 minutes of sleep under our belts. Then there were the weird aches and pains that you can’t begin to explain, like “why do my teeth hurt” and “how could I possibly have a bruise there”. Who knows... but we knew we needed a serious dose of coffee and a horizontal bed, and stat. Fast forward again, another 10 hours, after pizza for lunch (and leftovers for dinner--the broke college kids line also applies here), and a much needed group nap, our trip really began.
In the interest of time (you know how I love to be brief) I will summarize our next 48 hours as best I can: After my first hostel experience, I think I definitely understand the appeal. There we were on our first night, splitting beers over a game of King’s Cup with quite the eclectic group. One guy from France, another from Belgium, two girls from Holland, the four of us, and of course one guy from Colorado (he goes to Boulder An, how weird is that?? I wonder if you know him!). Over the course of the next two days, we met travelers from Australia, South Africa, Germany, Sweden, Brazil, England and much more. Conversations would switch from English to Spanish to French to Dutch in less than a minute, and the accents were all over the place. Communicating suddenly became more difficult than ever. By the end of the weekend we were actually relieved to return to Spanish. At least we know which language we suck at when we’re in Rosario... Anywho, the next couple of days included wine tasting at two vineyards, followed by a trip to an olive oil factory, a tour of the Andes (can you say stunning? and wind rash?), and as promised, our free-tequila night. I only wish those activities took place in that order. But alas, things are never as easy as they should be here, so naturally it was the night of drinking that occurred directly before our 7am, all-day bus trip to see those beautiful mountains. And luckily for us (please note the sarcasm), Mendoza hostels require parting hours similar to those in Rosario, and perhaps even more drinking. However, I’m well aware that the majority of my readers are related to me, and many are over the age of 50, so I’ll skip out on the details, just this one time. (Except to remind anyone who was able to join us on our family trip to Las Vegas this past year, and had the pleasure of seeing Shana with possibly a Guinness World Records-status hang over on our 9 hour raft tour, the morning following our big adventure. Basically it was like that. But worse.)
Overall, the weekend was a great success. Memories were made, bucketlist items were checked off, and facebook pictures were uploaded. (Some to be untagged in the very near future, I’ll keep my promise, Nathan). It was exhausting and ridiculous, but what else should our travels look like, right? I’m off to bed to continue my attempt at recovery, but no fear--we’re off to Buenos Aires next weekend, with a blog update sure to follow!
Happy bday Mike!!!
Missing you all!
Love,
Henya
I sense that it is time for a new blog post. Luckily for you, and me, my life here is interesting enough for me to actually have something worthwhile to write about every time I feel like jotting down a new update. If there was any question as to whether I would be continuing this ever-entertaining blog once my travels cease, my answer is definitely no. My life at home is nowhere as exciting, or action-packed as it has been over the last month here in Argentina. Unfortunately, it tends to be almost as ridiculous and embarrassing, but that’s a whole other issue. Anywho, this past weekend, my friends and I decided that with our long break from school (we had a 5 day weekend because of labor day--like I’ve always said, this country is weird, but I’m actually not complaining this time. I’m all for the extra time off.) that we should do a little traveling. We decided on a neighboring province called Mendoza. This beautiful spot is known for it’s vineyards and quaint city, and because of the always popular attraction of wine, it gets tons of tourists year-round.
Once we made our decision, our first act was to pick out the perfect hostel. Luckily, we found a website that directly compares each one in every category, and provides commentary from previous travelers. Our criteria was simple: 1) it had to be cheap--this was for obvious reasons. See ‘broke college kids’ excerpt in previous post. And 2) it had to be fun--this was really our first priority but I thought it would be cliche to list it as number 1 seeing as my last blog was entirely about Rosario nightlife. I think we can all agree I’m not one to overdue it. So after crowding around my laptop at the nearest McDonald’s (free wi-fi) at 11:30pm 4 days before we wanted to leave (and 2 hours after purchasing our tickets at the bus station, which had been immediately followed by a ridiculously long, incredibly incorrect bus ride to the outskirts, and ghetto, of Rosario), we were finally able to make a decision. Our hostel of choice promised ping pong, a pool table and a swimming pool; excursion package deals; a great staff; and 30 minutes of free, all-you-can-drink-tequila on Saturday nights. (That offer quickly overruled our concerns surrounding the relatively low 85% rating on cleanliness. I mean, come on...)
So Thursday evening eventually rolled around and after a quick snack run, a crammed taxi ride, and a fair amount of our ever-present struggle sessions to locate the right bus, we managed to find the way to our seats by 10:30pm. Now my advice to you if you’re up against a 13 hour (yes, that’s for real, no typo) bus ride is to get your hands on the complete first season of Game of Thrones and watch as much as physically possible before that computer battery runs out. It’s amazing and addictive and I owe Tyler big time, that’s all I’m saying. Although, now that I think about it, probably only approximately 10-15% of my blog readers would actually appreciate the grotesque violence and pornographic sex scenes that only HBO can be responsible for, so scratch that. But either way, those first few episodes got us through a small portion of the trip, and before we knew it we were all peacefully snoozing our way to Mendoza. Fast forward 10 hours and there we were, rolling into the bus station of our highly anticipated destination.
It was 11:30am and we were already off to a rough start. I’m not entirely sure why, but I feel like every time I try to sleep on some form of transportation, I wake up with a worse hang over than any night of heavy drinking could deliver. And as soon as my eyes opened, I realized my three traveling companions were sharing in that same, unfortunate sentiment. We were all in horrible moods immediately because we were starving, and despite the lengthy rest we actually got, we felt like we had about 10 minutes of sleep under our belts. Then there were the weird aches and pains that you can’t begin to explain, like “why do my teeth hurt” and “how could I possibly have a bruise there”. Who knows... but we knew we needed a serious dose of coffee and a horizontal bed, and stat. Fast forward again, another 10 hours, after pizza for lunch (and leftovers for dinner--the broke college kids line also applies here), and a much needed group nap, our trip really began.
In the interest of time (you know how I love to be brief) I will summarize our next 48 hours as best I can: After my first hostel experience, I think I definitely understand the appeal. There we were on our first night, splitting beers over a game of King’s Cup with quite the eclectic group. One guy from France, another from Belgium, two girls from Holland, the four of us, and of course one guy from Colorado (he goes to Boulder An, how weird is that?? I wonder if you know him!). Over the course of the next two days, we met travelers from Australia, South Africa, Germany, Sweden, Brazil, England and much more. Conversations would switch from English to Spanish to French to Dutch in less than a minute, and the accents were all over the place. Communicating suddenly became more difficult than ever. By the end of the weekend we were actually relieved to return to Spanish. At least we know which language we suck at when we’re in Rosario... Anywho, the next couple of days included wine tasting at two vineyards, followed by a trip to an olive oil factory, a tour of the Andes (can you say stunning? and wind rash?), and as promised, our free-tequila night. I only wish those activities took place in that order. But alas, things are never as easy as they should be here, so naturally it was the night of drinking that occurred directly before our 7am, all-day bus trip to see those beautiful mountains. And luckily for us (please note the sarcasm), Mendoza hostels require parting hours similar to those in Rosario, and perhaps even more drinking. However, I’m well aware that the majority of my readers are related to me, and many are over the age of 50, so I’ll skip out on the details, just this one time. (Except to remind anyone who was able to join us on our family trip to Las Vegas this past year, and had the pleasure of seeing Shana with possibly a Guinness World Records-status hang over on our 9 hour raft tour, the morning following our big adventure. Basically it was like that. But worse.)
Overall, the weekend was a great success. Memories were made, bucketlist items were checked off, and facebook pictures were uploaded. (Some to be untagged in the very near future, I’ll keep my promise, Nathan). It was exhausting and ridiculous, but what else should our travels look like, right? I’m off to bed to continue my attempt at recovery, but no fear--we’re off to Buenos Aires next weekend, with a blog update sure to follow!
Happy bday Mike!!!
Missing you all!
Love,
Henya
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Day 24: Just trying to fit in...
First and foremost, I want to apologize. I think that the process of blogging, specifically in the case of a traveler, is supposed to be largely informative. I realize that up until this point I have provided you with little information about the country of which I’m currently residing. I have, instead, detailed simply my own struggles surrounding airports, language barriers, and sunburns. Oh and of course I’ve managed to do plenty of complaining. So I am aware that these blog postings have had little to no important substance. However, I regret to inform you that I will be making no revisions to this trend. Case in point: today I will be telling you about the Argentinian party scene.
I’m actually surprised I’ve gone this long without detailing the strange tendencies of the Rosario youth. Going out and partying is such a large part of the lifestyle here that I’m finding it strange that it has yet to make it into my posts. But here we are, so I’ll fix that now. First of all, like much else here, the schedules and sleeping hours of people in Argentina are totally out of wack. They eat dinner at 10pm, everyone stays up until midnight at least—small children, old people, whatever, they’re all wandering the streets until halfway through the night—then the younger, more partying-prone population heads out for the bars and clubs at 2 or 3am, and they arrive home at 7. IN THE MORNING. I wish I could tell you this only happened on the weekends, but alas, that is also not true. (For example, I’m currently exhausted because I went out last night. It was a Monday, so that was the obvious choice.) So anyways, we’ve had to make quite the adjustment since being here, as I’m sure you can imagine. I mean, I like going out as much as the next college student, and I’ve even been considered a night owl by many, but I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m totally out of my league here. We all are, really. I’m 21 and the night life is kicking my ass. So we’ve been doing our best to get used to these strange and ridiculous hours and decided that this weekend we would finally do it up big, and give in to the most popular partying trend here: el Boliche, aka the nightclub. Boliches are huge here. Everyone goes out, crowds into one of the numerous clubs Rosario has to offer, and fist pumps the night away. (I guess I should clarify that I had actually been to one of these famous Boliches during our first weekend here, but that was before my sleeping patterns were corrected, so our exit at 3am was far too early to experience what these clubs have to offer.)
So Saturday night rolls around, and I force myself to carry out the promise I made to my fellow study-abroaders and to our newly found Argentine friends, by going out for a third, ridiculously late night in a row. Luckily for us, we have happened to befriend the most popular male in Rosario: Renzo (I’m telling you he knows everyone, is the friendliest person on the planet, and above all, loves Boliches.) So he informs us of a brand new Boliche that we just have to try. Apparently he knows the owner, obviously, so he can get us in with no charge, plus they’re serving free drinks in honor of opening night. Being the broke college kids that we are, we jump at the chance for a cheap night out, and immediately go on our way. It’s 1:30am at this point, which would normally lead us to a dead zone at the clubs, but since it’s the grand opening, they started early.
We arrive at the club and are faced with a long line outside, but through the opening of the door, we can see flashing lights and hear blaring music. So we all (my friends Jessica and Tyler, a handful of Argentines, and I--if you’ve been keeping up with my multitude of facebook pictures, you’re probably familiar with these names) go to the end of the line to begin our wait. And at this point, my fellow North Americans and I kind of roll our eyes at one another, not exactly being the club-going types, and feeling we’re in for a cliche dance club, and a night of ridiculous behavior, and techno music (which we are). However, Renzo not only knows the owner, and half of the waiting patrons, but also happens to be best buds with the bouncer as well. So much for waiting... We are instead, directly lead to the back of the club to the ever-so-exclusive VIP section. I’d like to take a moment to point out how cool this is. I would not be surprised if this turns out to be the only VIP section of anything that I’m ever invited into, so at that point Jessica, Tyler and I begin to revel in our sure-to-be-fleeting popularity, and decide to take full advantage of this Boliche experience. At that exact moment, when I’m enjoying my newfound enviable status, Renzo hands me a glass filled with champagne. I must have been overwhelmed by yet another cool thing to be added to this chart topping moment, (celebrity status even?) because before we even have a chance to cheers one another, the glass immediately drops from my hand and shatters, ever so cooly, on the dance floor. Quite the way to make an entrance, no? Well let me tell you, the fellow VIP attendants, aka Vogue models and their equally as stunning boyfriends, were not quite as amused as my ex-best friends, Jessica and Tyler, who were at that point doubled over in laughter as the beautiful people stared on, clearly realizing my true, painfully awkward, colors.
Despite my deep, but now common, embarrassment, I somehow managed to move on from this moment. After recovering and trying to fade back into the crowd, I finally had a chance to look around me and take in the image of a Boliche. Attention: young Kamesars, Strutins, Mike, Bridget and Shana, please picture the club from our hotel in Las Vegas. Now multiply that by 12 on account of size, excitement level, and attractiveness of the club-goers. Attention: Sophie, Mike and Caitlin, please picture that weird Indian club we went to in Boston and multiply it by 100, for the same categories. And if you’ve only ever been to Taylor’s, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no fair comparison here... I’ve truly never seen anything like it. The club itself was massive, with multiple bars and dance floors, and hundreds of impeccably dressed people. Like I said, there was a VIP section that also included couches and mini tables, reserved for the most gorgeous of all bystanders. There was a cluster of giant disco balls hanging high above our heads, and most importantly, the most ludicrous DJ I’ve ever had the honor of listening to, stationed in one corner of the club.
Ah, the music. I stood there, in my half-drunken state, taking in all that was around me, and pictured this very blog and you oh so loved readers. I just couldn’t wait to tell you the music that we heard at this club. I think the first song I heard was a techno remix to a Shania Twain song, followed quickly by Mambo #5, Gloria Estefan, and the YMCA (oh and take a wild guess as to which 3 people out of the entire club knew the complicated choreography to that well-known hit.) Next up was Ace of Base, a few songs in Spanish, I’m not kidding--Alanis Moressette, a song by the late 90s band Five (shockingly, I knew every word), Sean Paul (his early stuff), and Britney Spears’ You Drive me Crazy. I think that starring round up finished off with Usher’s Yeah (what would a dance floor be without it?) If you know me, even in the slightest, I don’t have to tell you that I was in heaven. Jessica, Tyler and I left hours (and hours and hours) later feeling that we had conquered the fad that is the Boliche. OK, not conquered, but I would definitely go as far to say that we’re officially fans—converts to the Boliche way of life if you will. After that experience, I’d say if you’re a self-proclaimed partier (I truly hope you aren’t), or just want to see what the true club scene is all about, I’d advise you to take the South American Boliche challenge, and hop on the next flight out to Argentina. I’ll even show you the ropes!
Missing you all!
Love,
Henya
I’m actually surprised I’ve gone this long without detailing the strange tendencies of the Rosario youth. Going out and partying is such a large part of the lifestyle here that I’m finding it strange that it has yet to make it into my posts. But here we are, so I’ll fix that now. First of all, like much else here, the schedules and sleeping hours of people in Argentina are totally out of wack. They eat dinner at 10pm, everyone stays up until midnight at least—small children, old people, whatever, they’re all wandering the streets until halfway through the night—then the younger, more partying-prone population heads out for the bars and clubs at 2 or 3am, and they arrive home at 7. IN THE MORNING. I wish I could tell you this only happened on the weekends, but alas, that is also not true. (For example, I’m currently exhausted because I went out last night. It was a Monday, so that was the obvious choice.) So anyways, we’ve had to make quite the adjustment since being here, as I’m sure you can imagine. I mean, I like going out as much as the next college student, and I’ve even been considered a night owl by many, but I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m totally out of my league here. We all are, really. I’m 21 and the night life is kicking my ass. So we’ve been doing our best to get used to these strange and ridiculous hours and decided that this weekend we would finally do it up big, and give in to the most popular partying trend here: el Boliche, aka the nightclub. Boliches are huge here. Everyone goes out, crowds into one of the numerous clubs Rosario has to offer, and fist pumps the night away. (I guess I should clarify that I had actually been to one of these famous Boliches during our first weekend here, but that was before my sleeping patterns were corrected, so our exit at 3am was far too early to experience what these clubs have to offer.)
So Saturday night rolls around, and I force myself to carry out the promise I made to my fellow study-abroaders and to our newly found Argentine friends, by going out for a third, ridiculously late night in a row. Luckily for us, we have happened to befriend the most popular male in Rosario: Renzo (I’m telling you he knows everyone, is the friendliest person on the planet, and above all, loves Boliches.) So he informs us of a brand new Boliche that we just have to try. Apparently he knows the owner, obviously, so he can get us in with no charge, plus they’re serving free drinks in honor of opening night. Being the broke college kids that we are, we jump at the chance for a cheap night out, and immediately go on our way. It’s 1:30am at this point, which would normally lead us to a dead zone at the clubs, but since it’s the grand opening, they started early.
We arrive at the club and are faced with a long line outside, but through the opening of the door, we can see flashing lights and hear blaring music. So we all (my friends Jessica and Tyler, a handful of Argentines, and I--if you’ve been keeping up with my multitude of facebook pictures, you’re probably familiar with these names) go to the end of the line to begin our wait. And at this point, my fellow North Americans and I kind of roll our eyes at one another, not exactly being the club-going types, and feeling we’re in for a cliche dance club, and a night of ridiculous behavior, and techno music (which we are). However, Renzo not only knows the owner, and half of the waiting patrons, but also happens to be best buds with the bouncer as well. So much for waiting... We are instead, directly lead to the back of the club to the ever-so-exclusive VIP section. I’d like to take a moment to point out how cool this is. I would not be surprised if this turns out to be the only VIP section of anything that I’m ever invited into, so at that point Jessica, Tyler and I begin to revel in our sure-to-be-fleeting popularity, and decide to take full advantage of this Boliche experience. At that exact moment, when I’m enjoying my newfound enviable status, Renzo hands me a glass filled with champagne. I must have been overwhelmed by yet another cool thing to be added to this chart topping moment, (celebrity status even?) because before we even have a chance to cheers one another, the glass immediately drops from my hand and shatters, ever so cooly, on the dance floor. Quite the way to make an entrance, no? Well let me tell you, the fellow VIP attendants, aka Vogue models and their equally as stunning boyfriends, were not quite as amused as my ex-best friends, Jessica and Tyler, who were at that point doubled over in laughter as the beautiful people stared on, clearly realizing my true, painfully awkward, colors.
Despite my deep, but now common, embarrassment, I somehow managed to move on from this moment. After recovering and trying to fade back into the crowd, I finally had a chance to look around me and take in the image of a Boliche. Attention: young Kamesars, Strutins, Mike, Bridget and Shana, please picture the club from our hotel in Las Vegas. Now multiply that by 12 on account of size, excitement level, and attractiveness of the club-goers. Attention: Sophie, Mike and Caitlin, please picture that weird Indian club we went to in Boston and multiply it by 100, for the same categories. And if you’ve only ever been to Taylor’s, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no fair comparison here... I’ve truly never seen anything like it. The club itself was massive, with multiple bars and dance floors, and hundreds of impeccably dressed people. Like I said, there was a VIP section that also included couches and mini tables, reserved for the most gorgeous of all bystanders. There was a cluster of giant disco balls hanging high above our heads, and most importantly, the most ludicrous DJ I’ve ever had the honor of listening to, stationed in one corner of the club.
Ah, the music. I stood there, in my half-drunken state, taking in all that was around me, and pictured this very blog and you oh so loved readers. I just couldn’t wait to tell you the music that we heard at this club. I think the first song I heard was a techno remix to a Shania Twain song, followed quickly by Mambo #5, Gloria Estefan, and the YMCA (oh and take a wild guess as to which 3 people out of the entire club knew the complicated choreography to that well-known hit.) Next up was Ace of Base, a few songs in Spanish, I’m not kidding--Alanis Moressette, a song by the late 90s band Five (shockingly, I knew every word), Sean Paul (his early stuff), and Britney Spears’ You Drive me Crazy. I think that starring round up finished off with Usher’s Yeah (what would a dance floor be without it?) If you know me, even in the slightest, I don’t have to tell you that I was in heaven. Jessica, Tyler and I left hours (and hours and hours) later feeling that we had conquered the fad that is the Boliche. OK, not conquered, but I would definitely go as far to say that we’re officially fans—converts to the Boliche way of life if you will. After that experience, I’d say if you’re a self-proclaimed partier (I truly hope you aren’t), or just want to see what the true club scene is all about, I’d advise you to take the South American Boliche challenge, and hop on the next flight out to Argentina. I’ll even show you the ropes!
Missing you all!
Love,
Henya
Monday, April 9, 2012
Some pics of the apartment, in case you were curious!
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| my giant closet |
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| my breakfast table (please note that syliva sets this up for me every day. she obviously couldn't be cuter) |
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| my mini, but loveable bed |
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| The view from my room |
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| The view part 2 |
Day 15: Oh, the Cleverness of Me!
I would like to make something perfectly clear. Occasionally, under some circumstances, I am able to make intelligent and productive decisions. Over the course of the two weeks that I’ve spent in this beloved country of Argentina, that fact has become increasingly more difficult to remember. But I’m pretty confident that at one point or another, I was a relatively smart gal. I’d like to blame my now quite common stupidities on the language barrier, the difficulty that comes from being unable to communicate freely, but I’m not sure that that’s entirely fair. Especially under the circumstances belonging to the following incident. Let me explain. Well actually, first of all, let me try to get you on my side. (Especially you, family members, who will be rolling your eyes and sighing deeply in a few short moments). Just imagine for a moment, something you feel truly passionate about. Think of something in your life you are desperately hoping to obtain, whether it be a material object or otherwise. And think about what steps you would need to take to reach to that goal. Well let me remind you that when you want something really badly, your best intellect tends to go out the window. Whatever it may be, I know you would be willing to do a lot for that one thing that you really want. And for me, that one thing was to be tan.
As an Oregonian, I have that deep desire throughout the majority of the year. As my skin fades from slightly bronzed to white, and whiter, the dream of being tan feels further off than ever. And if the chance to change that reality suddenly becomes possible, believe me, I won’t let anything stand in my way. So along with an abundance of other goodies, my time in Rosario has, in fact, provided me with that chance. My time in the sun has been great. It’s been at least 80 degrees and sunny almost every day. My friends and I have lounged in the in the warmth of the ending summer here, and enjoyed every minute of it. However, when Saturday rolled around, we decided it was time to get down to business, and finally get that desperately needed bronze we’d been waiting for.
We woke up, feeling optimistic and headed to la Playa de Florida. (Florida beach for those of you who don’t know a word of Spanish. (Ahem, Sommers, I’m referring to you again here. Seriously, who speaks French?) When we arrive, we find a spot on the sand, lay out our towels, and settle in for the day. If you’re a female (or a metro guy) I’m guessing you know the drill: first you lay on your back, tanning the front of your body, and then after a specified amount of time, you flip onto your stomach so your back can have equal exposure to the sun. But then there’s the struggle with sunscreen. No matter how many doctors, mothers, and elderly folk advise us to lather up in order to save our skin for the future, our burning (hint: foreshadow) desire blinds us from making that intelligent decision. However, I had promised myself I would at least make an effort to protect myself. (Before I proceed, I realize that you probably have an idea of where this story is headed and just to prove my point, I would like to revert you to my previous blog post where I very clearly state “the sun is hotter here.” Days ago, I was aware of that fact, and yet, here we are. Now you know what I’m referring to when I call upon my dramatic plummet of intelligence.) Moving on... So I’m able to convince myself to listen to years of advice, and place a small amount of sunscreen on my body. My chosen area, the one place I think needs the protection, is my face. But not my whole face. No, no, that would be too clever a thought for me at the moment. I think to myself, that I would like to protect the areas under my eyes and on the tip of my nose. Only. Don’t ask. (Usually, that’s where I get burned so I thought I was being cautious... Just trying to hold on to any dignity I may still have here... There was in fact a slight thought process involved in this decision.)
Fast-forward, five hours. I’m home and just hopping out of the shower after along, and sandy day at the beach. As I’m drying off, I casually scratch at my thigh or arm or whatever, and my heart sinks. I feel that lasting sting that only a preview of a sunburn can bring on. If you’ve ever been the victim of a deeply reddened body, you may be familiar with this feeling. I begin to regret, immediately. I try to look in the mirror of the bathroom but it’s fogged over from the damn shower. So I sprint to my room, flip on the lights, and see myself for the first time. Not only is my entire body slowly picking up a deep red hue, but I stare at my face in horror and realize that what I had thought was a safe act of using a little sunscreen, actually screwed me over in the end. I’m beat red all over, aside from two strategically placed strips on the high part of my cheeks, and a small white spot on the tip of my nose. At this point I see that I closely resemble both a football player, but with white instead of black under-eye deflectors, while also sharing Rudolf’s most notable quality, although again, white, instead of his famous red.) I hope you’re able to form some sort of an image from this description. Please keep in mind that it’s now Saturday night and I’m officially in preparation for a long night out at the bars.
At this point, I begin to have a low key panic attack. I know I gave that whole spiel about being invincible now after all the attention I receive no matter what “Everyone stares at me no matter what so all my insecurities are cured.” Ringing a bell? Well I lied. There was no way in Hell I was about to go out in public looking like the enflamed freak who was starring back at me from the mirror. Oh and coincidently (I think my luck, too, has improved since being here), my kind and always-helpful host mother happened to be away for the evening. So I call her. I had no idea what to do, OK? Obviously my equally as helpless friends wouldn’t have a clue. Also, side note, ironically enough, despite our shared lack of intelligence surrounding the ways of this foreign country, I alone ended up looking utterly unrecognizable and creepy. Unlike me, they managed to return from the beach with both a nice tan, and their pride. So I call Sylvia (she’s at Buby’s--remember, it’s pronounced boobie) and she kindly offers to come back and completely baby me, an offer which I’m tempted to accept, now that my skin is beginning to feel hot to the touch and searing pain is frequenting my calves. But I don’t.
“No, no Sylvia, there’s no need for that. It’s not an emergency, I’ll probably survive... But do you think the little store down the street would have Aloe?” I plead, while trying to sound brave. “Have what?” She responds confused
“You know, Aloe...?” I say as slowly and clearly as possible as my panic beings to heighten.
“Ohh do you mean Al-oh-ay?” She asks.
I pause for a moment, trying to figure out what in God’s name she’s talking about. These English-to English translations are common with us. “Yes I think I mean Al-oh-ay...”
“Oh bueno! And no, you definitely cannot find that in a store. I’ll have to go buy you the plant and bring it to you tomorrow when I come back.” She suggests as an alternative.
“I’m sorry... The what now?” I know this is what you are all thinking because that was the exact thing I said to her when she revealed this plan to me. Followed by a clear “no entiendo” from my end of the conversation, (translation: I don’t understand. Another favorite Spanish phrase.) We continued speaking for another few confusing minutes until the talk finally came to a close. However, not before she was able to relay the message from Boobie that I should lay slices of tomatoes on my skin in order to help alleviate some of the discomfort. (While I’m appreciative of their words of encouragement, let’s take another moment to channel the tone of my previous blog. Sometimes a girl just needs to complain... In the U.S., we have this thing called a drug store that fixes all problems. That wonderful store ensures that we never have to use vegetation from the ground as medicine.) So I hang up, feeling defeated. It was at this point that I realized I would not be relieved of my pain, or unique skin tone until the following day.
So here I sit, feeling disgruntled and ashamed, with self-loathing and pity washing over me, and holding a cold, slimy slab of a plant (enter Al-oh-ay) up to the bubbled and now scabbing flesh that used to resemble a cheek. Jealous yet??
I do feel bad that I just wasted at least 15 minutes of your life telling the story of a sunburn. I’m simply too engrossed in my own misery and embarrassment to focus on anything else at the moment. I can only hope you found some enjoyment in this post, I know I didn’t!
Oh and at the request of my dear, uncomplaining, and ever-complimentary brother, I have changed my font color. Hope this is more aesthetically pleasing for you, Nathan.
Love,
Henya
As an Oregonian, I have that deep desire throughout the majority of the year. As my skin fades from slightly bronzed to white, and whiter, the dream of being tan feels further off than ever. And if the chance to change that reality suddenly becomes possible, believe me, I won’t let anything stand in my way. So along with an abundance of other goodies, my time in Rosario has, in fact, provided me with that chance. My time in the sun has been great. It’s been at least 80 degrees and sunny almost every day. My friends and I have lounged in the in the warmth of the ending summer here, and enjoyed every minute of it. However, when Saturday rolled around, we decided it was time to get down to business, and finally get that desperately needed bronze we’d been waiting for.
We woke up, feeling optimistic and headed to la Playa de Florida. (Florida beach for those of you who don’t know a word of Spanish. (Ahem, Sommers, I’m referring to you again here. Seriously, who speaks French?) When we arrive, we find a spot on the sand, lay out our towels, and settle in for the day. If you’re a female (or a metro guy) I’m guessing you know the drill: first you lay on your back, tanning the front of your body, and then after a specified amount of time, you flip onto your stomach so your back can have equal exposure to the sun. But then there’s the struggle with sunscreen. No matter how many doctors, mothers, and elderly folk advise us to lather up in order to save our skin for the future, our burning (hint: foreshadow) desire blinds us from making that intelligent decision. However, I had promised myself I would at least make an effort to protect myself. (Before I proceed, I realize that you probably have an idea of where this story is headed and just to prove my point, I would like to revert you to my previous blog post where I very clearly state “the sun is hotter here.” Days ago, I was aware of that fact, and yet, here we are. Now you know what I’m referring to when I call upon my dramatic plummet of intelligence.) Moving on... So I’m able to convince myself to listen to years of advice, and place a small amount of sunscreen on my body. My chosen area, the one place I think needs the protection, is my face. But not my whole face. No, no, that would be too clever a thought for me at the moment. I think to myself, that I would like to protect the areas under my eyes and on the tip of my nose. Only. Don’t ask. (Usually, that’s where I get burned so I thought I was being cautious... Just trying to hold on to any dignity I may still have here... There was in fact a slight thought process involved in this decision.)
Fast-forward, five hours. I’m home and just hopping out of the shower after along, and sandy day at the beach. As I’m drying off, I casually scratch at my thigh or arm or whatever, and my heart sinks. I feel that lasting sting that only a preview of a sunburn can bring on. If you’ve ever been the victim of a deeply reddened body, you may be familiar with this feeling. I begin to regret, immediately. I try to look in the mirror of the bathroom but it’s fogged over from the damn shower. So I sprint to my room, flip on the lights, and see myself for the first time. Not only is my entire body slowly picking up a deep red hue, but I stare at my face in horror and realize that what I had thought was a safe act of using a little sunscreen, actually screwed me over in the end. I’m beat red all over, aside from two strategically placed strips on the high part of my cheeks, and a small white spot on the tip of my nose. At this point I see that I closely resemble both a football player, but with white instead of black under-eye deflectors, while also sharing Rudolf’s most notable quality, although again, white, instead of his famous red.) I hope you’re able to form some sort of an image from this description. Please keep in mind that it’s now Saturday night and I’m officially in preparation for a long night out at the bars.
At this point, I begin to have a low key panic attack. I know I gave that whole spiel about being invincible now after all the attention I receive no matter what “Everyone stares at me no matter what so all my insecurities are cured.” Ringing a bell? Well I lied. There was no way in Hell I was about to go out in public looking like the enflamed freak who was starring back at me from the mirror. Oh and coincidently (I think my luck, too, has improved since being here), my kind and always-helpful host mother happened to be away for the evening. So I call her. I had no idea what to do, OK? Obviously my equally as helpless friends wouldn’t have a clue. Also, side note, ironically enough, despite our shared lack of intelligence surrounding the ways of this foreign country, I alone ended up looking utterly unrecognizable and creepy. Unlike me, they managed to return from the beach with both a nice tan, and their pride. So I call Sylvia (she’s at Buby’s--remember, it’s pronounced boobie) and she kindly offers to come back and completely baby me, an offer which I’m tempted to accept, now that my skin is beginning to feel hot to the touch and searing pain is frequenting my calves. But I don’t.
“No, no Sylvia, there’s no need for that. It’s not an emergency, I’ll probably survive... But do you think the little store down the street would have Aloe?” I plead, while trying to sound brave. “Have what?” She responds confused
“You know, Aloe...?” I say as slowly and clearly as possible as my panic beings to heighten.
“Ohh do you mean Al-oh-ay?” She asks.
I pause for a moment, trying to figure out what in God’s name she’s talking about. These English-to English translations are common with us. “Yes I think I mean Al-oh-ay...”
“Oh bueno! And no, you definitely cannot find that in a store. I’ll have to go buy you the plant and bring it to you tomorrow when I come back.” She suggests as an alternative.
“I’m sorry... The what now?” I know this is what you are all thinking because that was the exact thing I said to her when she revealed this plan to me. Followed by a clear “no entiendo” from my end of the conversation, (translation: I don’t understand. Another favorite Spanish phrase.) We continued speaking for another few confusing minutes until the talk finally came to a close. However, not before she was able to relay the message from Boobie that I should lay slices of tomatoes on my skin in order to help alleviate some of the discomfort. (While I’m appreciative of their words of encouragement, let’s take another moment to channel the tone of my previous blog. Sometimes a girl just needs to complain... In the U.S., we have this thing called a drug store that fixes all problems. That wonderful store ensures that we never have to use vegetation from the ground as medicine.) So I hang up, feeling defeated. It was at this point that I realized I would not be relieved of my pain, or unique skin tone until the following day.
So here I sit, feeling disgruntled and ashamed, with self-loathing and pity washing over me, and holding a cold, slimy slab of a plant (enter Al-oh-ay) up to the bubbled and now scabbing flesh that used to resemble a cheek. Jealous yet??
I do feel bad that I just wasted at least 15 minutes of your life telling the story of a sunburn. I’m simply too engrossed in my own misery and embarrassment to focus on anything else at the moment. I can only hope you found some enjoyment in this post, I know I didn’t!
Oh and at the request of my dear, uncomplaining, and ever-complimentary brother, I have changed my font color. Hope this is more aesthetically pleasing for you, Nathan.
Love,
Henya
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